Ajal.
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Chapter 88 - Dormancy
🕑 Added 2025-09-28 11:32:56 +0000 UTCFebruary 14th, Valentine’s Day, carried the scent of chocolate and anticipation.
But for countless Japanese players, the day dropped a “sweet bombshell.”
Konami released their latest Famicom masterpiece—Contra.
Explosive battle scenes.
The thrill of cooperative two-player mode.
And adrenaline-pumping, high-difficulty challenges.
The game swept the nation. After school, kids no longer just debated Dragon Quest II’s toughest dungeons or Zelda II’s hidden spots. New topics emerged: how to clear Contra with thirty lives or who could reach which stage in co-op. Even Mrs. Sato’s grandson, who’d cried over missing Dragon Quest II, began saving pocket money for a Contra cartridge.
Following Dragon Quest II’s footsteps, it became another phenomenon.
Media and player buzz focused almost entirely on the Famicom.
TV and magazines overflowed with reports of the Famicom’s “golden age.”
Dragon Quest II’s fever hadn’t fully faded.
Contra hit next.
Kids’ New Year’s money, already ravaged by Zelda II and Dragon Quest II, faced fresh temptation.
Meanwhile, Pokémon merchandise grew ever hotter.
The third set of Poké Ball electronic pets neared release.
Constantly evolving trading cards.
These were small whirlpools, vying for kids’ limited funds.
The “New Year’s money defense war” became the hottest after-school topic.
At Sega’s headquarters, Takuya Nakayama didn’t dwell on this frenzy. He knew it was Nintendo’s barrier, built on first-mover advantage and market dominance.
Sega’s current foundation couldn’t break it.
He regularly reviewed Pokémon project reports—Poké Ball production progress, strict quality control, and pre-launch marketing rhythms. Every detail, he insisted, must advance steadily. These products were key to building brand loyalty among kids and amassing early funds.
Occasionally, he’d pitch seemingly wild ideas for marketing or events, like hidden Easter eggs for electronic pets or unique offline activities. These often worked wonders, perfectly capturing kids’ psyches, keeping Pokémon fresh and exciting.
In the arcade division, Nakayama was a frequent presence, overseeing progress, discussing 16-bit arcade board optimizations, and brainstorming new game ideas. He stressed arcades as testing grounds for new tech and vital for building 16-bit development expertise.
This arcade tech and talent would be the bedrock for future home consoles. He scrutinized gameplay and market feedback, ensuring each arcade title maximized hardware and drew players.
But his heart was with the new console’s development—his true “trump card.” He visited the hardware division almost daily, checking test data and probing technical hurdles. The hardware chief both valued and dreaded his “intense oversight.” Nakayama’s tech insight and resource support were invaluable, but his sharp, core-hitting questions—sometimes with Yuji Suzuki in tow—put pressure on the team, sparking their potential.
A breakthrough came by late March in the hardware division.
The chief, weary but thrilled, showed Nakayama a plain prototype. Bare, without a casing, exposing circuits and heat sinks, its “core” was powerful.
Nakayama tested it eagerly. The screen displayed colors far beyond the Famicom, finer textures, smoother scrolling. Character movement lacked noticeable afterimages, backgrounds scrolled seamlessly, and music was rich, not monotonous. The fluidity and layered sound heralded a new era. He offered no lavish praise, silently testing the program, feeling the precise, lag-free response.
He quickly sobered, asking about key parameters and stability—processor frequency, memory, graphics, and long-term performance. He listened intently, posing pointed questions.
The hardware chief, grimacing, reported costs. “Performance meets expectations, stability’s solid,” he said, pausing. “But… material costs are 30,000 yen, due to custom chips and high-end memory.” He admitted concern. “We’re confident mass production by year-end can cut costs to around 20,000 yen via supply chain and tech maturity.” He sighed. “Still, 20,000 yen means a retail price of at least 30,000 yen or higher—way above the Famicom.”
Nakayama’s brow furrowed. A 30,000-yen cost, even 20,000, meant a retail price far above the Famicom—a major marketing hurdle. He knew price was critical, especially against Nintendo’s Famicom. He discussed cost optimizations—chip packaging, power design—but insisted, “Performance is our lifeline.” Gazing at the prototype, he added, “We’ll find ways to cut costs—scale, iterations, other areas. But the core experience is non-negotiable.” That was his line, Sega’s future foundation. Only overwhelming performance could breach Nintendo’s fortress.
Despite cost pressures, the prototype’s success reassured Nakayama. A weight lifted. With hardware set, software was next.
He summoned all game development team leads to the top-floor meeting room.
Standing before them, his gaze swept the group—Sega’s greatest assets, creators to breathe soul into the new console. “Everyone,” his voice, though soft, echoed clearly, “our ‘weapon’ has taken shape.” He pointed downstairs. “A machine far beyond current home consoles.” His voice rose, brimming with passion. “Now, it’s time to forge its sharpest ‘blade’!”
He passionately stressed the importance of a launch lineup. He had leads report project progress and prioritize arcade titles for porting to the new console, aiding testing and building a launch lineup. Successful ports would fill the game library and showcase the console’s power. Developers, tech enthusiasts, lit up, whispering about which arcade games suited porting, which visuals could shine fully.
Then, Nakayama set a bigger task: a flagship title fully exploiting the console’s capabilities, offering unprecedented experiences unique to this machine. He needed their creativity, skill, and Sega’s full might to craft era-defining masterpieces. The room’s mood shifted from surprise to excitement, then solemn responsibility. They knew a tough battle loomed.
