Chapter 486: The Invitation from Akio Morita
When Su Yuanshan heard that Akio Morita wanted to meet him, his first reaction was—the old man has to be joking.
Not that Ken Kutaragi was joking—but that Morita himself might be.
Two years ago, the legendary Sony co-founder had suffered a stroke and remained unconscious for several hours. Doctors had removed what was reportedly a blood clot the size of a golf ball from his brain. Since then, he had been paralyzed on his left side and had lost his speech.
Fortunately, Morita's consciousness remained unaffected. Though he never returned to the company, he was still capable of handling relatively simple affairs behind the scenes.
Now that he had fully relinquished all executive roles, officially retiring, what would he possibly want with Su Yuanshan?
Perhaps noticing Su's skepticism, Kutaragi explained, "Actually, Mr. Morita is just very curious about you. While he has difficulty moving around, he's kept a close eye on Yuanxin's development."
"I thought his speech hadn't recovered?"
"It's improved quite a bit. He can now hold short conversations," Kutaragi said with a smile. "He wants to hear your thoughts personally—Su-san, you know he's known as the 'God of Management.'"
"Yes," Su nodded. "Mr. Morita, Konosuke Matsushita, Soichiro Honda, and Kazuo Inamori—they're all pioneers I deeply respect."
"Well, Mr. Morita has great admiration for you as well. And for Yuanxin."
Su was momentarily stunned, but quickly grasped the implication—perhaps the smooth cooperation between Yuanxin and Sony had a lot to do with that very man, the founder who, even after his stroke, still exerted considerable influence over the company.
Realizing this, Su straightened his posture and said solemnly, "It would be my honor to meet Mr. Morita."
...
Ken Kutaragi personally saw Su Yuanshan out of the Sony headquarters and arranged for a car to take him directly across the street to his hotel.
Back at the hotel, Zhou Xiaohui couldn't help asking what Su and Kutaragi had discussed. She had been technically invited to the meeting, but due to the prevailing corporate culture in Japan, especially toward women, she'd spent the afternoon chatting with overly polite Japanese hostesses instead.
"Mainly helping Sony recognize where they stand," Su replied while skimming the draft cooperation agreement, grinning as he read. "Sony wants greater gains in the future. We want to use Japan's semiconductor clout to accelerate our own future. Our needs, in essence, align."
"Oh, and… Akio Morita wants to see me."
"What? Wasn't he paralyzed from a stroke?"
"Yeah… I thought it was strange too." Su glanced up, shaking his head slightly.
The first item in the draft was a technical licensing and joint development agreement between Sony and Yuanxin around MP3 technologies, aiming to extend copyright protections from online to offline spaces.
That one clause alone meant Sony would be undergoing painful restructuring.
Once fully involved with MP3, Sony would effectively be abandoning its golden-era icon—the Walkman—and its ongoing MD (MiniDisc) initiative.
This wasn't just a technology decision. It affected countless internal interests… and Kutaragi alone probably didn't have the clout to push it through.
Maybe, that's why Morita wanted to meet.
But there was no avoiding this move. On its own, Yuanxin couldn't push MP3 to global adoption.
—Even if Su Yuanshan could sing China's domestic market to the heavens, the real consumer battlefield was still in the West.
Frowning, Su rubbed his temples and muttered, "Maybe I came here too early."
"I think so too," Zhou Xiaohui agreed. "If you'd waited until after the flash chips and MP3 officially launched—maybe even until the phone came out—you'd have much more leverage."
She'd followed Su Yuanshan for years, and she knew well how curious the Japanese were about new tech. Back when Yuanxin entered Japan with nothing but a VCD player, they'd already been able to shake up giants like Sony. She could only imagine the shockwave a revolutionary new phone would cause.
"Eh… time waits for no one, Xiaohui-jie."
Su sighed and put down the document.
Next year was non-negotiable—it would happen.
But striking partnerships before everything went live was still a prudent move.
"Anyway, no use dwelling on it. We're already here. Let's follow the plan. Where are we headed tomorrow?"
