Deep down, Sora knew he should have started looking for funding much earlier.
But he'd waited on purpose. Not out of laziness - out of calculation. He wanted Voices of a Distant Star's results to be mature, verified, undeniable. He wanted to sit down at the table with numbers in his hands, not promises on his tongue. Because in any negotiation with investors, the truth was simple: he was the one who needed the money… and the people who had the money charged dearly for it.
Investment never came from kindness. It came from interest.
In a production committee, each party put something on the table in order to take something back. A broadcaster invested to secure the airing and raise ratings. A music company came in to control the soundtrack, rights, and CD sales. A licensing firm invested to claim design, distribution, and the profits from merchandise.
If someone put money into your project, you gave up part of that project in return. That was the game.
Sora was ready for it.
The problem was that reality was uglier than the manual.
Around Tokushima, his name had gained weight fast. People called him a genius too easily - and because of that, some investors greeted him with enthusiasm the moment they heard who he was. Warm handshakes. Broad smiles. Praise for Voices. Toasts, invitations, and the easy promise of "Let's talk properly."
Right up until they opened the proposal.
The first reaction usually came with the same kind of laugh you heard from someone who'd decided before listening.
"Youkai?" one of them said, as if the word itself were a joke. "No, no… there's no market for that. If it were a cute-girls series, sure. But who's going to buy youkai merchandise?"
Another went straight for the throat, not even bothering to hide his contempt.
"Why don't you make something like Voices again? Space, mecha, battles… That Blu-ray is already pushing fifty thousand units. If you bring me that kind of project, it won't be five million yen from me. I'll sign for ten on the spot."
Then there were the ones who tried to play "friend," using his father's name like a pass that gave them permission to say anything.
"Sora, I respect your father. It's not that I don't want to help. But you have to follow the market. When it's youkai, what sells is fighting. And this project of yours - this Natsume - isn't combat, it's slice-of-life. It doesn't even have a clear heroine to sell figures. And the 'female lead' that does show up is… the grandmother. Dead. And on top of that she's got this rebellious, delinquent vibe from back in the day. How am I supposed to sell that?"
Some didn't even bother pretending they were there for the project at all.
"Tell you what - forget Natsume. Sell me the rights to Voices and write me a long-form script at the same level. I'll find a studio, I'll produce it. If you agree, I'll wire five million today."
And then there was the worst type: the man who thought money bought respect - and who also believed respect came packaged in a pretty woman's body.
"Sumire-chan, don't be so tense. Have another drink… I can read palms. Give me your hand and I'll tell you your destiny. I can read the stars too - how about we watch the night sky together tomorrow?"
Sora stood up immediately.
"Hey, hey, Sora!" the man snapped, irritated the moment he realized he was being ignored. "What's this? You're dragging the girl away? We haven't even finished eating!"
But Sora had already pulled Sumire by the arm and walked out, not looking back.
Five days.
Six or seven meetings.
A bar. A golf course. An expensive restaurant. A private room. Even a racetrack at one point - always the same kinds of places where people with money liked to pretend they weren't negotiating.
Most of those investors were already tied to the industry in some way: media, distribution, licensing, music, retail. They understood exactly how the game worked. And precisely because they understood it, they all said the same thing, dressed in different words.
Natsume Yuujinchou didn't interest them.
They didn't care about story. They didn't care about emotion. They didn't care about cultural reach. They couldn't even see the script's spark. Love for animation didn't exist in that room. To them, anime was a profit tool - and a smart merchant didn't gamble big where he couldn't see a return.
If even Sumire - someone who genuinely loved the script - had doubts about its commercial value, those men wouldn't have any.
The market rewarded the easy: cuteness, sex appeal, empty lightness. Elements that sold figures without needing strong writing. Natsume touched none of that.
And Voices was a success, yes… but it was a short success. A short film. A single episode. Lightning, not a career guarantee.
The industry was full of "geniuses" who shone once and spent the rest of their lives collecting failures. The wealthy understood risk avoidance better than any artist ever could.
That was why the funding trip became a string of closed doors.
At the end of the fifth day, sitting in the car with cold air from the AC washing over them in the parking lot of a commercial building, Sora and Sumire stayed silent for a few seconds - both wearing the same exhausted expression of people who'd wasted too much time.
Their last meeting had been with the head of the investment department at a regional broadcaster - someone named Ibiki, a man with an old relationship to Hiroshi Kamakawa. He was the one who'd smoothed the way for Voices of a Distant Star to air, out of respect for Sora's father.
Sora had honestly believed there would be a chance there.
But the answer was the same - only wrapped in gentler words.
