There was no unnecessary chatter, only the metallic clangs of steampunk machinery and the spirited singing of young girls.
The screen lit up.
Sakura Shinguji stood on the bustling streets of Ginza, one hand carrying the bundled Spirit Sword Wild Eagle, the other dragging a large suitcase.
Faced with streets filled with steam-powered cars belching white smoke and towering red-brick buildings piercing the sky, the girl's mouth gaped in awe, her eyes wide with wonder.
"This isn't a heroine! She's just a country girl who's never seen the city before!"
Viewers watching at home burst into laughter.
Chisa Yokoyama's portrayal of the country girl's awkwardness upon entering the big city was spot-on.
She bowed to automatic doors, stared blankly at streetlights, and even tripped and fell to the ground when startled by a passing steam-powered robot.
This clumsy yet earnest charm instantly melted the audience's hearts.
However, the story's trajectory didn't maintain this light-hearted tone.
In her confusion, Sakura, searching for the Imperial Combat Revue, stumbled into the backstage area of the Great Imperial Theater.
This was the territory of Sumire Kanzaki, the leading star of the Flower Troupe.
The next few minutes were a textbook example of a social disaster.
Sakura tripped over a cable on the ground, sending her luggage flying and crashing precisely into the critical support column of the stage set.
With a loud crash, half of the meticulously prepared stage collapsed.
Sumire Kanzaki made her grand entrance.
Michie Tomizawa's voice, dripping with arrogance, could suffocate anyone watching through the screen.
Without even looking Sakura in the eye, Sumire covered her mouth with her fan and delivered a stream of venomous remarks, each word like a needle piercing both Sakura's and the audience's hearts.
"A country bumpkin who can't even walk properly—does she even deserve to stand here?"
There was no twist, no hero to save the day.
Amid the theater manager's resigned sighs, Sakura, her eyes reddening, bowed repeatedly in apology while frantically gathering her scattered belongings.
The helpless vulnerability on her face silenced the audience, who had been laughing just moments before.
The camera panned to a long shot of the twilight streets.
The background music turned somber and melancholic.
Sakura dragged her heavy suitcase, alone on the unfamiliar streets of the Imperial Capital.
She held back her tears, muttering to herself, "This isn't all my fault," trying to bolster her spirits, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her.
Many viewers were clenching their fists, itching to reach through the screen and slap Sumire Kanzaki twice, then help Sakura pick up her luggage.
"Sega, you heartless! Torturing a girl in the very first episode?"
Just as the audience's frustration reached its peak, the scene froze on Ueno Park.
Night had fallen, and cherry blossoms danced in the lamplight, creating a breathtakingly beautiful scene. Sakura set down her luggage, hugged her knees, and crouched beneath a tree, gazing at the brilliantly lit Imperial Capital in the distance—a city that didn't belong to her. Finally, she buried her face in her arms.
The screen gradually darkened.
The end credits began to roll, signaling the end of the first episode.
"Is that it?!"
Simultaneous cries of anguish erupted from countless living rooms across Japan.
The uncomfortable, lingering tension left countless viewers furious.
What would happen to Sakura in this unfamiliar Imperial Capital? Would that sharp-tongued young lady cause more trouble?
All these questions were abruptly cut off, leaving only a nagging itch in their hearts.
The closing theme, "Yume Miteiyō (Dream a Sweet Dream)", a soothing, Taisho-era melody, flowed from the television speakers. The screen showed ethereal silhouettes of falling cherry blossoms, but this couldn't soothe the audience's burning anger.
This wasn't a dream—it was a nightmare.
Who could bear to watch such a pure and earnest country girl be driven to tears alone in a city park by the coldness of the big city and the venomous tongues of her seniors?
The frustration lodged in their chests, suffocating them, making them want to smash their televisions.
TV Tokyo's hotline was instantly flooded with calls.
The operators had clearly undergone "special training."
Faced with roars and questions through the receivers, they remained utterly unflustered, their voices even carrying a hint of professional sympathy.
"Yes, we completely understand how you feel."
"Miss Sakura's ordeal is truly heartbreaking, but please rest assured, this is just the beginning of her growth."
As viewers' emotions gradually calmed and they began to ask about the next plot developments, the operators skillfully threw out the carefully prepared bait: "If you're genuinely worried about Miss Sakura's situation, you'll find the continuation of her story in the Sakura Wars game released simultaneously by Sega. There, you can personally take on the role of Captain and protect and guide Miss Sakura yourself."
After hanging up, many were left stunned.
Protect her personally?
There was no need to wait a week. He could help that clumsy girl dry her tears right now.
Once the thought popped up, he couldn't suppress it.
On Friday night, Akihabara and other major commercial districts saw a surge of new customers at their game stores.
They rushed in, ignoring the dazzling array of game covers, and headed straight for the counter.
"Boss, I want a system that can play Sakura Wars."
"You mean the Sega CD? We have bundled packages now, but the price is—"
"Enough talk. Just give me one."
An older man slapped his credit card on the counter, looking less like he was buying a game console and more like he was paying a ransom.
For these financially stable adults, spending a few tens of thousands of yen to fulfill a fleeting impulse was more than worth it.
If this could make the girl crying in the park smile, what did a little money matter?
Back home, he unpacked the box, connected the wires, and powered on the system.
As the classic Sega startup jingle played, the disc began to spin rapidly.
Many had initially worried about the game's complexity, figuring not everyone had the patience to master complicated button combinations.
But once they started playing, they discovered the game was incredibly user-friendly.
No complex controls, no need to memorize move lists.
The combat system was simple and satisfying: just push the stick to direct your mech, and watch the screen fill with dazzling special moves.
The rest of the time felt like watching an interactive movie, where you only needed to make choices at key moments.
On the screen, Sakura Shinguji was dejected after a mistake.
Without hesitation, the player chose to comfort her gently.
As Sakura looked up, a blush spreading across her face, her tears turning into a smile as she called out, "Captain Oogami!"—the sense of accomplishment in that moment was stronger than closing a major deal at work.
So this was what it felt like to "protect" someone.
Originally, they'd just wanted to play the opening to vent some frustration, but once they sat down, they couldn't get up.
The sky outside the window changed from black to white, and then back to black.
In countless otaku apartments across the weekend, the same scene played out: takeout boxes and empty beer cans littered the floor in front of the TV, and the man holding the controller muttered to himself, dark circles under his eyes.
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