Edward had also gone to meet with the screenwriter for this project—a rather quiet, gentle-looking young woman. Edward's first impression of her was surprisingly good; she carried a calm, thoughtful air.
Even so, Edward didn't say much. He simply offered a few casual words of encouragement before taking his leave. There were still other tasks he needed to deal with, and as for the girl's script, Edward found it quite acceptable. After all, a horror film that followed such a unique, emotionally delicate route would probably leave a deep impression on a huge audience.
But right now, Edward was facing a different problem: he discovered that the Hoenn region had suddenly launched a film-submission campaign. And this time, they weren't collecting horror films—they were requesting "a deeply moving, heart-touching movie."
What made it even more ridiculous was the very clear requirement printed on the submission notice: "No horror films allowed."
"I feel like these people are targeting me… but I have no proof."
Edward twitched the corner of his mouth, half amused, half exasperated.
What on earth was wrong with these people? A film submission event is one thing, but adding a bold, explicit line saying no horror films—if that wasn't aimed at him, then who else could it possibly be for? Edward was nearly laughing out of sheer frustration.
Still, he knew the reason behind this restriction. After all, in the previous sci-fi film submission, he had used Aliens to complete the task and ended up receiving countless "positive" reviews from the public. So having this requirement added now wasn't entirely surprising. Edward understood the logic, even if the logic made his stomach ache.
But regardless of the headache it brought, he still planned to participate in the event. He did want to film a story capable of genuinely breaking people's hearts.
And for this movie, Edward had already chosen the story he wanted to adapt: the tale of Hachiko, the loyal dog.
Of course, to place this story into this world, it would need some adjustments. Still, Edward already had a rough script in mind. The reason he chose Hachiko's story was simple: it was meaningful, powerful, and extremely suitable for this world's audience. In Edward's previous life's terms—Hachiko's story was perfect for the emotionally fragile "Pokémon-world audience."
Thinking of that, Edward felt his ideas turning rapidly. But if he wanted to make this story even more touching, something that could deliver true emotional damage, he would need to prepare more.
The moment he realized that, Edward grew excited. Truly, when someone is doing something wickedly heartbreaking, they never feel tired.
"Zoroark, head down for a bit and get ready. Help me collect touching real stories between humans and canine-type Pokémon from within the League, preferably real cases involving real people. That would be the best." Edward spoke while visibly thrilled.
Zoroark blinked with slight surprise but did not object. It nodded and immediately went off to work. Edward already had some preparation done, and these stories were, indeed, quite interesting. But for a story to be truly moving, it needed something solid to support it.
Hachiko's tale, in his previous life, was extremely famous, so famous that even remakes existed. Hachiko had become a symbol of loyalty for countless people, one of the gentlest and most devoted dogs in their hearts. Movies truly had the power to shape an era.
The story of Hachiko was simple. Taking the American version as an example, Hachiko was a dog originally being transported elsewhere. During transit, it accidentally fell off the cargo and was later found by a kindly old professor, who brought it home.
At first, the professor intended to find Hachiko's original owner. He tried, he asked around, he ran into complications, yet no one ever came forward. With no other choice, the professor ended up adopting Hachiko.
The professor worked at a school in a nearby town, and every day he took the train to go teach. After work, he would take the train home again. The commute was long, and the train was simply the easiest means of transportation.
In time, Hachiko developed a habit: every morning, it would escort the professor to the station; every afternoon, it would wait at the station for the professor's return.
People near the station soon became familiar with the adorable Hachiko. Many of them would smile when they saw the little dog waiting faithfully by the gate.
But beautiful days never last forever.
One day, Hachiko showed unusual behavior. It didn't want the professor to go to work—it resisted heavily, refusing to let him leave. The professor was puzzled; his family was annoyed. But eventually he still went to work.
And Hachiko, as always, waited quietly outside the station for him to come back.
During class that day, the professor suffered a sudden heart attack. He was rushed to the hospital, but the emergency efforts failed.
He passed away.
And so, he never returned home.
But Hachiko did not know that.
It waited outside the station. And waited. And waited.
In their grief, the professor's family decided to move away. They tried to take Hachiko with them. But the normally obedient Hachiko became agitated, even growling, something it almost never did. With no other choice, the family left without it.
And so Hachiko remained at the station, waiting for the professor who would never come back. Years went by—spring, summer, autumn, winter. Its once-strong body grew older, thinner.
The townspeople, moved by its loyalty, fed it and took care of it. Only with their help did Hachiko manage to survive.
One day, the professor's wife returned to the town. When she saw Hachiko, now frail and dirty, her eyes immediately reddened.
"So, you've been waiting for him… You've been waiting all this time… Hachi…"
She cried while holding the dog close, explaining to it that the professor had died long ago.
But Hachiko didn't understand human language. It simply stood there silently, its old eyes unwavering.
The professor's wife brought the story to the media. Reporters flooded in. Donations poured in to help support Hachiko. But as time passed and the attention faded, people visited less. Hachiko remained.
Still waiting.
