Sega Headquarters, early morning.
Takuya Nakayama pushed open his office door.
A cup of black coffee sat on his desk, steam rising from its surface.
Before the door had even fully closed, Tadashi Takezaki from the Public Relations Department rushed in, a folder tucked under his arm.
His strides were wide, his leather shoes silent on the carpeted floor, but his entire posture radiated urgency.
"Managing Director," Takezaki said, slapping the folder onto the desk and flipping open the first page. "We've received confirmation from Kyoto."
Takuya Nakayama pulled out his chair and sat down, lifting the coffee cup.
"Gunpei Yokoi was in a car accident on the highway last night. He's gone."
The coffee cup froze halfway to Takuya's lips.
He looked up, staring intently at Takezaki.
"It happened last night. His car broke down, and while he was out checking the chassis, he was struck by another vehicle," Takezaki explained, his words coming in a rapid-fire torrent. "Nintendo's General Affairs Department rushed him to the hospital overnight, but they couldn't save him. The news only started spreading through the industry this morning."
Takuya Nakayama set his cup back onto the coaster.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the few short lines of intelligence in the folder.
Gunpei Yokoi was dead.
Takuya tapped his fingers twice on the armrest.
Fate, it seemed, was truly unreasonable.
The trajectory of this life had already been turned upside down by his own actions.
Nintendo was being crushed by Sega's GamePocket, leaving them with no energy to develop the doomed Virtual Boy.
As a result, Gunpei Yokoi never resigned in disgrace over the VB's failure, nor did he leave Nintendo to found Koto Laboratory.
He had stayed at Nintendo, fighting Sega on the front lines.
Yet in the end, he still couldn't escape that highway, nor the car that struck him from behind.
The timing hadn't even differed by more than a few days.
Takuya rubbed his temples.
"What's the situation over at Nintendo now?"
"It's a complete mess," Tadashi Takezaki said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "Gunpei Yokoi was the General Manager of the First Department, and he was still overseeing several major projects. I heard he was the one leading the GBC planning. Now that he's suddenly gone, Yamauchi Hiroshi has effectively lost an arm."
Takuya Nakayama picked up the red pen from the desk and circled a name in the folder.
"Notify Sato and Koguchi. Have them come to my office."
Ten minutes later, Hisao Koguchi and Hideki Sato pushed open the door. Both men clearly had heard the news; their expressions were grim.
"Is it true?" Koguchi asked, pulling out a chair and getting straight to the point.
Takuya pushed the folder toward him.
Koguchi glanced at it, closed the folder, and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, heavy sigh.
Sato, standing beside him with his hands shoved into the pockets of his white coat, shook his head.
"It's too sudden," Sato said, his voice dry. "The D-pad, the Game Boy... Without him, the handheld market would never have looked like this."
"He was a legend," Koguchi said, spinning a pen between his fingers. "The grandmaster of taking mature technology and making it something completely new. His theory of 'Lateral Thinking with Withered Technology' is what helped Nintendo dominate the handheld market for all these years. With him gone, Nintendo's Hardware Development Department will be paralyzed for at least six months. The GBC project is bound to be affected."
Hideki Sato pulled up a chair and sat down.
"We've already secured the screen production capacity from Sharp, so Yokoi must be under immense pressure," Sato analyzed. "He's a man who is extremely strict about cost control. Without the new screens for the GBC, he'll have to redesign the hardware architecture. For an accident to happen at a time like this—"
"Business is business," Takuya Nakayama interrupted, tapping his finger on the desk.
The two men turned to look at him.
"He is a worthy opponent," Nakayama said, his tone calm yet firm. "Sega's handheld business wouldn't be where it is today without him blazing the trail. Even the handheld version of Tetris I developed back then was inspired by Game & Watch. Send the word out: no one within Sega is to make light of this incident, and absolutely no one is to exploit it in the media. Anyone who dares to kick Nintendo while they're down will be fired on the spot."
Tadashi Takezaki immediately nodded and jotted the instruction down in his notebook.
"The Public Relations Department will control the narrative," he said. "If the media asks, we will only express our condolences and state that this is a great loss for the gaming industry."
"Alright, you two can get back to work," Takuya Nakayama said with a wave of his hand.
Oguchi Hisao and Hideki Sato rose and left the office.
Takuya pressed the intercom button on his desk.
"Send the secretaries in."
Two secretaries entered, notebooks in hand.
"Prepare the condolence arrangements," Takuya instructed. "Order the highest-grade wreath in the name of Sega Corporation. Also, order a separate one in my own name."
The secretaries scribbled notes.
