After returning to the company, Edward handed over the editing work for Sherlock Holmes Season 3 to the post-production department.
Compared to films, editing television series was a bit easier—the overall difficulty was lower, and the process more manageable.
Of course, there were still many small details that required Edward's personal oversight, but since he wasn't planning to do anything else for the time being, staying at the company to supervise everything suited him just fine.
"Boss, Team Rocket has now been completely suppressed by the League—they're barely hanging on. But according to reports, under the leadership of a certain high-ranking executive, they've retreated into the shadows to rest and recover."
Zoroark approached Edward and handed him a document. Edward skimmed through it. The report stated that Team Rocket was essentially finished. Their leader, Giovanni, had been captured, and the entire organization was in shambles.
Their senior executive, Archer, had surrendered to the authorities, dragging down a long chain of mid-level and lower-level officers with him. As for ordinary members, it was already difficult for them to survive under the League's relentless crackdown.
By now, Team Rocket could only be described as a flock of scattered birds and frightened dogs. Meanwhile, Giovanni's interrogation and subsequent imprisonment were proceeding in an orderly fashion under the League's control.
To prevent the remnants of Team Rocket from attempting a rescue, the League even dispatched a special guard team to protect Giovanni—ensuring no one could take him away. These guards were all retired or resigned Champions. Although older, they still retained Champion-level strength.
Edward felt that unless Team Rocket somehow obtained a Mewtwo, there was absolutely no way they could snatch Giovanni back from such a lineup. Even if other regional Leagues tried, the result would be the same. After all, these were Champions.
He had long been curious about what kind of lives the Pokémon League's Champions lived. After all, since the establishment of the Pokémon League, many, many years had passed—and over such a long time, countless Champions had been crowned.
Theoretically speaking, there should be quite a few of them by now.
And indeed, Edward's assumptions were right. There were many Champions—more than he'd expected. Even after retirement, most didn't simply fade into obscurity.
Instead, they were rehired by the League as elite combat power. In the end, this only confirmed one thing: the reason those villainous teams in the anime could cause trouble at all was simply because the League didn't want to deal with them seriously.
If the League truly wanted to, not a single villain could escape.
"Team Rocket has fallen to the level of a third-rate organization now. Still, new dark forces will eventually emerge," Edward said as he placed the report aside. He wasn't particularly interested in Team Rocket's fate. He knew well that, given the state of human society, it was impossible to completely eradicate darkness.
Where there is light, there will be shadow. Every person carries darkness within their heart—some manage to control it, while others are consumed by it, falling into evil and committing terrible deeds.
Edward even suspected that the League itself was aware of these dark organizations but sometimes chose not to interfere. Perhaps it was a deliberate strategy—to allow a single, unified large-scale evil organization to exist, so that smaller ones could be controlled and the regions could remain relatively stable.
Still, he found that approach somewhat absurd.
After all, Team Rocket's crimes weren't exactly small. If the League still chose to turn a blind eye, it could only mean one of two things: either the League had far more pressing matters to attend to, or those retired Champions simply wanted to live peaceful, ordinary lives—completely indifferent to how the rest of the population suffered in chaos. Otherwise, it was hard to justify.
"By the way, boss, isn't our company currently expanding?" Zoroark suddenly asked, a peculiar look on her face.
Edward blinked, then nodded. "Yes, that's true." He was fully aware of that—after all, he was the one funding the expansion. Under his financial backing, Ghost Films had been growing rapidly, developing its operations and becoming increasingly massive.
But why did Zoroark bring that up so suddenly? Edward was puzzled. As he pondered, Zoroark handed him another document. Edward took it and glanced at the cover—it was a profile for a film director.
The director's name caught his attention immediately Percival Quilll. Even in the Pokémon world, that was an oddly eccentric name.
"What's this about?" Edward asked, flipping through the file. The man's career seemed fairly unremarkable. Since debuting, he had mostly worked on advertisements and short films. His most well-known piece was a short titled The Fruit Tree Beneath the Tornado, which had even won an award for Best Narrative Short Film. Not bad—but in Ghost Films, talents like that were hardly rare.
Geniuses, after all, came in tiers. Some were local prodigies. Some shined across multiple regions. And a rare few stood above all the others—the geniuses among geniuses.
This director, Percival Quill, might seem brilliant in the eyes of ordinary filmmakers, but within Ghost Films, he was just another ordinary talent—competent, but not exceptional.
"This director… he has a screenwriter friend he's been collaborating with recently. They've written a new script," Zoroark explained, his expression slightly awkward. "It's just that… the script's a little weird. I'm not sure how to judge it."
Edward raised an eyebrow and looked down at the manuscript in his hand.
The title read—"Sharknado."
He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was seeing things. That name was so bizarre—and so familiar—that for a moment he even suspected the screenwriter might be a transmigrator like himself.
Curious, he opened the script and began reading.
One day, the largest tornado in the history of the League swept across a coastal city. But this tornado wasn't just wind—it lifted countless Sharpedos and Carvanhas from the sea, hurling them through the sky...
"...?"
Edward silently typed a question mark in his mind. The more he read, the more familiar it felt. Aside from replacing the sharks with Pokémon like Sharpedo and Carvanha, the plot was nearly identical to that ridiculous movie he remembered from his previous world.
