Sora decided not to drown himself in overly complicated thoughts. Not because he couldn't see the risks clearly, but because he simply didn't have the conditions-nor the time-to get lost in them. Reality was simple and brutal: there was a project already in motion, a deadline rapidly approaching, and a debt that would not wait for philosophical reflection.
If something was missing, he would deal with it along the way.
The shortage of key animators was one such problem. It couldn't be ignored. The only realistic option was to seek help outside the company. That meant knocking on the doors of animation studios scattered across Tokushima City, asking directly whether, during the upcoming winter cour, there were professionals willing to take on side work. It wasn't elegant, and it certainly wasn't comfortable, but it was the industry's reality.
The same applied to the in-between animators. That segment of the staff had practically vanished. The work would have to be fully outsourced, leaving no room for pride or idealism.
What truly surprised Sora was realizing that, before he had even organized all of this clearly in his own mind, Haruto had already taken the initiative.
As the general animation supervisor for Voices of a Distant Star, Haruto had spent the past two days reaching out to familiar teams, speaking with old colleagues, checking availability, and aligning possibilities. By the time Sora noticed, several of the most urgent bottlenecks had already been-at least partially-resolved.
That was no small thing.
In theory, this kind of coordination should have fallen under Ren's responsibilities, as the person in charge of production progress. But reality once again intervened. All of Ren's contacts were tied up with projects for the prefecture's spring season. No one had the bandwidth to take on anything new.
It was on a Wednesday morning, while Sora was discussing finer points of character design with Haruto, that he made a point of expressing his gratitude.
"Thank you, Haruto."
Haruto smiled faintly and shook his head, as if he found the thanks unnecessary.
"No need for that, kid," he replied. "Your father and I were friends for decades. Since high school, skipping classes just to stay home and binge anime like idiots. That's over thirty years. This is nothing. If I didn't help you, Hiroshi would probably show up in my dreams just to yell at me."
When he mentioned Hiroshi Kamakawa, Haruto's smile lost a bit of its lightness. There was a subtle melancholy in his eyes, difficult to hide.
He was slightly shorter than Sora, heavyset, with the solid build of someone who had carried decades of work on his shoulders. Well over ninety kilos, his hair already streaked heavily with white. As he spoke, he reached out and gave Sora's shoulder a light pat-a gesture that mixed affection with concern.
"But let me ask you something…" Haruto continued, his tone growing more serious. "Do you really think this short animation can get you out of the situation you're in?"
He sighed before going on, as if he already knew the answer.
"Even if the show airs smoothly on the prefectural TV station, it's still just a short. The Blu-ray will only sell a single volume. Same for the soundtrack CD. As for overseas rights, unless the work truly explodes in popularity, the revenue will be limited. And with it airing only here… the odds are pretty low."
Sora listened in silence. His gaze narrowed-not out of irritation, but focus.
The structure of the television industry in this country was completely different from what he had known in his previous life. In practice, it closely resembled Japan's traditional broadcasting model.
Only one or two television networks were under direct government control, with satellite broadcasting rights covering all forty-seven prefectures. Everything else was strictly limited by law.
Private broadcasters, like the station in Shikoku Prefecture, were only permitted to transmit within specific regions. Exceeding that range meant severe fines. It was a system designed to prevent monopolies in media and advertising.
That kind of regulation made sense. Sora clearly remembered examples from other countries where media conglomerates had twisted narratives, painting aggressors as heroes and victims as villains. Some level of control was necessary.
Of course, laws were rigid on paper, but people always found ways around them.
To expand their reach, larger stations often formed alliances, creating broadcast networks. Smaller stations, incapable of producing competitive content on their own, would affiliate with these networks and air their programs, giving up a portion of advertising revenue in return.
It was a game of interests-complex, but functional.
In the end, everyone gained something. Smaller stations saved on production costs and retained viewers. Larger networks expanded their reach, increasing the value of licensing, merchandise, and derivative rights.
That was how, in the country's economic capital, four massive television conglomerates emerged, capable of covering most of the nation. Any drama or anime that wanted to become a true phenomenon inevitably had to air on one of those four networks.
The Shikoku Prefecture station was not part of that elite group. It was merely a large regional broadcaster, affiliated with the Nebula Network. Its signal reached a few neighboring prefectures, but little beyond that.
Most of the time, it aired content produced by Nebula. Still, it reserved certain time slots for original programming-and that was exactly where Voices of a Distant Star would be broadcast.
According to the available information, only four prefectures would have direct access to the broadcast. The potential audience was under thirty million people.
Realistically speaking, for a short animated film to cover a massive debt, there was only one possible scenario: it would have to become an overwhelming hit within those prefectures-and more importantly, generate buzz beyond them.
Only if word of mouth spread strongly enough to reach anime fans in the other forty-three prefectures-who wouldn't be able to watch it on TV-would there be any real chance of significant Blu-ray sales, soundtrack purchases, and merchandise revenue.
A successful anime could indeed make a lot of money. Multiplying the initial investment by five wasn't unheard of.
But that was true for works broadcast nationwide, with a market of hundreds of millions of viewers.
Expecting the same return from a regionally broadcast production was rare. Extremely rare.
If investing two million yen and earning ten million were that easy, the world would be full of investment geniuses.
"Don't worry, Haruto. Things are built step by step," Sora said, a calm, almost carefree smile forming on his face.
In practice, worrying wouldn't change anything.
The system had given him only that work. The budget was limited. He lacked the capital, influence, and reputation to convince the major Tokyo-based networks to air his anime nationwide.
So instead of wasting energy on anxiety, the choice was clear: put everything he had into the production.
Polish every detail. Refine every scene. Make sure every single frame carried as much quality as possible.
As for the final outcome…
Sora turned his gaze toward the window.
By late December, Tokushima City was already quietly covered in snow. Half the urban landscape had turned into a vast, silent white, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
The ending… he would leave that to the market.
To the millions of anime fans scattered across the country.
At that moment, the production of Voices of a Distant Star had officially begun.
And by the numbers, there were exactly one hundred days left until its scheduled premiere.
One hundred days to turn pressure, debt, and risk into something that could truly be called a work.
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