Ajal.
patreon
Chapter 247: Storming Tokyo!
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 11:37:24 +0000 UTCPop, pop, pop…
Crash—
The sharp hiss of cold soda cans being cracked open echoed through the living room.
In the bathroom, the faint gurgle of shower water hummed in the background.
Zoey Parker chugged two cans of ice-cold soda in one go, pressing the chilled can against her flushed cheeks. She shuffled to the window, flung it open, and let the crisp late-autumn breeze cool her down.
In the bathroom, cold water poured over Gus Harper’s head, dousing the fire in his veins.
It’s late fall, practically winter.
Yet both of them were burning up like they’d tripped a heat alarm—one cooling off with air, the other with water.
In the chilly autumn night, two fired-up souls simmered down.
But here’s the thing: energy doesn’t just vanish.
With their pent-up passion stuck in the cool night air, Komina was about to feel the heat.
The next day, WindyPeak Games kicked off their boldest marketing blitz yet!
Seattle.
A massive Sekiro banner unfurled atop the Tech Tower, dominating the city’s skyline.
Outside Nebula Entertainment’s headquarters, a giant concept poster stretched dozens of meters, impossible to miss.
At IndieVibe’s main office, flags for IndieVibe X2 and Sekiro waved side by side, catching every eye.
And that’s just the start.
In Seoul’s Dongdaemun shopping district, the WindyPeak logo glowed on one side of the entrance, with a Sekiro poster mirroring it on the other.
Tourists on Kuala Lumpur’s trams watched Sekiro trailers looping on tiny in-car TVs.
Bangkok’s Siam Paragon lit up with stacked Sekiro posters plastered across elevator doors.
From a London subway billboard to a cruise ship gliding past the Sydney Opera House, to a glider soaring over Florida’s skies—Sekiro and WindyPeak ads were everywhere, popping up in wild, creative ways.
WindyPeak, using Seattle as their home base, pulled a flanking maneuver on Asia, skipping Japan and flooding other regions with high-impact, low-cost promos. From Europe to the U.S., they squeezed Komina’s Torii: Phantom of the Ghost out of the global spotlight.
Komina’s promo team, led by Tatsuya Moritani, was caught flat-footed, scrambling under the onslaught from Gus Harper and Zoey Parker.
As the saying goes, the market’s a battlefield, and promo booths are the front lines.
WindyPeak knew their influence in Japan paled compared to Komina’s. So, they ditched Japan and went all-in on Komina’s overseas turf.
Steady as a rock, fierce as a wildfire.
WindyPeak hadn’t skipped promotion before because they couldn’t—they just didn’t want to. But now? They were ready to flex.
And who’s driving this? Zoey Parker, the only daughter of Walter Parker, head of the global powerhouse Parker Capital.
When Parker Capital’s involved, who’s gonna say no? Subsidiaries, partners—everyone’s got Zoey’s back.
Plus, WindyPeak’s got PacificTech and IndieVibe in their corner, not to mention the glow of official endorsements from the Global Digital Entertainment Association.
This wasn’t just a campaign—it was a tidal wave, shaking up the gaming world.
Tatsuya Moritani was getting hammered left and right, barely keeping his head above water.
“We can’t let WindyPeak keep this up,” Kazuo Koizumi said at a promo meeting, glaring at Komina’s president, Keizo Kamijo. “We’ve got Japan locked down, but if they keep eating our overseas markets, we’ll be left with nothing but our home base!”
Keizo knew Kazuo was right. His brow furrowed.
Who’d have thought WindyPeak, usually so quiet on the promo front, would come out swinging like this? Just last night, Keizo saw a photo of a glider towing a WindyPeak banner over Florida and nearly choked.
Their overseas strongholds were crumbling.
Keizo turned to Tatsuya, frustration creeping in. “Director Moritani, the Tokyo International Game Festival is a week away. What’s our move against WindyPeak’s offensive?”
All eyes locked on Tatsuya.
He paused, then said, “We hold the line.”
“Hold the line?!” Kazuo practically shouted. “You’re saying we just sit here and let them chew up our overseas marketing?”
“Exactly,” Tatsuya said, nodding. “The festival’s in Japan. Tokyo’s the real battleground. If we get distracted chasing their overseas plays, we’ll weaken our home defenses. Komina’s big in Japan, but we don’t own the place. One slip, and WindyPeak sneaks in.”
He sighed. “And it’s not just WindyPeak we’re up against. It’s them, IndieVibe, and Nebula Entertainment. Behind them? Parker Capital. Even if they haven’t made a move, their shadow alone gives WindyPeak a massive edge.”
Tatsuya had the situation pegged.
