When it was released, it was still the holiday season, still January 2000, and the ZGBA sold like hotcakes. Families were still in "new year mood," pockets still full of holiday money, and the timing hit perfectly. A lot of people went straight for the full package, because it wasn't just the handheld. It was the handheld plus the entire launch library—ZGBA and 21 release games, 21 release games.
For collectors and hardcore fans, skipping even one title felt like a crime. They weren't thinking calmly anymore. They were thinking, this is history. Day-one ZAGE handheld. Day-one library. If you miss it now, you'll regret it later. And with the full package coming with a 20% discount, it felt like a steal, a real steal—almost like ZAGE was daring people to say no.
Still, there were plenty of people who kept it simple. They only bought the handheld itself and one or two games, usually the one they were most excited about. Not everyone wanted a huge library on day one, and not everyone liked spending money on games they weren't sure they would even finish. Some players preferred to try the ZGBA first, test how it felt in their hands, then slowly add more titles over the next weeks as reviews and word of mouth made the best games obvious.
And then it happened again: the queues.
The first day was pure chaos, especially because it was still the holiday season. In many areas across Japan, the lines became ridiculously long. Some people arrived before sunrise and still didn't get a unit. Convenience stores that normally never handled "launch day" crowds suddenly had staff directing people outside. Big electronics retailers had to put up signs, mark waiting lanes, and announce stock limits just to stop arguments from breaking out.
And it wasn't only Japan. The same scenes happened in the USA as well. Different language, same energy: a new ZAGE handheld was released, and people didn't want to be the one who missed the first wave.
Then, once players finally got the ZGBA in their hands, the reaction turned into a second storm online. They were genuinely satisfied, and some were shocked at how premium it felt for the price. The ZAGE forums filled up fast with first impressions, pictures of the purple-and-white unit on desks, and short reviews typed with shaky excitement.
"Feels like a console in my hands."
"Buttons are perfect, not cramped."
"The battery is crazy."
"Online works."
Again and again, people repeated the same disbelief: how can a handheld like this be sold for only 11.000 yen?
The price became its own topic. Some users started joking that the number had to be a typo. Others joked that ZAGE must have forgotten a "1" in front of it. A few even posted fake calculator screenshots, breaking down the adapter, the charger, the batteries, and the handheld itself like they were doing detective work.
Then the jokes turned into conspiracy theories. ZAGE must be selling ZGBA at a loss because they're planning to stop making games in near future. Or they want to crush everyone else first and then raise prices later when competitors are dead. Or this was a "bait" device that can be exploded at will!
It was nonsense, but it spread anyway, because that's what happens when something feels too good. People couldn't accept that the simple answer might be true: ZAGE just wanted a strong launch, and Zaboru liked winning by being fair.
And because those theories existed, a weird wave of "support" followed. Some of ZAGE's biggest fans started buying even more merchandise, like they were trying to protect the company with their wallets. Limited shirts. Figures. Posters. Anything. Some even bought extra farewell packs they didn't need, just to "support ZAGE's cash flow," like the company was a struggling indie studio instead of the giant that built the industry's standards.
They posted receipts like proof of loyalty, saying things like, "If ZAGE is losing money on ZGBA, then we'll help them." Others replied with memes, telling people to calm down, but even the memes carried the same emotion underneath.
It was ridiculous, but it was also another kind of proof.
People didn't just like the ZGBA.
They believed in it.
The games themselves were the real stars of the ZGBA. Those 21 launch titles didn't feel like leftovers or rushed fillers, they felt fresh, confident, and surprisingly complete. Even on a handheld screen, the graphics looked clean and sharp, with effects and animations that made people double-take and ask, "Is this really portable?" It had only been two days since release, but players couldn't stop talking about it. Every hour the forums filled with new impressions, favorite moments, and screenshots, like the ZGBA library had already become a shared obsession.
Meanwhile, Zaboru was in a hospital in Japan supported by the ZAGE Foundation. It was a cancer hospital, especially for children, and he came there for one reason: to visit them in person.
No cameras. No staff followed him like a parade. No big announcement.
Just himself, a quiet smile, and a large package he carried.
Inside the hospital, there were many kids fighting cancer, and the ZAGE Foundation was already paying their bills. They already had free healthcare support, better rooms, and small comforts built into the place—play areas, bright walls, books, and staff trained to keep the children from feeling like they were trapped inside sadness all day. The hospital tried its best to make the kids less afraid, less lonely, and a little stronger.
But Zaboru wanted to do more than fund it.
He wanted to give the kids something that felt like a real gift, not charity paperwork. So he went room to room and gave each child a ZGBA, not as a marketing move, but as a way to lift their spirit and give them a world they could control, even if only for a few hours a day. He spoke gently, encouraged them, and joked with them like they were normal kids, not patients. For the children who idolized him, seeing him standing there meant everything. Some of them smiled so wide it looked painful, and a few parents couldn't hold back their tears.
Zaboru and ZAGE had already done so much for them, but standing in those hallways, Zaboru still felt like it wasn't enough. His chest tightened every time he saw a small body trying to be brave. Kids were supposed to run outside, fight over toys, and beg for one more hour before bedtime—not fight for their lives in a hospital bed.
Still, if a handheld, a few games, and a few words from him could ease their pain even a little, Zaboru was willing to do it it has personal satisfaction for him. Even if he had to smile through the part of him that felt like it was breaking.
And then Zaboru came to the room of the kid he knew very well. Aldrich Kirk was the first child Zaboru had ever met here, the one who quietly pushed him to create the ZAGE Foundation in the first place. Aldrich's condition was stable—not getting worse, not getting better—but the fight against leukemia was still there, hanging over every day like a shadow.