"NEC."
"Alright. You and Xiaoqian prepare the materials. Don't wait for me at dinner—I'm going to take a nap."
He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes.
Seeing him unusually fatigued, Zhou Xiaohui didn't press further. She quietly gathered the papers and stepped out.
But although Su's eyes were shut, his thoughts kept racing.
NEC. Just last year, they were the world's number one semiconductor company. This year, Intel had overtaken them. And from here on out… they probably wouldn't ever reclaim that title.
Compared to Sony, NEC was a true century-old titan. Over the past few decades, they had led Japan's semiconductor industry across fields: computers, cathode ray tubes, switches, memory chips, satellite communications—even video game consoles.
In terms of diversified reach, NEC was Japan's IBM.
But IBM had been a trailblazer of the computer age—a blue giant. NEC, on the other hand, became a "giant" through scale, chipping away with small breakthroughs in minor fields.
Honestly, Su had mixed feelings about these once-great companies that later declined.
But even a decaying ship has thousands of nails. And NEC hadn't decayed—yet.
They remained one of Japan's most enthusiastic investors in China.
Whether it was due to an intuitive sense of crisis or a haphazard attempt to scatter risk, NEC had, at least objectively, brought "relatively advanced" technology and equipment into the mainland.
For that alone, Su owed them a visit.
If NEC could get onboard the flash memory train—paired with Sony and Yuanxin's strength in content and hardware—then the bright future of flash storage might arrive sooner than expected.
And at that point… Samsung wouldn't stand a chance.
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Chapter 487: Kanemoto Munenobu
Early the next morning, NEC sent a delegation to Su Yuanshan's hotel.
To assess a company's sincerity, it's often best to look at who they send to greet you. In this case, NEC had dispatched two familiar faces: Ichio Karasawa and Takashi Higashihira—both of whom had previously worked with Su.
This alone was a clear signal: NEC remembered its early partnership with Yuanxin and hoped to rekindle the relationship.
"Mr. Karasawa, Mr. Higashihira—long time no see."
After descending to the hotel lobby, Su Yuanshan greeted the two warmly in the lounge.
Although Su wasn't averse to meeting strangers, running into old acquaintances always brought a bit more comfort.
"Su-san…" Higashihira Takashi was visibly moved that Su remembered his name so readily. He stood up and bowed. "Welcome to Tokyo."
"Heh, weren't you the one who invited me last time? So here I am."
Su gripped his hand like an old friend and made small talk before heading out.
Back in the early days of Yuanxin's EDA expansion, NEC had been the first Japanese tech giant to initiate collaboration. Su had even sent engineers to NEC's facilities.
Later, when Su wanted to establish an optical lab in the tech park, it was NEC he turned to for building the cleanroom.
In fact, Su's original plan had been to partner with NEC to import equipment and technology to kickstart a wafer fab. But once he connected with Texas Instruments—and especially after Zhang Rujin threw his support behind the project—Su gradually moved away from NEC.
As EDA became its own company under Zhiyuan Technologies, the distance between NEC and Yuanxin only grew.
But Su still remembered their first collaboration. Karasawa and Higashihira had both visited Yuanxin for initial talks. In particular, Higashihira had really hit it off with Su—they'd bonded over their mutual frustration with Japanese corporate rigidity and slow decision-making.
Now, seeing how much older he looked, Su figured things probably hadn't gone so smoothly for him these past few years.
"Come on, Mr. Karasawa. Let's talk more in the car."
...
NEC's headquarters was still located in the Tokyo Bay area. Before long, their business vehicle pulled into the NEC corporate campus.
At the front gate, a silver-haired elder awaited Su's arrival, smiling warmly as he stepped from the car.
Su was caught off guard. He had expected someone like Koji Nishigaki to greet him—not Kanemoto Munenobu himself.
Compared to other CEOs and chairmen with global reputations, Kanemoto kept a low profile. But Su knew his reputation in China was excellent—he had even been personally received by the Premier and thanked for NEC's support of Project 909.
