"The Hokkaido Branch just faxed over a report saying customers even forced the purchase of samples from the display cases," a managing director said, stubbing out his cigarette. His voice trembled with disbelief. "I've never fought such a lucrative battle in my life."
Makoto Yamashina, seated at the head of the table, remained silent, quietly flipping through the financial report in his hands.
This wasn't business; it was robbery.
And not just any robbery—this was someone shoving money into your pocket and getting upset if you refused to take it.
He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the overly excited executives gathered around the table.
Just months ago, these same people had been pointing fingers at the expensive licensing fee during the board meeting, worried that the young Sega Managing Director was digging a hole for Bandai.
Now it seemed the hole had indeed been dug, but it was filled with gold mines.
"President," Chuta Mitsui leaned in, lowering his voice, his tone filled with newfound respect. "We're lucky we followed Executive Director Nakayama's advice back then."
Makoto Yamashina set down the report, picked up his teacup, and took a sip, masking the smile that threatened to spread across his face.
It wasn't just a keen eye.
That young man had not only brought the food to his mouth, but even kindly chewed it for him.
The sensation of being carried aloft by someone else's momentum was intoxicating, dangerously addictive.
This unprecedented sense of ease caused Makoto Yamashina's wavering heart to suddenly settle.
Unbidden, the words spoken by Takuya Nakayama at the cocktail party surfaced in his mind:
President Yamashina, have you ever considered making Bandai and Sega one family?
At the time, he'd dismissed it as youthful arrogance, even felt a twinge of resistance. After all, who would willingly hand over their family legacy to another?
But now, gazing at the queue of trucks waiting to haul away goods outside the window, that once-crazy idea sprouted like weeds, fueled by the spring breeze of the dinosaur craze, growing wildly in his heart.
If that monstrous young man were at the helm—
Perhaps Bandai truly could reach heights he'd never dared to dream of.
Makoto Yamashina set down his teacup, his fingers unconsciously tapping a rhythm on the table.
August 6th: It was as if the sky had been torn open.
Kagoshima was struck by torrential, concentrated rainfall, triggering catastrophic floods and landslides that instantly shattered the region's tranquility.
On the TV screen, muddy, debris-laden waters surged through streets, carrying trees and cars like a monstrous force in its own right.
The archipelago, still buzzing from the "dinosaur fever," was doused with a bucket of cold water.
The entertainer who had been rolling around in a dinosaur costume on a variety show had vanished, replaced by a solemn frontline journalist shouting into the wind, clad in a raincoat amidst the storm.
The box office curve for Jurassic Park took a noticeable dive in the following days.
After all, in the face of the raw power of nature, Hollywood's manufactured special effects and thrillers seemed pale and out of place.
Toho, ever prudent, quietly pulled several prime-time slots for their films, yielding them to public service announcements.
Takuya Nakayama sat in his office, watching NHK's special news program.
On the screen, an elderly man covered in mud was crying into the camera. He explained that the rescue team couldn't reach him due to landslides blocking the roads; his neighbor had dragged him out from under the collapsed roof beam.
"The limits of public assistance."
Takuya muted the sound, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk.
The Hokkaido earthquake a month prior, combined with this Kagoshima flood, had laid bare the sluggishness and inadequacy of the official rescue system.
The media narrative had shifted.
Previously, they had been lambasting the Meteorological Agency for inaccurate warnings. Now, newspaper headlines were debating a more pressing question: "When the government can't save you, what should you do?"
After all, the kind of overwhelming, "people's army"-style rescue efforts that China provided—where the entire nation mobilized to save every last citizen—was a global rarity, a one-in-a-million occurrence.
"Self-help," "mutual aid," "public assistance."
These three terms—self-help, mutual aid, and public assistance—began to appear frequently in expert interviews on major television stations.
Public sentiment shifted from simple anger to a more reflective mood tinged with a sense of impending crisis.
People realized that rather than pin their hopes on the bickering politicians in Congress, it was more practical to learn how to protect themselves during an earthquake or how to pack emergency supplies before a flood.
However, this serious wave of reflection didn't last long.
As the Golden 72 Hours of Rescue passed and the list of survivors stopped updating, news programs began featuring endless panel discussions on topics like "Modernization of Disaster Prevention Technology Systems" and "Upgrading of Emergency Response Mechanisms"—dull enough to make viewers yawn.
The public's nerves had been stretched taut for too long; they needed to relax.
So, when variety shows returned to the air on Friday and Jurassic Park posters once again dominated prominent displays, audiences flooded into theaters almost as if seeking revenge.
No one wanted to listen to geologists analyze tectonic plate movements. They just wanted to see dinosaurs—every kind of dinosaur.
In late August, the summer heat still clung to Tokyo, but the banquet hall at the Imperial Hotel was kept frosty.
Champagne glasses sparkled under the crystal chandeliers, casting a golden glow over every face.
Toho had invested heavily in this film. After all, Jurassic Park's Japanese box office had already shattered the 10 billion yen ceiling.
In this era of economic uncertainty, when everyone is clutching their wallets tightly, the figure of 10 billion yen seemed almost mythical.
Department Manager Sato, his face flushed with pride, didn't even notice his crooked tie.
Holding his glass, he shouldered his way past two second-tier actresses trying to hand him their business cards and plopped down beside Takuya Nakayama.
"10 billion yen!" Sato burped, his eyes unfocused yet burning with fervor. He slapped Takuya's thigh. "Executive Director Nakayama, if I'd believed that Public Relations Director's nonsense two months ago and released it according to the old rules, I'd probably be writing my resignation letter right now."
Takuya patted the back of Sato's hand and clinked his glass against Sato's. "You're too humble, Mr. Sato," he said. "Jurassic Park is Spielberg and Michael Crichton's masterpiece. All we did was cheer them on and give it a gentle push."
"Hey! Excessive humility is just another form of pride!" Sato roared with laughter, his booming voice drawing curious glances from several producers nearby.
He stood up abruptly, grabbed Takuya by the arm, and dragged him toward the stage. "Come on, you and I are hammering the ceremonial sake barrel together at tonight's victory banquet!"
The noisy chatter in the hall instantly hushed.
Dozens of eyes focused intently on the stage.
Among the audience were old-school film producers, popular idols, and executives from major television networks.
The wooden mallet cracked open the sake barrel, its rich aroma filling the air.
Sato snatched the microphone, ignoring the planned program, and spoke candidly: "Ladies and gentlemen! Isn't this sake delicious? But let me be honest: without the support of Sega and Bandai, our success might not have come so smoothly."
The applause erupted, tinged with urgency.
The microphone was passed to Takuya Nakayama.
He didn't rush to speak, his gaze sweeping across the sea of eager faces below.
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