The second ga was also from Suray Electronics—and it was a very well-known franchise: FIFA.
This series had competed with Gastar Electronic Entertainnt's Football League multiple tis in the past. But whether it was in gaplay innovation or graphical performance, it had never quite matched up to Gastar's offering.
Still, thanks to its longstanding na recognition and massive following, FIFA managed to retain a solid fan base—even if, truthfully, it wasn't all that fun to play.
So when it was announced that FIFA would also be launching on PC, its die-hard fans were overjoyed.
Bringing a ga to PC ant more than just platform accessibility. It ca with a key benefit:
No one could control what teams you had anymore.
BattleNet, Gastar's PC platform, was famous for its user-created mods—granted, only for non-comrcial purposes.
Many players were already dreaming of assembling their own fantasy football dream team on PC.
Seeing this, Myron Case finally breathed a small sigh of relief. At least it wasn't all nukes dropping at once. He'd been worried the whole presentation was going to be that intense from start to finish.
Starting off a show with a jaw-dropper was common practice—to hype everyone up.
And as expected, the reaction was explosive. Even if FIFA wasn't everyone's favorite, the announcent earned widespread praise.
Next ca a title from a globally known model manufacturer.
This company had historically leaned into ani and live-action series to promote their toys and models.
But now they'd found a new avenue: video gas.
One of their gas based on a robot battle franchise had sold like hotcakes—very reminiscent of the Gundam craze in Takayuki's original world.
Encouraged by that success, the company began adapting its entire line—model trains, fighter jets, tanks—into gas.
The title they were unveiling today? An aerial combat ga.
Now that was sothing fresh, even to Takayuki. He himself had never touched the genre much.
It was pretty niche, after all. The only one he rembered playing was Ace Combat.
So this filled another genre gap on the platform—and it certainly caught the audience's interest. Players were intrigued and eager to give it a shot.
After that ca several more trailers from third-party developers. Each ga had its own flavor.
But the audience? They were still waiting. And what they were waiting for was obvious—
Gastar's own first-party titles.
Finally, after a string of ten or so gas, Takayuki returned to the stage.
"Fellow players, was there anything in those trailers that really caught your attention?"
"YES! DEFINITELY!"
"TAKAYUKI, YOU'RE A LEGEND! YOU BROUGHT SUN KNIGHT TO PC!"
A burst of cheers t his return. The crowd was buzzing with excitent.
Takayuki smiled. "I'm glad to hear you enjoyed the previews. But I'll be honest—you don't need to be satisfied just yet, because there's more. And I think you all know what's coming next."
"FIRST PARTY! FIRST PARTY!"
"FIRST PARTY! FIRST PARTY!"
The crowd's chant shook the hall in perfect unison, as if they'd rehearsed it a hundred tis.
First-party gas were the real stars of the show.
They were the gold standard—an unbroken record of quality over the years. And none were more trusted than those from Gastar.
"That's right. First-party titles. So now, let's watch the next trailer—one we've poured our hearts into. We hope you'll love it."
Offstage, Myron Case stared blankly at Takayuki.
They were about the sa age. Peers, technically.
But now Takayuki was standing there, radiant and confident, while Myron—though successful—had no adoring fans, only business headlines calling him a 'tech mogul.'
Deep down, he wanted to be like Takayuki.
"Jealous, huh?" Hayakawa Ueto said with a teasing grin beside him.
Myron's expression cooled. "There's nothing special about this. I have the sa pull in the U.S. You'll see. Competing with on my turf is a waste of ti."
"Ha. I love it when you talk tough. Makes it even sweeter when I win," Hayakawa replied with a bright smile.
Back onstage, Takayuki stepped aside.
The big screen lit up again.
First ca the Gastar Electronic Entertainnt logo.
Then the Unreal Engine logo.
The crowd instantly hushed. Every eye fixed on the screen.
A deep, ancient string lody began to play.
The screen lit up with the image of a burning temple. Flas devoured its wooden halls, yet a Buddha statue stood calmly within, unmoving, solemn.
Just that one fra radiated an overwhelming gravity.
This was going to be a serious, story-driven ga. Everyone sensed it at once.
Next, a gaunt old man was shown carving wood with a chisel, each stroke deliberate and focused.
Then, a delicate young boy appeared, reading a book. He slowly raised his head and looked directly at the cara.
The trailer jumped from image to image—no clear order, but each fra was loaded with aning.
Enough to spark endless theories.
Soon, a weathered elder's voice began narrating the history of a place called Ashina.
A dark tale about a country in decline—war-torn, bitter.
And the protagonist? He wasn't so grand hero.
He was a retainer—a loyal guardian to his young lord, fighting in the shadows.
As the narration played, the trailer showed actual gaplay.
The retainer, wielding a katana, fought against enemy samurai in violent, close-quarters duels. The clash of blades rang out, filling the room with a tallic rhythm.
You could feel the intensity rising in the players' hearts.
And finally—just as a gigantic serpent lunged forward, its jaws wide open—
The trailer cut to black.
It left behind a single, searing impression:
Oppression.
That's what this ga conveyed in its very first showing.
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