Yes, it was partly thanks to Kanemoto that the 909 Project in Su's past life had launched ahead of schedule. NEC had even offered turnkey packages, including staff training and guaranteed product sales—a clear gesture of support.
Kanemoto had also made multiple quiet visits to China in the early 2000s. Though low-key, each one received serious attention from Chinese officials.
And the NEC-sponsored Go tournaments—like the China-Japan NEC Cup—had only been possible because of his backing. The legendary Nie Weiping once remarked that Kanemoto's contributions to Chinese Go were monumental.
By Su's estimation, the man should be around 68 years old now, close to retirement age. Though he had stepped down as chairman, he still held the role of "senior advisor"—essentially NEC's highest advisory position.
"Mr. Kanemoto, it's an honor," Su said, quickening his pace and bowing slightly as he reached out to shake the elder's hand. "I can't believe you came to greet me personally."
"Heh, Su-san, no need for formality," Kanemoto replied warmly, his glasses adding to his scholarly air. "Please, this way."
"After you."
...
Inside NEC's reception hall, after a round of ceremonial photo ops and casual chatter, the two sides had lunch. Then Kanemoto invited Su into the chairman's office for a more private conversation.
Each brought a secretary.
"At Yuanxin, we've always held NEC in the highest regard. You've long been a benchmark and a learning model for us."
Su spoke at a steady, deliberate pace—his spoken Japanese wasn't fluent, so he chose his words carefully. That suited the elder Kanemoto just fine and gave Zhou Xiaohui, seated to the side with her notebook, ample time to transcribe and interpret.
As Su's chief of staff, Zhou Xiaohui spoke three foreign languages: English, Japanese, and Korean. Though only English was fluent, she understood enough Japanese to follow most conversations.
Listening to Su's opening remarks—praising NEC to the skies—she couldn't help but smile to herself.
If you didn't know who he really was, she thought, you'd swear this guy worked in some PR department, sweet-talking his way into deals.
"That's also why I came to Japan this time," Su continued. "To seek deeper, broader collaboration with companies like NEC. I regret not pursuing our earlier partnership more fully."
Even Kanemoto, seasoned as he was, cracked a smile at that.
Youth had its advantages—that kind of earnestness simply couldn't be faked. Zhou Xiaohui scribbled notes while secretly admiring the way Su could disarm even the savviest veterans.
Then Su moved into his vision, repeating parts of his conversation with Kutaragi—but phrasing them more cautiously.
After all, Kanemoto was a fox who had navigated commercial and political circles for decades. And from his responses, Su couldn't quite tell whether the man had grasped the long-term reality—that the mainland was now the true future.
Su also remembered that NEC's strategy in China hadn't really continued. The twin shocks of the Asian financial crisis and the semiconductor downturn had forced NEC to make painful cuts across multiple sectors and retreat into new ones.
Coincidentally, that period also marked Kanemoto's retirement.
But the truth was, NEC's decline—like the broader collapse of Japan's semiconductor dominance—was never something a single person or company could reverse. Even in Su's past life, Japanese semiconductor firms retreated behind the scenes, focusing on foundational tech and precision components. Though still vital, they had clearly exited the global stage as industry leaders.
And that… was no one's fault.
Su merely thought: if NEC had gritted its teeth and kept working with China, perhaps its fate would have been very different.
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Chapter 488: Nikon's Lack of Courtesy
"To establish a flash memory alliance—relying on NEC's formidable manufacturing capacity, Yuanxin's breakthrough technology, and Sony's product implementation—we can accelerate the arrival of the digital era."
Su Yuanshan delivered his pitch in one breath, then calmly locked eyes with Kanemoto Munenobu, quietly awaiting the elder's response.
Kanemoto nodded slightly and, with a faint smile, asked for a moment before lowering his gaze to review the technical documents Su had brought. These contained Yuanxin's detailed MLC flash memory architecture, market evaluations, and technological forecasts.
