"Broadcast on one of Tokyo's major national networks? I obviously don't have that kind of pull," Sora said plainly, meeting Yumi's gaze with the same candor he'd maintained from the start. "But Voices of a Distant Star didn't air on the biggest stations either, and it still performed far better than anyone expected. Since when did it become a rule that the moment a show falls outside that circuit, it's doomed to never blow up?"
Yumi went quiet, her eyes locked on him for a beat too long. The smile she'd been wearing since her earlier jab slowly faded, as if she were recalculating something in her head.
She wasn't an investment expert. Nor did she pretend to be a "market analyst" like the executives who spoke in charts and projections as effortlessly as they breathed. But there was one thing Yumi understood better than almost anyone: the feeling of a story that truly hit the mark.
She had the sharpest - and most honest - eye of a veteran fan. The kind who'd seen everything, been disappointed by hollow trends, loved small gems, and forgotten big-budget spectacles the moment the hype died. And deep down, that was exactly what made her uneasy.
In the Japanese market, it was true: there weren't many examples of an "off-template" anime like this suddenly exploding out of nowhere. There was always the risk it would become a cult favorite - beloved by a minority… and ignored by the wider audience. And yet, Yumi couldn't silence the question that had been pressing at her ever since she reached the end of the script.
If just the first episode - raw text, no animation, no music, no voice acting - had tightened her chest so hard she almost wanted to cry… did it really make sense to believe that, once fully produced and well executed, it would be met with indifference?
Or was she fooling herself?
The doubt didn't last long.
All it took was remembering the weight she carried online.
Yumi had a channel and a blog with more than twelve million followers. You didn't build numbers like that on "quirky" taste alone. That audience existed because she could translate - through words and sensitivity - what an enormous number of people felt too, even when they didn't know how to articulate it.
Her preferences weren't some private whim.
In practice, they were a broad slice of mainstream taste.
If she'd been moved that deeply, it was unlikely she was alone.
That logic might not have been "scientific," but it matched the way she understood the world: people were people, and certain stories cut through everyone the same way when they touched the right place.
And that was when her original intention began to waver.
Yumi had come with a clear idea: Sora and Yume Animation were short on money - and Voices of a Distant Star had left a trail of attention behind it. She wanted to see whether she could step into whatever came next, whether there was a chance at a timely investment - something rare she could catch before others noticed.
But now, that wasn't what was pulling at her breath.
It was something else.
"Sora… you really don't plan to make a second season of Voices of a Distant Star?" she asked carefully, as if trying not to sound eager.
Sora's chest sank for an instant. The question was expected, and that was precisely why it hurt. Voices was the work that had put him back on his feet, proven something to the market, opened doors - so naturally, the world wanted "more of the same."
But Sora couldn't afford to promise that.
"Voices of a Distant Star doesn't have a second season," he said, firm.
Yumi didn't hide her frustration, but the way her eyes sparked right after made it clear she'd already latched onto another possibility.
"Still…" Sora continued, choosing his words with care. "Someday, maybe, I'll create something with a similar experience. An anime that carries the same kind of feeling, the same quiet weight. I have a few ideas."
In his mind, one particular work flashed like lightning - memories of a story that also spoke of time, distance, and the cruelty of loving something the world keeps pushing farther away. But he didn't turn it into a promise. Not yet.
Because there was a condition that came before any dream.
"But for there to even be a 'someday'… Yume Animation has to survive until then," he said, not dramatizing it - just stating a fact.
Those words landed in Yumi in a strange way. The excitement in her eyes didn't disappear - if anything, it sharpened, as if she were seeing a rare convergence: talent, urgency, and a strong project all compressed into the same fragile moment.
She stood, grabbed her bag, and took a steadying breath.
"An investment of millions of yen isn't pocket change for me," she said, practical now, but without losing that glow. "I'm going to consult a few people I know. Before four this afternoon, I'll come back with an answer on whether I'm investing in your company."
Sora and Sumire exchanged a look, unable to hide the jolt.
All week, after knocking on so many doors and collecting refusals, Yumi was the only one who'd said, clearly, "I'll consider it." It wasn't a guarantee, but it was the closest thing to a solid hope they'd seen.
The afternoon passed on a thread.
Sora bought a few packets of good tea - the kind you didn't grab off the shelf on impulse. He asked the cleaners to do a thorough sweep of Yume Animation's office - and even though it was a small headquarters in Tokushima, he wanted the place to smell like professionalism. Details like that didn't change contracts, but they changed impressions. And in a game where impressions were also currency, he couldn't afford to be naive.
At exactly four o'clock, Yumi arrived.
And she didn't come alone.
With her came consultants and lawyers - professionals who read clauses the way engineers read a building's frame, searching for cracks before signing their name beneath anything.
For a few seconds, the entire office felt off. The employees - who'd been moving at a sluggish pace lately due to the lack of real work - didn't know whether to act natural or stand up and bow as if a delegation had marched in.
Sora understood immediately, though.
Yumi would only bring that kind of entourage if she was truly interested. This wasn't theater. It was intent.
No one could hear exactly what happened inside the meeting room, but they could hear the tone. Out in the open workspace, the few staff members who were still present caught fragments: raised voices, interruptions, a firmness that edged into confrontation.
Sora and Yumi argued.
Not an emotional fight - more like a collision of ambitions, limits, and strategy, the kind that decided whether a company became someone else's hostage or stayed the owner of its own future.
Two hours later, both of them walked out wearing the same expression - like they'd fought hard and, even after winning, still felt the weight in their bodies.
Yumi adjusted her hair, looked at him with those dark, shining eyes that always seemed to measure the world in layers, and spoke bluntly.
