AN : 1000! I can't believe it!
Saturday 4 October 1999.
Right now, the US media is on fire because of Persona 2 Innocent Sin. Day after day, the same debate keeps looping: ZAGE is "disrespecting history again," "they never learn," "they went too far," and all the usual lines that sound dramatic on television.
The footage is always the same, too. A host holds up a magazine cover like it's evidence in a trial. A blurry screenshot flashes on screen for half a second, carefully chosen to look as shocking as possible. Then the camera cuts to a panel of people who don't even agree with each other, all talking over the same few words.
But it isn't one-sided. This time, plenty of outlets are also on ZAGE's side, arguing that people are exaggerating the situation and blowing it out of proportion. Some journalists even point out the obvious: the game isn't praising anything—it's portraying villains as villains, and the controversy is being fueled by people who never touched the game.
Even in the supportive pieces, though, the headlines still smell like blood. "Is ZAGE Too Bold?" "Has Gaming Gone Too Far?" Every article wants a hook, and outrage sells better than nuance.
Then come the so-called experts.
They appear on talk shows and in magazine columns, confidently recommending how games "should" be made. According to them, games should only be for children. Games can't have harsh words. Games can't contain adult themes—violence, blood, or even mild sex appeal—because, in their minds, games must remain "clean."
A few of them try to sound balanced, but the moment they speak, the mask slips.
"It's just a toy," one of them says.
"It's not like books," another insists.
A third smiles into the camera and talks about "protecting the youth," as if every teenager in America is one controller away from disaster.
It's honestly funny in a cruel way, because most of these experts have never spent more than an hour playing a video game in their entire lives. They speak as if they understand the medium, while clearly treating it like a toy. They talk about games the same way older people talk about loud music—like the problem is volume, not the fact that the world is complicated.
And the funniest part of all is that they're advising Zaboru Renkonan—someone already noted in public as the "God of Video Games"—as if he's a clueless beginner who needs permission to create.
Zaboru leaned back in his office at the ZAGE Campus in Silicon Valley and let out a long sigh. "Damn… I'm actually annoyed by this, and it's making me tired," he muttered. "I guess even if people in this world are less corrupt and generally nicer, it doesn't mean they're all fully nice."
He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen tension that wouldn't move. Part of him wanted to laugh it off. Part of him wanted to walk into a studio and ask the loudest critic to hold a controller for ten minutes before opening their mouth again.
And underneath it all was the old irritation he recognized too well: not anger at disagreement, but anger at laziness. People who didn't want to learn, didn't want to engage, didn't want to understand—only to declare judgment from a safe distance.
A quiet voice in the back of his mind murmured, sharp and amused.
it's Zaborn said from his emulator mind.
"See? Same playbook. New world, same humans hehehe"
Zaboru exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. "Yeah," he whispered, barely audible even in an empty office. "I noticed."
He chuckled, but it was the kind of chuckle that carried no real humor—just exhaustion.
Zaboru understood what this really was. An excuse. A convenient target. Some people wanted an easy answer for every social problem, every crime, every mistake—so they pointed at video games. It wasn't new. In his previous life, the same cycle happened over and over: a tragedy hits the news, panic spreads, and suddenly the media needs a villain that can't argue back.
Decades passed in that previous life and the pattern never truly disappeared. It only became more mild, more normalized, almost routine—so most people stopped caring, or learned to ignore it as background noise. But whenever someone wanted attention, whenever they wanted to sound "responsible" without doing real work, they could always summon an "expert" to mock games, blame them for certain actions, and act like that solved anything.
Zaboru rubbed his face with one hand, then stared at the ceiling like he was asking the universe for patience. He wasn't shocked—just disappointed that even here, even in a world that felt softer in many ways, the same cheap drama still existed.
"And now they're giving me advice on how to make games," Zaboru said, letting out a short laugh. "Very funny."
He leaned back deeper in his chair, smiling like he was trying to turn irritation into comedy before it turned into anger. "If I didn't have so many kids and young adults who look up to me," he added, half-joking, "I'd blast Rage Against the Machine in live TV and let the chorus of "Killing in the Name" speak for me "F*ck you i won't what you tell me."
He was amused, but his eyes looked tired.
Zaboru wasn't actually tempted to make a scene. What annoyed him wasn't criticism itself—he had lived with criticism his whole life, in both worlds, even if the scale was different. What annoyed him was the arrogance. People who didn't understand games, didn't play them, didn't build them, still spoke as if they had the right to decide what the medium was allowed to express.
