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Chapter 690 The Sales of ZEPS 1 Closure Package
🕑 Added 2025-10-05 03:28:57 +0000 UTCFriday 24 September 1996.
Zaboru sat in his office, deep in thought, brainstorming the next big move for ZAGE's video games. He jotted down idea after idea, his mind racing with possibilities for what could come next.
It's been just five days since the release of the ZEPS Closure game package on September 19, 1996, and sales are skyrocketing—far beyond what Zaboru and his team expected. Sure, they believed it would sell well, but not this fast. In only five days, the Normal package has sold around 210,000 units, and the Special package has sold approximately 120,000 worldwide. That’s incredibly fast, especially for what was intended as a nostalgia release.
What Zaboru and the ZAGE team didn’t realize was that many players still had a deep love for 8-bit games. Even though 16-bit consoles were now the standard, a large group of gamers remained loyal to the charm of 8-bit titles. When ZAGE released 21 games for the 8-bit ZEPS 1 console, fans went wild. It wasn’t just about gameplay—it was sentimental. This was the final chapter for ZEPS 1, and nostalgia hit hard. Players were eager to own it, not just to play, but to hold onto a piece of gaming history.
Zaboru smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Seems like the players really love ZEPS 1,” he murmured to himself, pleased. He had just finished reading through the ZAGE forums, which had exploded in activity following the release of the 21 Closure games. The threads were flooded with praise, excitement, and long nostalgic posts. Many players were calling the collection legendary, and there was a particular wave of admiration directed at Super Mario Bros 3. The game was being hailed as one of the finest examples of what 8-bit systems could deliver. Fans marveled at how the graphics looked far beyond 8-bit standards—closer to 16-bit in quality—and praised the gameplay and stage design as pure brilliance.
What amazed them most was how the game managed to squeeze every drop of potential from aging hardware. The mechanics were tight, the pacing perfect, and the creativity unmatched. Some even called it the crown jewel of 8-bit gaming. This, of course, sparked passionate debate. One major topic dominating the forums was whether Super Mario Bros 3 had now surpassed Choujin Sentai Z-man—long considered the pinnacle of 8-bit games in terms of graphics, mechanics, and storytelling. It had become more than a debate—it was a celebration of 8-bit greatness, with ZAGE at the center of it all.
Zaboru chuckled and returned to work, ready to shift gears into the next task. He planned to create a music video for the song “Brave Heart,” the evolution theme from Digimon—a song from his previous life that held deep meaning for him. It wasn’t just music; it was a reminder of hope and growth. Whenever he felt defeated back then, this song had the power to lift him. Its message—that you need to evolve to become the best version of yourself—had always stayed with him.
With the upcoming broadcast of the Digimon Adventure anime by YaDo next month, which would include “Brave Heart” as its evolution soundtrack, Zaboru saw this as the perfect time. He called on his trusted band, Zankoku, to help him craft something special. He already had a vision in mind for the video—something that could inspire others, just as the song once inspired him. This wasn’t just a creative project; it was personal. Zaboru hoped the finished video would reach and strengthen people going through hard times, just like he once had. With determination, he picked up the phone and called the Zankoku band into action.
Meanwhile, other developers were reacting to the success of ZAGE’s Closure games with a mix of surprise, admiration, and quiet frustration.
Junpei Hoshida, head of video games at Sonaya, sat across from Hikaru Kurata, who took a slow sip of his wine before asking, “So, how’s the quality of those 21 ZEPS 1 games? Are they really that good?”
Junpei let out a sigh and nodded. “What did you expect? They’re Zaboru’s games. Of course they’re great. Honestly, they’re better than we anticipated.”
Hikaru sighed, visibly frustrated. “How could they even manage something like this? Twenty-one 8-bit games, released all at once, while still pushing out titles for their current consoles, PC, and arcade platforms every month? I just don’t get it.”
Junpei shook his head again. “Yeah, it doesn’t make any sense. But here’s the thing, boss—the credits for most of those 21 games? They all say ‘Zaboru Renkonan.’ It looks like he single-handedly created nearly all of them himself.”
Hikaru’s eyes widened in disbelief before he sighed deeply. “That’s just... unfair. How can one man even have that kind of ability?”
Junpei smiled. “Don’t worry about it, boss. We don’t need to be like him. We’ll move at our own pace. We’ll be fine doing things our way.”
Hikaru gave a slow nod. He knew deep down that constantly comparing Sonaya to ZAGE was a losing game. There were too many areas where ZAGE outpaced them. But Sonaya didn’t need to be ZAGE. They just needed to be true to themselves—and keep pushing forward.
The Kurata family, at the heart of Sonaya, was known for one defining trait—they simply refused to give up. No matter how fierce the competition or how much ground they lost in the industry, surrender was never an option. Even in the face of setbacks, they would keep moving forward.
At Zusuga HQ, Zanki Zagashira frowned, clearly troubled. “How can he pull something like this off? Releasing 21 games in bulk for their old console... who even thinks like that?” He shook his head, unable to comprehend how ZAGE could manage such a massive rollout—and at such low prices. “How are they even making a profit? It feels like a complete waste of resources.”
Yet the sales figures told a different story. The packages were flying off shelves, while Zusuga’s latest 16-bit handheld, the Reborn 16, was performing respectably but still falling short of expectations. Zanki leaned back in his chair, clearly puzzled. “Why the hell is that package selling so much?”
He rubbed his temples and muttered, “Maybe I need to study gamers more... maybe I’m approaching this the wrong way. Gamers don’t think like ordinary customers.”
He stood up from his chair and slowly walked toward the large window overlooking the city skyline. The neon lights flickered in the distance, and a subtle hum of life buzzed from the streets below. “They’re not just buying a product,” he whispered to himself. “They’re chasing something—emotion, memory, identity.”
Zanki realized he’d spent too long treating games like simple consumer goods, overlooking the deeper emotional connections players had with them. What ZAGE had tapped into wasn’t just nostalgia—it was trust, legacy, and personal resonance. It wasn’t about specs and performance charts; it was about creating something meaningful.
With that, Zanki turned back to his desk and scribbled a note: “Rebuild from perspective. Talk to players. Understand WHY they play.”
He paused, tapping the pen against his chin before muttering with a faint smile, “Maybe actually playing video games myself would help... but would I even enjoy them?”
It was a rare moment of vulnerability—a break from his usual calculating demeanor. For the first time, Zanki wondered not just how games sold, but what it meant to experience them. What did players feel when they pressed start? What pulled them in and kept them coming back? The only way to truly understand might be to play them himself.
He resolved not just to consult industry experts, but to immerse himself in the gaming community—forums, arcades, tournaments, even fan meetups. If he was going to compete with ZAGE, he had to stop thinking like a businessman and start thinking like a gamer.
It was time to reset everything he thought he knew.
Elsewhere, developers across Japan were openly praising ZAGE for the Closure move. Whether they liked it or not, everyone agreed—ZAGE was simply built different.
Meanwhile, at a Tokyo train station, a young man from Kobe stood alone, the crowd bustling around him as if he didn’t exist. His eyes were downcast, his face caught somewhere between hesitation and determination. In his coat pocket, he clutched something tightly—a crumpled envelope, slightly worn from being handled too many times.
He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and looked up at the departing train. The city moved fast, but this moment felt suspended in time. He had made his decision.
He was going to the ZAGE offices—not for business, not for a job, but for something far more personal. He was going to apologize directly to its founder, Zaboru Renkonan. Whatever came of it, he knew this was something he had to do. Not tomorrow. Not later. Now.
To be continued
