Video Game Tycoon in Tokyo-Chapter 873: My...

"No way! Absolutely not! Is it really happening?"

"God of games! God of games!"

"Wait, we can't get too excited. What if it's not what we think?"

As Takayuki spoke, the hosts in the livestream seemed to have already guessed something.

Two of them were so overwhelmed they squatted down in their seats, eyes shining.

Those were eyes filled with hope — and disbelief.

On the screen, Takayuki finished his last sentence: "Everyone, please watch the upcoming preview. I hope this preview will be a love letter to every player who ever loved this game."

...

...

The big screen lit up.

And in that moment — in the venue, in the livestream studio, even among the chat discussions — there was a brief silence. People seemed to forget how to speak or type.

An aged voice began to narrate, just like in the Sekiro preview earlier, telling a story.

But this time, the players reacted differently.

Many of them began to tremble slightly.

"No, no, no..."

"God of games! God of games!"

The hosts in Kazuo Murakami's livestream started shouting Takayuki's nickname at the top of their lungs.

"Calm down, everyone. It's probably nothing. I'm guessing it's a novel, or maybe just a new animation."

"Even if it's just an animation, I'll be satisfied!"

As the old voice in the preview faded, a familiar melody finally began to play.

It was the main theme from a game that had brought countless players to tears.

But now, it had a more modern twist.

Still, it wasn't quite enough to send the players into a frenzy.

They hadn't yet seen what they were really hoping for.

Two seconds later, a silhouette appeared on the screen.

It was a dark figure — because the whole scene was dimly lit.

But even though it was just a shadowy back view, they recognized him immediately.

Because he carried a massive sword on his back.

That sword meant one thing.

Only one person in this world carried that sword.

And at that moment, the preview ended.

"It's a new video! A new animation!"

"Yeah! Definitely just a new animation!"

The hosts in the Murakami livestream were still confidently speculating.

Then the familiar meteor logo of the series slowly appeared.

"Final Fantasy VII... a new game animation! Looks like that hidden Easter egg was telling the truth. I think it's gonna be—ohhhhhh!!!"

One of the hosts, mid-sentence, suddenly let out a scream.

Because they were all wrong.

They thought it would be a new animated short, maybe a side novel or a stage play.

But when the preview faded to a single word on the screen, the entire venue, the entire stream, every corner of the internet watching that broadcast exploded.

Remake.

A full remake.

That one word meant this was a completely rebuilt version of Final Fantasy VII.

And for players, that was the ultimate love letter.

Takayuki had kept his promise.

After more than ten years, the remake of Final Fantasy VII was now officially revealed in this world.

In the venue, the roar of cheering players was even more intense than during the recent Gamestar World Cup championship.

After all, a champion only gets cheers from their supporters.

But now, practically every gamer was cheering.

Myron Kess felt like it was unbearably loud. Deafening.

All around him, people were screaming one name:

Final Fantasy VII.

Even Harukawa Ueto, who was nearing fifty, was yelling with excitement — totally abandoning the dignified air of a corporate executive.

"Come on, Myron, just be young for a moment! Shout Final Fantasy VII at the top of your lungs — it'll make your blood boil!"

Harukawa tugged at Myron's sleeve, but Myron just covered his ears, visibly annoyed.

Still, he couldn't suppress the envy in his heart.

At this moment, players were consumed by passion.

And it wasn't for him — it was for that one game, Final Fantasy VII.

In this world, the original Final Fantasy VII had sold over 40 million copies.

Over 20 million in the first year.

Another 20 million over the following decade.

What most didn't know was that the game had retained a consistent price of around $30.

Which meant those later 20 million copies alone had brought in over $600 million in revenue — and at least half of that in profit.

A game generating that kind of return after a decade? Other software developers would cry from envy.

If they had known how profitable games could be, they would've switched industries long ago!

Myron Kess was now thinking the same.

If Final Fantasy VII belonged to him, then this glorious moment would also belong to him.

That's the magic of video games.

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Regardless of age or background, everyone was united in this shared emotional experience.

Tens of millions of sales were more than just a number.

It meant tens of millions of people had been moved by Final Fantasy VII.

And based on the 63% completion rate reported by the company, over 20 million players had seen it through.

And after finishing it, all of them had the same thought: "I wish the story could be rewritten. I wish the ending could be different."

Eventually, even the game's strategy guides sold millions of copies.

Printing companies had to use cheaper paper just to keep up with demand, but players didn't care.

Some bought the guides just to collect them.

Rumors even spread that the strategy guides held the key to a perfect ending — which sent sales skyrocketing and turned the whole situation into a sociological phenomenon that researchers studied for a while.

And now, with the announcement of the remake, all of that energy erupted.

Players who had once been deeply touched by the game were now shouting like never before.

"Midgar! Sephiroth! I'm coming back! I'll rewrite it all!"

"My Aerith!"

"My Tifa!"

"My Barret?!"

"Wait, who's yelling 'my Barret'?"

"My Hojo!!!"

"Hey, hey! These fetishes are getting weirder and weirder!"