Each subsequent piece, from the soaring melody of "Wind of the Dream" to the comically heroic "Frog's Theme," struck the players' emotional chords with pinpoint accuracy, hitting their tear ducts and their burning hearts in equal measure.
Even when the arrangements returned to their original forms, the raw power of the live performance far surpassed anything a single-channel TV speaker could convey.
The players listened in rapturous awe.
In that moment, they were no longer the children nagged by their parents about "wasting their lives on trivial pursuits," nor were they the middle-aged adults suffocating under the weight of work.
They were heroes who had traversed time and space, saviors who had risen to the occasion on the Day of Lavis in 1999.
This sense of being understood and respected—a feeling that no amount of money could buy.
As the concert ended, the faces of the attendees were a complex tapestry of emotions.
Some wore a dazed, soul-cleansed expression, while others lingered, reluctant to return to reality.
"Mr. Nakayama," Hironobu Sakaguchi said, watching the crowd that lingered below, his voice filled with emotion, "it seems we've achieved our goal. After this concert, Square will have firmly established its dominance in the game music scene."
"This is just the beginning," Takuya Nakayama said, standing up and straightening his collar. "From now on, no one will dare say Square Games' music lacks taste. We might even reach a point where the music for one of our games is so exceptional that players will feel like they're getting the CD for free."
The two men exchanged a knowing smile and left the private room.
The next morning, Tokyo's newsstands were busier than usual.
Instead of giving the front page to any of the upcoming blockbuster game releases, Famitsu ran a slightly blurry live-action photo: Nobuo Uematsu, dressed in traditional haori and hakama, stood on the conductor's podium, with the blurred silhouette of a standing, applauding audience in the background.
The headline, in bold black type, was unprecedented: "After a 40-Minute Masterpiece, Square Redefines the 'Ninth Art'."
Inside, the critic's prose was so excited it bordered on incoherence: "If Chrono Trigger was a dream that Sega and Square jointly gifted to players, then last night's concert brought that dream into reality. When Yasunori Mitsuda tore through the air of the classical concert hall with his synthesizer, I saw the infinite possibilities of game music. This wasn't just the electronic bleeps and bloops of synthesized sounds—this was the resonance of souls."
What was even more interesting was the entertainment section.
A gossip magazine called Weekly Bunshun even devoted half a page to this "game concert," with a sensational headline: "Sega Managing Director Takuya Nakayama 'Debt Collection' by Two Thousand People at Classical Concert Hall?"
The article vividly described the "Give me back my New Year's money" incident and even included a blurry side profile of Nakayama with his hands clasped in a "pleading" gesture.
"This is probably the most expensive debt collection in Japanese business history." Two thousand 'creditors' willingly bought tickets just to shout at this 'money-grabbing demon king': 'More! We've got more money!'"
At Sega Headquarters, Takuya Nakayama tossed the newspaper onto the desk, a wry smile playing on his lips.
"Managing Director, it seems you're now more famous than Sonic," Oguchi Hisao said, entering with the latest sales report. He struggled to suppress a laugh. "The PR department's phones are ringing off the hook. Everyone's asking when you'll really pay them back—or when you'll host another event."
"Paying them back is out of the question," Nakayama replied, taking a sip of his coffee. He pointed to the photo in the newspaper. "This is what we call market interaction. See? It's working perfectly."
It was, frankly, too good to be true.
What had once been a word-of-mouth phenomenon confined to core gamer circles exploded into the mainstream through relentless media coverage. Even those so-called "upper-class" individuals who usually only listened to classical music and scoffed at video games found their curiosity piqued by this novel performance format.
The serious music magazine Music Friends, though maintaining its reserved tone, reluctantly acknowledged: "—While the arrangements are somewhat radical, this performance is undoubtedly a textbook example of how to stir audience emotions. Perhaps we should re-examine this emerging digital art form."
This "official" endorsement instantly made those holding tickets for the remaining days the most sought-after commodities.
Resale tickets, once readily available on the secondary market, vanished without a trace.
Even scalpers holding signs on Harajuku's streets offering 50,000 yen for a single ticket were met with eye-rolls from passing students. "Fifty thousand? If I sold it, my older brother who just bought the Collector's Edition would break my legs."
Players unable to attend the live event could only vent their frustration on pre-order forms.
The phone lines at major record stores became constantly busy.
"Hello? We want to add to our pre-order of the Square Classic Games Concert CD! Yes, five hundred more copies! Make sure to include the bonus poster!"
In just one morning, the initial pre-order of 50,000 copies doubled, surpassing the 100,000 mark.
As the end of the year approached, the biting winter wind made the financial statements of game companies tremble.
At Sega Headquarters, Takuya Nakayama gazed at the rather thin winter release schedule in his hand, showing no signs of worry.
The Development Department's elite had all been pulled to focus on the next-generation console and the Model 2 arcade board, leaving the Mega Drive with few decent new releases to support its traditional peak season.
"If we don't have any new dishes, we'll just have to serve up some cheap leftovers," Takuya said, tossing the release schedule onto the desk. He turned to Hisao Oguchi and added, "Notify the teams—'The Big Sales Drive' is back on. This time, we'll extend the war to Europe and America. Let the whole world follow Sega's lead and... buy, buy, buy!"
As early as October, Sega sent faxed letters to major third-party manufacturers.
The message was blunt and straightforward: "From Christmas Eve, December 24th, to January 7th, Sega will be running a platform-wide sale on older games, following the terms of last year's Christmas and New Year promotion. Manufacturers interested in participating should contact Sega as soon as possible to coordinate details."
This "backstab" caught many small and medium-sized manufacturers off guard. Although they had been given ample time, the plan was still inevitably affected.
The presidents of several small companies that had originally planned to boost their year-end performance gathered in an izakaya, their faces etched with worry.
"How are we supposed to compete? With Sega slashing prices, releasing our new games now would be suicide."
"We'll have to postpone," another president said, downing a shot of sake. "I've calculated it out. If we push the release date back to mid-January, we can use this sale to clear out those unsold old cartridges from our warehouses to Sega. The unit price is lower, but the volume will definitely sell. The cash we recover will be enough to keep us afloat until our new game releases and we get paid."
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