Many of the attendees had experienced the excruciating pain of Japan's bubble burst in the early nineties, and they possessed an instinctive wariness of the phrase "bad debt contagion."
Several more rounds of questions followed, covering the legal compliance of offshore accounts, the risk calculations for leverage ratios, and the stop-loss mechanisms in case of a misjudgment. Director Hoshino answered each one without hesitation, leaving no room for ambiguity.
The entire contingency plan had been prepared flawlessly.
With the questioning phase concluded, no one objected to the plan itself.
The vote was called, and the motion passed unanimously.
Hoshino sat down, closed the materials, and handed them to his assistant to put away.
The agenda should have proceeded to the next item.
But Kiyoshi Hattori spoke up.
This veteran director, responsible for Sega Galaxy's copyright management, usually said little during board meetings. He was the type who remained silent until he spoke, and when he did, he struck straight at the heart of the matter.
"Director Hoshino," Director Hattori said, not looking at Hoshino. His gaze swept across the conference table, landing on Takuya Nakayama. "How long have you and Executive Director Nakayama been observing this plan?"
Director Hoshino glanced at Takuya. Takuya Nakayama nodded slightly, signaling him to answer truthfully.
"Since the middle of last year," Hoshino said.
Director Hattori nodded and turned to Takuya Nakayama.
"Then I'll address my question directly to the Managing Director." Hattori took off his reading glasses and wiped the lenses, his movements slow and deliberate. "If all goes according to plan, this operation will bring Sega a considerable return. Once the funds are secured, how do you intend to allocate them?"
He put his glasses back on, his gaze peering over the top of the frames.
"I'm not saying the Investment Department has done a poor job. On the contrary, the returns over the past few years have been obvious to all. But Sega is, ultimately, a company that makes games and hardware. No matter how impressive the investment gains are, they cannot become our core business. Once the money is earned, it must be reinvested into the industry. We need to identify Sega's shortcomings and the gaps we can fill in the broader strategic landscape. We shouldn't wait until the funds are in our accounts to start scrambling."
Several directors in the meeting room nodded in agreement.
Hattori's words were delivered in a gentle tone, but they struck at the heart of the matter.
The Investment Department had won several impressive battles under Takuya Nakayama's leadership over the past few years, and team morale was high. However, if an industrial company shifted its focus toward financial speculation, it would inevitably face problems in the long run.
The veteran director's comment was a safeguard on behalf of the entire Board.
Takuya Nakayama set down his pen and leaned back in his chair.
"Director Hattori's reminder was spot on."
Takuya Nakayama scanned the faces in the room, getting straight to the point.
"I have a specific plan for these funds. Our target is Bandai."
The atmosphere in the meeting room shifted. It wasn't surprise, but anticipation.
Everyone present had, to some extent, been following the tangled web of merger talks between Sega and Bandai. From Takuya Nakayama's first tentative feeler to Makoto Yamashina at a cocktail party, to the subsequent string of defeats for Bandai's Game Division, and finally the absolute disaster of Gundam Battlefield Evolution—this thread had been intermittently dangling in the sightline of Sega's top management for nearly two years.
"The Investment Department has been keeping a close eye on Bandai," Takuya Nakayama continued. "You've all heard rumors about their current situation. Their Game Division exists in name only. Their two biggest cash cows in the toy business—Sailor Moon and Power Rangers—are showing clear signs of cyclical decline. Their attempts to expand into new lines have also backfired, leaving them with a mountain of unsold inventory."
Based on the reports coming out of Bandai and the data the Investment Department had gathered from distributors, the picture was crystal clear.
Bandai's core wasn't crippled yet, but they had completely lost their way.
"The reason we didn't make a move sooner is simple," Takuya Nakayama said, holding up a finger. "Human nature. It's easy to forcibly acquire a half-dead company, but it's hard to get everyone on the same page afterward. If Bandai's people come over feeling resentful and humiliated, the integration will be a mess. Sega's management team would also get bogged down by the internal friction."
"So we've been waiting for them to figure it out themselves," Director Terauchi added.
"Exactly. Waiting for them to face reality," Takuya said. "But they've dragged their feet far longer than is reasonable."
His tone was calm, but everyone in the room could hear the underlying frustration.
The state of Sega and Bandai's interactions over the past two years could be summed up in one word: awkward.
The topic of a merger was out in the open, and both sides knew it, yet neither was willing to take the first step.
Bandai's top management was deeply divided. The hardliners and the pragmatists were locked in a chaotic argument, and Makoto Yamashina was caught in the middle, neither rejecting nor pushing the deal forward.
On Sega's side, the technical support and resource allocation they had been providing for Bandai's game development had gradually returned to a strictly professional, business-as-usual state as the other party continued to delay.
Private communication between the executives dwindled. Their business interactions were now limited to two main areas: first, Bandai would approach Sega to develop games using their own IPs, following standard external partnership procedures; second, Bandai would negotiate anime production with Sunrise, but since Sega was now Sunrise's majority shareholder, Bandai had to tread carefully and defer to Sega's wishes every time.
To put it bluntly, Bandai was neither breaking off the deal nor finalizing the merger, just lingering in limbo.
"They won't break it off, but they won't talk it through," the director of legal affairs couldn't help but mutter, and the person next to him happened to overhear.
Several people laughed at the same time.
These eight characters accurately summarized everyone present's feelings toward Bandai.
It wasn't malice; it was sheer weariness.
"The existing licenses Bandai holds for non-Sunrise IPs—Dragon Ball, Sailor Moon, Power Rangers—could generate several times more value within Sega's ecosystem than they do now," Takuya Nakayama said, bringing the conversation back on track. "Conversely, Sega's game development capabilities, global distribution channels, and hardware ecosystem could solve problems that Bandai can't tackle on its own. Anyone can do the math. The only obstacle is Bandai's refusal to swallow their pride."
"So, how do you plan to push this forward this time?" Director Terauchi asked.
Takuya Nakayama didn't answer Director Terauchi's question directly.
He pulled a document from the table, flipped to a page tucked inside, and slid it to the center.
"How much do you all know about Sotsu?"
The conference room fell silent for a moment.
Sotsu—full name Sotsu Agency—was a company that quietly amassed wealth in the anime and tokusatsu industry. They handled the dirty work behind the scenes: copyright management, investment attraction, and operating production committees. Unlike Sunrise, they didn't have high-profile works on display for everyone to see.
Director Hattori was the first to react. Copyright management was his specialty, and Sotsu's name had appeared in his professional field of vision countless times.