Across the United States, long lines formed at game stores, department stores, and Toys "R" Us checkout counters.
Countless families who had spent the past year yearning for the Sega Genesis, yet still clinging to a last shred of nostalgia for Nintendo, finally gave up all resistance the moment they saw Mario and Link.
"Dad, I want this new Mario!"
"Quiet! I only bought that NES two years ago!"
"But—but this one is Super!"
Similar exchanges played out in households everywhere, and more often than not, the result was the same: a father helplessly pulling out his wallet and tossing a brand-new SNES into the cart—along with Super Mario World and The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past.
Veteran players didn't hesitate at all, grabbing the full set in one go.
Inside Minoru Arakawa's office, the air was so quiet you could hear the second hand of the wall clock ticking.
Howard Lincoln paced back and forth like a caged lion.
At last, the marketing director burst in without even knocking, clutching a freshly faxed report. The edges of the paper trembled slightly from excitement.
"Gentlemen—the first-week numbers are in."
Lincoln lunged forward and practically snatched the sheet from his hands.
His eyes raced down the page. His mouth slowly fell open, until a suppressed roar forced its way out of his throat.
"My God—"
He spun around and slapped the report onto Arakawa's desk with a sharp smack.
"Arakawa! Look for yourself!"
Arakawa slowly picked up the paper.
On it was a single, simple number—yet one that weighed a thousand tons.
Two million.
First-week sales: over two million units.
That steep curve that had once belonged to Final Fantasy IV, stabbing painfully at his eyes, now appeared on Nintendo's own sales chart—this time even more ferocious.
Arakawa felt the tension that had gripped his nerves for an entire year finally loosen.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh—one filled with exhaustion, release, and the relief of having survived a disaster.
"It's not over yet." The marketing director handed over another report, excitement spilling across his face. "Our contacts in the arcade channels report that starting from the third day after the SNES launch, foot traffic in major North American arcades has dropped noticeably. Even Sega's new titles—what were they called—Metal Slug and Virtua Fighter—have seen declines in coin drop rates."
"Haha!" Howard Lincoln couldn't hold back anymore and burst into laughter. "I knew it! I knew it! Those kids were just chasing novelty! 3D? Hardcore gameplay? All of it collapses in front of Nintendo's SNES!"
He strode to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a treasured bottle of champagne, and popped the cork with a bold motion.
Pop!—like a ceremonial cannon salute for a long-overdue victory.
"Come on, Arakawa," Lincoln said, pouring two glasses and handing one over, his face glowing with triumph. "To us. And to those damn blocky people—back to the production line where they belong!"
Arakawa took the glass but didn't raise it immediately.
He watched the golden bubbles rise, while the image of Nakayama Takuya's young yet steady face flashed through his mind.
No—this was only the beginning.
He knew that man wouldn't stop here.
But at this moment, he needed this victory. Nintendo needed it.
"No." Arakawa lifted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into a rare, sharply aggressive smile. He raised his glass and lightly clinked it against Lincoln's.
"To Tom Kalinske. Let's hope he's not throwing a tantrum right now over being overshadowed by us."
Was Tom Kalinske throwing a tantrum?
Of course not.
While Arakawa celebrated before a champagne tower, Kalinske was standing at the exit of San Francisco International Airport, wearing a smile brighter than the California sun.
He opened his arms wide and gave Ono, the development lead who had just emerged from the terminal, a warm hug.
"Welcome to America, my friends!"
Ono and the development team members who had traveled all the way from Japan wore the fatigue of a long flight on their faces—but their eyes sparkled with excitement and curiosity they couldn't suppress.
They looked at the overly enthusiastic American president, then at the completely unfamiliar surroundings, feeling a little stiff and unsure.
"Mr. Kalinske, thank you for coming to meet us," Ono said with a small bow, his English still a bit unpolished.
"Not a problem at all! Not at all!" Kalinske slapped Ono's shoulder hard. "Being able to welcome heroes like you is my honor this year! From System 16 to System 32—I hear you practically rebuilt the game from scratch, and made it even better! You're not developers—you're magicians!"
The blunt, exaggerated praise left the team embarrassed, yet none of them could hide their smiles.
When they had first been told the project would be scrapped and restarted, the feeling of falling from heaven into hell had been unforgettable.
But now, standing here, about to attend the global premiere of a Hollywood blockbuster, every bit of hardship had paid off.
Back at Sega of America headquarters, Bernard was already waiting. He handed Kalinske a document, his expression brimming with excitement.
"Tom, it's all set. AMC, Cinemark, Regal—every one of the top ten theater chains in North America. Not a single one slipped away. They've already started clearing space for us in their ticket lobbies."
Kalinske skimmed the document and let out a satisfied whistle. "Of course they wouldn't refuse. We're delivering money straight to their door—who says no to that?"
He turned to Ono and the still-dazed development team, enthusiastically explaining the final—and most spectacular—stage Nakayama Takuya had prepared for their masterpiece.
"Gentlemen, your work won't be limited to arcades," Kalinske spread his arms wide, as if embracing the world. "On December 11th, the premiere day of Captain Hook, the first batch of five thousand brand-new Captain Hook arcade machines will appear in the ticket lobbies of every major theater across the country!"
Ono's eyes flew wide open.
"Every kid who buys a movie ticket will see your game first. Every family waiting for the movie to start might drop coins into your machine. Games and movies—seamlessly linked, right in their faces!"
Kalinske grew more animated by the second, his voice rising. "When the film finishes its run, those machines will be bought back by our distributors at a very favorable price, then resold to arcade owners who missed the first wave. The theaters earn extra rental fees, we promote the game, distributors get affordable secondhand machines that aren't obsolete—
A perfect closed loop!"
The developers exchanged stunned looks, their faces filled with disbelief.
They had only ever focused on making the game well. They had never imagined it could be sold like this.
Watching their shocked expressions, Kalinske felt indescribably satisfied.
He could already picture the looks on Arakawa and Lincoln's faces when they saw the media reports—as if they'd seen a ghost.
Two million SNES units sold? Impressive.
But Nintendo was still fighting with traditional tactics—methodical distribution and straightforward advertising.
Sega, under Nakayama Takuya's layout, had already taken the war to places Nintendo couldn't see—and never would have imagined.
Kalinske walked to the window, gazing down at the bustling traffic below, a wide grin spreading across his face.
"Arakawa, I hope you enjoy the Christmas present we've prepared for you."
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