With the third-party war settled, Sega secured a lineup rivaling Nintendo's. Coupled with MD's performance edge, the outlook was bright. Now, the battle hinged on game libraries, particularly first-party exclusives.
Back at game development, Takuya Nakayama wasn't as relaxed as expected. Leaning back, he twirled a pen, his gaze fixed on a *My Neighbor Totoro* poster in the office corner. A few scribbled notes lay on his desk: "Farm management and cozy daily life." He replayed his promise to Hayao Miyazaki—a vow made in Ghibli's meeting room, a brilliant idea that broke Miyazaki's defenses.
The concept sounded romantic, but turning it into an engaging, immersive game without a hint of commercial cynicism was far tougher than outmaneuvering rivals. How could "heartwarming stories" blend seamlessly into gameplay? It needed to be healing yet avoid dull, repetitive "tasks." Above all, it had to pass Miyazaki's soul-piercing, near-uncompromising scrutiny. This wasn't about capital or hardware—it tested artistic and emotional depth, a purer, harsher challenge. For the first time, Takuya felt his "unbeatable" reputation facing a unique trial.
Heavy with thought, he returned to the Nakayama family estate. Dinner was lively—his father, Hayao Nakayama, in high spirits, sipped sake and chatted lightly with his mother, Miyuki Nakayama. Takuya, distracted, barely engaged.
"Takuya, not hungry?" Miyuki's gentle voice carried subtle worry. Hayao's sharp eyes caught his son's mental fatigue, not physical. "The third-party war is done, isn't it?" he asked steadily.
Takuya set down his chopsticks, forcing a smile. "It's not that. I'm struggling with *Totoro*'s game adaptation. I promised Miyazaki a combat-free, heartwarming game, but turning that 'feeling' into gameplay is harder than I thought."
Miyuki's eyes softened with concern. "Don't push yourself so hard. You've done enough." Hayao sipped sake, then offered a surprising suggestion with authority: "Take a break. The third-party cleanup doesn't need your hands-on. Let裕Suzuki handle game reviews and Yoshikawa manage third-party contacts. Go to our old Ibaraki house for a few days. Relax—it's my order as president to my star executive."
The words, both fatherly care and pragmatic support, warmed Takuya. He accepted. The next day, after a quick handover, he drove out of Tokyo. Skyscrapers faded into soft green fields and rustic homes, his burdens easing with each mile.
At the Ibaraki house, his gray-haired grandmother greeted him with a warm smile. Shedding his "Sega executive" suit for casual clothes, he felt unburdened, reverting to a carefree "Takuya"—the real-world version of the game world he'd pitched to Miyazaki.
Evening brought a cool breeze, dispelling summer's heat. Sitting on the wooden porch, Takuya munched his grandmother's fresh asparagus salad, its crisp scent evoking childhood. Frogs croaked in distant rice fields, and a rustle came from nearby bushes. He glanced over instinctively.
"Don't worry," his grandmother chuckled. "Probably a fox from the hills foraging." She shared local lore: "Farmers here see foxes as Inari's messengers, treasures. They'd leave tofu by Jizo statues—not for reward, just goodwill, hoping the fox spirit brings a good harvest. Those fox statues at the village shrine? Built bit by bit for abundant crops."
Words like "fox," "messenger," "tofu," and "selfless goodwill" sparked a faint epiphany in Takuya. He recalled anime and manga from his past life, filled with gentle, natural interactions. If he couldn't recall games, he could draw from those! Weeks of frustration dissolved, replaced by a surge of creativity. He imagined Miyazaki's stunned reaction to the idea.
"What's got you so excited?" his grandmother asked, puzzled by his bright eyes and grin. Warmth flooded Takuya as he looked at her caring face. Setting down the asparagus, he beamed. "Nothing, Grandma. Just thinking your fox spirits are adorable."
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