Chiyoda Ward, Tokyo—Famitsu Editorial Department.
Though it was past midnight, the office area blazed with light, the air thick with cigarette smoke like the aftermath of a fire.
Hirokazu Hamamura gripped the parameter sheet he'd just brought back from the press conference, his brow furrowed so tightly it could have crushed a mosquito.
In front of him, a layout editor, drenched in sweat, stared at the computer screen, awaiting the Editor-in-Chief's final instructions.
"Scrap the cover," Hamamura said, crushing his half-smoked Seven Stars cigarette. His voice was raspy. "Move all the original headlines to the third page. The cover should only feature that black machine and its price."
"But, Editor, that's Square's..."
"This is Japan's first next-generation console," Hamamura snapped, his knuckles rapping sharply against the table. He slammed the draft paper bearing the "39,800" figure onto the desk.
In a corner of the office, Sasaki Tadashi, the senior editor responsible for hardware reviews, frowned deeply at the technical white paper.
As he flipped through the documents, Sasaki gestured to his colleagues: "Over 320,000 polygons per second, running on actual hardware. Do you realize what that means? Last month we were still debating whether the 3DO could even run Sherlock Holmes smoothly, and today Sega is telling us they've brought the arcade home."
"They're just blowing smoke," the young editor beside him interjected skeptically. "A CD-ROM can handle the Model 2 architecture? That's a motherboard worth millions of Japanese Yen."
"That's where Sega's brilliance lies," Sasaki replied, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. He drew a line between "R300OS" and "CD-ROM" with a red pen. "Much of the Model 2's data can be directly ported. While the CD-ROM's slow loading speed will prevent the immediate, seamless combat of the arcade, as long as the visuals aren't compromised, will players really mind a few seconds of loading screen?"
In fact, the editorial department had received far more information than what was revealed at the press conference.
Rumor had it that Namco was in an uproar. Tekken, originally planned for the PlayStation, now seemed awkward.
In this industry, there were no secrets.
The development departments of several major third-party manufacturers had already received Jupiter's development kits, and their feedback was remarkably consistent: it was easy to use, with a usability and familiarity that carried over from the Mega Drive development tools. For many developers, this meant a significant reduction in learning time.
No need to wrestle with obscure assembly language or pull out their hair trying to synchronize the dual CPUs—this was a godsend for programmers who had been tortured by other complex architectures.
"And this," Hirokazu Hamamura said, pointing to the lineup of first-party games. "Sonic 3D, Phantasy Star III... Sega isn't playing around this time; it's all solid material. Especially Demon Samurai—Makoto Uchida and his team are truly daring. I doubt the ethics review committee will approve its level of gore, but that unique ukiyo-e style will definitely drive players wild."
"What about the release date?" the layout editor asked timidly. "What does that final 'shush' gesture mean?"
Hamamura leaned back in his chair, gazing at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, a playful smile playing on his lips.
"What else could it mean? He's waiting."
"Waiting?"
"They're probably waiting for Sony to make their move, or to strike at the most fatal moment." Hirokazu Hamamura shook another cigarette from his pack, but didn't light it. "Given the level of completion and the production scale, they'll definitely be on shelves by New Year's. Takuya Nakayama's decision to price it at ¥39,800 was a direct challenge to Sony. The pressure is all on them now, but it's hard to say how they'll respond."
He sat up straight and wrote a bold line in the margin of the cover sketch:
[ The Next-Gen War Has Begun! ]
The next morning, on the Tokyo Subway.
The crowded car reeked of hairspray and cheap coffee as office workers swayed mechanically.
Normally, most people would be engrossed in political squabbles or baseball scores in their newspapers at this hour. But today was different.
Almost everyone was staring at the same black rectangle.
The front page of the Yomiuri Shimbun featured a half-page, imposing close-up of the Jupiter. The deep blue light strips still looked profound against the grainy, black-and-white paper.
Instead of exclamation marks, the headline used a line of bold, black type:
"The New Engine of an Electronic Nation: Sega Jupiter Redefines Japanese Manufacturing."
Several kilometers away at Sega Headquarters, Hideki Sato clutched a stack of unopened newspapers, his footsteps nearly colliding with the office's glass door.
"Managing Director! Did you see NHK's 'Modern Close-Up' last night?"
Takuya Nakayama sat behind his desk, sipping tea—Longjing he'd specifically asked someone to bring back from Hangzhou, its clear brew gleaming.
Without looking up, he pointed to the small television in the corner of the desk, still on. "Just finished watching the rerun."
On the screen, NHK's notoriously serious commentator, adjusting his glasses, tapped a pointer against a chart behind him.
"For too long, we've associated Japanese industry with Toyota's assembly lines and Matsushita's electronics. But yesterday, Sega showed us: the battleground for the next decade lies not on the assembly line, but within the screen."
The commentator's voice was calm and objective, yet every word carried weight. "As our semiconductor industry faces pressure from the United States and South Korea, the video game industry—a comprehensive sector that integrates hardware manufacturing, software development, and cultural export—may be the breakthrough that allows the Japanese economy to break free."
Instead of discussing whether the game was fun or analyzing its polygon count, NHK immediately elevated Jupiter to the level of a national strategic issue.
"These news hounds have a nose for this stuff, sharper than a dog's," Hideki Sato said, spreading the Yomiuri Shimbun across the table and pointing to the front-page headline.
Takuya Nakayama set down his teacup and picked up the newspaper, glancing at the article.
The media frenzy was exactly as he'd anticipated.
In this era of post-bubble economic stagnation, Japanese society desperately needed a powerful symbol to prove it still stood at the pinnacle of global technology.
Jupiter had arrived at the perfect moment to fulfill that role.
"They've only guessed half right," Takuya Nakayama said, tapping the newspaper with his finger. "They see cultural export and commercial competition, but they're missing the real killer move behind that 39,800-yen price tag."
The article praised Sega's astonishing cost control, attributing it to "the ultimate in lean manufacturing."
But only Takuya Nakayama knew the truth: he had moved production to that awakening giant across the sea.
While Japanese companies still agonized over their country's exorbitant labor costs, he was already reaping the benefits of the first wave of global division of labor, ahead of most of his peers.
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