After finally confirming - through numbers solid enough to trust - that Voices of a Distant Star could cover the debt, Sora felt the stone he'd carried in his chest since the inheritance drop away all at once. It wasn't a romantic relief, not a "happy ending." It was simply the kind of breath that returns when you realize you won't sink - at least not today.
And right then, time was money. Every day he spent without choosing his next move was another day Yume Animation survived on inertia - an studio reduced to a little more than a dozen people, yet still burdened by salaries that didn't wait for "inspiration." Bills didn't understand exhaustion. Rent didn't accept excuses. Payroll wasn't moved by talent.
When his consciousness dove into the system space, the first thing he saw was the emotions panel: nearly three million, glittering like a fortune. Voices of a Distant Star was finished, but his story wasn't. He was still the president of a studio. Still someone who had to decide what came next before the ground vanished again.
For a few seconds, Sora considered splitting the amount. Two or three smaller pulls. Lock in more than one title. Spread the risk. It was tempting - and human.
But the system wasn't kind to cowardice.
The description was blunt: the greater the emotions spent, the higher the chance of drawing a high-value work. And "high value" didn't mean artistic quality alone. It meant name recognition. Reputation. Market power. A title that wouldn't die after a single cour, a title that would buy the studio the right to exist for more than a year without begging for scraps.
In Japan, mediocre animation existed in abundance. Sora knew it. If he split three million into three lotteries and pulled three ordinary works, what would that accomplish? He'd produce them, spend money he didn't have, premiere… and get swallowed by schedules and audience habits. At best, it would be "fine." At worst, it would vanish without a sound.
And above all, there was a simple truth: at this stage, he only had the real capacity to produce one anime with any dignity.
So there was no point pretending he had options.
He went all in.
Category: animation.
His heart tightened when he confirmed the choices, as if that click were a contract signed with fate itself. Ten seconds. It was ridiculous to think like that… but it was true. Ten seconds could decide the next few years of his life.
If he drew something on the level of Fate, it was the kind of property that could feed a company for a decade.
If he drew a bomb - something problematic, unfit for television, something that wouldn't pass review… it would be the system laughing in his face, and him trapped with no way to gather enough emotions again for a long time.
That was risk: knowing what you could lose and putting it on the table anyway.
Sora took one breath - only one - and trusted his luck. If he'd been reborn into this world, it couldn't be just to fall into the worst pit right after climbing the first step.
His mind flooded with images flashing in and out in a frantic stream. Titles. Scenes. Characters. Entire atmospheres. Then, suddenly, everything stopped.
One name remained.
"Natsume Yuujinchou…" he murmured without realizing it, as though he'd spoken aloud the name of someone he already knew.
But on the screen there was an extra line.
Animation - Season One.
Season one?
Sora stared at it with an expression that mixed disbelief and the urge to laugh. It wasn't the full work. It was… by cour? One season per draw?
The implication arrived too fast: if he ever wanted Season Two, he would have to spend an absurd amount of emotions to redeem it directly. It wouldn't be "luck." It would be purchase.
For an instant, he nearly cursed the system in his head.
But then the laugh came anyway - small and dry, the kind you make when you scold yourself for reaching too far while you're still learning to stand. If Natsume weren't divided into seasons, how could three million emotions have been enough to pull it? They wouldn't have been. Simple.
And there was another layer, too: if he'd chosen "manga" instead of "animation," the odds of landing Natsume would have been practically zero, because manga didn't come "by cour." The system looked rigid… but it wasn't blind. You could operate inside the rules, as long as you understood the board.
Sora pushed the rest of his thoughts away and let the memory of the work settle.
Unlike Voices of a Distant Star, Natsume Yuujinchou barely had any fight scenes. Above all, it was daily life. Silences. Small wounds. Small encounters. And because of that, the production difficulty dropped significantly.
But its weight… its weight was something else.
If you asked people which "depressing" anime was the greatest, you'd start an argument that never ended. But when it came to healing stories that still hurt - a kind of work that made you cry without ever raising its voice - Natsume wore a crown. One of those titles that became shelter for the people who watched it.
Sora felt a flicker of frustration at not having pulled one of those commercial monsters that could sustain a franchise for generations - something like Pokémon, Dragon Ball, Evangelion, Gundam. It would've been a lie to say he didn't want that.
But looking honestly at what he had right now, this result was… perfect.
