This "40" was like divine decree, instantly shattering the psychological defenses of any player hesitating due to the price.
Inside Square's office, the atmosphere remained tense.
Hironobu Sakaguchi hadn't slept much in the past few days, his ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
No matter how impressive the monument, if it couldn't translate into sales and recoup its costs, he wouldn't just disappoint the company—he would betray Takuya Nakayama's almost fanatical trust and dedication.
"Mr. Sakaguchi! Report! The latest sales report!"
An assistant nearly burst through the door, his face radiating uncontainable elation.
Hironobu Sakaguchi shot to his feet, snatched the report, and stared intently at the numbers.
Total sales for the past two weeks: 203,451 units.
Of those, Collector's Edition sales: 128,802 units.
Sakaguchi's body swayed, as if all his strength had been drained away. He collapsed back into his chair with a dull thud.
The assistant jumped in surprise. "Mr. Sakaguchi? Are you alright?"
Hironobu Sakaguchi remained silent, merely waving his hand dismissively before holding the thin report up to his eyes, as if trying to stare right through it.
They had not only reached the break-even point, but far surpassed it!
This wasn't just about recouping costs. The 120,000 players who had shelled out over 10,000 yen for the Collector's Edition had spoken with their wallets, proving that their strategy was spot-on.
He let out a long, weary sigh, the air carrying the exhaustion, anxiety, and unparalleled joy of the past week.
He picked up the phone and dialed Takuya Nakayama's office.
"Mr. Nakayama, have you seen the report?" His voice was still hoarse, but the relief and excitement were unmistakable.
"Just finished reading it," Takuya Nakayama replied, his voice as steady as ever. "Congratulations, Mr. Sakaguchi. You've made history."
"It was all of us!" Hironobu corrected immediately, leaning back in his chair and gazing out the window, feeling an unprecedented sense of relaxation. "To be honest, I have more confidence in selling that limited-edition watch than the game itself."
"Oh?"
"People who spent over 10,000 yen on the Collector's Edition won't mind dropping another few tens of thousands on a wearable keepsake they can carry with them everywhere." Hironobu chuckled.
The perfect score for Chrono Trigger and its absurdly high sales figures for the Collector's Edition, along with the even more absurdly positive reviews, shook the entire Japanese gaming industry like a violent earthquake.
Yet in the conference rooms of third-party powerhouses like Namco and Capcom, the atmosphere was somewhat complicated.
"Thank goodness—thank goodness this is on the Sega CD," one executive said, glancing at the report. A thin sheen of sweat formed on his forehead, his voice thick with survivor's relief. "If this had been released on Mega Drive cartridges, our holiday lineup might have ended up gathering dust in the warehouse."
The others around the table nodded in deep agreement.
The dominance Chrono Trigger displayed was terrifying. That perfect 40-point score loomed over all other holiday releases like a five-fingered mountain.
"Come to think of it, Sega has been surprisingly considerate this time," another person remarked. "Aside from this exorbitantly priced Chrono Trigger, they haven't scheduled any first-party blockbusters for the end of the year. They've completely cleared the Christmas and New Year's season for us."
"Generous? More like a transparent scheme," scoffed a more senior executive with a cold laugh. "They're using this 'divine masterpiece' to set the bar impossibly high, making every gamer itch with desire. Then they step back and let us mortals perform on their stage. Once the buzz reaches its peak, they'll release a cheaper Mega Drive version next year and cash in again. Their calculations are more meticulous than anyone else's."
The others fell silent, a chill running down their spines as they reevaluated Sega's audacious strategy.
Of course, Sega's confidence in ceding the coveted holiday release window stemmed from a critical development among their chief rivals.
Shigeru Miyamoto, the creative soul of Nintendo, had finally collapsed from exhaustion.
After wringing every drop of creativity out of himself to complete The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past, he had immediately thrown himself into new projects and Super Famicom game approvals. The relentless work had finally broken his body.
Industry rumors confirmed that the genius producer was now on enforced leave.
Meanwhile, Dragon Quest V, the crown jewel of the third-party publishers, had already launched in late September, its peak sales momentum fading.
For the first time in years, the market was experiencing a brief vacuum.
Just as Japan's gaming industry was both admiring and fearing Sega's bold move, a transatlantic phone rang urgently in Takuya Nakayama's office.
It was Tom Kalinske, President of the North American branch.
"Takuya, have you seen it yet? The North American sales report!" Tom's booming voice came through the phone, brimming with excitement. "Even though the total sales are only a little over half of Japan's, the core players who bought the Collector's Edition are practically worshiping our game! They're calling it 'a game beyond its time'! 'Revelation from the future'! My God, I've never heard such exaggerated praise for a Japanese game before!"
"It seems our 'Holy Scripture' has found its followers in America too," Takuya Nakayama said with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair.
"Followers? They're practically fanatics!" Tom's tone was exaggerated. "But Takuya, the accounting department doesn't buy into this. I saw last week's financial report from Japan—it said these sales are far from covering the development costs for the Sega CD hardware!"
"Tom, don't worry. We have more than just this one game," Takuya replied, his voice still relaxed. "Sony is sharing a major portion of the development costs for the Sega CD hardware. The losses we're taking now aren't really losses—they're tuition fees."
"Tuition fees?"
"Yes, this is the tuition we're paying to learn CD-ROM technology and how to manage a project of this scale," Takuya Nakayama's voice grew steady and forceful. "Tom, have you realized it yet? What we've just completed might be the first true AAA game of this era—AAA meaning a lot of money, a lot of resources, and a lot of time. The scale of its development, the budget invested, and the complexity of cross-departmental collaboration are all unprecedented. These invaluable lessons can't be bought with money. When we develop the next-generation console, this experience will save us far more money and prevent countless missteps."
On the other end of the line, Tom fell silent for a moment, digesting these words.
"Alright, you crazy guy, you always manage to persuade me," Tom sighed, but his tone had already lightened. "I admit, managing a AAA project— I like that term!—this is indeed an investment in our future. But relying solely on Chrono Trigger, the return on this investment will take far too long."
"Who said there's only one?" Takuya chuckled softly.
"Hmm?" Tom's ears perked up.
"Next year, Sega CD has two real trump cards up its sleeve," Takuya said mysteriously, deliberately leaving the matter hanging, a hint of intrigue in his voice.
"Two games?!" Tom's breathing quickened. "I only know that Mark Cerny's Jurassic Park is one of them. Tell me, what's the other one?"
"You'll find out when the time comes," Takuya Nakayama replied, unapologetically dropping another cryptic hint.
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