"Once the condolence letter is drafted, bring it to me for my signature," Takuya added. "The wording must be solemn. The monetary gift should be the highest standard in the industry."
"Understood," the secretaries replied before exiting the office.
Takuya stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
The sky outside was gloomy, with low-hanging clouds.
Gunpei Yokoi's death was an earthquake that would shake the entire Japanese gaming industry.
Nintendo's vast empire had just lost one of its most solid foundations.
Yamauchi Hiroshi was likely fuming in his empty General Manager's office right about now.
But this was reality.
Competition would not halt for a single man's passing. Sega's new handheld console project had to proceed as planned.
Five days later.
A letter appeared on the desk.
A white envelope, its edges printed with a fine black line.
Takuya Nakayama picked up a paper cutter and sliced open the seal.
He withdrew a card made of heavy, high-quality stock.
It was a formal funeral invitation from Nintendo.
The senders were the Yokoi family and the Funeral Committee Chairperson, Hiroshi Yamauchi.
The service was scheduled for Wednesday morning at a large temple in Kyoto.
Takuya Nakayama placed the invitation on the desk.
Tadashi Takezaki walked in to deliver some documents and caught sight of the card.
"Managing Director, for an occasion like this, sending a Vice President to make a courtesy appearance is enough," Takezaki said, setting the documents down. "Kyoto is Nintendo's home turf, after all. If you go in person, you might run into some reckless people who—"
"I have to go." Takuya Nakayama slipped the invitation back into the envelope.
Tadashi Takezaki paused.
"I'm going to pay my respects to this veteran," Takuya said, locking the envelope in his drawer. "And while I'm at it, I want to see what Nintendo's spirit is like now that Gunpei Yokoi is gone."
Tadashi Takezaki didn't argue further and nodded.
"I'll arrange the itinerary and security."
"Don't make a scene out of it," Takuya said, picking up the documents from the desk. "Two cars and a few assistants will do. We're there to offer condolences, not to crash the party."
Kyoto, Higashi Honganji Temple.
The late autumn rain fell in a dense, woven mist, carrying a bone-chilling cold that washed the ancient temple's stone paths into a shimmering, frigid surface.
Black umbrellas crowded the stone walkway outside the temple, forming a vast, dark ocean.
Today's Kyoto was filled not only with the solemn scent of incense but also with the deepest undercurrents of the entire Japanese gaming industry.
A black Toyota Century pulled up smoothly in front of the temple.
The car door opened, and a pair of spotless, custom-made black leather shoes stepped into a puddle.
Tadashi Takezaki had already opened a large black umbrella, holding it steadily over Takuya Nakayama's head, shielding him from the relentless rain.
Both men wore impeccably tailored, custom-made black suits with plain black ties, walking steadily toward the main hall.
A long line had already formed at the reception desk.
People were signing in and handing over condolence money in white envelopes.
All around them were top-tier industry moguls, figures rarely seen together in one place.
Kazumasa Kozuki, President of Konami, stood under the eaves, speaking in low tones with Kenzo Tsujimoto of Capcom.
When their eyes caught the young figure approaching under the black umbrella, the two old foxes of the industry, who could command the gaming world with a single word, fell silent in perfect unison.
A complex mix of emotions—wariness, awe, and a hint of sentimentality—flashed in their eyes.
Under this young man's leadership, Sega was no longer the company that had struggled desperately in the console wars. It had become the absolute hegemon, wielding immense wealth and dictating the rules of the industry.
The two men bowed slightly, stepping aside to make way.
Takuya Nakayama nodded back in acknowledgment, his expression calm, without pausing his stride.
Masaya Nakamura, the head of Namco, stood beneath a pillar on the other side, leaning on his cane.
Though the old man's face was impassive, his eyes were fixed on Takuya Nakayama's retreating figure, his gaze calculating.
Nearby, Hiroshi Kudo of Hudson and Hironobu Sakaguchi, Square's Development Manager, bowed their heads slightly in greeting. Their eyes softened with obvious warmth upon seeing Takuya Nakayama.
As third-party developers closely aligned with Sega, Sega's dominance was their greatest source of confidence.
Nearly every major figure and key executive in the Japanese gaming industry had gathered here today.
Takuya Nakayama stopped at the entrance to the main hall.
Ken Kutaragi, Vice President of Sony Computer Entertainment and the Father of PlayStation, stood there.
Their eyes met in the dim light.
Ken Kutaragi gave a slight nod.
Takuya Nakayama returned the gesture with an identical nod.
No pleasantries were exchanged, nor were there any superfluous expressions.
Inside the hall, the light was dim and oppressive.
