The next day, the forty-eight–hour data began to refresh.
"My God…"
An engineer responsible for monitoring the backend suddenly let out a dreamlike gasp.
Harry shoved his chair back and rushed over, practically throwing himself onto the screen. In the next second, as if jolted by an electric shock, he sprang upright and spun around, shouting at Frank and Tom at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking, "K-Factor! The K-Factor is out!"
Frank Marshall frowned. "Speak English, Harry."
"The viral coefficient! The average number of new users each existing user brings in!" Harry was so excited he could barely form coherent sentences. He jabbed at a number that had just popped up on the screen, his finger trembling. "1.8! Damn it, our K-Factor is 1.8! That means for every ten users, within two days, they bring in eighteen new users! This isn't addition—this is fission! Exponential explosion!"
The command room fell into a deathly silence for a split second, then erupted into thunderous cheers.
Frank Marshall— a man who had seen countless Apple product launches— shot to his feet.
He strode to the screen, staring hard at the number "1.8" that symbolized exponential growth, then at the real-time online user count beside it, which had already broken twenty thousand and was still climbing.
His breathing grew heavy. The calm composure on his face was replaced by an expression that mixed shock with wild elation.
"Tom," Frank turned his head, his voice dry, "we did it."
Tom Kalinske broke into a broad, satisfied grin.
Frank said nothing more. He turned and walked briskly out of the meeting room.
Harry and the engineers exchanged glances, assuming the new boss needed a moment to cool down.
A few minutes later, Frank returned.
He wasn't carrying documents—he was carrying an ice bucket, with a clearly well-aged bottle of champagne nestled inside.
Pop!
With a smooth, practiced motion, he popped the cork. White foam shot straight up toward the ceiling.
"I was planning to open this bottle when the company's valuation hit a hundred million," Frank said as he poured champagne for everyone, his gaze now burning with fervor as he looked at Tom and Harry. "But at this rate, I might need to stock up on a few more cases."
At that moment, Tom's assistant pushed the door open, followed by a group of reporters who had been waiting outside.
Camera flashes exploded instantly, perfectly capturing the scene— the new CEO opening champagne in celebration, explosive growth curves glowing in the background, and a group of young engineers cheering because they had just made history.
A sharp-eyed reporter thrust a microphone toward Frank. "Mr. Marshall! Congratulations! What's next for ICQ? Will you be introducing paid features?"
Frank took a glass of champagne, lightly clinked it with Tom's, then turned toward the cameras with the confident smile of a Wall Street elite.
"Paid features? No. We're not in a rush to reach into our users' pockets," he said calmly. "A small number of value-added services on ICQ are already enough to offset part of our operating costs. Granted, we haven't received a single remittance yet—but we're confident."
He took a sip and continued unhurriedly, "And ICQ is just the beginning. It's about connecting internet users to one another. ICQ's core services will always be free. As for paid businesses—stay tuned. We'll be rolling out more services."
ICQ's story had barely taken up half a page in The Wall Street Journal before Sequoia Capital's call reached Tom Kalinske's office.
The voice on the other end was urgent, like someone whose house had just caught fire—nothing like the usual restrained investor demeanor.
"Tom! My old friend! I need an explanation. Why didn't you tell me a word about something this big?"
Tom leaned back in his chair, feet propped on the desk, lazily spinning it as he looked out at the California sunshine. He deliberately drew out his words. "Oh? What big thing? I've only done one small thing lately—released a chat program called ICQ. What, you've heard of it too?"
"Heard of it? Tom, the entire Silicon Valley is talking about your 1.8 K-Factor! My God, you've done it again—another product shaking the whole Valley!"
"We call it 'social fission,'" Tom cleared his throat, adopting the tone of a preacher. "A brand-new way to connect humanity. As for investment—Frank is building the team. We're not in a hurry."
After hanging up, Tom couldn't hide the smile on his face.
He immediately incorporated the essence of that call—along with ICQ's explosive post-launch growth data—into his regular briefing to the Tokyo headquarters.
