Saturday, October 3, 1995

Zaboru was in his office, as usual, working through the weekend. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he leaned back in his chair, a cup of lukewarm coffee beside him. Though he was still based in the Japan office, his mind wasn't on his usual tasks. Today, he was plotting something far larger than his typical game development cycle. Not exactly game-related—at least, not at the start—but tied to his anime projects. Today, he was thinking about manga. Not just any manga, but the Big Three from his previous world: One Piece, Naruto, and Bleach.

He tapped his pen on the desk, staring at a blank notebook page. "How should I approach this?" he wondered. "Do I try to hire mangaka and have them recreate these stories? But could anyone else really pull it off? Would they be able to capture the heart of each series the way the originals did? Hmmm..."

He turned the pen slowly between his fingers, eyes narrowing. "It's not just about skill—it's about vision. The soul of these stories can't be easily replicated. Still, maybe I don't need exact copies. Maybe I just need creators with the right spirit."

He stood up and paced the room. "Or maybe I could go with the Yu Yu Hakusho method—launch the anime first and let the momentum build from there. After all, YaDo's already producing it, and it's doing well. It could be a model worth replicating. Or maybe I go the Hokuto no Ken route: begin with a game adaptation to generate buzz, and let the manga take shape organically afterward, driven by demand. Both approaches have their merits. The key is figuring out which one aligns best with the essence of each story."

He mulled it over.

"The anime-first approach sounds solid," he concluded silently. "These three titles were phenomenal, but the games that came with them never truly defined their legacy. In my old world, Naruto had a few decent fighting games—fast-paced, flashy, fun—but they never reached the same legendary status as Dragon Ball's. Dragon Ball's games practically carved out an entire subgenre of anime fighters. They were iconic, bold, and endlessly replayable.

One Piece had a couple of solid entries—like the Musou-style games—but they never really captured the adventurous, emotional core of the story. They felt more like fan service than true adaptations. And Bleach? That one barely got anything noteworthy. It always broke my heart. I loved Bleach, but even I skipped most of its games. They lacked the soul, the atmosphere, the tension that made the manga and anime special."

He sighed and leaned on the edge of his desk. "There's always a chance that Oda, Kishimoto, and Kubo could find their way in this world... if they even exist here. But if they do, would they still be destined to become mangaka? That's the part that scares me—the butterfly effect is real. A single change could've diverted their entire paths. Maybe one of them became a novelist. Maybe another works in game developer. Or maybe none of them ever picked up a pen. Even if I want to pursue their talents, they might not even be teenagers yet. It could be five, ten, maybe fifteen years before they're even on my radar—if ever."

Dragon Ball games were truly exceptional, especially the Budokai Tenkaichi series—which remained one of Zaboru's all-time favorites. They showcased just how thrilling arena-style combat could be when executed right. The sheer spectacle, fluid combat, and faithfulness to the anime made every match feel like an authentic Dragon Ball battle. That level of immersion only deepened Zaboru's love for the franchise. In the future, he was determined to create proper Dragon Ball games that lived up to or even surpassed that legacy. But for now, he had to be patient. In this world, Dragon Ball was still in its early stages. The foundation hadn't been fully laid yet. He would wait—and when the time came, he'd make sure it was done right.

He chuckled to himself. "Well, I guess the anime route is the best bet for now. It's the most flexible and gives me room to test the waters without locking into heavy production too early. But I'll need YaDo to expand further. Their current team is talented, but they're already stretched thin. I'll have to invest in recruiting more animators, writers, and producers—people who can handle the scale and scope of these three massive projects without burning out and Yasu Domachi are on the way to do that"

He glanced at his calendar, already plotting out tentative timelines. "One step at a time," he muttered. "But once YaDo's foundation is stronger, it's game on."

Zaboru knew this wouldn't be an overnight task. Before anything else, he needed to assess whether it was even feasible to support long-running weekly anime series with the current resources. Consistency, quality, and pacing were all critical. If YaDo proved capable, he'd go all in—greenlighting weekly episodes that would run straight through, no long hiatuses, no drop in animation quality.

