Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

It seems some people still don’t understand the selection process.

Marvin is a demon. Amber was a mess—but she was a hot mess. A demon doesn’t care about someone’s baggage if they’re attractive enough. And the demon will be the one who will stick in crazy. If Osama or Hitler had been hot women, Marvin would’ve still stick in them without much thought. They’re extreme examples, but they get the point across.

Nobody is more twisted than a demon. He doesn’t give a fuck about their past or their future as long as they meet his standards of beauty.

Remember, this isn’t my list. It’s Marvin’s. I am not imposing my personal beliefs on my character.

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*****

”Correct.” Marvin affirmed the text. ”If an editor recommends a change and you disagree, your creative vision governs the outcome. They can advise strongly, but implementation requires your explicit signature.”

Kishimoto looked at him for a long, silent moment. Skepticism burned away, leaving only the daunting reality of the opportunity standing before him.

”Why do this?” Kishimoto asked softly. ”You hand away forty percent of the IP. You surrender creative control. You pay premium rates. Why offer a deal favoring the artist so heavily?”

Marvin picked up his teacup, taking a slow sip before answering.

”Because a magazine filled with stories produced by creators retaining full emotional and financial investment in their work will always defeat a magazine filled with stories produced under the crushing anxiety of corporate exploitation.” Marvin’s tone rang with absolute conviction. ”The creators signing this contract will produce transcendent art because they do not expend their energy managing financial vulnerability. Better art sells more copies. More copies generate global franchise value. And frankly, my sixty percent of a sprawling, global investment yields infinitely more worth than retaining ninety percent of a small, struggling comic book.”

The cold business argument wrapped in a creator’s empathy delivered the truth in both dimensions. Kishimoto heard it clearly.

He looked at the contract. He looked at the bank transfer. He looked at the twelve-year-old visionary speaking with the seasoned authority of an industry veteran, utilizing pristine Japanese and projecting a sincerity impossible to dismiss.

Kishimoto reached across the table and picked up the pen Amy had set down.

He signed his name.

The remainder of the lunch flowed with the eased tension of two professionals concluding a monumental negotiation, finally free to simply enjoy the food. They discussed *Naruto* in depth. Kishimoto outlined his ideas for the character dynamics and the expanded world-building required before the academy exams.

Marvin listened with intense engagement. He did not offer polite nods; he provided structural feedback, validating Kishimoto’s instincts to give the narrative room to breathe, providing guidance based on future events to prevent him from repeating the mistakes made in the previous timeline.

”Target January 1999 for your debut Chapter.” Amy instructed, consulting her schedule. ”That provides you four months to finalize the opening Chapter and outline the subsequent arc.”

”Four months proves manageable.” Relief relaxed Kishimoto’s posture. ”With the funds to hire proper assistants, it proves more than manageable.”

When the meal concluded, they stood near the restaurant’s entrance for the customary farewell bows. Kishimoto looked at Marvin, his expression reflecting the paradigm shift he just experienced.

”Meyers-san.” Kishimoto paused near the sliding door. ”One question.”

”Yes.”

”How old are you, truly?”

Marvin met his gaze with the composed, unhurried calm of an entity walking the earth for centuries.

”Old enough to recognize a legacy when I see one.”

Kishimoto bowed again, the depth of the gesture communicating a profound, newly forged respect. ”I look forward to building this creator’s first history with you.”

”As do I.”

As Kishimoto stepped out into the humid Shinjuku afternoon, Marvin and Amy turned toward their waiting transport.

”He will deliver.” Amy reviewed her binder.

”He will.” Marvin agreed. ”The pilot proved his potential. The contract secured his loyalty.”

”And the one million reader target clause?”

”We will surpass one point three million readers before his first volume goes to print.” Marvin stated the projection effortlessly. ”A highly conservative estimate.”

Amy merely nodded, having long ago learned to stop betting against his conservative estimates.