"Since the details are settled… I'll come tomorrow and sign with you."
Sora let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Fine. Tomorrow at nine in the morning, I'll be here waiting."
Yumi left with the lawyers, and an odd silence lingered behind her - like the office temperature had shifted.
Sumire approached Sora with light steps, her expression curious.
"You got the investment. The terms were settled. Why do you look like that?"
Sora stared at the floor for a moment and blurted out, almost indignant.
"Because it feels like I got the short end of the deal."
Sumire blinked, and he explained.
The team Yumi brought wasn't just anyone: they were legal professionals tied to a major industry company - a Tokyo giant with licensing, distribution, and enough connections to put a small title in the right storefront window. Sora had gone into the negotiation thinking Yumi was only interested in the work itself.
But her focus was more dangerous than that.
She wanted Sora.
The money missing to start production on the new project - five million yen - Yumi said she could put up herself. But instead of investing directly into the anime's production, she wanted to invest in Yume Animation as a company… and she opened with an aggressive demand: 49% of the shares. On top of that, she wanted to bind Sora to the studio, requiring that from then on, any work he created could only be produced and released under Yume Animation's name.
Sora refused immediately.
Five million yen didn't buy his freedom - much less the entire future he carried in his head. There was no world where he would accept being shackled for an amount that small compared to the potential of what he could create.
Yumi, for her part, wasn't surprised. That exaggerated opening was partly a tactic - creating room for bargaining. She knew she was "asking too much," but she wanted to see how far Sora would bend - and how much he valued his own name.
Sora wasn't against bringing someone into the company's equity. Especially once he understood who Yumi really was: the only daughter of the president of a company large enough to turn distribution and licensing into a money-making machine. Sora saw the market clearly - anime was too big a cake for one person to eat alone.
Even if he had enough ideas and enough works to produce for years without repeating a formula, none of it would become a national hit without alliances. At some point, you had to share profit to gain something even more valuable: reach. Broadcast slots. Promotional campaigns. Music composed by real talent. Merchandising factories. Nationwide distribution from one end of the country to the other.
If you wanted to grow for real, you had to play the game.
So he made a counterproposal: no 49%. He would accept a small stake - somewhere around five percent and a bit - on the condition that Yumi opened doors in return. That she used her family's connections to link Yume Animation to the structure of a major company and ensure that merchandising, promotion, and distribution for the new anime were handled with the seriousness Voices of a Distant Star had lacked.
Because Sora remembered exactly what had happened: when Voices released its Blu-rays and promotional material, some shops hadn't even put up a poster. Online, promotion was weak, nearly nonexistent, as if the title had been born without a sponsor. It wasn't a lack of quality - it was a lack of muscle. The small company he'd partnered with simply didn't have reach.
With a giant behind them, that changed.
And deep down, Yumi wanted that too. Investing and, at the same time, steering the most profitable part of the return - licensing and products - into her father's company was almost natural. It wasn't even cruelty; it was corporate logic.
After another round of bargaining, they landed on the final structure:
Yumi would put six million yen into the project - one million more than initially discussed. In return, she would receive 35% of the profits from the specific work in production and a 7% stake in Yume Animation.
It wasn't a deal based purely on the amount invested. Because in practice, Yumi wouldn't carry the studio on her back, wouldn't write the script, wouldn't supervise storyboards, wouldn't spend sleepless nights correcting cuts and chasing deadlines the way Sora would. What she was offering was something else: a bridge. Infrastructure. A brutal shortcut into a level of the industry that would otherwise take him years to reach.
Still, it stung.
It stung for Yumi because, in her mind, she was granting access to a massive ship - the influence of her family - only to receive "a few shares" in exchange. And it stung for Sora because, looking ahead, he knew much of what he created from then on would inevitably be tied to Yume Animation's name… and that 7% of all of it, for a long time, would flow to Yumi.
They both walked out feeling like they'd given up too much.
But they both also knew, deep down, that the deal was fair within reality.
Sora accepted.
Because even if he found another investor, the demands might be worse - and the real contribution far smaller. A check with no doors attached wasn't worth as much as a partner with enough influence to set the studio on the right track.
He took a deep breath and swept the doubts from his mind the way you cleared a table before starting work again.
In the end, it could all be boiled down to one simple sentence: he accepted six million yen in investment, gave up 7% of Yume Animation and 35% of the returns on the anime in production… and in exchange, he gained the chance to dock his studio to a "big ship" sturdy enough to cross the market without sinking in the first wave.
The next day, there were no surprises, no mood swings, no games.
Sora and Yumi weren't the type to backtrack once a decision had been made.
The lawyers brought the contract, reviewed every line, printed it right there, and the signatures sealed what - until then - had been nothing but anxiety.
On May 25th, Sora fulfilled what he'd promised: still within the month, he secured the investment he needed.
That same afternoon, he gathered the team and officially announced the start of production on the new anime. The office, which had been stumbling forward without clear direction, found its axis. It found urgency. It found meaning.
And along with the announcement came another inevitable decision.
Yume Animation started hiring.
They posted openings on recruitment platforms, attended in-person job fairs, activated contacts - because while many stages of production could be outsourced, certain departments couldn't keep relying on luck and other people's goodwill if they wanted to maintain quality.
Voices of a Distant Star had worked out, in part, because they'd gotten lucky with third parties. The studios they'd contracted delivered what they promised and didn't cause any animation disasters.
But a seasonal anime, with twelve episodes and a tight schedule, didn't forgive naïveté.
If Sora tried to repeat the same model - betting everything on the "conscience" of outsourced teams - the Japanese market would teach him the lesson in the cruelest way possible: on-screen, in front of everyone, with nowhere to hide.
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