If Sora wanted to produce a long series in the same universe as Voices - a continuation, a work "with the same kind of appeal" - the network would bankroll everything. The industry was salivating over the commercial potential, the sales forecasts, the chance to repeat the phenomenon with something longer.
But Natsume?
No.
"The script is beautiful, it's moving," Ibiki had said. "But commercial value is another matter. There's never been precedent for a project like this blowing up in the market. I can't put millions of yen into an unknown."
In the car, Sora let out a low laugh with no joy in it.
"My dad… was it this hard for him too, when he went looking for funding?"
He couldn't accept it. This was Natsume Yuujinchou. How could no one see it?
Sumire, in the passenger seat, answered in a tone that was too calm - like she'd watched the same movie before.
"If you'd brought them a demon king and hero isekai proposal… someone might have considered putting in a few million, yes."
She paused briefly.
"But Natsume is too new. No precedent. No proof of market… it's hard."
Sora knew that. He'd just believed that in a country this big, someone would step outside the line and take a chance.
They didn't.
What he found instead were people who knew exactly how to say "no" while smiling.
He took a deep breath and stared at the steering wheel.
"In the end… that's it. My name still isn't big enough."
If he had the aura of a truly established director, the market might accept innovation. But he was an eighteen-year-old who'd hit once. Investors didn't bet futures on "maybe."
Sora leaned back and made a sound of disgust.
"Short-sighted. Cowardly. If Natsume blows up later, they'll regret it."
Sumire turned her head, and her answer came with clinical precision.
"If we can't close the budget, Natsume won't even premiere. Unless you want to try producing thirteen episodes on five million yen… and then we'll fill the series with frozen frames and cheap cuts. The experience drops, the audience won't embrace it, it won't blow up… and no one here will have anything to regret."
Sora looked at her, incredulous.
"You really are good at discouraging the company president."
Sumire almost smiled, but stopped halfway. Something shifted in her gaze. She opened her bag slowly, took out a bank card, and held it out to him.
Sora blinked.
"What's this?"
"Aren't you looking for investors?" she said, as if it were obvious. "We spent four or five days on this. We can't come back with nothing."
She pointed at the card.
"This is most of what I managed to save in five years at Yume Animation. In total… one hundred and fifty thousand yen. Consider it my investment in Natsume Yuujinchou."
Sora stared as if she'd placed something far heavier than plastic into his hands.
"You think it's too little?" Sumire asked, serious. "Or you think I'll lose it and you'll end up owing me?"
"It's not that…" Sora replied, his voice coming out lower than he expected.
He lifted his eyes to her.
"I just don't understand why you'd go this far."
She'd chosen to stay. She'd refused to abandon the ship. And now she was handing over her savings for a project that - even in her own view - carried commercial risk.
Sumire didn't look away.
"I decided to stay. So we're tied to the same rope," she said simply. "Investing in a project I'm going to help make… there's nothing strange about that. If it loses money, I'll take it. I won't regret it."
She didn't say the rest out loud, but it was there: she liked the script. And as cruel as the market was, she believed in Sora after Voices. Maybe that risk was half madness, half faith. And there was another detail - right now, that small amount was worth more than money.
It was a push.
Sora breathed in, took the card, and nodded slowly, like he was accepting something he couldn't return.
"I understand."
He put the card away carefully and spoke with seriousness.
"This will count as an investment in Yume Animation. I'll assess all company assets and give you proportional equity. It won't be much… probably somewhere under two or three percent."
He looked at her, steady.
"But I promise you one thing: Natsume Yuujinchou will not fail. And this investment… will pay off."
"Let's hope so," Sumire said, without theatrics.
The future was the future. All they could do was move forward.
They returned to the studio.
…
The next morning, Sora was still driving to work when his phone rang. It was Sumire.
"Sora… hurry. We've got an emergency."
Her voice was slightly breathless - and strangely excited.
Sora frowned.
"Emergency? What happened?"
With no funding secured and production not even started, the studio was basically in standby mode. What kind of emergency could there be?
"Someone came to the studio… and said they want to invest."
Sumire didn't even finish the sentence.
Sora felt his blood rise and stomped on the accelerator.
…
Fifteen minutes later, he walked into the building straightening his cuffs and collar, forcing himself to look even minimally presentable. He followed the text Sumire had sent and went straight into the unlocked meeting room.
Inside, a girl in a long black dress - fair-skinned, delicate-featured, strikingly beautiful - was holding Sumire's hand with excitement, firing off questions like she was interviewing a celebrity.
"So you're telling me Voices of a Distant Star was something Director Sora conceived in just a few days… and you managed to produce it in only three months?"
Sora stopped in the doorway.
