Across the ocean, in the president's office at Sunrise in Tokyo.
Yasuo Miyakawa stared at the profit-sharing check personally delivered by President Yamashina of Bandai. The number of zeros on it made him count twice.
"Managing Director, you're a genius," Miyakawa said, pouring tea for Takuya Nakayama, who sat opposite him. His hands trembled slightly. "If CN knew we made this much from those low-budget shows, Mr. Turner's face would be priceless."
"They're not losing money, just not making as much as we are," Nakayama replied, accepting the tea. He gently blew away the foam, his expression calm and composed. "Mr. Turner is a shrewd man. He knows that if the ratings don't meet the threshold, he doesn't have to share the merchandise profits with us. By the rules, he has the advantage. This sense of having the upper hand will keep him cooperating with us, even if he's secretly annoyed."
He set down his cup and pointed at the massive check on the table, a glint in his eyes. "This is exactly the outcome we wanted. Americans think they've upheld the rules and saved face; we get the substance and quietly rake in the profits. After all, in this world, the most profitable thing is never the content itself, but the entire industrial chain behind it."
"With this money, Sunrise's production budget for next year can be even more ambitious," Takuya Nakayama said, standing up and smoothing the hem of his suit. "I doubt the production department will object to American TV standards this time."
"Haha, they'd be foolish not to accept," Yasuo Miyakawa chuckled, taking a sip of his tea.
In the tightly knit world of Tokyo's animation industry, news travels fast.
The bombshell that Sunrise had made a fortune overseas with two of its long-finished works detonated like a deep-sea mine, sending the major animation studios, who had been struggling with domestic ratings, reeling in confusion.
Within a week, Sega Headquarters' phone lines were ringing off the hook.
The presidents, who usually maintained such a dignified air, now swarmed like cats drawn to the scent of fish, desperate to fly to Takuya Nakayama's office for a "tea and chat."
Rather than playing coy, Takuya Nakayama arranged a conference room at Sega Headquarters. He gathered the business team that had negotiated the deal, along with all their documents, and hosted an unconventional "Overseas Expansion Experience Sharing Session."
The conference room was thick with cigarette smoke, packed to the rafters with executives from major animation studios.
"Five hundred dollars per episode."
When Takuya Nakayama wrote this figure on the whiteboard, a collective gasp rose from the audience.
"Executive Director Nakayama, you must be joking," a producer from TMS couldn't help but stand up, his brow furrowed so deeply it could have crushed a fly. "Five hundred dollars? That wouldn't even cover the bonus for the key animators! We sell our shows to bootleggers for more than that!"
Murmurs of agreement spread through the room, and the executives' gazes toward Nakayama grew suspicious. Some even suspected this was a deliberate smokescreen by Sega to drive down prices.
Unfazed, Nakayama simply tapped the whiteboard and gestured for Yasuo Miyakawa to post another chart.
It was Bandai's sales report for the United States over the past three months.
A red sales curve soared skyward like a majestic dragon, its trajectory piercing the clouds.
The previously chaotic room fell silent, the hum of the air conditioning vents suddenly audible.
The numbers on the chart spoke more eloquently than any argument.
"Five hundred dollars is the ticket price, but this form is the real admission ticket," Takuya Nakayama said, dropping his marker and sweeping his gaze across the room. "Americans don't do charity, and Ted Turner isn't a fool. Trying to earn their licensing fees is like climbing Mount Everest. But earning the pocket money of American kids? That's easy—if your toys are cool enough and your stories simple enough."
He paused, holding up two fingers. "But there's one condition: you have to learn to cut it yourself."
"Cut it?"
"Edit it," Takuya Nakayama said, pointing to the screen behind him, which displayed two side-by-side comparison videos. "The left is the original Sunrise version, and the right is the version adjusted for Cartoon Network. Each episode must be strictly controlled at 22 minutes. We're cutting all those lengthy inner monologues and complex cultural references, leaving only the most straightforward plot, direct combat, and transformation scenes."
"What happens if we don't cut it?" someone asked in a hushed voice.
"Then the American network will cut it for you," Yasuo Miyakawa added with a dry tone from the side. "Trust me, those editors will cut your protagonist's coolest finishing move in half to make time, then insert a diaper commercial."
A wave of laughter rippled through the audience, but it was more a laugh of sudden realization.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the times have changed," Takuya Nakayama declared, leaning forward and bracing his hands on the table. "Before, we sold art. Now, we sell products. As long as we can get this 22-minute extended version of the Toy GG into American homes, those paltry copyright fees are just mosquito bites—we can afford to let them go."
"Of course, for works with weak merchandise potential, we could wait until American children develop a taste for Japanese animation and then sell the broadcast rights at a fair price. We're not trying to devalue our own creations just to open up the market, after all."
Nakayama continued, "Moreover, the films we use to break into the market must have consistently high-quality animation. At this point, the animation quality in Japan's premium productions is far superior to anything made in the United States. Just as Hollywood exports its best films to Japan, we can export our best anime to America."
These blunt but pragmatic words shattered the pride of the veteran animators.
The presidents' eyes turned green as they stared at the reports from Sunrise and Bandai. They were already mentally calculating which dusty old films in their warehouses could be re-edited and shipped across the Pacific for dollars.
After Takuya Nakayama saw off the animation studio presidents who had come to learn about exporting anime, a brief period of calm returned.
Until a month later—the same afternoon Takuya Nakayama and Director Yoshikawa had spent at the Metropolitan Police Department assisting Chief Inspector Iwata with reviewing player-submitted case clues—a sudden news report exploded through Sega Headquarters.
Takuya Nakayama was leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, resting. The freshly brewed tea beside him sent wisps of steam rising.
The office door burst open without a knock. Director Yoshikawa, clutching the remote, was breathing as heavily as if he'd just run a marathon.
"Managing Director! Quick, watch NHK!"
Takuya Nakayama frowned, about to complain, but Yoshikawa had already switched on the TV.
The screen flickered twice before cutting to a scene at the foot of Mount Fuji. A sea of red and blue police lights from countless patrol cars illuminated the area. A special unit in full hazmat suits was battering down the door of a bizarrely shaped building.
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