The film industry, he mused, was filled with all kinds of works. Some films boasted masterful craftsmanship, compelling acting, and deep storytelling—leaving audiences entertained and emotionally fulfilled. Those were the films that directors dreamed of making—the kind that would be remembered in history.
But not everyone could reach that height. Most movies were ordinary—forgettable productions that faded from memory days after viewing. The market was flooded with such films, and only the truly outstanding ones could stand out and earn recognition.
As a result, ambitious filmmakers constantly competed against each other, striving to outdo one another—one chasing deeper themes, another pursuing stronger symbolism. Some went so far that their films became heavy-handed critiques of society—works that, if released, could send the entire production crew straight to prison for "ideological reasons."
Then there were the directors obsessed with spectacle—pouring fortunes into special effects and star power. "You cast a top-tier celebrity? I'll hire a legendary megastar. Your actor's salary is ten million? Mine starts at a twenty!" Whether the film was good or not didn't matter—what mattered was milking every fan dry.
This arms race led to chaos in the film market, filled with greed, ambition, and vanity.
And yet, amidst all that, there existed a peculiar breed of filmmakers—the anti-mainstream, the bottom-feeders of art. They didn't chase prestige, they didn't pay for top stars, and they certainly didn't care about plot quality. They hired random no-name actors, wrote sloppy scripts, and still managed to produce something… unique.
These were the trash filmmakers.
In the film world, this kind of work was collectively known as trash films.
But as the saying goes, "In every profession, there are masters." Even among trash films, there were masters of trash—people who turned bad filmmaking into a kind of bizarre, perverse art form.
And Sharknado was their crown jewel.
It came from a studio called Asylum Films—a bizarre company that had gone all-in on producing low-budget knockoffs. While every other studio chased big-budget blockbusters, Asylum fearlessly plunged down the opposite path—creating hilariously absurd films like Sharknado, Atlantic Rim, Pirates of Treasure Island, and Transmorphers.
Their business model was simple: copy whatever was popular, rename it, and release a cheap imitation to ride the hype.
Edward once wondered how such a company even made money. After all, big productions cost huge amounts. But later, he realized his mistake—Asylum's films weren't big productions at all. Their special effects looked like they were made by interns, and their only goal was to keep costs rock-bottom. Because of their low prices, they often made a profit anyway.
Ridiculous, but effective.
And among all their trashy hits, Sharknado was a phenomenon. Despite its absurdity, it went viral—everyone was talking about it, precisely because it was so illogical.
In Sharknado, no one cared about realism. Why could sharks survive flying through the sky without water? Who cared? That's just how it worked.
You didn't like it? Then go make your own!
That was Asylum's philosophy—bold, shameless, and wildly successful.
As Edward read the script before him, he couldn't help but chuckle. The storyline was practically identical. Thinking back to how Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window had somehow also existed in this world, Edward wasn't even surprised anymore.
For reasons unknown, some iconic classics from his previous world seemed to have been "projected" into this one. So, seeing Sharknado pop up here wasn't too strange after all.
"This script…" Edward muttered, twitching at the corner of his mouth. "It's… certainly something."
Technically, it could be filmed—but the result might be catastrophic. Worse, it could tarnish the reputation of Ghost Films, which so far had never released a poorly rated movie.
Still, the idea lingered in his mind.
Maybe… just maybe…
A thought struck him. What if he didn't release it under Ghost Film Studio's name? What if he created a subsidiary—a side label—for these ridiculous, lowbrow comedies? That way, Ghost Studio could maintain its premium brand image, while the new sub-company handled all the quirky and absurd productions.
"Yes," Edward decided. "Ghost Films stays for quality. The new company—let's call it Phantom Films —will handle this kind of film."
It was the perfect solution.
And it conveniently solved another issue he'd been pondering—how to produce Tomie: Unleashed.
He had chosen to film Inner Senses instead because he feared Tomie's controversial nature might drag down the studio's ratings. Inner Senses was still a horror film, but it incorporated psychological and philosophical elements—enough to elevate it beyond mere shock value.
For that reason, Edward even planned to hire a psychology professor to consult during filming.
"This film can be made," Edward said after a moment of thought. "But not under our main company. Register a subsidiary Phantom Films and have them produce it."
He smiled faintly. "Making only masterpieces is exhausting. Sometimes, making something stupid is fun too."
Zoroark blinked, surprised, then nodded. "Got it, boss."
Edward glanced at the Sharknado script once more. If it performed well in the market, they could always release Sharknado 2, 3, 4, 5, and so on—each one a cheap, easy cash grab.
After all, the investment cost for Sharknado was tiny, and if it went viral, the profit margins would be astronomical.
"These kinds of movies," Edward mused, "are like playing Go—one wrong move, and you lose instantly. But somehow, that loss still has its own kind of beauty."
He chuckled, set the script aside, and decided to fund the movie himself. The investment was small anyway—it would be a good experiment. If it succeeded, he could rake in both box office revenue and advertising deals.
Maybe even enough to open a few more hospitals.
Speaking of hospitals—his own hospital construction project should be finished by now. It might be time to go take a look.
(End of Chapter)
TN: Are you guys still reading this? I wanna dropped this but I only had like 50 chapters left to translate but I'm tired.