The explosion of popularity from Taiko Master spread like wildfire, igniting the collective mood of Japan's late summer. Its influence went far beyond the success of a single game.
The most direct impact appeared in the movie theaters.
Majo no Takkyubin (Kiki's Delivery Service), which had already been in theaters for nearly a month and was showing signs of fatigue at the box office, suddenly experienced a beautiful rebound after Hayao Miyazaki's passionate public interview. With Taiko Master imprinting "healthy entertainment" and "revitalizing traditional culture" into the minds of the public, another unexpected wave of enthusiasm followed — propelling Kiki's Delivery Service past 5 billion yen and to the top of Japan's box office for the year.
Families flocked to theaters on weekends to watch this warm and kind-spirited animated film — as if casting a silent vote in support of Miyazaki and SEGA, the industry's moral standard-bearers.
The media naturally redirected its focus.
A good work of art, they wrote, is the best counterattack against all slander.
Good cultural works are the soul of the industry.
After the controversy, this belief became a social consensus.
But at this very moment, the atmosphere inside SEGA's headquarters was anything but calm.
In the president's office, Hayao Nakayama's fingers lightly tapped on a copy of The Nikkei.
The finance section headline read, in bold black letters, "Key Points of the New Land Basic Law Draft."
"Land is not an object of speculation."
"Value appreciation should, in principle, be returned to society."
Each sentence carried a heavy, foreboding tone.
Sitting across from him were Directors Hoshino and Sugiura, who oversaw SEGA's investments. Both sat upright, tense.
Nakayama finally lifted his gaze from the newspaper and slowly looked at them.
"Hoshino. Sugiura. How's the progress on liquidating our domestic real estate assets?"
Hoshino cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. His tone was hesitant.
"President, we've begun listing them for sale, but… the market is cautious right now."
He paused, searching for the right words.
"On one hand, rumors say Sony is about to buy Columbia Pictures in the U.S. for a massive price. That's spurred Japanese capital like crazy. Now, everyone thinks it's smarter to follow Sony's lead — to go overseas and scoop up undervalued American assets, rather than buy at high prices domestically. It's becoming a trend."
Sugiura quickly added, "Yes, President. Even with the interest rate hikes and this Land Basic Law looming, most people still think the boom will continue. They're holding on, convinced the government's just bluffing again — all thunder, no rain."
"They don't want to buy now. They think we're panic-selling and are waiting to drive the prices down."
Nakayama's expression didn't change. He picked up his tea, gently blew on it, and took a slow sip.
The room fell into an oppressive silence.
The two directors could hear their own hearts pounding.
After a long pause, Nakayama placed the cup down with a soft click.
"Wishful thinking?"
His voice was quiet, yet it struck like a whip.
The directors jolted upright.
"Sony is using inflated, bubble-driven money to buy real assets overseas," Nakayama said sharply. "We, on the other hand, are sitting on a pile of explosives, praying someone will take them off our hands with real cash."
His hawk-like gaze swept over them.
"I'll ask again — is that the market's opinion, or yours?"
Cold sweat trickled down Sugiura's temple. He immediately bowed low, nearly 90 degrees.
"My deepest apologies, President! We failed to grasp your true intent!"
Nakayama ignored their fear and turned to another matter.
"Takuya's proposal about investing in U.S. blue-chip stocks — how's that performing?"
At that, Hoshino's eyes lit up.
"Excellent, sir! Your and Executive Takuya's judgment was spot-on. Our purchases of Coca-Cola, Procter & Gamble, IBM — all have risen steadily, unaffected by the Japanese market's volatility. The total return's already over 15%!"
"Good."
Nakayama nodded firmly. His tone turned commanding again.
"Then use every means necessary. Lower the prices if you have to — but sell all our domestic real estate holdings immediately. Turn it into cash and reinvest in American blue-chip stocks and high-grade bonds."
"I don't care if the market's optimistic or complacent — SEGA's future cannot be built on wishful thinking."
"That's an order."
"Yes, sir!"
The two directors shouted in unison, voices trembling but resolute.
As they left the office, their backs were soaked in cold sweat.
Meanwhile, inside Sunrise Animation's conference room, the atmosphere was tense.
Takuya Nakayama, SEGA's representative and partial shareholder, sat upright.
On the table lay several reports — one showing strong sales for Mobile Suit Gundam 0080: War in the Pocket, another revealing massive losses from Five Star Stories: The Movie.
The contrast was stark — and it made everyone wary of the Gundam Series Reboot Plan in front of them, a massive project pushed hard by Bandai that could reshape the future of both companies.
That's why they had invited Takuya — the young executive whose instincts in gaming, manga, and capital markets had proven uncanny.
After a quick read, the meeting broke for a short tea break.
Takuya carried his cup over to a corner, where a weary middle-aged man sat — Yoshiyuki Tomino.
"Director Tomino."