If Kanemoto chose to believe in Su Yuanshan, everything would be smooth.
If not… things could get complicated.
After Toshiba's erratic handling of flash memory in the past, nearly no one in Japan had touched the tech. Meanwhile, over in Silicon Valley, Intel and SanDisk had developed it into a robust market that by this year had already reached over a billion dollars in annual revenue.
And ironically, Samsung in South Korea, by aggressively "following the footsteps of Silicon Valley," was now driving around Japan with metaphorical excavators, poaching entire flash development teams. Rumor had it Toshiba's flash team was nearly hollowed out.
At NEC, flash was still little more than a concept. Su didn't even know if Kanemoto truly understood it.
Kanemoto gestured for his assistant to refill their teacups, then picked up the MP3 player on the table, studied it seriously, and finally looked up.
"If things unfold as Yuanxin plans, this device could replace cassette players and MiniDiscs, yes?"
"Yes. But more importantly, it targets the rapidly maturing internet and personal computing market," Su replied, sipping tea. "Not only does it play music, it can store files. We're also optimizing the USB protocol. The next version will improve data transfer speeds by five times over current versions. Thanks to its convenience, USB won't just replace floppy drives—it'll replace CD drives too."
Kanemoto furrowed his brows slightly.
NEC was a massive manufacturer—perhaps the only one capable of producing everything from satellite components to optical drives. If humanity ever needed to migrate to another planet and could only take one company along to rebuild its electronics industry, NEC would probably be the top candidate.
"Hmm, flash does have market potential," Kanemoto finally said, nodding. He looked at Su Yuanshan and smiled. "If an alliance is formed, would Yuanxin be willing to share its patents and technologies?"
Su breathed a soft sigh of relief at the question.
With a smile, he nodded. "Of course."
...
There's no such thing as a free lunch, nor blind trust in business.
NEC needed to carefully assess the costs and market viability of entering flash memory manufacturing. Su, for his part, wanted to maximize Yuanxin's benefit.
This was about collaboration—not charity.
And so, both sides agreed to conduct further internal evaluations before reconvening.
...
In the days that followed, Su Yuanshan visited Honda, Fujitsu, and finally, Nikon.
His visit to Honda was primarily to pitch Yuanxin's lithium battery. Just three months ago, Honda had released a concept hybrid car. Su also wanted to get a first-hand look at how a car factory operated—he had plans to build one of his own.
Fujitsu welcomed him warmly. The two sides aligned almost completely in their discussions, especially regarding LCD technologies.
When Su requested accelerated development of product lines and technical resources for BOE, Fujitsu readily agreed, pledging to help get BOE's production line running within six months.
They weren't fools. Once they learned Yuanxin was about to release new laptops and phones with larger screens, it was clear: every day of delay meant a potential step behind in technology.
Even if Yuanxin was willing to keep propping BOE up, there were limits to what could be done.
Su's final stop was Nikon.
...
To say Su Yuanshan had no grudges against Nikon—as one of those "almighty vendors"—would be a lie.
At that point in time, ASML hadn't risen yet, and American lithography companies had basically collapsed. Canon and Nikon were the undisputed kings of lithography equipment.
Every fab on earth relied on them. Purchasers practically lived at Canon and Nikon facilities, ready to grab machines the moment they rolled off the line.
In the booming semiconductor cycle, lithography machines weren't just tools—they were money printers.
And this was the cycle's peak.
Nikon was the only company that hadn't sent a car to pick up Su Yuanshan—but fair enough, they were busy.
Luckily, Zhiyuan EDA had a branch office nearby, and the regional director just happened to be an old Yuanxin veteran.
"Xiaoshan! Secretary Zhou!"
As soon as they stepped off their Honda shuttle, Sun Xiao, the president of Zhiyuan EDA's Asia Division, rushed over with a wide grin.
"Senior Sun, it's been a while," Su greeted warmly, gripping his hand.
