Ajal.
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Chapter 86 - Trump Bombs
🕑 Added 2025-09-27 12:33:46 +0000 UTCMeanwhile, at Sega’s headquarters.
Takuya Nakayama gazed through his office blinds at Tokyo’s overcast sky.
Nintendo’s every move reached his desk as expected.
He knew the weight of The Legend of Zelda and Dragon Quest’s golden brands all too well.
Yet a faint smile played on his lips.
Pokémon’s ecosystem, like a finely tuned gear system, churned out profits relentlessly.
The System-16 board’s dominance in arcades provided Sega a solid foundation.
“Let them put on their big show,” Nakayama instructed his team.
“Our task is to deepen Pokémon’s operations—make every evolution stone shine, every Trade Machine forge new bonds.”
“And System-16’s upcoming arcade titles must maintain top quality.”
He knew Sega’s current arcade hits, while excellent, couldn’t yet match the societal impact of Nintendo’s two trump home console games.
Sega’s arcade success wouldn’t shake Nintendo’s home console dominance in the short term.
The real battle awaited the debut of their anticipated 16-bit console.
Until then, patience and building strength were key.
January 14th, Tokyo’s air remained crisp.
The Legend of Zelda II: The Adventure of Link launched as planned.
Long queues, unseen for a while, reappeared at electronics and toy stores.
Though less grand than Dragon Quest I’s launch, they proved “Zelda”’s enduring pull.
The game’s new side-scrolling perspective and action-heavy ARPG style sparked mild debate among veteran players.
Some found it fresh and thrilling; others missed the original’s pure exploration.
Kenichi Tanaka spotted Zelda II’s familiar green hero on newspaper corners and store posters during his commute.
As a dedicated Zelda I completer, he was tempted.
But after Dragon Quest I’s soul-shaking impact, he held near-religious anticipation for Dragon Quest II.
With a limited budget, he chose to save for the “truer” RPG sequel.
In his desk drawer lay meticulously revised, near-convincing “market research reports” and “client visit logs” crafted for Dragon Quest I.
He’d almost forgotten the guilt of fabricating them.
Now, his mind soared to Alefgard’s new continent and unwritten adventures.
January 26th arrived.
Later dubbed “DQII Day” by countless Japanese players, it carried legendary weight.
Before dawn, in Akihabara, Shinjuku, and Ikebukuro, “winding queues” couldn’t describe the scene.
It was a human tide, dense and unyielding, swallowing entire districts.
The scale dwarfed Dragon Quest I’s launch, multiplying its crowds tenfold.
The line included fervent veterans like Kenichi Tanaka, eyes blazing with anticipation.
Newer fans, won by Dragon Quest’s reputation, vowed to experience the sequel firsthand.
Parents, weary but tasked with the sacred mission to “secure a copy,” joined them.
Tanaka had wised up.
Half a month earlier, he’d submitted a grandiose “market research proposal on new entertainment software’s impact on youth and adult leisure,” spanning thousands of words—covering social phenomena, economic benefits, and national spirit, all culminating in a research date: January 26th morning, at major electronics stores and Toys “R” Us. His boss, dazzled by his “devotion to the company,” approved it.
Even so, arriving confidently at his nearest major electronics store, he gasped at the sight, legs weakening.
The queue snaked through streets, endless, like a gluttonous serpent devouring the road. He wondered if its tail reached his doorstep.
Without hesitation, he dashed to the next store, heart pounding, his “research” composure gone.
Then another.
And another!
Every store mirrored the same desperate scene. The air mixed anticipation, anxiety, and sweat. Some brought stools and thermoses, ready for a long haul.
Sweat soaked Tanaka’s shirt, sticking clammily as the cold wind failed to cool his burning anxiety. He pondered how to fudge his “research report” if he returned empty-handed.
Near defeat, legs leaden, he reached a quiet toy store in a back alley, usually patronized by local kids. Even here, nearly a hundred people queued, faces grim with “last stand” resolve.
Gritting his teeth, he took a deep breath and joined the end. It was down to fate.
Time crawled, the line moving slower than an old lady hanging laundry. Ahead, a high schooler bragged about clearing Dragon Quest I in thirty hours, sparking envy and skepticism. Tanaka’s ears buzzed.
Behind him, a man sighed repeatedly: “Please, let there be stock, or I can’t face my son—he gave up his New Year’s money.”
Tanaka felt mixed emotions—fear of missing out and pity for the “warrior dad.”
Finally, near noon, under a dizzying sun, it was his turn. He felt like a marathon runner nearing the finish.
The clerk, a young girl, pale as if dusted with flour, voice trembling on the verge of tears. The counter, meant for stacks of games, held one lone box.
“C-Congratulations… this is our last copy of Dragon Quest II,” she whispered, voice faint but heavenly to Tanaka.
“To those behind, I’m so sorry… we’re sold out,” she said, bowing deeply to the queue, voice cracking.
Tanaka nearly snatched the game, hands shaking.
The packaging, grander than the first, featured the hero, mage, and prince, eyes resolute, beckoning him. Its weight felt heavy with countless hopes.
He clutched it, not just a cartridge but a key to a new world, a holy sword against life’s monotony.
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” he babbled, fumbling payment, nearly dropping his wallet. He paid and turned to run, unwilling to linger.
Behind him, envious, jealous, desperate stares burned holes in his back. The dad let out a clear, wilted groan.
