In the game review department, Hideo Kojima was wearing headphones, pretending to be completely absorbed in writing an evaluation report for a game under review.
But his eyes kept drifting toward the Famitsu magazine lying on his coworker's desk.
"Kojima-san, stop pretending." The coworker couldn't help laughing as he pushed the magazine toward him. "Take a look. Players are loving your game."
Hideo Kojima picked up the magazine, flipped to the score page, and when his eyes landed on the "38 points" and the comments below, his fingers paused ever so slightly.
He remembered that afternoon in America, arguing with Tom Clancy over the game's content.
He remembered Mark Cerny staying up past midnight studying the console's code, trying to squeeze out just a little more processing power.
He remembered what Takuya Nakayama once told him:
"I want players to form a consensus: if it's a game made by Hideo Kojima, there will always be treasure worth digging for."
And now, all that effort and stubbornness had been faithfully carried across a small plastic cartridge, reaching players he had never met but who understood him completely.
That deep, resonant sense of being understood made his chest warm.
As for the word-of-mouth and sales report for Critical Crisis, Takuya Nakayama merely glanced at it before setting it aside.
He stood and walked toward the computer software development division.
Compared to the celebratory noise in the games department, this side of the building was tense but orderly, filled with focused activity.
When Section Chief Nohara saw him, he immediately walked over and handed him a printed test log.
"Executive Director, the final stress test is complete. We simulated one thousand users posting, refreshing, and replying simultaneously for twelve hours. System load stayed stable—no crashes, no data delays."
Takuya Nakayama nodded, his gaze passing Nohara to rest on the two Tokyo Tech students staring intently at their screens full of code.
"Good work," he said, stepping forward. "So—how does it feel? Building this world with your own hands?"
One bespectacled student looked up, adjusting his glasses, excitement written all over his face.
"Executive Director—it's incredible. I can already feel it. The BBS is definitely going to become popular among internet users."
Takuya Nakayama nodded in agreement.
"Content alone isn't enough," he continued. "At a community's start, you need guides—people who maintain order. In other words… moderators."
"We'll do it!"
Both students spoke in perfect unison, startling Section Chief Nohara.
The student with glasses rushed to speak:
"Executive Director, please let us be the first system administrators of the Tokyo Tech BBS!
No one understands it better than we do, and no one loves our school more than we do!"
"We can handle forum structure, user guidance, even teach professors and students how to use it—step by step! We'll make sure the place becomes lively in the shortest possible time!"
Seeing the fire in their eyes, Takuya Nakayama knew he had found the perfect candidates.
Having the developers run the system in its early days—there was no better beginning.
He turned to Nohara.
"Next week's installation and deployment—go with these two and coordinate the on-site technical integration with the school. I don't want Professor Yonezawa's first post to appear in the bug report section."
Nohara chuckled. "You can count on us, Executive Director."
After leaving the development team, he had barely sat down and picked up his water when someone knocked on his office door.
It was his secretary, wearing a strange expression.
"Executive Director, a call from Professor Yonezawa."
"Put him through," Takuya Nakayama said, assuming it was to confirm installation dates.
But the secretary didn't move. Instead, she lowered her voice:
"The professor says… there's an 'old friend' beside him who wants to speak with you. Someone from Tokyo University."
Tokyo University?
The cup froze halfway to his lips.
When the call connected, Professor Yonezawa's voice came through:
"Takuya, you rascal! I just finished briefing the president, and somehow the news leaked to the school next door!"
"Professor, I—"
"Enough, don't talk," Yonezawa cut him off, a note of smugness in his tone. "The person next to me is the dean of information engineering at Tokyo University—my old rival. He has something to ask you."
Soon, the voice on the line changed—more refined, but carrying an unmistakable pressure.
"Is this Executive Director Nakayama from SEGA? I am Yuki Aoyama of Tokyo University. Just one question: would you be willing to sell us a set of your BBS system as well?"
"Well… it's not impossible…" Takuya Nakayama replied, adding a carefully measured hesitation, even as his mind spun rapidly.
Tokyo University?
That was not part of his plan.
He had intended to use Tokyo Tech as the "base camp," establish a benchmark, and expand slowly afterward.
He didn't expect Tokyo University to pounce this quickly—like they could smell opportunity from across the city.
Aoyama clearly disliked the hesitation. His voice cooled further.
"Executive Director Nakayama, is there some difficulty?"
Before Takuya could answer, a rustling noise came from the receiver—someone yanking the phone away.
"Enough, Aoyama, drop the bureaucratic act!" Professor Yonezawa's booming voice returned, dripping with glee. "Takuya, ignore him. This old man's probably panicking inside like a cat on a hot tin roof, but he still has to maintain that 'Tokyo University prestige.'"
A suppressed cough sounded—evidently Professor Aoyama was not pleased.
Takuya Nakayama nearly laughed aloud, easily imagining the smug expression on his own professor's face.
"Professor, what exactly happened?"
"What else could it be!" Yonezawa said proudly. "I briefed our president, and guess what? He went straight into a Ministry of Education meeting and bragged about it as a highlight of educational reform. And who was also in that meeting? Tokyo University's president! His face supposedly turned green on the spot! The moment the meeting ended, Tokyo University chased our president down demanding 'academic resource sharing.'"
He cleared his throat, then continued with satisfaction:
"Aoyama and I already talked it over. Tokyo Tech and Tokyo University will each build their own BBS! We focus on engineering and science forums, they handle humanities, social sciences, medicine—no stepping on each other, but information can still flow between the two systems. Not bad, right? Your professor just gave you a beautiful assist!"
Takuya Nakayama's breath caught.
Assist?
Professor, this wasn't an assist—this was directly handing him the championship match!
Tokyo Tech and Tokyo University—the twin pillars of Japan's academic world—both adopting SEGA's BBS system.
This wasn't just influence.
This was branding SEGA's name across the entirety of Japanese academia.
A net far larger and faster than anything he had imagined.
"If you can pull this off," Yonezawa said, his voice carrying expectation, "both Tokyo Tech and Tokyo University will owe you a huge favor. Don't you dare drop the ball now!"
"Professor, rest assured," Takuya Nakayama replied, suppressing the wild delight in his chest and returning to his usual steady tone. "I'll get it done."
Professor Yonezawa let out a satisfied laugh.
"Hahaha! Good. Then it's settled."
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