"StarCraft"

In Conference Room 3 on the top floor of the Dentsu Building, the air conditioning vents emitted a slight hum.

Five people are seated on three sides in front of an oval mahogany conference table.

Osaki, the executive director of Dentsu Advertising, pushed the thirty-page proposal in his hand onto the middle of the table.

The cardboard cover slammed onto the solid wood table with a dull thud.

"Hattori," Osaki leaned back, his hands clasped over his stomach, "We've had three meetings in the last two weeks. I believe I've said everything that needed to be said."

He pointed to the proposal.

"How the Production Committee operates and how the revenue sharing ratio is determined are rules that have been established in the Japan television industry for decades. Each company does its own work and receives its due payment. Sega is now insisting on including a multinational legal team in the committee and sending an independent actuary to audit the accounts. This is overstepping their bounds."

Hattori sat opposite him, holding a paper cup in his hand, and took a sip of warm water.

He didn't even look at the proposal on the table.

TBS producer Miyahara, sitting next to Osaki, quickly chimed in.

"Hattori and Executive Director Osaki are right. Sega provides the funding and overseas channels, TBS provides the production team, Dentsu secures the premiere sponsorship. Everyone doing their part is how the project progresses quickly. Forcing legal and financial intervention will only hinder progress."

The review process, including equipment rental fees, takes three days. This doesn't make sense in content creation.

They sang in unison; their words were loaded with barbs and veiled attacks.

Seeing that Hattori didn't respond, Osaki raised his voice even higher.

"Today's meeting is the final decision-making stage. Everyone's time is precious." Osaki stared at Hattori. "As long as Sega removes the clauses regarding legal involvement and auditing, and follows the previous revenue-sharing ratio, the Rurouni Kenshin project can be officially listed on TBS tomorrow. If you still insist on this point—"

Osaki paused for a moment, then spread his hands out.

"Dentsu had no choice but to withdraw. As for Sega's initial investment in copyright negotiations and research, it would all be for nothing."

Miyahara picked up the coffee cup in front of her, took a sip, and concealed the smile on her lips.

A forced resignation.

They had rehearsed this story countless times in private.

By threatening to halt the project, they forced investors to compromise, confident that Sega would not give up this promising IP.

Hattori put down the paper cup and took out a tissue to wipe his hands.

He still didn't touch the proposal, but instead turned to look at the two people sitting at the end of the long table.

The original author Nobuhiro Watsuki, and the editor in charge at Shueisha, Honda.

"Ms. Watsuki," Hattori said in a calm, even slightly casual tone, "Did you understand what Executive Director Osaki and Producer Miyahara meant?"

Nobuhiro Watsuki, in his early twenties, was dressed in an oversized hooded sweatshirt, looking completely out of place in the suit-and-tie conference room.

From the moment he entered, he kept his head down, twirling a ballpoint pen in his hand.

Upon hearing Hattori call his name, Nobuhiro Watsuki paused in his finger movements.

The ballpoint pen fell to the table with a "thud".

"I don't understand your profit-sharing rules." Nobuhiro Watsuki leaned forward, placing his hands on the table and staring directly at Miyahara. "I'm here today to confirm one thing."

Miyahara felt a little uneasy under that direct gaze.

"Please go on Watsuki."

"Miyahara, when we first met, you promised me that the live-action action scenes would definitely not follow the traditional Japanese sword-fighting film formula, but instead use the high-intensity wire work and close-quarters combat of China Martial Arts Drama." Nobuhiro Watsuki spoke quickly, "Has the specific action choreography team been finalized yet?"

Miyahara's facial muscles stiffened for a moment.

He subconsciously turned his head to glance at Osaki.

Osaki gave him a wink.

Miyahara cleared his throat and forced himself to speak.

"Mr. Watsuki, regarding the action choreography, we've found a highly experienced team of action choreographers from Toei. They've worked on many Taiga dramas, so their reputation is absolutely guaranteed. As for the wire work, due to the limitations of the filming locations—"

Before he could finish speaking, Nobuhiro Watsuki waved his hand to interrupt him.

"A killing formation master?" Nobuhiro Watsuki's brows furrowed into a tight knot. "Sit upright, glare at each other, draw your swords, slash once, and then sheathe them?"

Miyahara chuckled twice and explained, "That's to showcase the samurai's code of honor and tension. It's also to cater to the Japan audience's aesthetic preferences for period dramas."

"This doesn't fit the setting of ' Rurouni Kenshin '!" Nobuhiro Watsuki slammed his hand on the table, making the coffee cup next to him wobble.