On the altar lay the black-and-white memorial portrait of Gunpei Yokoi.
In the photograph, the man with his hair combed to perfection smiled as gently as ever, as if he had just finished inventing another interesting toy.
Beside the portrait, mountains of white chrysanthemums and lilies piled high, filling the air with their heavy scent.
Among all the wreaths, placed in the most central and prominent position, were two specially made ones beside the massive wreaths from Nintendo and Yamauchi Hiroshi.
One was signed "Sega Corporation," and the other, "Takuya Nakayama." This was not just a condolence; it was a statement of Sega's status as the industry leader today.
Nintendo's executives sat quietly in the front row on the left.
Yamauchi Hiroshi sat in the first chair.
Shigeru Miyamoto sat slightly behind him, his head bowed, his expression hidden.
The ceremony began.
The monk's low, rhythmic chanting echoed through the vast, empty hall, adding a layer of profound sorrow to the atmosphere.
Masayuki Uemura took a deep breath, stood up, and walked unsteadily to the microphone.
He held two pages of a speech, the edges of the paper trembling slightly.
"Yokoi-san, you left us too soon," Uemura began with difficulty, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper, thick with an unbreakable exhaustion and grief.
He looked down at the manuscript, his eyes rimmed with red.
"Over thirty years ago, when he first joined the company, he was just a young man responsible for repairing equipment on the assembly line. Later, he created the Ultra Hand, the Light Gun, Game & Watch, and the Game Boy—"
Masayuki Uemura paused, swallowing painfully, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
"The design of the D-pad changed the entire industry. He always told us to use mature technology to create new kinds of fun, rather than blindly chasing specs. And he succeeded. He took Nintendo to an unprecedented height. But now—he's left the rest of the journey to us."
Uemura could no longer continue reading.
He folded the manuscript, stuffed it haphazardly into his suit pocket, and bowed deeply to the gentle-looking portrait.
The entire room fell silent.
The only sound was the desolate patter of the fine rain outside, striking the eaves.
Takuya Nakayama sat upright in the front row of the guest seating on the right.
His gaze shifted from Uemura, sweeping imperceptibly across the row of Nintendo executives.
Mourning.
Grief.
Confusion.
Such emotions rippled through Nintendo's ranks.
With Gunpei Yokoi's passing, the sky had effectively fallen on half of Nintendo's Hardware Development Department. The GBC project, originally intended to thwart Sega, was now bound for major revisions or even a complete halt.
Finally, Takuya Nakayama's gaze locked onto a single man.
Genyo Takeda.
The General Manager of Nintendo's Integrated Research & Development Division and the core driver behind the N64's hardware architecture.
Unlike his colleagues, who were bowed in grief, Genyo Takeda sat bolt upright, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. His expression held sorrow, yes, but it was overshadowed by the tension of a man under immense pressure.
Takuya Nakayama withdrew his gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.
He understood.
The N64 was being squeezed in the current market by Sega's Jupiter and Sony's PlayStation. Its sales were abysmal, falling far short of Yamauchi Hiroshi's expectations.
Now, with Gunpei Yokoi dead and Masayuki Uemura too old and exhausted, the entire burden of Nintendo's future hardware could only fall, without reservation, upon Genyo Takeda's shoulders alone.
Seeing Takeda's tense, defensive posture, Takuya suspected that Hiroshi Yamauchi had already ordered him to begin preliminary research on the next-generation console.
In the timeline of his past life, the Sega Saturn's defeat by the PlayStation had forced Hayao Nakayama to go all-in on the Dreamcast in a desperate bid for a comeback. Similarly, after the failure of the Nintendo 64, Yamauchi had tasked Genyo Takeda with spearheading the development of the NGC.
The immense inertia of history was still exerting its influence from the shadows.
But Takuya Nakayama, leaning back against the cold wooden chair, felt his heart as steady as a rock.
The Sega of today was no longer the same mess as in his previous life—a company plagued by internal factionalism, a broken supply chain, and kept on life support by high-interest loans!
The hardware for the new handheld console had been completely finalized.
Sega now held a firm grip on Sharp's HR-TFT screen production line, the industry's gold standard, leaving absolutely nothing for Nintendo.
Development kits had already been distributed to all the core game development teams.
And Sega's first-party game lineup, bolstered by close third-party allies like Square and Atlus, had already created a brand effect that was in no way inferior to Nintendo's.
The depth and quality of their game roster were more than enough to go head-to-head with Nintendo.
Nintendo wanted to make a comeback with its next-generation console?
On this timeline, their journey was destined to be even more arduous than in the past life.
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