Kadokawa Haruki—president of the Kadokawa Group, whose flagship Kadokawa Shoten commanded enormous market share in Japan—was a man infamous for being high-handed, arrogant, and utterly without limits.
In the 1980s, he invested heavily in films, pioneering the "media-mix" model that linked movies and books under a single IP. In the 1990s, he produced Heaven and Earth, aiming to compete head-to-head with Kurosawa Akira.
After Japan's economic bubble burst, Kadokawa Haruki was jailed for drug use, though he soon posted bail and returned.
Overall, he was the kind of man people preferred not to get involved with.
At this moment, Kadokawa Haruki was entertaining guests at his private club, Takakura.
His assistant approached quietly, leaned in, and whispered a few words before handing him a sealed letter.
"Oh? A manuscript delivered to me personally, through private channels?" Haruki raised an eyebrow. "Did the sender leave a name?"
The assistant shook his head.
Of course not—only a remittance method and a pen name had been provided.
Kadokawa didn't normally work during his leisure hours, but something delivered in this manner piqued his curiosity.
He opened it casually—yet the first line stopped him in his tracks.
"Nintendo… crimes… hm! Interesting. What's this author's pen name? 'Ten Cents'?"
He had heard of an American company called Ten Cents, so upon seeing the pen name テンセント, his mind immediately connected it: Ten Cent.
Kadokawa pinched the manuscript between his fingers, thinking.
"By the way, what's that magazine Tokuma Shoten just released? Fami-Maga? Only a few tens of thousands in circulation. Hardly impressive. But if Tokuma can do it, then why can't we?"
He snapped his fingers.
"I'll give you one week. Assemble an editorial team, rent an office, and produce a magazine of the same format as Fami-Maga. And for the very first issue—feature this manuscript as the opening article! Pay the author exactly the same way the submission arrived."
In truth, a magazine with only a few tens of thousands in sales didn't earn money.
Weekly Shōnen magazines sold in the millions and still relied on cheap paper to maintain profits.
Game magazines required color images; even slight improvements in print quality cut profit margins to nearly zero. At a few tens of thousands in circulation, one could even lose money.
But Kadokawa Haruki wanted to make this magazine anyway.
He, of course, didn't explain his reasoning to the assistant.
Nintendo's recall of the Famicom was the hottest news of the season.
Publishing a fiery exposé attacking Nintendo would draw massive attention.
People drawn in by the article would enter Kadokawa bookstores—and once inside, they were likely to buy other publications.
Tens of thousands of sales meant nothing on their own, but the indirect gains could be significant.
As for whether this would offend Nintendo?
Kadokawa Haruki was utterly unbothered.
Buzz meant sales.
Sales meant good business.
Good business meant stock prices rising.
If both magazine sales and the company's stock went up, he won twice.
Nintendo's feelings?
Irrelevant.
---
December 1983 — one day before New Year's Eve
Most major companies were already on holiday, but Nintendo headquarters was holding an emergency meeting.
On the table before every manager lay a newly published magazine.
Its title: Kadokawa Game Express.
Circulation wasn't high—game magazines rarely broke into mass-market numbers—but the discussion surrounding this issue was immense.
Especially because the very first article had been printed as the magazine's dominant headline.
As a launch issue, the magazine was crude.
Text slightly blurred, images poorly reproduced, and the smell of fresh ink still clinging to the pages.
"Counting Nintendo's Crimes!"
A title like that was impossible to ignore.
Originally slated to enter the game publishing industry only in the 2000s, the Kadokawa Group had now stepped in early thanks to one explosive article.
Miyamoto Shigeru was reading it.
Lean-bodied yet round-faced, gentle in appearance—someone people naturally warmed to.
His name would one day become legendary: Donkey Kong, Super Mario, The Legend of Zelda—all future million-selling Nintendo pillars he had yet to create.
Though not a "celebrity producer," his influence in the industry was immense.
He flipped through the rough, hastily printed pages—clearly rushed out to hit the shelves before New Year.
His first reaction:
This "Ten Cent" must be an insider—probably a third-party developer unhappy with Nintendo.
After all, the royalty policies described in the article were internal rules, never publicly disclosed.
His second reaction:
…Sega did it too.
True, Nintendo had introduced the royalty system first, but they were hardly the only ones:
Sega used it.
The MSX platform used it.
Commodore used it.
In the '90s, Sony and Microsoft would adopt it as well.
Miyamoto blinked—his small eyes making the gesture appear almost sleepy.
"Everyone, share your thoughts."
Nintendo president Yamauchi Hiroshi spoke from his large swivel chair, his tone cold and commanding.
Within the company, all employees were required to address him as "Kachō"—the Boss.
Silence.
All eyes drifted to Miyamoto, who looked far gentler than anyone else at the table.
He stood.
"Kachō, I'll be brief.
"These recent events form a coordinated attack. Most likely a competitor's attempt to smear us. From Sega leaking information about FC hardware flaws to this magazine article—this will incite third-party developers to challenge the existing royalty agreements.
"However… I also have doubts. If Sega is behind this, don't they need to make money too? They share the same royalty system. If third-party developers unite against royalties, it hurts Sega as well. So I reserve final judgment."
Yamauchi nodded, pleased.
Nintendo's successful developers were no fools.
Miyamoto might look harmless, but he was anything but naïve.
His words echoed Yamauchi's own thoughts.
"No matter who orchestrated this combination blow, our current priority is calming third-party developers and ensuring first-party development continues smoothly. As long as first-party titles form a strong defensive moat, this setback is temporary. Sega's rushed new console won't surpass the Famicom easily."
He turned to Miyamoto.
"How is first-party development progressing?"
Miyamoto replied,
"We're currently developing a light gun designed for home consoles, along with compatible game software. When the revised Famicom launches, they will be released together."
When it came to hardware, Miyamoto deferred to the expert at the table.
Yokoi Gunpei—another giant of Nintendo.
Early Nintendo consoles, handhelds, even the layout of the controller buttons—all bore his design influence.
But now, the square-faced, crew-cut engineer looked troubled.
"Kachō… Miyamoto-kun… the new light gun… may not be ready in time."
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