Tomino lifted his bloodshot eyes and gave a faint nod.
"Can we talk about Bandai's proposal to change the concept of NewType?" Takuya asked gently.
The moment he mentioned it, Tomino's brow knotted tightly, anger flickering in his tone.
"They want to turn NewType from a symbol of human evolution into some 'product of family bonds'? Ridiculous!"
He clenched his fist.
"That's forcing me to deny everything I built! If a story's core idea can just be rewritten on a whim, is it still Gundam?"
Takuya nodded in agreement.
"You're absolutely right. It'll only create contradictions within the universe — and alienate the loyal fans who've supported the franchise for a decade."
Then, after a pause, his voice softened.
"Director Tomino… how's your health?"
Tomino hesitated, then smiled bitterly. He leaned back, letting his mask drop.
"You saw through me, huh?" He sighed. "The passion's gone. My mind's empty — just war and death, over and over. I'm exhausted."
He rubbed his temples. "You know how demanding a TV series director's job is. I don't think I can last through another. But I can't just stand by and watch others turn my life's work into some shallow imitation."
Takuya was silent for a moment, then met his eyes.
"Director Tomino, you need to rest — fully. Leave Bandai's project to me. I promise I'll protect your creative legacy."
Tomino studied the young executive. Maybe this man had a real solution.
When the meeting resumed, Bandai's representative, Mitsui Chuta, a close aide to President Yamashina, began outlining the company's demands.
Their main goal: keep Gundam commercially sustainable.
"Within a manageable business framework," Mitsui said, "we must retain hardcore fans with detailed technical settings, but also adapt to modern society by softening political themes, introducing family narratives to broaden the audience, and offsetting investment risk through merchandising."
Finally, he added, "Of course, we hope to continue the Universal Century storyline — for legacy's sake."
When he finished, Takuya raised his hand.
Everyone turned toward him.
"Mitsui-san," Takuya said calmly, "the proposal mentions a TV series set in U.C. 0123 — the Babylon War, correct?"
Mitsui nodded.
"Then here's the issue." Takuya's finger tapped the table.
"There's a thirty-year gap between Char's Counterattack and the Babylon War. Nothing connects them. Do you really expect fans to accept that, with just a few sketches of Jegan units in the setting book?"
The room fell silent.
Sunrise producers exchanged uneasy looks — they'd thought the same, but Bandai's "just make it first" attitude had overridden their concerns.
Before anyone could respond, Takuya continued, turning toward Tomino.
"And more importantly — Director Tomino's health. We all know how exhausting a full-length TV project is. If he collapses mid-production, and the director changes, the result will be disastrous."
Murmurs filled the room.
Everyone glanced at Tomino, worry written on their faces.
Tomino didn't deny it — he admitted his health was deteriorating.
Even Mitsui's expression turned grim.
He could ignore art, but not risk.
Still, Takuya didn't seem to reject the project outright — just expose its cracks.
"Executive Nakayama," Mitsui asked cautiously, "do you have a suggestion?"
"Yes," Takuya replied. "Parallel development."
He stood, walked to the whiteboard, and began outlining his plan.
"First, preserve the Universal Century's main story for Director Tomino. Once he's recovered, he can continue it himself — no forced family themes, no rewriting the meaning of NewType."
Mitsui frowned. "Then what do we do while he rests? Bandai's new model line can't wait!"
"That brings me to the second point." Takuya smiled faintly.
"If we want to reach new audiences, why not create a new timeline entirely — a Gundam TV series outside the Universal Century?"
"This would let Bandai explore the family-oriented tone they want, while keeping the original lore intact. Instead of risking the core franchise, we test new ideas in a separate setting. We won't alienate old fans, and we'll attract new ones."
"Gundam," he continued, "stands for many things: advanced mecha, justice, victory, ace pilots. As long as the new work embodies those core themes, it will feel like Gundam."
Mitsui's frown eased. The proposal was tempting.
But one issue remained.
"Even if we solve the story problem," he said, "Bandai's model upgrade won't be ready until next year. We still have to sell old models now — the ones needing glue and screws. They're hard for new customers to build. Without a new show to promote them, we'll lose momentum."
That seemed to stump the room.
But Takuya only smiled knowingly.
"Mitsui-san, may I ask — the reason you need a new anime to sell those models, is it because your current tech can't produce a more attractive new kit?"
"That's… correct," Mitsui admitted.
"Well, I happen to know a thing or two about model design," Takuya said evenly. "What if I told you I could design a snap-fit model — no glue, no screws — using your existing equipment and production lines?"
The room froze.
Mitsui's eyes widened. He leaned forward, almost rising from his seat.
"No-glue assembly? Impossible! That would require incredible mold precision! You're saying we can do that now, without any upgrades?"
Takuya simply smiled.
The executives from Sunrise and Bandai stared at him, dumbfounded.
For a moment, only one thought echoed in their minds:
Could genius truly transcend every field?
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