Zaboru knocked lightly, then stepped in with that familiar, careless confidence.
"Yo, tough guy."
Aldrich's eyes lit up so fast it was like the room got brighter. "Zaboru! You came!"
Zaboru chuckled. "Of course I came. You think I'd miss this?"
Aldrich immediately straightened as much as his body allowed, trying to look strong on purpose. Then his voice cracked with excitement. "Where!? Where my ZGBA!"
Zaboru laughed again, and Aldrich's parents smiled too, watching their son light up like a normal kid for the first time in a while.
"Relax, tough guy," Zaboru said, lowering the big package onto Aldrich's lap. "For you, I brought something special."
He opened it carefully and revealed a ZGBA with a unique color palette. Instead of the standard purple-and-white, this one was green and orange, bright and bold like it was made to fight sadness on sight. On the front, there was an image of a young boy jumping beside his Charizard, frozen in a moment that looked like pure victory. On the back, engraved cleanly, were the words: "Aldrich Kirk."
Zaboru held it up proudly. "Heheh. This is the ZGBA Aldrich Kirk Edition. Only one in the world. Handmade by me."
Aldrich stared at it, frozen, like his brain couldn't accept that something this real was meant for him. His fingers trembled as he reached out and touched the name on the back, tracing the letters slowly.
"T… thank you, Zaboru…" Aldrich's voice shook. "I… I don't know what to say. This is… this is so amazing."
His eyes watered, and he tried to blink it away like crying would make him look weak.
Zaboru leaned closer and flicked his forehead lightly, gentle but firm. "Hey. Don't tear up on me. You're the tough guy, remember?" He smiled, softer now. "Play Pokémon, okay?"
Then he tilted his head with a grin that carried a promise. "And… you've got one more surprise."
Aldrich started Pokémon Sapphire right away. His fingers were careful at first, like he was afraid the new handheld would disappear if he pressed too hard. The opening screens flashed, the music played, and when the character creation appeared, Aldrich froze.
At the top of the name box, it already said "Aldrich."
He knew how Pokémon worked. You could name your character. The game always asked you. But seeing his own name sitting there as the default hit him like a surprise punch.
"Th… this…" Aldrich swallowed, eyes shining. "You name the main character after me…?"
Zaboru smiled, warm and proud. "Yeah. The official name will be Aldrich Birch."
Aldrich looked down at the screen again, blinking hard. "Aldrich Birch…" he repeated, like he was trying to memorize it.
Zaboru leaned closer, lowering his voice so it felt like the words were only for Aldrich. "You are strong, Aldrich. That's why I want you to live."
Aldrich's lips trembled.
"I want you to try your best," Zaboru continued, steady and gentle, "no matter what the result is. Because trying your best is something nobody can take away from you."
He tapped the ZGBA lightly with one finger. "You're a Pokémon Master. Remember that, okay?"
Then Zaboru's smile returned, brighter. "And you are very cool."
Aldrich fought his tears, shoulders shaking once. He nodded hard. "I will fight, Zaboru! I want to live!" His voice cracked, but he forced it louder anyway. "But if I can't… then I can still die happily. With no regrets."
Zaboru chuckled softly, but his hand moved with real care as he caressed Aldrich's head. "No," he said, firm, like he was rejecting the idea itself. "You will not die, tough guy."
Aldrich stared up at him, breathing unevenly, then nodded again, slower this time. His hands returned to the controls, and he pressed start, like he was accepting the mission.
Meanwhile, Aldrich's parents were crying. They tried to hold it in while they were still inside the room, but the moment they stepped into the hallway, it spilled out like the pressure had finally found a crack.
Outside the hospital, Aldrian Kirk stopped Zaboru near the exit. His shoulders were stiff, and his voice sounded like it was struggling to stay steady.
"Zaboru… I don't know how to repay you," he said quietly. "You gave my son something money can't buy. Not just the ZGBA… but the way you spoke to him. The way you looked at him like he's not a patient, like he's a hero."
Aldrian Kirk was a rich man, the CEO and owner of KIRK TV, but right now he didn't look like a powerful businessman. He looked like a father who loved his child more than anything in the world and felt helpless watching him fight.
Zaboru smiled gently. "Relax, Mr. Kirk. Your son is a tough guy."
Aldrian swallowed.
"He taught me something more valuable than money," Zaboru continued. "So it's fine. This isn't charity. This is a thank you."
Mrs. Kirk wiped her tears quickly, embarrassed, then bowed her head anyway. "Thank you… truly."
Zaboru nodded, then his eyes moved from Aldrian to Mrs. Kirk, catching the way she instinctively touched her stomach as if guarding something and her stomach is bulging slightly.
Zaboru's smile turned playful, just enough to lighten the air without insulting the pain. "Seems Aldrich will have siblings. Good luck, Ms. Kirk."
Mrs. Kirk froze, then let out a small, shocked laugh through her tears. Aldrian blinked, then exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
For a brief moment, it felt normal. Like the future still existed.
Then Zaboru bowed politely and walked away, leaving the family to hold each other in the cold winter air outside the hospital.
And so Zaboru left the hospital… but little did he know, someone had been watching from far away.
A journalist, hidden behind a corner and a half-open door, had secretly filmed his actions inside the hospital. The footage was clean enough to show everything: the gifts, the smiles, the words, and the way even hardened parents broke into tears.
Zaboru didn't know at all.
And because this Jurnalist is someone who huge in debt with Zaboru..
To be continue
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