"In the manga, Kenshin's Hiten Mitsurugi-ryu is all about high-speed movement, flying around everywhere, with wide, sweeping attacks. Try comparing that to a martial arts master from a Taiga drama? That's like doing calisthenics!"

Miyahara choked, her face turning bright red.

Osaki picked up the conversation, tapping his fingers twice on the table.

"Teacher Watsuki, comics are comics, and television is television. Drawing on paper is free, but the special effects, high-altitude wire work, and hiring foreign action choreographers you mentioned—every second of those costs real money."

Osaki immediately turned his attention to Hattori.

"TBS has a cap on the standard production budget. If we filmed according to your plan, the budget per episode would have to be three or even four times higher. Sega's investment could have covered this shortfall. But now Sega is breaking the industry norms of the Production Committee and is unwilling to spend money readily."

Osaki leaned forward, looking at Nobuhiro Watsuki.

"Without money, TBS and Dentsu can't come up with anything else. We can only use the most cost-effective traditional solution within the existing budget."

pass the buck.

Osaki had a very shrewd plan.

The original author is definitely eager to leverage the popularity of the live-action drama to boost the sales of the manga volumes.

By blaming Sega for the budget bottleneck, the original creators will naturally put pressure on Sega in return.

Hattori leaned back in his chair, shifting to a more comfortable position.

Nobuhiro Watsuki didn't even go to see Hattori.

He grabbed the shoulder bag next to him, unzipped it, pulled out a thick stack of documents, and threw it directly in front of Miyahara.

The papers were spread out, with a resume in English on top, along with stills and action diagrams from several of Hong Kong Island's top martial arts choreography teams.

This was exactly the Hattori information Hattori had secretly given him.

"I don't care how you two argue," Nobuhiro Watsuki said, pointing to the stack of documents. "This is my bottom line."

Osaki glanced at the resumes and his face darkened completely.

"Watsuki -sensei, young people shouldn't act impulsively." Osaki abandoned his usual reasonable demeanor, his tone now carrying a threatening undertone. "Shueisha's higher-ups also want to push this project forward as soon as possible. If this meeting breaks down today, do you know how long this project will be shelved at Dentsu?"

Osaki raised one finger.

"Japan only has so many production resources available for prime-time slots. If we miss this window, the next slot won't be available for another two years."

"Specialist Osaki."

The Honda editor, who had been silent all along, pushed up his black-rimmed glasses and interrupted.

"Shueisha's principle is to absolutely respect the original author's creative wishes." Honda placed his hands on the table. "If the action sequences in the live-action drama don't meet Watsuki -sensei's requirements, and even damage the manga's reputation, then we'd rather not change it."

Osaki's fingers froze in mid-air.

Nobuhiro Watsuki stood up abruptly, grabbed the shoulder bag from the table, and slung it over his shoulder.

"You can hang it up for as long as you want."

Nobuhiro Watsuki looked at Miyahara and uttered each word clearly.

"Just get a few cheap samurai outfits, find some stunt doubles to do a few silly moves, and then force in some padded emotional scenes to fill out the episode count." Nobuhiro Watsuki sneered, "This kind of shoddy stuff will only ruin my manga sales. Since you can't afford high-quality action choreography—"

He turned and walked towards the conference room door.

"I'll pretend I never saw that film/television adaptation licensing agreement."

Grasp the brass doorknob and pull hard.

Click.

"Watsuki- sensei!" Miyahara panicked and stood up to stop him.

Nobuhiro Watsuki walked out without turning his head.

Honda's editor immediately stood up, bowed slightly to Osaki and Miyahara, quickly followed, and grabbed the doorknob to close the door.

Bang.

The door was shut tightly.

The footsteps in the corridor quickly faded away.

A deathly silence fell over the conference room.

Osaki's hand, which was raised in mid-air, froze, and his mouth opened slightly.

Miyahara slumped back into his chair, cold sweat trickling down his temples.

The table was overturned.

Without the signature of the core copyright holder, all the preliminary planning, investment intentions, and schedule reservations by Dentsu and TBS became worthless.

Hattori, who had been sitting across from him watching the show, slowly stood up.

He smoothed out the wrinkles at the hem of his suit jacket and reached out to pick up the proposal that Osaki had just pushed towards him.

He glanced at the cover, then with a flick of Hattori wrist, Hattori sent the proposal flying precisely into the trash can next to the table.

"Specialist Osaki, Producer Miyahara."

Hattori, with his hands in his pockets, looked down at the two people opposite him.

