A female reporter in the front row set down her coffee cup.
The humanoid figure slowly turned its head. While the facial modeling wasn't particularly refined by the technology of the time, the rotting skin texture, the gash stretching from the corner of its mouth to its ear, and the milky film covering its eyes still delivered a powerful visual impact on the big screen.
It stood up.
Its joints were twisted at unnatural angles.
Its knees bent backward at an abnormal angle, its center of gravity leaning forward. Its arms hung limply as it shuffled toward the camera, step by step.
The audience held its breath.
The scene shifted.
A short-haired female character, pistol in hand, pressed herself against a wall. The camera cut to a fixed, high-angle overhead shot.
Three identical humanoids appeared at the end of the corridor. They moved slowly, but the sheer number of them created an undeniable sense of pressure.
The editing pace quickened.
A door burst open, revealing a room crammed with filing cabinets. Documents and photographs were scattered across the desk.
A close-up of text flashed on screen—an experimental log. The clinical tone of the writing contrasted sharply with the stomach-churning content.
The camera panned down another long corridor. The windows on either side were shattered, and moonlight streamed in, illuminating two mangled corpses lying on the floor. As the character passed, one of the bodies twitched.
The entire trailer was silent.
Only environmental sounds filled the air: footsteps, the creak of doors opening and closing, and the occasional muffled thud of something collapsing in the distance.
In the final three seconds, the frame froze on a close-up: a hand clawed its way out of a crack in the floor, its fingers spasming open.
Black screen.
Two English words materialized in the center of the screen:
BIOHAZARD.
The audience fell silent for about three seconds.
Then, applause erupted—not the polite clapping from before, but a visceral reaction, as if they'd been physically struck.
The flashbulbs of several front-row photographers blazed simultaneously, furiously snapping photos of the title still lingering on the screen.
Yoshiki Okamoto returned to the microphone, a restrained smirk playing on his lips.
"This title is scheduled for release on PlayStation and Jupiter. The release date is yet to be determined."
With that, he bowed and exited the stage.
"If they actually make this, the ESRB will have to invent a whole new rating category for it," muttered a GamePro reporter, scratching his head as if trying to calm the lingering shock.
"The subject matter is brutal," said someone from Electronic Gaming Monthly, flipping through their materials. The information about the game was sparse—just a single line listing the title, planned platforms, and the genre tag "survival horror." "Survival horror? I've never heard that genre name before."
"Capcom probably made it up."
"Whatever they call it, the atmosphere in that trailer was so effective it could have been a movie."
At the manufacturer's table, Takuya Nakayama twirled his pen.
Capcom's press conference structure was clever. They front-loaded eleven games, exhausting the media's attention and ink. Everyone thought it was over.
Then they saved one final game for the grand finale, ending with a completely different pace and tone.
Yoshiki Okamoto had played his cards well.
After Capcom's presentation, two other manufacturers briefly showcased their content.
Tecmo presented Tecmo Super Bowl III, for both the Super Famicom and Mega Drive.
American football was a safe bet at E3. The American journalists and retailers in the audience naturally gravitated toward the genre.
Though the demonstration was brief, the audience's reaction was far more enthusiastic than for Konami's Japanese football game.
Intelligent Systems' Panel de Pon for the Super Famicom.
A vibrant and charming puzzle game with a fast-paced and engaging gameplay loop.
This company, a Nintendo development studio, had its products released under the Nintendo banner, but its presentation time was allocated separately.
Amidst the relentless barrage of game trailers, it was now past 11:30.
The residual tension from Capcom's Resident Evil trailer had barely dissipated when the main stage screen went dark.
Staff members swiftly replaced the nameplate on the podium.
The PlayStation logo lit up.
It was Sony's turn.
Ken Kutaragi strode onto the stage.
He wore a dark suit without a tie, his collar unbuttoned twice.
This semi-formal attire made him stand out among the sea of sharply dressed Japanese executives.
Approaching the microphone, he offered brief greetings and an introduction before immediately raising his hand to point at the screen behind him.
Actions speak louder than words.
The screen lit up.
The first game was unveiled.
Its art style leaned towards Japanese fantasy, with highly saturated colors.
The character models, while impressive for the 3D technology of the time, showed some effort in controlling jagged edges to an acceptable level.
Fairy Warrior.
A gameplay demonstration began.
The male protagonist wandered through a village, with smooth camera transitions.
During the combat system showcase, magic spells filled half the screen with light and shadow effects.
The content was standard, demonstrating the PlayStation's ability to handle traditional Japanese RPGs at a passing grade.
The company logo at the beginning of the video caused a small stir in the media section.
Sony Computer Entertainment X Square.
Several Japanese reporters in the front row stopped writing and exchanged glances.
"Square?" The Famitsu editor adjusted his glasses. "Doesn't Sega have a stake in Square?"
His colleague whispered back, "Sega's investment was purely financial. They didn't demand an exclusivity agreement. Square is still free to develop games for other platforms."
"That's too generous! They spent real money to buy their 'adopted son' and then turned around and endorsed a rival."
"Generous? No, it's smart. Sega wants Square's production capacity and technical expertise, not to tie them down to one platform. And look closely—this game is listed as a collaborative development. Sony is funding it, and Square is providing the manpower. Everyone gets what they need. Square must be making a killing on this deal."
Regardless of the murmurs in the audience, the words remained fixed on the screen.
Even as a collaborative partner, Square's golden brand was enough to bolster the PlayStation's lineup of Japanese RPGs.
The Fairy Warrior demo lasted three minutes.
Ken Kutaragi remained silent.
The screen went black for two seconds.
Second game.
No producer interviews. No background introductions.
The footage began immediately.
A glowing track hovered in mid-air.
There was no sound of tires skidding on pavement.
Instead, the sound system blasted high-intensity electronic synth music with a breakneck rhythm.
A streamlined aircraft entered the frame.
No wheels.
It flew close to the track surface, its tail spewing blue particles.
Speed.
Visceral speed.
As the aircraft rounded a bend, the metallic texture of the track surface blurred into streaks, and the cyberpunk-style buildings on either side dissolved into indistinct color blocks.
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