Sora felt his pupils tighten the instant that title surfaced in his mind.
"Voices of a Distant Stars."
In his previous life, it had been a hidden gem of Japanese animation. It was never as famous as the director's later blockbusters, mostly because it had been created early in his career, with a limited budget and a visual style that felt too simple by modern standards. Even so, the power of its story more than made up for it.
Years later, that same director would become a living legend of the industry, with films that easily surpassed one hundred billion yen at the box office. His name would stand alongside the greatest figures in the history of Japanese animation. But before that, he had spent a long time as nothing more than a promising talent, creating works that never truly exploded in popularity, yet were deeply cherished by a loyal group of fans.
And it was precisely during that period that some of his most painful stories were born.
Stories about love, distance, and time, told in a way that was almost cruel.
"Voices of a Distant Stars" was one of them.
It was a short animation with only two characters: a boy and a girl, separated by eight light-years in space. Every text message sent between them took eight years to reach its destination. A love kept alive by only two messages across nearly a decade.
For ordinary people, a distance measured in light-years was no different from eternity.
Despite lasting just over twenty minutes, that story had utterly crushed Sora in his previous life. Not because it was overly dramatic, but because of the quiet, merciless way time slowly devoured the characters' feelings.
Melancholy had always existed in Japanese animation. Some works used it as seasoning, others made it the very core of their narrative. There were famous titles known for leaving audiences emotionally shattered, yet for Sora, few could compare to the silent pain of "Voices of a Distant Stars."
The problem was that, despite its emotional weight, the work had never become widely known. Being old and visually outdated, most modern viewers never even gave it a chance.
But that was in another world.
Here, in this Japan, things were different.
Animation technology was far more advanced. Even with a modest budget, it would be possible to create a version far superior to the original in terms of quality. And Sora still had around two million yen at his disposal. For a short film, that was more than enough.
The only question was… would the Japanese audience accept a story that was so overwhelmingly melancholic?
Sora stayed silent for a few seconds, then smiled faintly.
Overthinking it was pointless.
If everyone walks barefoot, all you have to do is show them the value of shoes to create an entire market. Otaku were otaku in any world. There was no reason to believe the animation fans here would have tastes so different from those of his previous life.
"If they don't like this kind of story yet… I'll make them like it."
"Forging the glory of tragedy is my sacred duty."
Alone inside that golden space of consciousness, he muttered those words with a touch of exaggerated grandeur, not caring how ridiculous he might sound. No one was there to see him anyway.
A moment later, his awareness returned to his body.
Three knocks echoed at the door of his office, and a young woman entered, holding a stack of documents.
She was about one-sixty-five tall, with fair skin and delicate features, wearing an elegant black dress. Her steps were slightly hesitant, but there was unmistakable determination in her eyes as she approached his desk.
"Sora… President Kamakawa…" she took a deep breath. "I… I came to submit my resignation."
Resignation?
Sora looked up.
It was Sumire.
Before Hiroshi Kamakawa's death, she had already been one of the studio's key figures, serving as an episode director for "The Holy Knight and the Princess." It was an extremely important role, responsible for ensuring that each episode matched the style and vision defined by the chief director.
In the animation industry, the chief director was like the filmmaker of a movie, the one who decided the overall tone and identity of the work. But with a weekly series, it was impossible for one person to oversee everything. That was why episode directors functioned as assistant directors, supervising individual episodes to maintain quality and consistency.
Even though she was only twenty-two, Sumire had earned that position purely through her ability, though the studio also suffered from a lack of experienced veterans.
Sora remembered her well: a perfectionist, obsessively organized, almost fanatical about details. "The Holy Knight and the Princess" had failed overall, but the few episodes that received praise from critics were exactly the ones she had supervised. The downside was that, because of her strict standards, those episodes had also taken the longest to finish, to the point where the entire staff had stayed up all night before broadcast.
After Hiroshi's death, she and several other episode directors had temporarily taken on the role of chief director to finish all twelve episodes of the series.
All of that flashed through Sora's mind in an instant.
"Sumire… could you reconsider?" he asked after a brief silence.
If she left, most of the staff who followed her would leave too. And then, how was he supposed to make "Voices of a Distant Stars"?
"Reconsider?" She gently bit her lip.
She was torn as well. But her bank balance was shrinking by the day.
She had started working at the studio in her first year of college, then joined full-time after graduation, spending five years there in total. For four of those years, she had been just a student intern, earning barely enough to cover living expenses and tuition. As a full-time employee, she had only worked for one year, with no chance to build any real savings.
After Hiroshi Kamakawa passed away, the studio had gone four months without paying anyone.
Tokyo wasn't a cheap city. Love for animation didn't put food on the table.
"Within a week, part of the revenue from 'The Holy Knight and the Princess' will be transferred to the company's account," Sora said firmly. "I'll pay all the back wages. And on top of that…" He looked straight at her. "I already have a brand-new original animation project in mind. I need you to stay and help me produce it."
Sumire's eyes widened.
"An… original project?"
She stared at Sora, as if trying to confirm she had heard him correctly.
"You… what are you talking about…?"