But if the workload became too demanding or the team couldn't keep up the pace, he wouldn't hesitate to shift gears. He'd restructure the projects into tightly produced seasonal runs—shorter, high-quality bursts of storytelling with time for rest and regrouping in between. It all came down to workforce capacity, production bandwidth, and how fast he could grow the team without compromising the studio's standards or morale.

He sat back down and began scribbling notes, drafting basic plot structures and character arcs. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he wrote. He had already sprinkled references to Naruto and Bleach into several ZAGE games. Of course, no one in this world recognized them, but that made it all the more fun.

One Piece, however, remained untouched. That one was sacred.

He sighed again, this time a little more wistfully. "I died in my old world without ever knowing how One Piece ends," he muttered, voice low with a mix of regret and amusement. Then he laughed, shaking his head. "Guess it's up to me now. If I'm going to see the ending, I'll have to write it myself still that's still really long time"

The idea of having control over the ending both thrilled and terrified him. If he had to create it himself, so be it—but he'd do it justice. He also wanted to fix some of the inconsistencies that always bothered him about the original stories.

One Piece wasn't perfect, but its story was powerful enough that its flaws never overshadowed its strengths. It carried a sense of adventure, mystery, and emotion that resonated deeply with readers. One of its greatest strengths was how grounded the stakes often felt. In One Piece, the enemies weren't always world-ending threats. Sometimes, Luffy fought them simply because he was pissed, or because it was the right thing to do. That simplicity gave the story a natural, lived-in feel—like Luffy was just another inhabitant of the One Piece world, not its chosen savior. It made everything feel more authentic, like you were following a pirate crew that just happened to stumble into chaos, not a group designed to change the world from the start although in later chapters it shows that Luffy are important person. Naruto and Bleach, though? Zaboru believed both had massive potential—potential that often got lost beneath layers of unnecessary clutter and missteps in execution. They had great moments, even brilliance at times, but the inconsistency held them back. Bleach, in particular, followed a frustrating rinse-and-repeat formula that drove him up the wall:

"Casual life – friend gets kidnapped – Ichigo storms enemy base – gets completely owned – meets a mysterious, powerful teacher – learns new form – gets cocky – beats enemy."

It happened over and over. Cool as it looked, it lacked depth.

Naruto, on the other hand, frustrated him for entirely different reasons. "The lore was so good," Zaboru thought, "so rich with history, culture, and emotion—but they leaned way too hard into the reincarnation nonsense. It cheapened the struggle. I wanted more insane, self-made legends. Ninjas like Minato, who mastered complex jutsu on his own, or Might Guy, who pushed past his limits through pure grit and willpower. Those were the characters who inspired me—not some fated chosen one with celestial lineage."

Imagine if, in Naruto, there were more individuals with Kekkei Genkai powerful enough to surpass even the Uchiha or Senju. What if the Akimichi clan, often overlooked, had a hidden genius—someone who pushed their clan's Kekkei Genkai to its absolute peak? A prodigy who uncovered layers of potential that had been ignored or forgotten for generations. Or some Aburame that contract with ancient summoning bug that really badass. That kind of twist would've added so much depth to the worldbuilding, showing that greatness wasn't reserved for just a handful of bloodlines.

Despite his frustrations, Zaboru didn't want to completely rewrite the soul of these stories. He would stay as faithful as possible to the originals—but if he felt the need to break loose and fix what he saw as glaring problems, then so be it.

And so, on that quiet Saturday, in a dimly lit office surrounded by sketches, coffee stains, and the humming of fluorescent lights, Zaboru began crafting drafts of One Piece, Naruto, and Bleach.

Soon, the Big Three of manga would be reborn in this world—not as simple copies, but as fully realized anime adaptations with renewed purpose and refined storytelling. Zaboru wasn't just bringing them back; he was reintroducing them to a world that had never known them, giving each series the chance to thrive from day one with the ZAGE name.

To be continued...

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