Yume Animation was limping. Small staff. Fragile structure. Limited stamina. Producing a battle-heavy series with dozens of complex sequences across thirteen episodes would have been suicide, even with outsourcing. Outsourcing worked when everyone poured everything into a single episode, like they had with Voices of a Distant Star. Doing that for thirteen episodes while keeping quality consistently high was almost impossible.
If the system had dropped something like Fate into his lap, maybe the first few episodes would come out "watchable." But mid-season, when pressure rose and the action density increased, the quality would crack. And once it cracked, the audience wouldn't forgive him.
Natsume was different.
It didn't demand constant sakuga spectacle. It held the viewer by the heart and by atmosphere, more than by explosions and choreography. That meant a more controllable cost - a real chance for him to make something worthy without begging for miracles.
When he left the system space, the Tokushima sun poured through the window with almost indecent brightness, as if the world were mocking his private drama. Sora let the air out slowly and, for the first time in a long while, allowed himself to be still for a few seconds.
Then he did what he always did when relief wasn't enough: he planned.
In Japan, anime aired on regional stations usually kept per-episode costs below one million yen. That was where the old "Blu-ray break-even line" made sense. But productions that ran in prime time on major networks - like Chronicles of the Sea of Clouds - had no ceiling. Two or three million yen per episode was normal, or more. At that point, the quality approached theatrical standards.
Japanese fans could argue about a lot of things, but when it came to visuals they were ruthless. Voices of a Distant Star hadn't sold because it looked "pretty." It had sold because the story hit deep - and because he'd compensated for a fragile budget with direction, storyboarding, and background art far above what that money should've allowed. And part of the audience knew what shape Yume Animation was in and, for once, chose not to nitpick where it would've been easy to do so.
Now, with Natsume Yuujinchou… the challenge was different.
Season One had thirteen episodes. A standard cour - standard risk. Even as a more "lightweight" slice-of-life production, Sora didn't want to see it lose its shine in this world. He loved that story. Truly. It wasn't the kind of work he could deliver as if it were just another product.
So, in his mind, there was a minimum figure.
Eight hundred thousand yen per episode. At the very least.
If he could push it to nine hundred thousand, even better.
But when he put the numbers on the table - the real numbers, not his wishes - his expression hardened.
By his most honest estimates, Voices of a Distant Star would bring in somewhere between ten and fourteen million yen in total. Be conservative, he told himself. Twelve million. Pay off ten million in debt, and he'd have two left. Add what he could still raise by selling the car - maybe even the house - and perhaps another two and change.
In the best-case scenario, with everything going right, he could personally scrape together four or five million yen to invest.
Four or five million.
For thirteen episodes.
He lifted his head, and frustration showed itself as a crooked smile without humor.
"Not enough." The words came lightly, but the weight behind them was absolute.
And Sumire's voice, like a recent echo, returned with the same clarity as the day she'd said it: they needed investment. And fast.
Sora dragged a hand through his hair, already tired from thinking, and let the silence last long enough for him to admit the truth he'd been pushing away.
"I'll have to find money. The hard way."
…
Over the following days, Voices of a Distant Star kept selling.
Blu-rays, the novel, licensed goods - everything moved as if the market was running a fever. April slipped by, and when May arrived, the debut-week Blu-ray figures for over a hundred winter-cour titles finally solidified.
Natsume was still a plan. The storm now was something else.
Voices of a Distant Star placed fifth overall, with twenty-five thousand units.
Ahead of it were only four productions backed by major networks, launched in prime-time slots with marketing and distribution machines a Tokushima studio could hardly dream of. Even with all the noise Voices had caused, competing with that sheer media volume was simply a different league.
That had been expected.
Even so… fifth place was insane.
Inside the industry, plenty of people lamented that the work hadn't aired on a major national network. Because if it had, it likely would've crushed the four titles above it in sales. There was no doubt. The potential was too obvious.
And the impact didn't stop at the market.
That April, the name Sora Kamakawa entered far too many people's radar.
An eighteen-year-old who had taken on music, script, and direction alone - and still delivered something at that level. Add in his creative choices in storyboarding, his attention to staging, his visual boldness… and it was inevitable that professionals would start paying attention.
And the fans, too.
Voices of a Distant Star was short, but it had become an obsession for a lot of people. Especially for one person in particular: Yumi Noriko.
Even while staying in Tokyo, she had already used her family's network - Noriko Animation, one of the biggest names in licensed goods - to pry for any information about Sora. Who he really was. What he would do next. Who he would talk to. Where he would go.
Because after an explosion like this…
The next step was never just "the next project."
It was a sentence.