Oguchi Hisao nodded and jotted a note in his notebook.
"What about Blizzard?" Takuya Nakayama changed the subject.
"The physical copies of Diablo have been pressed," Oguchi Hisao said, flipping open another document. "The Battle.net server tests have also gone smoothly. We're ready for launch at any time."
"Proceed as planned," Takuya Nakayama said, standing up. "Next January, we'll ignite the PC market."
December 28th.
Santa Monica, Los Angeles.
In the entertainment room converted from Mike's garage, the colorful Christmas string lights had yet to be taken down, still twinkling in the corner of the wall.
The floor was no longer littered with empty beer cans from the celebration, but with a dozen or so crumpled paper coffee cups and a few cold pizza crusts, hard as stone.
David sat in the middle of the sofa, his hands gripping the Jupiter controller tightly.
He was no longer pulling all-nighters like he had a week ago; instead, he forced himself to get at least five hours of sleep each day.
The two days of mandatory socializing during Christmas had dragged him out of Midgar's steel jungle, giving him a much-needed breather and helping him endure the worst of the withdrawal.
But now, his breathing quickened once more.
On the television screen, a long and epic CG sequence was playing. A meteor, trailing a long streak of light, tore through the sky, descending with an overwhelming sense of destruction. Then, the Lifestream erupted from the earth, transforming into a green light that enveloped the entire planet.
David's hands dropped limply to his knees, and he tossed the controller aside with a dull thud.
Marcus and Mike stood behind him, frozen as if spellbound, neither saying a word.
The room was so silent that only the grand symphonic music from the television could be heard.
Until the screen finally faded to black, and the credits began to roll slowly against the dark background, accompanied by Nobuo Uematsu's soul-piercing composition.
David wiped his face, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"It's over," David exhaled a long, shaky breath and slumped back against the sofa, as if all the strength had been drained from his body. "I beat it... God, that story just tore my heart to pieces."
Marcus walked over, grabbed the half-empty water bottle from the table, and took a massive gulp, trying to suppress the shock still coursing through him.
"Now this is a damn game," Marcus slammed the bottle onto the table, sending a spray of water flying. "I take back everything I said about JRPGs. Turn-based combat? Chunibyo bullshit? Those Japanese lunatics at Square are fucking geniuses! That Alice plotline... my chest still feels tight."
Mike approached the TV and gently unplugged it, as if afraid to disturb some sacred ritual.
"I'm buying a copy tomorrow," Mike said, shaking out his wrists, which were sore from standing for so long. His eyes burned with a new fervor. "Watching you play for nearly fifty hours felt like watching the longest sci-fi epic in history. No, I have to experience this myself. I'm going to go kill Sephiroth."
At the same time.
Chiyoda Ward, Tokyo.
Famitsu Editorial Department.
Takahashi was slumped in his office chair, his body limp like a puddle of mud.
His tie was loosened and tossed carelessly beside a grease-stained keyboard.
The ashtray on his desk was stuffed with cigarette butts, resembling a miniature hedgehog.
Sato, the Editor-in-Chief, pushed open the office door and stepped inside, bringing a gust of cold air with him.
"Finished?" Sato tapped on Takahashi's desk cubicle, his voice cutting sharply through the silence of the office.
Takahashi turned his head with difficulty, the bloodshot veins in his eyes a terrifying red.
"Beaten. I cleared it at three in the morning," Takahashi reached for the cigarette pack in his pocket, squeezed it, found it empty, and tossed the crumpled box into the trash can in frustration.
Sato tossed his own pack of Seven Stars, which landed precisely in Takahashi's lap.
"Where's the review?" Sato pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.
Takahashi pulled a stack of still-warm papers from the printer tray and handed them over.
His hands were still trembling slightly.
Sato took the papers and flipped to the first page.
There were no long-winded praises, only a few short paragraphs and a single, strikingly prominent number.
"A perfect score?" Sato's eyebrows shot up, the cigarette held between his fingers frozen in place.
"A perfect score," Takahashi said, lighting a cigarette. He took a deep drag, exhaling a cloud of bluish-gray smoke, his eyes shining with an unusual intensity. "Forty points. Four editors involved in the review, and every single one gave it a ten."
Sato flipped to the final page of the review.
The signatures of Yamada, Suzuki, and Kimura were signed squarely on the paper, the ink pressed deep into the fibers.
"This is the first time since our magazine's launch that we've given an RPG a perfect score. Even Dragon Quest never received this treatment," Sato said, rolling up the manuscript, his expression turning deadly serious. "Are you sure you haven't let the hype of the last two weeks cloud your judgment? If players think we were paid off, this magazine's credibility will be ruined."
Yamada, who was at the next workstation, poked his head out. He was currently putting eye drops in his eyes.
"Editor-in-Chief, just play it once and you'll see," Yamada said, rubbing his aching temples, his tone filled with unwavering conviction. "This game has no weaknesses. The graphics, music, systems, and story presentation—they're all top-tier in the industry. It even transcends the very definition of a game. If this doesn't get a perfect score, then our magazine's rating system can just be scrapped, because no game will ever deserve a perfect score again."
Sato stared at them for a few seconds, then stood up.
"Fine," he said, clutching the manuscript tightly under his arm. "For next week's cover, use the original artwork of Cloud and Sephiroth facing off in the flames. The headline should be in the largest font possible: 'A Perfect Masterpiece Descends: A Miracle in Gaming History.' I'll handle the printing press—tell them to print an extra 200,000 copies! The readers will be fighting over them."
The North American market was no different.
At the offices of NetGeneration magazine, senior editor Tom sent the newly laid-out pages to Editor-in-Chief Chris via the LAN.
Chris stared at the review section on his screen.
On the ten-point scale, Tom had typed a massive "10" without hesitation.
"You're known for being stingy with your scores," Chris said, pointing at the screen in surprise. "The highest you gave any of last year's hyped-up blockbusters was an 8.5."
"Because they didn't deserve more. They were just fun toys," Tom said, taking a sip of his bitter black coffee. "But Final Fantasy VII is different. It has raised the standard for the entire industry. It has forcibly elevated video games from simple pastimes to the level of cinematic art. This ten is for the pioneering spirit of Sega and Square. They've shown the world what a 3D game in the optical disc era is truly meant to look like."
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