"It's precisely because we're Sega that we need to think long-term." Takuya pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote down the word "localization." "Children in China can't read Japanese. Playing RPGs is like trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphs. Extract the text from Phantasy Star or Shining in the Darkness, even our traditional Chinese drafts from Taiwan, and leak them through unofficial channels to those pirate merchants."
"Tell them that if they localize the games and burn them onto cartridges, they'll have a money printer."
Tanaka wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth, his brows furrowed. "But if we do this, we won't receive a single cent in royalties. We'd be doing all the work for someone else's profit."
"Not receiving payment now doesn't mean we won't in the future." Takuya stood up and walked to the window, his back to Tanaka. "The current Chinese market is a lawless frontier. A legitimate cartridge costing several thousand yen is equivalent to several months' wages for an average worker there—no one will buy it. But what if that Nine-Tattooed Dragon, if he's smart, floods the mainland's small shops and toy stores with these machines and cheap, localized pirate cartridges?"
Takuya turned around, his eyes gleaming. "Charge by the hour. Just like renting a VHS tape—fifty cents or a dollar for half an hour. Turn the console into a cheap public entertainment facility."
"They can also collect deposits and rent by leasing the machines to these shops, and rotate the games periodically to keep the shops happy. The deposits can even be used to offer more loans. See how thoroughly I've thought this through for them?" Takuya shrugged.
Tanaka was a clever man, his mind working swiftly.
He imagined the scene: children gathered in a dimly lit shop after school, staring at a TV screen connected to a Mega Drive, crumpled coins in hand, cheering excitedly as they played Sonic or Streets of Rage.
"That's the brand stamp," Takuya snapped his fingers. "As these kids grow up with Sega games, the subconscious association between video games and Sega will be ingrained. In ten, twenty years, when they have disposable income, that emotional debt is when we reap the rewards."
"Furthermore," Takuya said, his tone turning icy, "there's an ironclad rule to this deal. Tell Nine-Tattooed Dragon that we'll turn a blind eye to whatever he does in the mainland—copying, imitating, even bastardizing our products. But if a single counterfeit machine or pirated cartridge finds its way back to Hong Kong, Taiwan, Macau, or any other market in Southeast Asia..."
He made a throat-slitting gesture. "I'll send the best lawyers in the United States after him. China is currently seeking to join the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade, and they fear nothing more than intellectual property disputes that could jeopardize their re-entry."
"At that point, neither the government nor the underworld will be able to protect him."
This masterful blend of carrot and stick was executed with exquisite precision.
It leveraged the pirates' formidable market penetration to fill gaps in the market while using strict regional restrictions to protect Sega's interests in more established markets.
"As for the loss of hardware technology..." Takuya chuckled softly and settled back into his chair. "The Mega Drive is already outdated. Let them copy it. By the time the next generation comes around, disc encryption and complex 3D architectures won't be something small workshops can easily replicate. By then, players accustomed to Sega's control schemes and game styles will naturally become our most loyal supporters. Even if the discs are easier to pirate, they won't be able to replicate the console itself. At least we'll secure the console market."
Tanaka closed his laptop and took a deep breath.
He looked at the young Managing Director before him, a strange sense of awe welling up in his heart.
This wasn't just business; this was chess—grandmaster-level strategic planning spanning over a decade.
"I understand," Tanaka said, standing up and straightening his collar. The earlier panic and hesitation had vanished, replaced by the resolute determination of someone on a mission. "This matter is of critical importance, and messages can easily become distorted as they pass through intermediaries. If we entrust this to subordinates, and they fail to grasp your intentions—turning tacit approval into official authorization, or treating 'strictly prohibit reverse flow' as a passing breeze—it could lead to serious complications."
"I'll go to Hong Kong myself," Takuya said.
Takuya nodded approvingly.
Japanese people are meticulous in their work but also prone to taking liberties. Instructions can become distorted as they pass through layers of hierarchy. This kind of operation, hovering in the gray zone, truly required a trusted confidant like Tanaka to handle it with precision.
"Go. When you meet the Nine-Tattooed Dragon, remember to deliver a message for me." Takuya picked up the pen on his desk and spun it around his fingertip. "Tell him Sega wants to be his friend. Let him decide if he dares to seize this heaven-sent fortune."
Tanaka nodded firmly and turned to leave the office.
After seeing Tanaka out, Takuya loosened his tie slightly and picked up his empty coffee cup. He decided to stroll through the development teams on each floor to clear his head.
The development teams at Sega were largely aligned with the project assignments he'd outlined in his statistics.
Takuya wandered through the corridors, stopping here and there, until he finally arrived at the door to Development Team 3.
This was his "dragon's rise" territory, the core of his core within Sega.
As he pushed the door open, a wave of heat mixed with the rhythmic clatter of keyboard strokes hit him in the face.
Because Development Team 3 had been handling projects directly assigned by Takuya Nakayama, including the current development of The King of Fighters II, the team's size had swollen like a balloon.
The once-spacious office was now crammed with workstations, the aisles so narrow that one had to turn sideways to pass, making the place resemble an illegal pyramid scheme den.
At a glance, the newly recruited programmers were deeply immersed in their work, their fingers flying over the keyboards as code cascaded down their screens like waterfalls. The art team was equally busy.
However, when Takuya shifted his gaze to the "core area" deep within the office, his eyebrows involuntarily twitched.
The atmosphere there was strikingly different from the frenzied activity outside, almost eerily calm.
As the team leader, Shimizu had his legs propped on his desk, sinking deep into his ergonomic chair, openly reading the Tokyo Sports newspaper while intently studying the horse racing section.
The veteran members nearby weren't far behind. One was twirling a pen in a daze, another was drawing turtles on blank paper with a felt-tip pen, and one was even wearing headphones, his head nodding rhythmically—whether he was listening to heavy metal or dozing off was anyone's guess.
Are these guys living too comfortably?
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