Bandai moved fast. Within just a few days, Tadayoshi Mitsui called.
The experimental mold had succeeded on the first try, and the new design was completely feasible.
Mitsui's voice was filled with excitement, and the entire Bandai Model Division was buzzing with energy. Following the plan he had discussed with Takuya Nakayama, the new mold design for the Gundam 10th Anniversary Edition was now officially in progress.
Takuya wasn't surprised. He simply offered a few words of encouragement before hanging up.
As for Bandai, he already had a grand plan in mind.
Dependence now was just the prelude to assimilation later.
In his previous life, Sega and Bandai's merger had failed because Bandai's internal leadership felt Sega offered too little and demanded too much—like a greedy robber trying to swallow them whole. The result was fierce resistance and complete rejection.
But this time, things were different. He was helping Bandai solve technical challenges, shape future strategies, and even plan out their game, animation, and model development.
In a society like Japan's, where people admired strength and competence, Bandai's dependence on him—and on Sega—was already taking root.
That dependence would ferment into trust, and eventually, admiration.
All he had to do was wait patiently for Bandai to make one fatal mistake on its own.
"Takuya-san? What are you thinking about so deeply?"
A gentle yet teasing voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
He looked up to see a softly lit café in Ginza, filled with the aroma of Blue Mountain coffee.
Across from him sat Eri Nakagawa, her expression carrying a trace of mock reproach as she stirred her coffee gently, the clinking of porcelain crisp and delicate.
She wore an ivory dress today, her long hair pinned up to reveal a graceful neck—her poise elegant and refined.
Only now did Takuya realize how rude it was to space out in front of the woman he loved.
He smiled apologetically, reaching across the table to take her hand. Her skin was cool and soft to the touch.
"Sorry, sorry. My brain accidentally held a meeting without me. How will you punish me, Miss Eri?"
Eri's cheeks flushed with color. She didn't pull her hand away but instead squeezed his gently. "Takuya-san is always so busy. For me to even get a little of your time—it's already a blessing. How could I dare punish you?"
Her words were lighthearted, but he could hear the faint undertone of grievance.
He tightened his hold slightly, speaking sincerely. "Work can wait. But every second I spend with you is precious."
Her face grew redder, and the hint of resentment disappeared completely.
After a few tender moments, Eri sighed softly, worry clouding her expression.
"What's wrong?" he asked, noticing the change instantly. "Something at the station?"
Eri nodded, troubled. "It's about the new variety show proposals from our department. My father rejected all of them—too old-fashioned, no originality. And somehow, the responsibility ended up falling on me."
As the daughter of the Tokyo TV chairman, she was being deliberately trained for leadership.
"Oh? Tell me more."
"They're just the usual—song-and-dance showcases, food tours, sketch comedy... nothing exciting," she said, shaking her head. "Dad wants something that will grip the whole nation—something people will talk about."
"Something that sparks nationwide discussion?"
"Yes," she said with a sigh. "It needs to get high ratings, but it also has to be tasteful, maybe even educational or socially meaningful."
Takuya smiled as he watched her anxious face.
He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. "Eri, let me ask you something."
"Hm?"
"Can knowledge be turned into money?"
"Of course," she answered without thinking. "Scholars, lawyers, writers—they all make money through knowledge."
"No." He wagged a finger with a faint smirk. "I mean a more direct, thrilling way. Like… answering a few questions and winning a million yen."
"A million?!" Eri's eyes widened in shock.
"Exactly." He snapped his fingers. "Here's the idea—Who Wants to Be a Millionaire!"
"A sleek, high-pressure stage with just one chair for the challenger, facing the host—and the whole country."
"The rules are simple. Answer 15 multiple-choice questions in a row, from easy to hard, and you win ten million yen!"
Eri's pulse quickened; she could already picture the stage, the tension, the spotlight.
"But… wouldn't people call that gambling?" she asked cautiously, her producer instincts surfacing.
"Good question," Takuya said approvingly. "That's why we'll frame it differently—'We're encouraging learning!' Every question comes from daily life, history, science, or art—knowledge anyone can learn. We're rewarding intelligence, not luck. If people call it gambling, it's only because they didn't study hard enough!"