That face was far too familiar.
Yumi Noriko?
That enormous Natsuyume blogger with millions of followers?
He felt the reflex of surprise, but not contempt. If anything, his first thought was practical. Someone with that level of influence was already making money simply by existing. And if she came from a family connected to the market, putting down a few million yen as an investment wasn't absurd at all.
Besides… Sora knew her writing. The original owner of his body had followed some of her analyses, and now and then she let slip details about her lifestyle and her wealth.
She was, without question, an heiress.
Sora's heart beat faster.
An heiress was different from a seasoned investor.
Easier to talk to. More impulsive. And sometimes more willing to take a bet out of passion.
"Hello," he said, stepping in with a firm posture. "I'm Sora Kamakawa, president of Yume Animation. And you are…?"
Sumire and the girl turned at the same time.
"President Kamakawa…" Sumire said, using his title instead of his name - formal in a way she rarely was.
The girl's eyes widened, and the excitement in her face flared even brighter.
"You're Sora? Director Sora? I'm Yumi Noriko!"
She looked genuinely happy - almost electric.
It had been nearly a month since Voices' Blu-ray release, and even so she'd clearly rewatched it an unhealthy number of times. It wasn't just "liking" it. It was obsession. She'd posted article after article praising the work - seven pieces, at least.
And still… she hadn't let it go. Not the work, and not the person behind it.
She had ways of finding information no outlet would ever publish. That was how she learned it: Sora was seeking funding in Tokushima and getting "no" from every direction.
One of the investors he'd met over the past few days had business ties with her family's company. The comment slipped. And the moment it reached Yumi's ears, she took a flight to Tokushima.
Sora cleared his throat, trying to keep his posture.
"Yes, that's me. Sumire told me you came here intending to invest?"
He sat across from her, folded his hands, and offered the polite smile he wore in meetings.
"I came to buy the company," Yumi said, without hesitation. Direct. Absurd, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "And then you'll create Voices of a Distant Star 2 exactly the way I want. I want the continuation. I want to see what happens to Ashen and Linga afterward. I want to see how they reunite, how they live together… how they reach the altar. I want that in anime."
Sora and Sumire exchanged a glance, both frozen for a second.
Was this real?
Were there fans that far gone - people who showed up with money in hand trying to buy a studio just to force a second season into existence?
But Sora recovered quickly.
Yumi was passionate, yes. But she wasn't stupid. She wasn't just a spoiled heiress. There was calculation in it.
The truth was that with Voices' popularity, a continuation would have a market. If they took the novel's ending and showed the two of them after the reunion - giving viewers the "healing" the animated version had denied - there would be plenty of people willing to pay. It wasn't a promise of massive profit… but it was close to a guarantee of not losing money. A safe investment, packaged as personal desire.
The real problem was something else.
There was no original "Season Two." It didn't exist. Making it would mean inventing a continuation from nothing.
And Sora wasn't the kind of person who accepted that kind of graft.
He inhaled, weighed his words, and answered calmly.
"Miss Yumi… that isn't possible."
She frowned, but he continued.
"The ending of Voices of a Distant Star is already set. Anything added after that becomes excess - decoration. If you want to invest in the company… then yes, I do have a new project ready."
"I'm not interested," she cut in immediately.
The excitement in her face was still there, but her voice was clean, emotionless.
"If even the investors here in Shikoku didn't want it, it's not worth mentioning. I won't want it either."
She loved Voices. And because she loved it, she admired Sora. But that didn't mean she'd burn money on something she thought was "boring." She was a fan, not irrational.
Sora didn't argue. He simply took the project folder and slid it across to her: the plan for Natsume Yuujinchou, with the first episode's script attached.
"Read it before you decide," he said, patient. "The investors here have no vision. I believe you're different."
Normally, he would've shown her the door on the spot for that tone. But now… any potential investor was a chance. And May was already slipping away. If he couldn't secure funding within that month, October would become impossible. And if October slipped, the studio would have to survive three more months until winter cour - far too long for a fragile cash flow.
"It won't help," Yumi insisted, pushing the folder back with her gaze. "Let's discuss the possibility of Voices Season Two."
Sora exhaled and changed tactics, like someone pulling the right thread.
"Why are you so fixated on Voices… without even looking at Natsume, which is even better?"
The word "better" landed like a provocation.
Yumi went still for half a second.
Better than Voices?
Even if he was the author, saying that was irritating. Arrogant. Almost offensive.
But she couldn't argue without reading. If she wanted to fight him, she needed ammunition.
Her expression closed off. Her cheeks puffed with restrained anger, and she yanked the folder toward herself.
"Fine," she said, curt - and started reading.