The Dentsu representative pushed up his glasses, about to speak.
"I understand the pressure from the sponsors," Takuya Nakayama said, his hands crossed on the table, cutting the man off. "But have any of you actually done the math? Gundam X has already aired over a third of its run. That means this cut will slash nearly thirty percent of the remaining episodes. How much damage will that do to the core narrative?"
Shinji Takamatsu nodded repeatedly, scribbling circles on his notepad.
"What has sustained the Gundam series since 1979? It's not the plastic models we've sold. It's the story. Are there other anime in Japan that sell models? Plenty. But which one has a legacy as enduring as Gundam?" Nakayama tapped the table. "The reputation built over a dozen series is the core asset of this IP. Even if Gundam X isn't part of the Universal Century's main timeline, the mere name 'Gundam' is enough to draw an audience."
He paused, giving everyone a moment to process his words.
"Many of the viewers still watching this anime are here for the Gundam brand name. To butcher the story and give it a rushed, terrible ending is a betrayal of the audience. Destroying a reputation is easy, but how many years will it take to rebuild? Have you all considered the consequences?"
The representative from Asahi Television couldn't sit still any longer. He leaned forward, pressing both hands onto the edge of the table.
"Executive Director Nakayama, the ratings are right here. The TV network's time slots are precious, and the year-end sponsors are already putting on the pressure."
"Are you planning to just give up on the video and LaserDisc markets?" Takuya Nakayama countered.
The conference room fell silent.
"Television broadcasting is only the first wave of monetization," Takuya Nakayama laid out his business logic. "The real bulk of an anime's profit comes from physical disc sales. What's absurd is the widespread short-sightedness in the industry. Many people treat TV ratings as the sole metric. In 1995, the total output value of the Japanese anime video market already exceeded TV sponsorship fees. You're staring at that small amount of sponsorship money while pushing away the core fans who are actually willing to pay for discs. Who would buy a complete LaserDisc collection of a badly ended anime? To save on the cost of a few TV time slots, you're sacrificing years of long-tail revenue. This is like picking up a sesame seed while throwing away a watermelon."
"EVA finished airing in March. Its initial broadcast ratings weren't exactly a smash hit, were they? But can you imagine how much money it's making now? Sega is part of the EVA Production Committee. Do you want me to share this year's disc and merchandise sales figures with you?"
"There were plenty of rumors in the industry about EVA's budget being tight mid-production. I'm sure you've all heard them. But has anyone ever heard of EVA cutting its episode count?"
Takuya Nakayama rapped his knuckles on the table twice, glaring at the representatives from Dentsu and Asahi, who remained silent.
"Everyone here has collaborated with Sunrise on Gundam, haven't they? Doesn't every single one of you hope this series can run for ten, a hundred episodes, and keep making money forever?"
His questions landed with a heavy thud.
The Asahi representative opened his mouth but couldn't force out a word.
"We can cut episodes," Takuya Nakayama proposed. "But the integrity of the core story must be preserved. Kawasaki-sensei, Director Takamatsu."
The two named men looked up.
"Pick up the pace of the story," Takuya Nakayama said, his gaze fixed on them. "Edit it with the pacing of an OVA or even a feature film. Cut the subplots and the slice-of-life filler. Keep the core plot twists and the mecha battle storyboards. Don't leave the audience hanging with riddles and mysteries—give them the good stuff straight up."
Hiroyuki Kawasaki's face clouded with difficulty as he ran a hand through his hair. "If we trim it to that standard, we definitely won't be able to fit it all into thirty-eight episodes. We'd need at least—"
"Revise it at your own pace. Keep as many episodes as you can," Takuya Nakayama decided.
The Asahi representative frowned, about to object.
Takuya Nakayama met his gaze. "I know this will make the short-term performance hard to explain. Sega can step in."
He played his trump card.
"Sega can make a deal with Asahi and Dentsu to swap rights. Sega will cover the loss in short-term broadcast revenue. In exchange, Sega will take the lion's share of the subsequent LaserDisc distribution revenue and the exclusive license for the game adaptation."
It was, notably, an extremely bold proposal.
Trading immediate cash for long-term residual income.
In a year of economic downturn, cash flow was the lifeblood of any company. While major financial institutions were slashing spending, Sega was doing the exact opposite.
The representatives from Dentsu and Asahi exchanged a glance. The tension in their faces visibly relaxed. With Sega, a deep-pocketed sponsor, absorbing the immediate financial risk, they could finally justify the situation to their own executives.
"We acknowledge Sega's sincerity," the Dentsu representative said, his tone softening. "Since Executive Director Nakayama is willing to shoulder the short-term pressure, we are naturally inclined to cooperate. I will communicate with our management to ensure the production team has the necessary leeway."
The Asahi representative chimed in, "As long as the budget is balanced, we can make minor adjustments to the broadcast schedule. After all, ensuring the quality of the production is also the network's priority."
The oppressive atmosphere in the conference room dissipated.
With Sega's financial guarantee, the attitudes of the Dentsu and Asahi representatives had undergone a fundamental shift. The deadlock over profit distribution had been broken; all that remained were the practicalities of execution.
Takuya Nakayama shifted his gaze from the sponsor representatives to Hiroyuki Kawasaki, the head writer, and Shinji Takamatsu, the director, who were seated at the far end of the long table.
"My job is done," Takuya said, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped in front of him, his tone light. "Sega is taking the heat from the sponsors. Now it's up to you two to clean up the rest of this mess."
The moment the words left his mouth, Takamatsu and Kawasaki rose in unison.
Without a word, they bowed deeply to Takuya, holding the posture for a full three seconds.
"We will not fail you," Takamatsu said as he straightened. His voice was raspy from a long night without sleep, yet it carried a firm resolve.
"Please, sit," Takuya waved them back down. "The only reason I took on this project was because I trust your skills. If I didn't know you were the best in the business, I wouldn't have made such a demanding request. Still, pacing the remaining episodes will be a massive challenge. I have a suggestion—just a thought for you to consider."
He took a sip of the tea that had already gone cold on the table, then posed a question.
"Do you watch American TV shows? Specifically, the high-rated, fast-paced ones from the last few years."
Shinji Takamatsu and Hiroyuki Kawasaki exchanged blank looks.
"Not really," Kawasaki admitted. "My schedule's always packed. When I study storyboards and narrative techniques, I mostly look at the work of my domestic peers. I've seen a few American animated series, but I hardly ever have time for live-action shows."
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