Sun Xiao had once been Su's senior at the University of Electronic Science and Technology. Back then, he had worked under Zhu Jianting thanks to his skills in circuit and software design. Later, due to his multilingual background—especially his basic Japanese—he was "exiled" to Japan to help with Yuanxin's market expansion.
Now, from a humble liaison office, he had built a full-fledged Asia regional HQ and had been in Japan for nearly two years.
"President Sun," Zhou Xiaohui greeted, recognizing one of Yuanxin's earliest veterans and stepping forward respectfully to shake hands. She turned to Wen Xiaoqian and said, "Xiaoqian, this is Sun Xiao, our regional director and one of Yuanxin's founding team."
"A very old veteran," Sun joked, shaking hands with the women. "I was coding for Professor Su back before Secretary Zhou even joined us."
"Come, let me drive you over."
"Thanks, Senior."
"None of that now… but Nikon really isn't being very gracious today," Sun muttered as he opened the car door. "A legend like you shows up, and they don't even send a car?"
"Come on, Senior—you first. No need for formality between us."
"Then ladies first. Please, both of you."
In the car, Sun glanced at Su Yuanshan with emotion. "And you didn't even tell me you were coming."
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Chapter 489: The Crown Prince
Su Yuanshan pretended not to hear Sun Xiao's playful jab about him being "not very courteous." After exchanging a few more jokes about Nikon's lack of hospitality, he smoothly shifted the topic.
"Senior Sun, how's your business development going lately?"
"Well... mediocre, I'd say. If you're not planning to switch industries, EDA is basically a retirement gig," Sun Xiao laughed as he shrugged.
Su Yuanshan chuckled too—he couldn't argue. From a certain perspective, Sun Xiao was right. With the semiconductor industry's ongoing boom, the irreplaceable nature of EDA tools had only grown more apparent. Some had even begun referring to EDA as the crown jewel of the entire semiconductor sector.
The fact that this "crown" now had roots in China had annoyed more than a few in the international community. But with Zhiyuan EDA's constant global expansion and restructuring, it had become a truly "stateless" company from an equity and financial standpoint. It had offices all over the world, and more than half of its employees were of non-Chinese nationality. It had become a textbook case of how a Chinese company could successfully integrate into the global market.
Because of this, several attempts by foreign competitors to file anti-monopoly complaints against Zhiyuan EDA had ended in nothing. After all, Zhiyuan's licensing model—its IP authorization system—was designed to benefit the entire semiconductor design ecosystem.
Not to mention, the capital backing Zhiyuan was formidable.
So as long as the company stayed true to the roadmap Su Yuanshan had originally drawn up, EDA could indeed be a business where you could "lie flat and collect money."
"I really envy President Sun," Zhou Xiaohui said with a grin. "Unlike us—we have to travel all over and deal with people's bad attitudes."
"What's there to envy? Challenges are a good thing," Sun Xiao waved dismissively, still smiling. "By the way, I think Nikon's aloofness this time might be related to Samsung."
"Hm? What do you mean?" Su Yuanshan, who had originally intended to steer clear of this topic, perked up at the mention of Samsung.
Since Yuanxin's rise, Su had always kept a wary eye on Samsung—but mostly at the strategic level. To put it bluntly, his approach was: Get ahead of them first and block their path.
Now Sun Xiao was saying that Nikon's snub might have something to do with Samsung?
"Yesterday, the crown prince of Samsung paid them a visit."
"Lee Jae-yong?" Su Yuanshan raised his brows, clearly surprised.
From the beginning, Yuanxin had had little to no direct dealings with Samsung. At least, Su himself had never personally interacted with them. During the EDA era, Samsung had simply been a regular client. And in the later stages, most interaction came during the Jiang Wanchao period.
The reason for this was simple—it stemmed from Su Yuanshan himself.
He had always instinctively disliked the chaebol system in South Korea. Yes, Japan had six major conglomerates too, and they were just as massive as Samsung. But in terms of following the rules, Japanese firms were far more restrained.