Eri burst out laughing, all tension gone.
"And," Takuya added smoothly, "to make it fair, we'll add safety nets. Say, after question five, if they quit, they still get a luxury dinner voucher worth 100,000 yen. That way, even those who don't make it to the end won't walk away empty-handed—and our sponsors get free product exposure."
"Plus, we'll add three lifelines: remove two wrong answers, call a friend, or ask the audience. That creates suspense and gives viewers the illusion that they could do better. 'I would've picked C!' or 'He's such an idiot!' That emotional engagement drives ratings."
He took a slow sip of coffee, calm and composed, completely in control.
"Lastly, make sure your legal team patents the format globally. It won't be long before foreign networks line up to license it."
Listening to him say "we," Eri felt her heart swell with admiration—and warmth.
He spoke with such clarity, such effortless confidence. His eyes seemed to hold starlight when he explained things, radiating a magnetic brilliance.
This man wasn't just her boyfriend—he was a visionary.
The thought filled her heart with honeyed pride and affection.
Takuya noticed her shining eyes and grinned, switching topics casually.
"By the way, how's your daytime schedule filled these days?"
Eri blinked, coming out of her daze. "Daytime slots? Not great. We fill some evening hours with old TVB dramas—cheap, decent ratings from male audiences. But daytime… it's mostly housewives, and they're the hardest to please. To save costs, we just rerun old content, but the ratings are terrible."
Takuya's finger tapped the rim of his cup rhythmically.
"Housewives, huh? Sounds like a perfect target demographic."
He smiled knowingly. "If cost is the issue, why not look to China?"
"China?"
"Yes." His tone grew confident again. "We can collaborate with them on a food documentary."
"A food documentary?" She frowned. "But that's expensive! High-quality production costs could exceed even dramas."
"Not if we play it smart." He grinned. "We'll make it look expensive—but it'll be dirt cheap."
"Labor costs in China are far lower, and their culinary resources are incredible. We'll film their top cuisines—imperial dishes, state banquets, anything that sounds luxurious. Focus on two themes: extraordinary craftsmanship and a land of abundance. It'll appeal to Japanese viewers' fascination with Chinese cuisine, without touching any sensitive topics."
Eri's eyes sparkled. He was dissecting the problem with surgical precision.
"We'll let China's national and local stations handle the bulk of production. Even the music can be recorded there for a fraction of Tokyo's cost. Tokyo TV only needs to send a small creative and editing team to ensure the final product fits Japanese tastes. All we'll do here is add narration."
He raised three fingers.
"By my calculation, each 30-minute episode could cost under five million yen—about a third of a domestic show."
"Start with Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou. Shoot three to five episodes, edit them fast, and test the market. If it works, scale up. If not—no big loss."
"And when it airs in China, let them handle distribution. But the overseas rights? Ours. We'll sell to Hong Kong, Southeast Asia, even North America. We might recover our entire investment just from international sales."
Eri stared at him, stunned by the flawless logic and immense profit potential.
This wasn't an idea—it was a full business plan.
But Takuya wasn't done.
He smiled faintly. "And imagine this: at the end of each episode, we add a short segment—'Easy Home Version'—teaching housewives how to recreate one of the dishes at home."
Eri gasped, covering her mouth.
That was genius.
Luxury aspiration meets practical usefulness—the perfect recipe for daytime ratings domination.
"And," Takuya added with a smirk, "this segment is tailor-made for kitchenware sponsors. We can feature their products naturally. It's marketing gold. We might even create a few 'celebrity housewives'—the audience will think, 'If she can do it, so can I.'"
Eri could only stare at him in awe.
This wasn't just a show—it was an empire of ratings, sales, and cultural leverage, all in one.
The legend from Sunrise Studios, the "Creative Master," felt more real than ever.
No, even that title didn't do him justice.
This brilliant, composed, all-seeing man was her boyfriend.
The thought filled her heart completely—with love, pride, and sweet disbelief.
She gazed at his confident smile, feeling like she could melt right into it.
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