But he understood something else, too: his name wasn't just a name anymore.
Zaboru Renkonan had become a symbol. A hero to many children. A role model to young developers who watched his releases like lessons. And even if he personally wanted to clap back, he knew the backlash wouldn't land on him alone—it would ripple outward, hitting the fans who trusted him first.
He didn't want to be remembered as the genius CEO who snapped. He wanted to be remembered as the one who proved games could be art, could be fun, could be bold—and still be responsible.
So he restrained himself.
He exhaled and shook his head, the annoyance slowly melting into focus. "Anyway," he said, voice calmer now, "I'll think about it later. I have matters to attend to."
He then went outside to get some food while he waited for Gaben to come. To avoid attention, Zaboru wore his usual disguise—simple clothes, a cap pulled low, glasses , fake mustache and a calm expression that made him look like just another tired office worker grabbing dinner.
The moment he stepped out of the building, the air hit him with that familiar Silicon Valley mix: cool night breeze, faint car exhaust, and the distant smell of fast food drifting from somewhere down the street. The campus was quieter than usual. On weekends, even the parking lots felt like they were whispering.
He kept his pace steady, shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets. The cap's brim hid his eyes just enough, and the plain jacket did the rest. No one would look twice at a man walking with the posture of someone who'd done too much overtime. That was the trick—confidence without attention.
Zaborn's voice floated up in the back of his mind, amused.
"You're good at this. CEO by day, nobody by night".
Zaboru didn't answer out loud. He only let the thought pass through, like a leaf drifting by in a stream.
He walked to a nearby store and bought hotdogs and pizza—nothing fancy, just warm, greasy comfort food that didn't require thinking. He grabbed the kind of hotdog that came wrapped in paper and tasted like pure salt and nostalgia, and a pizza slice that was more cheese than dough. He even picked up a couple of canned drinks and extra napkins, because he knew they'd end up talking for hours.
At the counter, the cashier barely glanced up. A tired nod, a stamped receipt, a practiced smile. Zaboru returned it without effort.
Outside, he paused under a streetlight, shifting the bag in his hands so it wouldn't tear. The paper was already turning soft from heat and grease. He could hear his own footsteps again as he headed back, the sound echoing in the quiet like the building itself was listening.
Zaboru returned to the office, set the food on the table, and ate while reviewing a few notes in his head. The building felt quieter on a weekend night, and the glow from the monitors made the room feel like a private war room. The hum of the air conditioning was constant, and the light from the screens painted the walls in pale blue.
He took one bite, then another. The hotdog was exactly what he expected—simple, careless, satisfying. He chewed while mentally sorting through what he needed from Gaben: priorities, feasibility, what could be built now and what had to wait. The annoyance from the media storm was still there, but it had settled into the background, like static.
Not long after, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Measured, unhurried. Gaben arrived at the office, still looking relaxed but clearly curious about why Zaboru called him in on a weekend. He carried a bag slung over one shoulder, hair a little messy like he'd been yanked out of a comfortable evening.
Zaboru stood and offered a small smile. "Sorry for bothering you on the weekend, Gaben."
Gaben smiled back, setting his bag down like he was clocking in for casual overtime. The smell of pizza reached him and he immediately looked a little happier. "Nah, it's fine, boss. Honestly, I was curious anyway." He tilted his head, amused. "You know… about the current news. Hehehe. I'm still surprised they're out there giving you lectures like you're some rookie who needs to be taught how to make a game properly!"
He pointed vaguely toward the ceiling as if the TV studios were up there. "It's like watching people who never touched a controller try to coach a world champion."
Zaboru chuckled too, though his eyes stayed a little tired. "Yeah… it annoyed me," he admitted. "Not because they disagree—people can disagree. It's the confidence. They speak like they own the medium."
He slid the pizza box slightly toward Gaben. "Eat first. I don't want you thinking on an empty stomach."
Gaben's eyebrows rose. "Boss, are you bribing me with pizza?"
Zaboru's smile turned faintly sharper. "I prefer to call it operational support."
Gaben laughed, took a slice, and leaned back like the chair belonged to him. "Fair enough."
Zaboru waved it off with a small sigh, letting the topic dissolve before it could poison the room. "But it's nothing new," he said. "Same cycle, different topics."
