The smoke from the financial markets had yet to dissipate, but Takuya Nakayama had already extricated himself from that harrowing currency war.
For him, it had merely been a means to stockpile ammunition for the next gaming war.
The true battlefield had always been here.
Market research for the next-generation console was still ongoing. Takuya Nakayama casually flipped through recent North American game release schedules, his fingertips gliding over rows of data like a beachcomber searching for pearls forgotten by the tide.
The Managing Director's daily work was a labyrinth of tedious details, yet he always managed to find amusement in it.
To others, these dry figures were soporific, but to him, they were treasure maps waiting to be deciphered.
Leaning back in his spacious office chair, he let his fingertips trace the thick stack of North American market weekly sales reports for September.
Game titles and sales figures streamed past his eyes—mostly familiar faces, interspersed with fleeting flashes of mediocre titles.
Suddenly, his fingers froze.
His gaze locked onto an unassuming line in the report.
[ The Lost Vikings ].
Developer: Silicon & Synapse
The name struck like lightning, instantly shattering the dust of over two decades of memories in Takuya Nakayama's mind.
Silicon & Synapse—
He mouthed the name silently, a wave of indescribable familiarity surging from his heart up his spine and into his head.
He knew this company. More than just knew it.
This obscure little workshop, currently unknown to the world, would one day change its name to become the gaming giant that drove players worldwide wild: Blizzard Entertainment!
Warcraft, StarCraft, Diablo—monuments in the history of gaming, all born from this "Silicon & Synapse" squeezed into a small office in California.
Yet now, their groundbreaking debut game, The Lost Vikings, lay quietly in Sega's sales report, its sales figures merely "not bad"—far from a hit.
Takuya swiftly pulled up the recent briefs from the North America Investment Department. As expected, they were filled with reports on Silicon Valley Online's recent moves and market feedback, along with analyses of several hot tech companies. No one had noticed this tiny game studio.
Takuya Nakayama's fingertips traced the words "Silicon & Synapse," as if he could feel the outline of that future gaming empire through the paper.
He didn't immediately pick up the phone. It was quitting time in the western United States, and making Tom Kalinske work overtime for such a "minor matter" wasn't his style.
Besides, such matters couldn't be easily explained in a brief phone call and might lead to unnecessary speculation.
He opened his computer and began drafting an email.
The recipient was Tom Kalinske, with a copy sent to the Investment Director of the North America division.
The email began with a half-joking inquiry about Silicon Valley Online's fundraising progress, asking Tom how it felt to be "pursued by Silicon Valley's most elite investors."
Then, he shifted to the main topic.
"Tom, while reviewing the September sales report today, I came across an intriguing small company called Silicon & Synapse. Their game, The Lost Vikings, has only average sales, but after reviewing the materials multiple times, I found the creativity and design concepts to be remarkably unique—almost genius."
He paused, carefully choosing his next words.
He couldn't appear too eager; that would seem unnatural.
"Their game is incredibly creative. I have a strong intuition that this company will be highly valuable in the future. I want the investment team to follow up and evaluate them. If possible, I recommend we take a direct stake."
"In terms of investment strategy, I want you to be flexible. This is a studio built around creativity—don't approach them with the same mindset you use for ordinary acquisitions. We'll only provide financial investment and standard oversight; we won't interfere with their development decisions or company operations. Give them absolute freedom."
"Even if they want to develop games for PC or other platforms, we shouldn't stop them. Let them pursue their vision."
"What we need is their creativity, not to bind them to our agenda."
"Finally, if they need money, trade cash for shares. It's fine to give them a little more; keep your eyes on the long term. You personally oversee this matter."
At the end of the email, he added: "Don't let those old fossils in Tokyo find out I'm having you invest in a company developing games for other platforms. My phone will ring off the hook again. You know how much harder it is to deal with them than with KPCB or Sequoia."
Early the next morning at Sega North America Headquarters, Tom Kalinske, the president, sipped his coffee while quickly scanning his emails. When he saw Takuya Nakayama's message, he chuckled at the joke in the opening. But as he read further, his expression grew increasingly perplexed.
"Silicon & Synapse?" he muttered, frowning at the awkward name.
As the North American president, he was well-versed in the hottest games on the market, but this company—he'd never heard of it before. Its sales were mediocre, and the media reviews were lukewarm at best, simply describing it as "interesting"—far from anything that would catch the attention of the headquarters' operations team.
What really struck him were the outrageous investment terms outlined in the email.
No interference in operations? Acceptable.
Allowing them to develop games for other platforms? That was too lenient.
What investor would support a company they've invested in to develop games for competitors?
The investment director beside him finished reading the email and looked equally bewildered. "Tom, did Executive Director Nakayama get something wrong? I reviewed The Lost Vikings—it's a decent puzzle game, but 'genius'? Silicon Valley is flooded with similar ideas every day. And these investment terms... it's like we're just giving them money for free."
Tom Kalinske didn't answer immediately.
He set down his coffee cup, his fingers tapping lightly on the table as he recalled the scene from the office corner earlier that day, when Takuya Nakayama had described the ecosystem of Silicon Valley Online.
That vision that transcended its time, that frighteningly precise foresight of the future—
He suddenly laughed.
"A charity?" Tom turned to his Investment Director, a hint of mystery in his smile. "No, we're angel investors."
"But—"
"Don't 'but' me." Tom waved his hand, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Have you forgotten how Silicon Valley Online came to be? He just said, 'I have a hunch this will change the world.' And what happened?"
The Investment Director fell silent.
Indeed, Silicon Valley Online's standing in the tech and capital circles of North America had reached near-mythical proportions. And the creator of this myth was none other than the young man on the other end of the email.
His "hunches" now carried more weight at Sega North America Headquarters than any market research report.
"Do as he says," Tom's tone lightened. "Execute it word for word. Remember, we're here to make friends, not act like bosses."
He paused, picked up the document about Silicon & Synapse, and studied the small office photo with keen interest.
"I have to see for myself what kind of 'geniuses' could make Takuya go out of his way to give such specific instructions."
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