This was like using the finest steel only for the sharpest edge.
Combined with the visualization development kit created by tech wizard Mark Cerny and a team of top programmers like Yuji Naka, the once-obscure hardware architecture became as intuitive as assembling a puzzle, with significant improvements in graphical optimization.
Programmers no longer needed to wrestle with low-level code to achieve specific lighting effects. The Model 2's performance was operating at its peak from day one.
Takuya Nakayama didn't even bother waiting for the production ramp-up report.
"Pull all the dozens of machines from the lab that passed testing, along with the first batch of production units," he instructed, gesturing toward the door. "Akihabara, Ikebukuro, Shinjuku—select the busiest company-owned stores and have them set up tonight."
There was no press conference, no ribbon-cutting ceremony, not even a promotional poster printed until that afternoon, when it was slapped onto the arcade entrance.
The brand-new, uniform cabinets simply materialized in the center of the Sega Building No. 1 lobby.
When the screen lit up, revealing the textured fabric of Akira Yuki's gi rippling with each breath, a player mashing buttons on a nearby The King of Fighters II machine flinched. They were immediately comboed to the edge of the screen and then pinned there, unable to escape until the round was lost.
"Is this... real footage?" someone asked tentatively, dropping a hundred-yen coin into the machine.
Three minutes later, a long queue had formed behind the machine.
The crowd grew so dense that the air became stifling, forcing the manager to crank the air conditioning to its maximum setting.
Watching the live surveillance feed from the flagship store, the arcade manager for the Sales Department swallowed hard. "Managing Director, when should we schedule the order conference? We haven't even secured a venue yet—"
"Order conference? This product offers a true next-generation experience. There's no need." Takuya Nakayama propped his feet on his desk, spinning a pen in his hand. "Notify the Sales Department. Send faxes to all partner arcades and distributors across Japan. Just one message: Virtua Fighter 2 is now accepting pre-orders. Full payment required upfront. First come, first served."
"Isn't that... a bit arrogant?" Yoshikawa hesitated. "Those stubborn old-timers might not part with their money easily if they can't see it in person."
"Arrogant? We can prove them wrong by simply taking them to our flagship stores," Takuya Nakayama said with a smile, pointing at the surveillance footage of a team of players nearly coming to blows over a prime spot. "Seeing this scene and the footage from upstairs, they'll be eager to spend money in no time. Tell them the first shipment is limited to ten thousand units—all other production is currently reserved for the European and American markets."
Sega's sales machine roared to life.
Fax machines churned out paper slips that flew like snowflakes into the offices of major distributors.
Initially, many bosses were surprised by Sega's seemingly casual approach to promoting the new product. After all, Sega had always gone all out with its game launches in recent years. Even though arcade games didn't quite follow the same logic, this was still unusually low-key.
But when their contacts in Akihabara called, reporting, "The coin boxes in Sega's flagship stores were stuffed to the brim in just two hours, forcing them to switch to larger plastic bins for the cash—the game's visuals are exactly as Sega promised in their posters, the next generation has truly arrived!"—no one could sit still any longer.
Within half a day, Sega's Finance Department lines were swamped, and bank transfer notifications flooded in one after another.
Meanwhile, across the ocean in Shenzhen, China, the assembly lines at the contract factories were running at full capacity.
Tens of thousands of Model 2 motherboards blinked their indicator lights as they passed through the burning machines.
Still warm from the assembly, the circuit boards were immediately boxed and rushed to the airport, bound for Tokyo.
In a Yokohama port warehouse, ten thousand fully assembled, brand-new cabinets stood in silent rows, like soldiers ready for battle.
Once the motherboards arrived, just five minutes of installation and debugging would be needed before they could be loaded onto trucks and dispatched to every corner of Japan that craved a coin-operated machine.
As for the full machine cabinets being assembled at the Chinese factory?
Those were destined for the United States and Europe.
Several prototypes had already been sent to Sega of America Headquarters and Ubisoft in France.
Takuya Nakayama had no intention of a "Japan-first" launch; he was aiming for a global simultaneous release.
In this cutthroat era, even a moment's delay was an insult to the dollar.
Akihabara, Tokyo: Sega Building No. 1.
The air was thick with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and the sweat of over-excited fans.
The veteran fighting game players who had originally been crowding around the The King of Fighters II cabinets, waiting to show off their skills, were now completely distracted. One by one, they craned their necks, eyes fixed on the several brand-new, generic cabinets in the center of the hall.
On the screen, Akira Yuki executed a decisive Iron Mountain Lean, sending his opponent flying.
But the real focus wasn't the move itself; it was the clothes.
"Whoa, am I seeing things? That gi—it has fabric textures?"
"Is this some kind of CG cutscene?"
"No way! The fat guy with glasses up there is mashing the joystick so hard he's practically sparking. This has to be real gameplay!"
Someone couldn't resist reaching out and touching the screen, as if trying to confirm the texture of the gi within.
If Sony's recent 3D Tyrannosaurus Rex demo was like hanging a beautifully crafted cake from the ceiling for people to admire, then Sega's latest offering was like serving a full course of Manchu-Han Imperial Feast right on your table, complete with chopsticks.
The Model 2 board's performance had been pushed to its absolute limits.
Although 2D textures were still used for the backgrounds to maintain a smooth 60 frames per second, this "clever trick" now seemed like a stroke of genius.
Players' eyes don't lie. Who cared if the distant buildings were made of cardboard?
All they could see was a fighter before them no longer constructed from blocks of color, but a living, breathing combatant with skin textures and shifting expressions.
For players still accustomed to the pixelated 2D graphics of the 16-bit era, this visual impact was nothing short of a dimensional leap.
Word-of-mouth spread like wildfire, flying along the Yamanote Line to sweep across the entirety of Tokyo.
"Did you go to Akihabara? Sega's dropped a new generation of arcade machines."
This phrase became the standard greeting among gamers these days.
The editorial departments of major gaming magazines were in an uproar.
Editors who had been working on articles analyzing the prospects of the Sony PlayStation had to put their work on hold, grab their cameras, and rush to Sega's flagship stores.
The Famitsu editorial department, known for its scathing reviews and stingy scores for fighting games, was utterly speechless before the special demo unit they'd specially requested from Sega.
These guys, usually so arrogant, had to hold their noses and admit after taking turns playing a few rounds: Sega had truly pushed the boundaries into the next generation.
33 points—a Gold Hall entry.
While not a world-shattering score, for a pure arcade fighting game at that time, it was practically a golden ticket.
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