Korean chaebols, by contrast, were brazen in their pursuit of profit. Their lack of constraint had made them the real-world embodiment of the dystopian corporations one might see in a cyberpunk novel.
And almost all of them were named Lee.
Because of that, Su never liked them.
And since he didn't like them—and had a little bit of influence—he never bothered to force himself into any uncomfortable partnerships.
That didn't mean he wasn't watching, though. In fact, as Yuanxin's biggest long-term competitor, Su had always paid close attention to Samsung. Not just in this life, but in his previous one too.
Coincidentally, he knew full well who Lee Jae-yong was.
As it happened, the so-called "crown prince" wasn't much older than Su himself. Tabloid magazines had even run articles comparing them—casting Su as the "Yuanxin Crown Prince," and contrasting their respective rises.
Honestly, Su found that insulting.
He composed himself and returned to the topic. "So, the crown prince came to visit Nikon too?"
"Yep. One of our engineers happened to be at Nikon yesterday and saw him," Sun Xiao replied. "But don't take it personally. Nikon's still just a small enterprise. They probably don't know just how much clout you really carry."
Su laughed. "Senior, if Mr. Yoshida hears you calling Nikon a small company, he's going to cough up blood."
"I'm just stating facts," Sun Xiao shrugged with mock disdain. "Sure, they've got a niche in optics and cameras—but the narrower your focus, the smaller your vision. Let's be honest, if it weren't for lithography machines, would we even care about them?"
"You're not wrong," Su admitted. "If not for lithography, I wouldn't have come calling."
...
Their car turned into the Nikon corporate park. At the main gate, the vehicle was stopped by security. After Su and his party gave their names, the guard called the administrative office.
Shortly afterward, a group emerged from the building—led by none other than Shoichiro Yoshida.
Su Yuanshan was relieved. At least he wouldn't have to knock on the door himself.
Yoshida, now in his sixties, had joined Nikon over forty years ago and never left. Such longevity was common in Japanese companies and was one reason Japan had missed out on the internet revolution—an era that demanded constant mobility and innovation.
He had started as a design engineer, working on astronomical telescopes and spectrometers, then transitioned into the booming semiconductor wave, eventually leading Nikon's precision instrument division and, in recent years, becoming company president.
The rise of Nikon's lithography division had coincided with the semiconductor industry's explosive growth—making the department crucial to Nikon's success.
In two more years, Yoshida would retire from his position as president, achieving the pinnacle of a traditional "salaryman's" career path—CEO, then honorary advisor, then retirement.
"Mr. Yoshida, a pleasure to meet you."
"Su Yuanshan-kun, welcome."
They spoke nearly in unison, shaking hands as cameras clicked all around them.
Yoshida led the group into the building and toward the executive suite.
Su, meanwhile, kept glancing subtly around—half hoping to spot the Samsung prince in person.
But unfortunately, he was out of luck.
Yoshida made small talk as they rode the elevator and soon ushered Su into the presidential office.
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Chapter 490: The Flash Memory Standard
Su Yuanshan's intention was clear—he wanted to promote Yuanxin's patents related to optical paths and development structures to Nikon, and also bring them into the flash memory initiative.
Sun Xiao hadn't been wrong: Nikon was the archetype of a Japanese company—laser-focused on one field, drilling into it with obsessive depth, and amplifying its strength to the extreme. That's why Nikon held such sway in the camera industry. Most laypeople had no idea that Nikon's real stronghold wasn't photography, but photolithography.
After all, there was also Zeiss in the lens business—and Zeiss was arguably more professional.
Su Yuanshan laid several freshly prepared patent documents on the table, and Yoshida Shoichiro only needed a glance before agreeing. This wasn't their first collaboration—Yuanxin had already worked with Nikon a year earlier when Lin Bencheng's team partnered with several lithography-capable firms.
But when Su brought up the idea of Nikon joining the flash memory alliance and helping define MLC flash chip specifications, Yoshida hesitated.
"Mr. Su, a new standard? Does that mean Yuanxin's products are incompatible with current flash memory formats?"