He remembered Takuya Nakayama's instructions well. The report overflowed with American-style business hyperbole and passion, dollar signs appearing more frequently than periods.
At the end of the report, in bold text, he wrote:
"Sequoia Capital is already losing patience. Our investment director recommends that now is the optimal time to open the first round of financing and let the hungry wolves of Wall Street tear into one another for the first ticket to our 'pass.'"
October. Sega's Tokyo headquarters. Regular board meeting.
The atmosphere in the conference room was… odd.
A group of directors with an average age well over fifty stared at a report from the U.S. division, exchanging uneasy looks.
The user growth curve in the report was steep as a mountain peak, but what they cared about was how this thing was supposed to turn into money.
"Using user numbers as a valuation reference?" Director Hoshino from asset management pushed up his glasses, doubt filling his eyes.
"Executive Director Nakayama," another director, Sugiura, chimed in, "isn't this… a bit rash? We can't exactly tell investors, 'We have a million users who don't pay, so the company is worth a hundred million dollars,' can we?"
Low murmurs rippled through the room.
Takuya Nakayama stood up, but didn't move toward the whiteboard. He simply swept his gaze across the room.
"Gentlemen, in the past, we sold cartridges. One cartridge, one copy, one payment. Easy to understand."
He paused and picked up a teacup from the table.
"Now, imagine ICQ as a telephone. One telephone has no value at all."
He picked up another teacup and placed it beside the first.
"Two telephones can call each other. That creates a connection—some value."
He didn't pick up a third cup. Instead, he spread his arms wide, indicating something vast.
"And what about a million telephones?
"How many connections can exist between them? Not a million—billions. Every interaction between users, every exchange of information, increases the value of the network itself. We're not valuing telephones. We're valuing the entire telephone network."
"As for the value of a single user—" Takuya smiled slightly. "Director Sugiura's example was actually quite apt. A user sees an ad on a BBS—that's value. But then he turns around and posts a complaint about it, drawing a hundred people into discussion. Those hundred people's attention and engagement—that's 'network value' created by billions of connections. Our 'Silicon Valley Online Pass' is the entry point to that network."
The simple explanation brought looks of realization to faces that had previously been confused.
They might not fully grasp the math, but they understood the words "billions" and "entry point."
More importantly, they trusted Takuya Nakayama.
His accurate prediction of Japan's economic bubble had multiplied the wealth of several people in that room many times over. Experience had taught them that understanding wasn't mandatory—betting alongside him was enough.
"As for the detailed valuation model," Takuya said as he sat back down, his tone relaxed, "let Wall Street's mathematicians and actuaries lose sleep over it. Our only goal is to drive the price up and sell at a good value."
"Agreed."
"Seconded."
The mood in the room flipped instantly. No further objections were raised.
In the end, the board unanimously decided to appoint Director Sugiura to immediately travel to the United States as Tokyo headquarters' representative, overseeing the entire first-round financing of "Silicon Valley Online."
After the meeting, Sugiura deliberately stayed behind and approached Takuya Nakayama, his attitude noticeably more respectful.
"Executive Director Nakayama, for this trip to the U.S., I hope you'll give me more guidance. About that… 'network value' theory—could you provide me with a detailed report to study?"
Takuya, in the middle of packing up his things, looked up and smiled with a hint of amusement.
"Director Sugiura, there's no need to make it that complicated."
He patted Sugiura on the shoulder and lowered his voice.
"Don't bring any reports. Just bring your best suit—and practice your golf swing."
"Ah?" Sugiura froze.
Takuya blinked and said with a grin, "Once you're in Silicon Valley, all you need to do is sit elegantly in the conference room, sip coffee, and listen as those investors dress up my theory in even more extravagant language than I ever could—just for you. Then watch them slam their checkbooks on the table for a seat in the deal.
"Remember this: the world's most advanced computers and internet are in the United States, and the U.S. leads their development. If you frame computers and the internet as 'the third industrial revolution of humanity,' do you think Wall Street will cheer? Do you think American politicians will embrace it? 'America, the beacon of mankind, leading the third industrial revolution'—what American wouldn't love that slogan?