"Since the original creator is not satisfied with your low-cost production plan, then today's briefing is over. Sega Galaxy has new projects scheduled until next year, and we really don't have time to waste here."

Hattori turned and walked out.

Osaki's face was ashen, his hands gripping the edge of the mahogany table so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

They originally intended to force Sega to concede by halting the project.

Sega, without spending a single penny, has directly used the original creator's temper to put a knife to their throats.

Sega wasn't in a hurry at all; what was in a hurry were Dentsu and TBS, who were hoping to use this lucrative opportunity to boost their financial results.

Hattori stopped at the doorway.

He didn't turn around, but just glanced at Miyahara.

"By the way, Producer Miyahara."

Hattori's voice echoed in the empty conference room.

"TV Tokyo's advertising sales have been extremely brisk lately, especially for its newly launched late-night slot, which has a very generous budget. If TBS really can't afford a high-caliber action film, Sega could simply find another partner."

Miyahara's pupils suddenly contracted.

"After all, the rules of the Production Committee are flexible, while Sega's US dollar are real."

The door was pulled open, and Hattori left decisively.

Only Osaki and Miyahara remained in the conference room.

The cold air from the air conditioner vents hit the two of them.

Miyahara leaned back in his chair, staring at the stack of martial arts choreographer documents left by Nobuhiro Watsuki, and slumped completely.

University of California, Berkeley University.

In dormitory room 107 late at night, the sound of keyboards being typed filled the room.

Mike, wearing huge plastic headphones, was rapidly pressing the grouping shortcut keys on the keyboard with his left hand, while frantically selecting groups with his right hand using the mouse.

On the screen, the Terran Marine and Medic combination is withstanding the Zerg Swarm's attack.

The controls are extremely smooth, commands are responded to instantly, and there is no lag whatsoever when units are engaged in combat across the screen.

Ten minutes later, the opponent typed "GG", and the base exploded.

Mike let out a long breath, ripped off his headphones, grabbed the Coke on the table, and gulped it down.

"This server is amazing!" Mike yelled to his roommate in the upper bunk, "I just matched with a player from the East Coast, and there wasn't a single lag point. We could dominate!"

My roommate peeked out.

"That's for sure. I heard from people in the computer science department that Blizzard's Battle.net is backed by Silicon Valley Online. They've set up backbone nodes in New York and Los Angeles, and even have servers in Tokyo, Hong Kong, and London. And—"

My roommate jumped out of bed and pointed at the settlement screen on Mike's screen.

"Haven't you noticed? The system matches you with opponents of similar skill levels, completely abandoning the random, unpredictable matchmaking system that was common when Warcraft II first launched on Battle.net. This algorithm automatically selects opponents with the lowest network latency..."

The person with the closest winning percentage. This is top-tier service for thirty dollars.

Mike immediately clicked the "Find Next Round" button.

Interface loading.

There's absolutely no need to search for IP addresses online, nor is there any need to configure complicated port settings.

A click, a search, and you're in.

Tokyo, Sega Headquarters building.

President's Office.

Nakayama Takuya leaned back in his Genuine Leather, holding a few pages of reports that had just been faxed from North America.

Tom moved extremely quickly.

StarCraft's sales figures have been compiled just two weeks after its release in North America.

The number of copies sold has exceeded 300,000.

Nakayama Takuya spread the report out on the table and tapped it twice with his index finger.

The number of copies sold is just a superficial indicator.

The most crucial element is the "Battle.net" system, which is bundled with the game.

In this era when dial-up internet was still the mainstream, gamers had to call each other to confirm IP addresses before playing online games, constantly enduring the torment of disconnections.

Nakayama Takuya directly requested Blizzard to utilize Sega of America's vast resource network.

Silicon Valley Online's technical team has taken a strong stance.

Blizzard's Battle.net relies on Silicon Valley Online's underlying technology and is being aggressively expanded with massive investments.

Server nodes are deployed in major network hubs.

The Europe node is located in London, while the Asia nodes are located in Tokyo and Hong Kong.

All hardware components are top-of-the-line.

At the software level, a matchmaking weighting mechanism has been introduced to filter and assign players based on network conditions and player win rates.

In 1998, this service system represented a complete technological advantage over other game developers.

While other game companies are still figuring out how to expand their single-player content, Sega and Blizzard have already begun building a global, high-speed online multiplayer platform.

Even Microsoft, with its comparable network technology, couldn't provide such a network service for Age of Empires.

This is an insurmountable technological barrier.