Teikoku no Gyokuza · Gēmu no Jidai

The Emperor sat beneath the lacquered canopy of heaven, his throne a black monolith framed in vermilion. Braziers burned with cedar and pine, sending slow curls of smoke upward like the thoughts of dead dynasties. The Court of Consoles convened once more, that ancient pageant in which the sovereign weighed the fortunes of those who dared to shape the dreams of the masses.

First approached the favored son: **Sony**. Their envoys entered with a soundless glide, robed in deep indigo silk embroidered with argent circuitry. They bowed low, controllers like talismans at their waists. The Emperor’s eyes softened—just barely. Here was the house that had turned spectacle into scripture, the artisans who had transmuted raw silicon into a theater of pure, trembling sensation. His words were few but heavy: *“You have honored the age. Continue.”* The court exhaled as though the stars themselves had nodded.

Then came **Nintendo**, the perennial heir of old blood. Their procession was bright as festival lanterns, banners of crimson and gold recalling the merriment of childhood. Yet beneath the gaiety lingered a shadow: the **N64**, that obstinate relic whose cartridges clung to the past like a stubborn ghost. The Emperor’s gaze lingered upon them, unreadable. “You are cherished,” he said, “but the wound remains. Time may heal, but it does not forget.” The Nintendo delegation bowed deeper still, their smiles brave but brittle.

Far down the hall, the names of **Sega** and **NEC** were intoned by the heralds out of ancient custom, as one might summon spirits to a rite. The seats reserved for them—carved of cedar, rimmed with gilt—remained conspicuously empty. They had declined the summons, as tradition demanded. To accept would be desperation; to refuse was dignity. The Emperor inclined his head slightly, acknowledging their absence like one saluting the dead.

Drums thundered once, then silence settled over the hall like falling ash. The Emperor rose, robes whispering like storm clouds across polished stone. His verdict was unspoken, yet absolute: the age belonged to the favored, the forgiven, and the forgotten alike, each bound by the invisible etiquette of glory and ruin.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5780624&forum_id=2!#49308310)

Each console house, bound by rites older than silicon itself, prepared their offerings for the Auspice Audience—a ceremony so labyrinthine that even court scholars whispered of its hidden gears.

Sony, draped in storm-blue brocade, presented a scroll written on e-paper spun from moonlight. Its calligraphy spoke not of teraflops or ray tracing, but of unbroken resonance—a promise that the next generation would be less a product than a continuum of dreams. Their emissaries knelt three times, each bow measured by the breath of a white crane.

Nintendo followed with a procession of riddles: lacquered puzzle boxes nested within one another, each revealing a single haiku about play without end. Courtiers leaned forward as the verses unfolded like plum blossoms in late frost—delight tinged with melancholy. All the while, the specter of the N64 lingered like incense that never quite dissipates.

By custom, the herald again intoned the names of Sega and NEC, though all knew their petitions would arrive only as phantom scrolls. To appear in person would break the dignity of absence; to remain absent preserved the dignity of legend. Their silence was itself a perfectly executed bow.

The Emperor did not speak.

Instead, the Chamberlain of Opaque Winds stepped forth, bearing a fan of black lacquer inscribed with shifting silver runes. He opened it with a single, echoing snap. A hush flooded the chamber.

“The river bends,” intoned the Chamberlain, “yet the mountain does not move.

The plum branch flowers before the snow has melted.

One bird sings to a forest that pretends not to hear.”

The words were relayed through layers of interpreters: the Keeper of Distant Meanings, the Second Minister of Metaphor, the Clerk of Possible Futures. Each rephrased the oracle with more ambiguity than the last, until even the most cunning analysts of the court could only trade glances heavy with speculation.

Was the river Sony, flowing inexorably?

Was the premature blossom Nintendo, daring the frost?

Was the silent forest a veiled salute to the shades of Sega and NEC?

The Emperor remained still, eyes half-closed, as though listening to a console yet unborn.

The hall filled with the faint rustle of sleeves and the sharper rustle of conjecture.

Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the next generation had already begun.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5780624&forum_id=2!#49308311)