When the Animation and Gaming Industry Self-Regulation Committee announced its list of respected public oversight members, a small, third-rate newspaper quietly published an explosive "exclusive exposé."
"The 'Perfect' Sinner of the Metropolitan Police Department — Who Is Diverting Attention for Incompetent Bureaucrats?!"
The article vividly claimed that the reason the Metropolitan Police had failed to catch the culprit was because chaos had already broken out internally. To protect their positions, the bureaucrats needed a convenient scapegoat — and the booming anime and gaming industry, unfortunately, became the perfect target.
"For the sake of self-preservation, those in power are scapegoating the people — even if it means destroying an industry employing millions!"
The article then linked this accusation to several major scandals that had shaken the country that year.
"Remember Takeshita's Recruit Scandal? Uno's sex scandal? The Liberal Democratic Party's historic defeat in last month's upper house elections?"
"And finally, let's check our wallets — that damn consumption tax! Is this what our hard-earned money goes to — a bunch of tax-fed cowards passing blame?!"
The piece landed like a bomb tossed into a powder keg.
Within hours, the entire public discourse exploded.
By the next morning, mainstream media outlets had abandoned their crusade against the anime and gaming industries. Instead, they were all fighting over the "Police Conspiracy Theory."
Opposition politicians, sensing blood in the water, eagerly raised the issue in open parliamentary debate.
The storm's center had quietly shifted.
Inside a quiet office, Takuya Nakayama stood before a television, watching pundits argue furiously for ratings. He calmly switched it off.
Silence filled the room.
Beside him, Hayao Nakayama studied his son's profile. The young man gazed out the window, expression composed, as if none of this had anything to do with him. A rare, subtle smile crept across his usually stern face.
"Well done," Hayao said, patting his son's shoulder. His voice was soft but heavy with meaning. "But don't celebrate just yet."
Takuya turned to him.
"This time we've drawn fire toward Nagatacho and Kasumigaseki. Those people are far trickier than the press."
He poured two cups of tea — one for his father, one for himself — but before he could lift his cup, the phone on his desk rang.
It was Makoto Yamashina from Bandai.
"Executive Nakayama! Words can't express my gratitude! The toy industry's self-regulatory council has been successfully established under your framework!"
The voice on the line was trembling with excitement.
Soon after, calls came from Shueisha, Toei, and others — all expressing thanks, admiration, and unmistakable goodwill.
When the congratulations finally ceased, Takuya dialed the head of the marketing department.
"Everything ready?"
"Yes, sir! The joint announcement with the Ministry of Culture has been released. Perfect timing — every media outlet is obsessed with the political scandals. Our 'little move' hasn't drawn any attention at all!"
"Good."
A faint smirk curved Takuya's lips.
"Then let's offer this wounded society a little healing gift."
"Our theme: Tradition and Return."
---
Mid-August, Tokushima Prefecture – The Awa Odori Festival.
The entire city throbbed with life — air vibrating with the sounds of shamisen strings and taiko drums.
Amid the festival's busiest streets, a temporary Sega demo zone drew even more attention than the main stage itself.
Hundreds of brand-new arcade machines lined up in a row, each emblazoned with a smiling drum mascot and a bold title — "Taiko Master."
"What's this? Sega's new game?"
"Looks simple enough — just hit the drum?"
A girl in a yukata, encouraged by her friends, shyly picked up the drumsticks.
Don!
Don-don!
Don!
As the notes rolled down the screen, she clumsily struck the drum's face and rim.
At first, it was awkward — but when the familiar Awa Odori theme began to play, her movements suddenly flowed with confidence.
The surrounding crowd — tourists and locals alike — began clapping and humming along instinctively.
Don, don, ka! Don, don, ka!
The rhythm of drums, the melody, the laughter, the cheers — all fused into a symphony of summer joy.
A father with his young son, once skeptical of "video games," couldn't tear his eyes away.
He watched as his child teamed up with another kid, both drenched in sweat yet grinning wide, their synchronized drumming forming a simple nursery tune.
No violence.
No obscenity.
No discomfort.
Just pure music, primal rhythm, and genuine happiness.
A reporter from The Asahi Shimbun, who had originally come to Tokushima to cover the preservation of traditional culture in modern times, found himself captivated by the scene.
Pushing through the crowd, he looked at the faces lit by laughter and joy.
There was no sign of "tradition fading" here.
Just days ago, in his own column, he had condemned electronic entertainment as a "poison" corrupting youth.
Now, what he saw before him felt like a slap across the face.
This wasn't poison.
It was medicine.
A modern, delightful medium reviving love for Japan's native rhythms.
His camera lens turned — not toward the dancers of Awa Odori — but toward the smiling faces illuminated by Taiko Master.
---
The next day.
While newspapers continued to drown in stories of political infighting, The Asahi Shimbun's culture page quietly published an article titled:
"At the Awa Odori Festival — Hearing the Drums of the Future."
It avoided all mention of the recent controversies, instead painting a vivid picture of how Taiko Master blended tradition with modern entertainment — and how it brought three generations together in simple, shared joy.
Soon after, Hokkaido's Mist Festival featured a special edition titled Ezo Taiko, celebrated by local television as a "positive cultural phenomenon."
Public sentiment subtly shifted again.
People marveled at how Sega — the same company that had just announced its self-regulation initiative — had released such a wholesome, uplifting game in record time.
"So games can be like this too!"
"Now this — this is the kind of cultural product we need!"
Public goodwill is the strongest shield — and the sharpest sword.
After the storm, what needed rebuilding wasn't just the industry's order — but the public's trust.
And Sega, with one simple drumbeat, had already opened the first door.
Please Support me by becoming my patreon member and get 30+ chapters.
[email protected]/Ajal69
change @ with a
Thank You to Those who joined my Patreon