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Chapter 103: Ken Kutaragi
🕑 Added 2025-10-03 09:54:27 +0000 UTCNight had fallen over the Setagaya apartment’s study. Outside, Tokyo’s skyline began to sparkle with vibrant neon lights.
Takuya reclined on the sofa.
An empty, high-end bento box was casually pushed to the corner of the table.
Leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the solitary blinking cursor on his computer screen.
The blank document was like an unplayed chessboard, each move tugging at countless nerves.
For the sake of Super Robot Wars, he had, in a sense, committed to wrapping a “lavish dumpling” around Sony’s LD player.
He rubbed his temples, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
This dumpling was stuffed to the brim and hefty—if mishandled, it could choke Sega half to death.
Perhaps, deep down, he was driven by a lingering obsession with the failed Sega-Bandai merger from his past life. Or maybe it was his desire to tap into Bandai’s prowess in merchandise development that made him pursue this path so relentlessly.
He knew full well that if Sony tasted success with the game he was planning, that sleeping lion would dive deeper and more ferociously into the gaming jungle.
Sega would then face a rival far more formidable than Nintendo.
But on second thought, Sony’s entry was a historical inevitability.
Norio Ohga’s ambition, etched into his very bones, and Sony’s colossal commercial empire ensured they’d never settle for being just a hardware manufacturer.
What he was doing now was merely nudging that inevitable tide forward, securing the greatest advantage and value for Sega in the process.
Refocusing, Takuya’s eyes locked back onto the screen.
In truth, when he made that bold proposal to Chuta Mitsui in the tea room, he already had a rough outline of the game in mind.
A week flew by.
In Tokyo’s Minato district, Sony’s headquarters towered into the sky, its glass curtain walls reflecting cold daylight with the imposing aura of a corporate giant.
Takuya, accompanied by Masao Suzuki from marketing, Director Yoshikawa, and two stern-faced legal staff, stepped into the building.
Chuta Mitsui was waiting in the lobby, flanked by two distinguished figures.
One was Shigeo Maruyama, president of Sony Music Entertainment, wearing a smile but with sharp eyes.
The other was a bespectacled, focused man with a tech-nerd air.
“This is Mr. Ken Kutaragi, one of our senior technical engineers,” Chuta introduced.
Takuya’s heart skipped a beat.
Ken Kutaragi.
A name that resonated like thunder.
The father of the PlayStation in his past life, now standing before him as merely a “senior technical engineer.”
His face remained impassive, offering a polite bow as if hearing the name for the first time.
The meeting room door opened, revealing a minimalist yet authoritative setup, the long conference table gleaming with a subdued luster.
A faint tension hung in the air.
Both sides knew the weight of today’s discussion.
After brief pleasantries, everyone took their seats.
Chuta sipped his tea, his gaze settling on Takuya with a touch of avuncular warmth.
“Takuya-kun, you mentioned last time that you’ve conceived a game to promote the LD player.”
“Care to enlighten us today?”
Takuya nodded slightly but didn’t respond immediately.
He glanced at one of the legal staff.
The staff member understood, stood, and pulled several documents from a briefcase, handing them to Chuta Mitsui, Shigeo Maruyama, and Ken Kutaragi.
“Before presenting the proposal, this is a nondisclosure agreement drafted by Sega,” Takuya said, his voice calm and devoid of emotion.
“Please review it.”
The agreement’s terms were stringent.
It explicitly stipulated that, should the collaboration fail, Sony could not develop or borrow any ideas, core mechanics, or similar themes from the proposal in any form.
Chuta’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
He skimmed the document, a hint of displeasure creeping into his tone.
“Takuya-kun, isn’t this a bit… distrustful of Sony?”
The question carried both inquiry and an elder’s scrutiny of a junior’s approach.
The air in the meeting room grew heavier.
Masao Suzuki and Director Yoshikawa’s hearts tightened subtly.
Takuya, however, remained composed.
He met Chuta’s gaze, his tone steady yet brimming with unyielding confidence.
“Mr. Mitsui, gentlemen.”
“Once you see the proposal, I believe you’ll understand the necessity of this agreement.”
“And the value it represents.”
His subtext was clear: this proposal warranted such caution.
Maruyama and Kutaragi exchanged a glance.
Maruyama’s fingers tapped lightly on the table, as if weighing the situation.
After a moment, he picked up a pen and signed the agreement.
“I hope Executive Director Nakayama won’t disappoint us.”
Seeing this, Chuta’s expression softened, and he signed without further comment.
Kutaragi signed quietly, his eyes betraying a technical curiosity.
With the agreements signed, the atmosphere grew both heavier and charged with anticipation.
Takuya nodded to Masao Suzuki.
Suzuki promptly handed three meticulously bound proposals to Chuta, Maruyama, and Kutaragi.
Unlike his usual verbose presentations, Takuya chose silence this time.
He sat quietly, hands clasped, his gaze calmly observing the three Sony executives.
He wanted the proposal to speak for itself.
More importantly, he wanted to witness their unfiltered, genuine reactions without any guidance.
This was the first real test of the proposal’s impact.
The meeting room was filled only with the soft rustle of pages turning.
The first to show a visible reaction was Ken Kutaragi.
Initially, he flipped through casually, with the practiced scrutiny of a technician.
But soon, his page-turning paused.
His brows furrowed, as if grappling with a perplexing technical puzzle.
Then, a flicker of disbelief flashed in his eyes.
That spark quickly turned into intense focus, even a hint of fervor.
His grip on the pages tightened, knuckles whitening, fingers trembling slightly.
He flipped faster, like a starving traveler in a desert discovering an oasis, desperate to drink in every drop.
The second to react was Shigeo Maruyama.
Unlike Kutaragi’s overt intensity, the Sony Music president maintained the restraint of a business elite.
Yet, he paused several times while reading.
Each time, he looked up, fixing Takuya with a sharp, probing gaze.
That look was complex—surprise at first glance, deepening scrutiny, and a trace of growing admiration he himself hadn’t noticed.
Chuta Mitsui, less attuned to the technical or creative nuances of games, was a master at reading people.
Kutaragi’s near-obsessive focus and Maruyama’s increasingly curious stares spoke volumes about the proposal’s extraordinary nature.
He raised an eyebrow at Takuya, a meaningful look.
The earlier displeasure was gone, replaced by unmasked surprise and keen interest.
The air in the meeting room seemed to freeze.
Only the sound of turning pages cut through the silence.