If it was just WindyPeak, Komina could crush them. But the problem was the army of allies—companies, organizations, even random players—backing WindyPeak. It’s like they had connections in every corner of the globe, all riding Walter Parker’s clout.
It was downright terrifying.
Zoey even got Sekiro ads on U.S. gliders, London subways, and Kuala Lumpur trams. Every trick in the book.
Like they say, a chef’s only as good as their ingredients. Tatsuya was trying his hardest, but he didn’t have a power player like Walter Parker in his corner.
Still, he wasn’t out of moves. They were gaming companies, after all. No matter how wild the promos got, it all came back to the games, to Japan, to the Tokyo International Game Festival.
In less than ten days, players and media would flood Tokyo. If Komina could lock down Torii: Phantom of the Ghost’s hype at the festival (budget: $189M), WindyPeak wouldn’t steamroll them.
Wait for the enemy to burn out, defend the home front—that was Tatsuya’s plan.
But Kazuo wasn’t buying it. “Our 3S masterpieces are for the world! Their Sekiro buzz is spiking globally. If this keeps up, we’ll be stuck with just Japan in ten days!”
Keizo Kamijo shared Kazuo’s doubts, but his concerns ran deeper. He had to answer to the board and investors, still sore over Silent Hill’s flop. They’d sunk millions into Torii, pushing it worldwide from their Japan base. Pull back now? How do you justify the cash already spent when overseas markets are slipping?
Kazuo refused to retreat. Keizo couldn’t afford to. Tatsuya wanted to hold steady but got outvoted.
So, Komina counterattacked overseas.
The clash was brutal. In five days, it was over.
WindyPeak’s overseas promos slowed to a crawl, and Komina took back the lead.
The news hit Komina like a victory parade. From Keizo Kamijo to Kazuo Koizumi, everyone was hyped, ready to dominate the Tokyo International Game Festival.
Except one guy wasn’t smiling.
That night, Tatsuya tossed and turned on his tatami mat, uneasy.
He grabbed his phone, put it down, grabbed it again.
Finally, at dawn, he made up his mind, sat up, and dialed.
Beep—beep—beep—
A voice answered. “Yo, Tatsuya, calling me this late?”
It was Gus Harper.
“Sorry, Gus, didn’t mean to bug you so early,” Tatsuya said, voice low.
“Nah, it’s cool,” Gus replied, rustling like he was sitting up. “What’s up?”
Tatsuya hesitated. “All the promo pushback against you, including this overseas market fight? That was me. Hope you don’t… hold it against me.”
Gus, unfazed, chuckled. “Just doing your job, Tatsuya. You think I can’t separate business from personal?”
Tatsuya blinked, then let out a small laugh. “Yeah, you’re too big for that, Gus.”
A brief silence hung between them.
Then Tatsuya spoke again. “Main reason I’m calling… I got a question. It’s a bit out of line, so feel free to shut me down.”
“Go for it,” Gus said, still lighthearted. “What’s on your mind?”
Tatsuya took a breath. “The pullback on your overseas promos… that was on purpose, right?”
A beat. Then Gus’s voice came, clear as day: “Yup.”
Silence.
Tatsuya closed his eyes, exhaling deeply.
Weirdly, the answer calmed him. Three days to the festival, and the Torii vs. Sekiro promo war was set in stone.
“Alright…” Tatsuya said, half-laughing, half-sighing. “Even Tokyo?”
Most folks wouldn’t get the question. But Gus did.
He didn’t answer directly. “Swing by Ginza on your way to work tomorrow. You’ll see something… noticeable.”
“Got it,” Tatsuya said, nodding. “Won’t keep you, Gus. Night.”
“Night, Tatsuya,” Gus said. “Catch you in a couple days.”
The moon sank, the sun rose.
Morning mist clung to Tokyo’s streets, still quiet before the rush.
In the autumn haze, Tatsuya’s silver-gray Lexus glided onto a side road.
Across the empty street, grand buildings lined the Ginza business district, with the Mitsukoshi Department Store—Tokyo’s commercial heart—towering at the corner.
Workers were busy on the store’s massive ad space, swapping out a jewelry billboard.
A huge new poster was ready to drop.
Tatsuya lit a cigarette, pulling his coat tighter against the cool mist.
The workers shouted, “One, two, three!”
As the final count faded into the fog, the poster unfurled in the most prime spot in Japan.
A man in a khaki jacket knelt among swirling red leaves, gripping a samurai sword. His face was sharp, eyes steely, with a sleek prosthetic arm.
On the right, bold text screamed:
SEKIRO
Shadows Die Twice
Tatsuya stared, silent, for ages.
Then he shook his head with a bitter smile—helpless, resigned, gutted.
The thing he feared most just became real.