His gaze drifted to the monitor glow for a moment—cold light, steady light—then returned to Gaben. The joking was done. Whatever came next needed a clear head.
Zaboru leaned forward slightly, shifting the mood from jokes to business. "Anyway—enough about that. How's the plan I proposed to you?" he asked. "Have you… swallowed the information yet? Or are you still choking on it?"
Gaben grinned. Steam was almost complete, and now Zaboru was already handing him the "next plan." Inside ZAGE, the structure was clear: just like Zanichi—the CTO of Japan—had his own hardware-focused group, Gaben—the CTO of the USA—had his own team dedicated to software and web development. They were the ones who built internal tools, online services, account systems, and anything that touched the network side of ZAGE.
Gaben kept grinning, then shook his head like he couldn't decide whether to be impressed or worried. "Honestly, this idea is insane, boss…" He let out a short laugh. "The first project—you want us to build a full 'Electronic Store,' like Amazon, right? But focused on our products. Games, merchandise, hardware accessories—everything under one roof, with proper catalog pages, search, ratings, and shipping support."
He lifted a finger, counting. "Then you want to push it further and evolve the ZAGE forum into a real hub site and you're even talking about video calls or live features, like streaming."
Gaben leaned back and chuckled again. "That's not one project, boss. That's an ecosystem. A whole online city."
He looked at Zaboru with amused disbelief. "Now I understand why you've been obsessed with internet speed. You're not planning a website—you're planning an entire future lifestyle for ZAGE fans. Hehehe."
Zaboru nodded. He had proposed this to Gaben before, but only as a rough outline. Now he was finally saying it out loud like a real product.
"It won't be just a forum," Zaboru said. "It'll be a place where communities actually live."
He explained the shape of it with the same calm certainty he used when talking about game design. It would start as the ZAGE forum—threads, guides, patch notes, fan art, team announcements—but it wouldn't stop there. Later, he wanted to add voice rooms for clans and friend groups, private messages, and official channels for each ZAGE title.
After that… streaming. Not only live broadcasts, but also uploading short videos, replays, clips, and developer messages. A single hub where fans could talk, watch, share, and stay connected without bouncing between different websites.
"In the end," Zaboru continued, "it's a multimedia home for ZAGE fans. Games, community, and media, in one place. If we do it right, people won't just visit it—they'll build routines around it."
At first, Zaboru had wanted something even bigger—an all-purpose network service that could handle search, accounts, communication, and a dozen other utilities under one roof. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized it would be too much hassle for the stage ZAGE was in right now. Too many moving parts, too many distractions from the main mission.
And more importantly, he didn't want to spread ZAGE too wide. If everything in the world ended up under the ZAGE banner, it wouldn't just be business risk—it would become a legal problem. Monopoly laws would eventually come knocking, and even if he could fight it, it would slow down the company and poison public perception.
So he chose focus over greed. Build the store. Build the community hub. Build the foundation. Then expand carefully—only where it makes sense.
"Yes, Gaben—this is a dream of mine," Zaboru said, voice steady but clearly excited underneath. "I want you to research it first. Approach it from the backend side, because that's your expertise."
He pointed at the whiteboard where he'd sketched a rough map of services and arrows like a war plan. "I don't want a fragile site that collapses the moment a million people show up. We need accounts, profiles, friends lists, forum data, private messages, and later—voice rooms. That means scaling, logging, moderation tools, and a structure that doesn't break when we add new features."
Zaboru's tone sharpened slightly. "Security too. If we're tying this to purchases, we need strong authentication, fraud prevention, and proper separation between community features and the store system which this will integrate to our steam as well."
He then relaxed a little, like he didn't want to suffocate the excitement with only warnings. "For the UI and front-end, I'll give you a draft later. I already have the design in mind."
Gaben grinned. He'd seen Zaboru's sense of layout before, and it was always oddly clean—minimal, readable, and elegant, like the interface was trying to disappear so the user could focus on the content. Zaboru's taste felt ahead of the era: less clutter, fewer pointless decorations, more clarity. Even when the technology was rough, his vision for how people should interact with it was sharp.
Gaben nodded, already thinking about architecture and timelines. "Leave it to me, boss," he said confidently. "I'll figure out how to build the bones so we can keep adding muscle later."
Then he raised an eyebrow, his grin turning mischievous. "And now… the second thing you asked me." He let the suspense hang for a moment, enjoying it. "It's quite—hehehehe—wild. I mean… really wild."
To be continue
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