"And the thing is, I genuinely believe computers and the internet are the third industrial revolution. Sega has to ride this tailwind. The underlying technology and theory can't be explained to everyone in a few sentences, but I can tell you this much: run the computer internet properly, and it can easily create another Sega."
The words "create another Sega" left Sugiura stunned.
In all his time working with Takuya Nakayama, this was the first time he had heard such an audacious claim. Even Sega's earlier ambitions—acquiring Sunrise and Wanda—hadn't shaken him this much.
Yet there wasn't a trace of joking on Takuya's face. Sugiura immediately understood the gravity of the mission.
Carefully, he asked, "Then my task in the U.S. is…?"
Takuya lowered his voice. "Keep a close eye on Silicon Valley Online. We can't let a company under Sega of America slip out of our control. We can loosen control over operations and personnel—given the internet's growing influence, the U.S. government won't allow a non-American company to dominate it anyway. That's reality, and there's no point fighting it.
"But the money—we hold that tight. Equity, dividends—be cautious."
His expression softened slightly. "That said, don't be overly nervous. As long as we maintain financial and equity control over Sega of America and Silicon Valley Online, and grant executives a reasonable amount of stock options, we'll be unbeatable. When it comes to contracts, we're not inferior to Americans."
Sugiura nodded.
After seeing Director Sugiura off, Takuya—who had carved out time for the meeting—quickly finished the paperwork in his office and returned to his role as a new father.
Even at home, work still occupied part of his mind.
"Takuya, focus when you're changing the diaper," Eri said, leaning on the sofa and laughing as she watched her husband fumble awkwardly with their son.
Takuya paused and looked down at the little one in his arms.
Kazuki clearly didn't care where his father's thoughts were. He kicked his legs, nearly sending the clean diaper flying.
"This is my most important project right now," Takuya replied solemnly, flustered as he pinned down his son's legs and finally managed to fasten the diaper.
Before long, it would be Miyamairi.
By tradition, thirty-two days after a boy's birth, the family visits a shrine to pray for divine protection.
Miyuki Nakayama had already chosen an auspicious date and booked one of Tokyo's most renowned shrines.
On the day of the ceremony, the weather was clear and bright.
The Nakayama estate was bustling early in the morning, and the Nakagawa family's convoy arrived right on time.
Katsuo Nakayama donned a black formal kimono with family crests, his presence even more imposing than usual.
Yet the moment he stepped inside, his gaze locked onto the swaddled infant in Eri's arms. The stern lines of his face softened noticeably.
Not to be outdone, Junya Nakagawa strode forward and took an exquisite gift box from his wife, Takako. "This is for Kazuki—an ubugi, made of the finest silk. I specially commissioned a master craftsman in Kyoto."
Miyuki Nakayama accepted it with a smile. When she opened the box, the ceremonial robe embroidered with hawks and pine trees was indeed flawless.
She shot a glance at her own husband. Hayao Nakayama coughed lightly and spoke casually, "Very thoughtful. However, the Nakayama family has also prepared an ubugi for our eldest grandson— the one Takuya wore as a baby."
An invisible spark seemed to crackle in the air.
In the end, with the two mothers mediating, it was decided: the Nakagawa family's robe for the trip to the shrine, the Nakayama family's on the way back. Everyone was satisfied.
Inside the shrine, the atmosphere was solemn and reverent.
Katsuo Nakayama stepped forward without hesitation and took Kazuki from Eri's arms.
Though he had carried his first grandson before, his posture was still slightly stiff—yet unwaveringly steady—as he walked step by step toward the main hall.
That back seemed to bear the weight of the family's entire legacy.
The priest began chanting the prayer of blessing, the ancient, resonant tones echoing through the hall.
Then, with a brush heavy with ink, the priest solemnly wrote the name "Kazuki Nakayama" into a thick parish register.
From that moment on, the child was formally under the protection of the land's deities.
Standing beside Eri, Takuya watched his father's back and the name being written, a strange feeling swelling in his chest.
He had chosen the name himself—but only now, inscribed in this ancient record, did it seem to gain true weight.
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