On May 27, 1986, the faint light of dawn had just pierced Tokyo's thin mist.
It was clearly an utterly ordinary workday, and the city's heart had yet to fully awaken.
Yet in Akihabara, in Shinjuku, outside electronics shops and toy stores large and small, an unusual scene had already taken shape.
Winding long lines lay quietly in wait, and irrepressible, excited whispers drifted through the crowds.
In inconspicuous corners of the newspapers and in brief items on the morning TV news, the same message was being passed along—Enix's Famicom game Dragon Quest (Dragon Quest I) went on sale today.
"RPG," a term still fresh to most people, was mentioned again and again in the lines.
After Nintendo's own The Legend of Zelda, this was another "major title" on the Famicom platform in which great hopes had been placed.
What it promised was a fantasy world where one had to play the hero, explore, fight, and grow.
The publicity had long since whetted players' appetites to the extreme.
In the air, the mood of anticipation had almost condensed into something tangible.
Tanaka Kenichi sat behind his office desk, feeling as if thorns had grown under his backside.
Every tick of the quartz clock on the wall seemed to hammer at his nerves.
He pretended to straighten the documents on his desk, which in truth had long since been neat, but his gaze drifted uncontrollably toward the window.
Outside was the world now being stirred into hidden currents by Dragon Quest.
No. He had to go.
A thought grew wildly in his heart.
He took a deep breath, stood up, forced a professional smile onto his face, and walked toward the section chief's desk.
"Section chief, these are the materials you asked for yesterday."
"Mm. Just leave them there."
The