Then came the day of heavy snow.
The entire town was blanketed in white. The station workers called Hachiko over to warm up inside, but the dog refused. It stayed in its familiar spot… the place where it had always waited.
Snow piled onto its back, weighing down its aging body. Eventually the cold overtook it, and Hachiko's small body grew still beneath the falling snow—buried quietly in white.
But then—
In a symbolic scene—
Despite the blizzard having grounded all trains that day, the familiar sound of a whistle echoed unexpectedly from the tracks.
Hachiko stirred beneath the snow. Slowly, it raised its head.
From the warm light of the station entrance emerged the figure of the professor, smiling gently as always.
"Hachi, I'm home."
Hachiko leapt joyfully into his arms.
The camera panned upward as snow continued to fall in silence, an unmistakable sign that this scene represented the reunion of two souls. Hachiko had died but found his beloved master again at the end of his life.
This alone brought countless emotionally sensitive viewers to tears.
And then, as if to drive the knife deeper, the film revealed a final line: "Based on a true story."
Followed by footage of Hachiko's statue and historical recounts.
The emotional damage pierced straight through the screen. Hachiko's breed gained worldwide recognition, adored and admired by many.
This was the kind of story Edward planned to adapt. But he wanted to see whether similar cases existed in this world, only then could he achieve true emotional devastation. And only then could the film heal people by breaking them first. A "heart-touching movie," right?
So that was the plan.
After some time, Zoroark finally returned with results. It did not disappoint—real cases were indeed found, and the documents were delivered to Edward.
Edward spent half a day reading them.
And then, on an unremarkable sheet of stationery, he found it—the perfect story.
Only this time, Hachiko wasn't a dog.
It was a Growlithe.
After reading it, Edward fell silent for a long while.
He hadn't even started emotionally traumatizing the audience yet…
and he had already traumatized himself.
Beside him, Zoroark had quietly retreated to wipe its own tears.
Edward let out a soft sigh. This kind of story truly stirred complicated feelings.
But… that was fine.
That was good.
So, Edward set out to visit the person who submitted the story.
The man lived in Viridian City in Kanto, so Edward boarded a plane and headed there.
When he arrived, he met the contributor, an elderly man living a financially difficult life. The old man was surprised to see Edward, but after hearing the director's intentions, his expression shifted into deep emotion.
It was then that Edward learned the full story of the Growlithe and its trainer, a young Officer Jenny Maple.
The old man was Jenny's husband.
Officer Jenny Maple had raised a Growlithe from childhood. Their bond was incredibly strong.
But one day, Maple received an emergency call, a chemical plant explosion. It was extremely dangerous. She rushed to the scene without taking Growlithe along.
And she never came back.
From then on, Growlithe would lie down every day at the old training grounds, waiting silently for its trainer who would never return.
This went on for a very, very long time.
Growlithe, being a Pokémon, normally had a reasonably long lifespan.
But because it became consumed by grief and lost its will to live…
its life faded away far earlier than it should have.
The old man had tried to help it, to feed it, to comfort it. But Growlithe refused everything.
It had understood the truth long before anyone else.
Yet it still chose to remain, waiting until the final moment of its life.
Edward was silent for a very long time after hearing this.
This was a real story. And real stories were always the ones that hurt the most. Growlithe should have lived so much longer… yet for Maple's sake, it simply let itself fade.
Edward explained his intentions to the elderly man, and the old man agreed without hesitation. He was willing to give the story away for free, he only wanted the world to know everything his wife's Growlithe had done.
But Edward refused to take it for nothing.
He paid the old man three million.
He could tell the man's living situation was difficult.
Afterward, Edward visited the Jenny squad to verify the story. Once confirmed, he immediately began preparations for the film. Shooting would take place entirely in Viridian City, and he even invited Officer Jennys to participate.
They agreed without hesitation, there was even competition among them for the role. The story touched them deeply; they genuinely wanted to take part.
Edward welcomed this enthusiasm.
After some internal selection, one Jenny was chosen, along with her Growlithe, to act in the film.
Now that he had the story and the actors ready, Edward finally began filming.
This time, it wasn't a horror movie—
it was a heart-crushing emotional film.
He was determined to use Hachiko's structure to absolutely break the people of this world.
But filming came with challenges. The old man often cried whenever he saw Jenny and Growlithe together. The Jennys also cried easily during emotional scenes.
This left Edward both helpless and amused.
Still, filming proceeded.
Ordinarily, using animals in films was complicated, requiring patience and careful coordination. Animals could only follow basic commands; expecting them to "act" would be unfair.
But Pokémon were different.
With Psychic-type Pokémon helping translate intentions, communication became easy. Scenes were completed cleanly and efficiently.
In fact, Edward completed all filming within just one and a half months—an outcome that even surprised him.
Of course, the lack of heavy special effects helped. Combined with a cast of skilled and genuinely emotional Jennys, production flew by smoothly.
Once filming wrapped, Edward treated everyone to a celebratory meal before returning to his company to begin post-production editing.
(End of Chapter)