"Yes, in a sense," Su Yuanshan answered calmly. "All digital products will eventually be processed by computers. Of course, once systems and chips become powerful enough, content from camcorders and cameras will also be displayed directly on TVs, video players, and printers."
Yoshida nodded. Although his expertise was in lithography design, Nikon's deep roots in the optical field meant he was well aware of where the digital camera and camcorder markets were heading.
Nikon had, in fact, been one of the first Japanese camera companies to partner with flash memory chip providers—like their collaboration with SanDisk.
"But whether connected to a PC, a television, or a printer, data transmission is essential. And we just happen to have a slight advantage in data transfer protocols."
Seeing Yoshida's puzzled look, Su smiled. He knew this was not the man's area of expertise.
"The USB protocol was initiated and promoted by Yuanxin. It's a well-designed, open standard—freely licensed—and it has already gained native support from operating systems like Windows and Linux."
"Based on our estimates, USB is fully capable of managing data transmission for flash memory-based storage. And because we control the protocol, we're in a position to establish a new, standard usage model for flash memory chips."
At this, Yoshida finally understood. After a few seconds of thought, he asked pointedly, "What about data read/write speed within the device? Physical dimensions? Data security?"
Su raised an eyebrow—these were sharp questions. Despite being focused on optics, Yoshida clearly had done his homework on adjacent technologies. Su gained a new respect for him.
In the 1990s, three major types of flash memory cards had emerged:
CF (CompactFlash) – hastily launched by SanDisk in 1994 to compete with PCMCIA cards. Reliable, but large and bulky.SM (SmartMedia) – proposed recently by Toshiba.SD (Secure Digital) – yet to be released.
CF cards had done their job well, but their size made them impractical for the next generation of sleek, portable devices. That's why Siemens, SanDisk, and others had begun pushing SD as its replacement in 1997.
From Su's point of view, shaped by firsthand experience of that era, one thing was clear: memory cards kept getting smaller, faster, and better. And now that Yuanxin had mastered 0.5-micron manufacturing and MLC chip processes ahead of the curve, it was time to officially kill off the CF card.
As for SmartMedia… well, it could die in the womb.
Aside from niche use in multi-card readers, it barely made a splash on the market.
After organizing his thoughts, Su smiled. "I can say with confidence—our flash cards will be superior to CF in physical size, speed, and security."
"Do you have a technical spec sheet?" Yoshida asked immediately.
"…Not yet," Su replied, honestly.
Yoshida froze. His eyes narrowed slightly as if to say, Are you kidding me?
He knew who Su Yuanshan was—he'd agonized for days over whether to even take this meeting. Su had already spent a week in Japan, making high-profile visits to major semiconductor and electronics firms.
Even Japanese TV had started reporting on him. The anchors spoke of Su in glowing terms, describing him as a "genius," a "young sage," and "the steward of a vast empire."
Yoshida understood Su's status within Yuanxin.
But, of all times, Samsung's crown prince had also arrived in Japan.
Even now, as they sat here talking, Lee Jae-yong was still sipping tea in Nikon's headquarters. Technically, he should've left by now—but who knew if he was hanging around to bump into Su?
From a business perspective, it shouldn't matter—even if the Samsung chairman himself showed up, it shouldn't prevent Nikon from speaking with Yuanxin.
But Lee Jae-yong had made his displeasure subtly clear. That left Yoshida trying to balance politeness with pragmatism—first "snubbing" Su, now gently holding off on Samsung.
And now Su was asking for a strategic partnership… without even a spec sheet?
Sensing the hesitation, Su smiled again. "Mr. Yoshida, I understand your concerns."
Yoshida exhaled slowly, returning a polite nod.
"Yuanxin deeply respects its partners," Su continued. "Which is why our primary goal today is to establish the flash memory alliance. Once that's in place, we can jointly define the next-generation card standard."
He paused, then added, "We have no interest in dictating terms. That would be disrespectful—and respect, as I see it, is the foundation of any successful partnership."
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