Bandai's prized moat, which they had long considered an insurmountable barrier, seemed to the other party merely a shallow ditch they had thoroughly scouted.
"I heard—" Chuta Mitsui hesitated before continuing, "Sega recently provided Sunrise with another funding injection. They're talking about some OVA completion plan this time. I think it's called... 08th MS Team?"
The Factory Manager's hand trembled, nearly causing his newly adjusted glasses to slip.
Not this again?
This wasn't collaboration; it was using a tidal wave of cash to drown Bandai, forcing them to their knees and begging for mercy.
"Let them do as they please," the Factory Manager muttered, readjusting his glasses. He watched the forklifts below, busy loading cargo, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "As long as the machines keep running, we have to keep making money. As for whether we'll be Yamashina or Zhongshan in the future... who knows?"
After all, who could possibly say "no" when faced with those endless strings of zeros in the bank account?
The success of F91 had utterly shattered the last shreds of restraint among Bandai's conservative faction.
Talk of "Gundam must be a Taiga Drama" and "villain machines don't sell" was all nonsense in the face of solid sales figures.
As long as the mecha design was cool enough and the color schemes detailed enough, Gunpla builders would snap up even a generic grunt model until it sold out.
In front of their TVs, Gundam fans who had just finished watching the first rerun of Mobile Suit Gundam F91 hadn't even had time to process Seabook's maneuvers before they were glued to their seats by the abrupt GG.
The screen went black. There was no rousing background music, only the dull hiss of hydraulic pumps and the teeth-gritting sound of metal armor grinding against itself.
The screen suddenly lit up, no longer showing the familiar cel animation, but instead 3D models with a heavy industrial feel.
A green Zaku I, still somewhat rough in its modeling, emerged from thick smoke, its signature one-eyed head peering out. The low hum of the monocle monitor as it swiveled sent shivers down viewers' spines.
The camera abruptly cut to the cockpit.
There was no fancy UI, only a dashboard cluttered with warning lights.
A pair of gloved hands gripped two custom control sticks in a death grip.
The left hand pushed the stick, and the screen's viewpoint shook violently. Even through the screen, one could feel the weight of the machine's inertia as it moved. The right hand squeezed the trigger, and the 90mm autocannon spat fire, the crisp, metallic clink of ejected shells ringing out.
Then came the most heart-piercing moment.
The camera zoomed in, focusing on the cold, metallic slot at the center of the frame.
A hand held a laser-engraved metal plaque—clearly a military identification tag—and slid it in with a sharp click.
A line of green fluorescent text popped up in the center of the screen:
[ Pilot Login: Confirmed ]
Finally, the screen froze on the dual-stick frame, and the game's title appeared in bold letters at the forefront: Mobile Suit Gundam: Battle Operation.
This one-two punch left Gundam fans across Japan in an uproar.
This wasn't just a game! It was a recruitment video for the Federation Army and the Principality of Zeon!
Fans who had been discussing the Mobile Suit Gundam F91 plot immediately switched the topic to this new game, GG.
"Did you see that Zaku's movements? That's not drifting—it's the real deal, dozens of tons of inertia! The ground shakes with every step!"
"That dual-stick setup—holy crap, this is exactly what it feels like to pilot a Gundam in my dreams!"
"Enough talk! Where can I get one of those dog tags? I'd rush out just for that brand alone! Wearing it around my neck would be insanely cool!"
Bandai's marketing team struck while the iron was hot, announcing that players who reached a certain rank in the arcades would receive limited-edition water decals for their HG Models when purchasing them with a "dog tag."
This clever move instantly bound together two distinct communities: Gunpla builders and gaming enthusiasts.
Sega's marketing strategy proved more cunning than anyone anticipated.
Unlike The Fast and Furious, which flooded theaters with saturation marketing, Gundam Battle Operation deployed its initial five thousand arcade units like pepper flakes, sprinkling them across Japan's major urban centers.
After all, not every Gundam fan frequented arcades.
This limited release created the perfect buzz of scarcity.
Akihabara Sega Building No. 1.
A prominent spot in the arcade no longer resembled a gaming hall but rather a makeshift frontline command post.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke and an indescribable tension.
"Hey! The left stick controls the thrusters, the right one is for aiming! This isn't standard game logic!"
The crowd erupted in frustrated roars, like a group of disappointed mentors.
The rookie, seated in the frame, was drenched in sweat, frantically fumbling with the two custom joysticks.
On the screen, the green Zaku I clumsily turned around. Before it could even lift its machine gun, a GM on the opposite side stabbed it with its beam saber, stripping away its last sliver of health.
Game Over.
"Too hardcore..." The rookie slumped in the chair, his hands still clutching the joysticks, his eyes wide with shock. "That impact vibration just now... it felt like my bones were about to melt."
"Enough. Rookie out, let the pros take over."
The impatient queue behind him surged forward. A portly man in a work vest pushed his way to the front. Instead of inserting coins, he made a gesture that made everyone around him hold their breath.
He pulled a cold, metallic tag from his collar.
It was a custom Sega memory card—a "Dog Tag."
With a crisp click, the metal tag slid perfectly into its slot. The screen instantly switched, a waterfall of green data streaming down before settling on a single line:
[Lieutenant: Tanaka Ichiro]
[Unit: Principality of Zeon Army]
[Mobile Suit: MS-06S Commander Type Zaku]
"Ho!"
The crowd let out a low gasp. In this circle, this chunk of metal carried more weight than any designer watch.
It represented not just your in-game rank, but your very identity as a "mecha pilot."
This was exactly the effect Takuya Nakayama had intended.
The "Gunpla builders" and "setting nerds"—those who had previously only watched anime and never set foot in the smoke-filled arcades—were now completely restless. In school triads, model shops, and even company smoking rooms, anyone who casually slapped a dog tag engraved with their name and rank onto the table instantly drew a circle of reverent gazes.
A peculiar phenomenon emerged. Arcades began filling with fresh faces wearing thick-rimmed glasses and backpacks. Some were clumsy players who couldn't even clear the first stage, but they queued and inserted coins with unflagging enthusiasm, just to hear that click of logging in and watch their custom-painted mobile suit slowly activate in the hangar.
Many didn't even play; they just inserted their cards to update their mobile suit data, then boasted to fellow enthusiasts about their modification strategies.
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