The armored car carried them back into the sprawling expanse of Tokyo. The city moved around them, a complex, continuous engine of commerce and ambition. In the quiet of the backseat, Marvin opened his notebook. He wrote down four simple words, establishing the structural outline for *Naruto’s* inaugural serialization arc.

He closed the notebook. The studio expanded exactly on schedule. More work always waited.

---

The meeting did not take place in a boardroom. It happened in a tea house tucked into a side street in a narrow, two-story wooden building wedged between a noodle shop and a tobacconist.

Marvin ducked beneath the hanging *noren* curtains to enter. Despite his youth, his aura carried the same gravitational pull as any towering executive. The walls of the small, fragrant room held faded movie posters—Kurosawa classics and obscure French films—while the shelves groaned under a chaotic library of animation reference books and rolled-up storyboards.

Three men sat at a low wooden table in the back of the room. They looked up when Marvin entered, their expressions guarded. They received word the President of Scarlet Capital, the entity wiring them five million dollars, wanted to buy them tea. They remained unsure how to handle the fact their financial savior functioned as a twelve-year-old famous musician.

Marvin arrived alone, save for Amy, who sat quietly beside him, her notebook ready.

The three men rose as Marvin approached.

Masao Maruyama, in his late fifties, bore the deeply tired face of a man working eighteen-hour days since his youth, making peace with the arrangement. He spent years at Osamu Tezuka’s Mushi Production before founding Madhouse on the principle of absolute creative freedom.

Osamu Dezaki sat beside him, his sharp eyes evaluating the boy. Yoshiaki Kawajiri, in his late forties, radiated a quiet, intense energy. He sat slightly apart from the other two, his posture rigid, his hands wrapped around a teacup.

Marvin suppressed a smile. He knew these men. He knew Kawajiri’s *Ninja Scroll*. He knew the fluid violence, the dynamic camera work, the legendary status they held in the industry.

”Gentlemen.” Marvin spoke in flawless Japanese, settling onto the floor cushion across from them. ”Thank you for meeting me.”

Maruyama responded with a formal greeting, polite but measured. Tension hung palpable in the air; Madhouse accepted the $5 million buyout to survive the Asian Financial Crisis, but they still waited for the corporate hammer to fall.

”I’ll be direct.” Marvin bypassed the pleasantries. ”I did not arrive to dictate how you run your studio. The autonomy clauses in your contract stand ironclad. I’ve seen your work. Maruyama-san, the foundation you built after leaving Mushi Pro is legendary. Dezaki-san, your storyboarding and directorial vision remain unparalleled. And Kawajiri-san.” Marvin locked eyes with the intense director. ”You possess an eye for kinetic action unlike anything else in this country.”

Kawajiri’s expression held steady, but his grip on the teacup tightened fractionally.

”You took my capital to keep the lights on.” Marvin continued. ”But I didn’t buy Madhouse just to keep the lights on. I bought you so you could execute what you do best without worrying about bankruptcy. I want you to expand and build something massive.”

”What kind of work?” Dezaki asked softly.

”I don’t want standard Saturday morning cartoons.” Marvin leaned forward. ”I want fluid motion. I want the kind of dynamic energy live-action cameras fail to capture. Impossible angles, superhuman motion, visual storytelling pushing the absolute boundary of the medium.”

Maruyama made calculations in his mind. Kawajiri leaned forward.

”What kind of stories?” Kawajiri asked. It marked the first time he spoke.

Marvin met his eyes. ”I harbor a property launched previous week in *Shōnen Blaze*. Its name is *Avatar: The Last Airbender*.”

Amy produced a thick, premium-bound folder from her bag and laid it on the table. Inside rested the character sheets for Aang, Zuko, Katara, and Sokka, alongside detailed illustrations of the power system—the bending arts. But more importantly, the folder contained the whole Manga.

Marvin spread them across the table. The three animators leaned in.

”This is a world divided into four nations, each capable of manipulating a specific element—Water, Earth, Fire, and Air.” Marvin explained the lore. ”The powers do not operate as magical incantations. They root entirely in physical martial arts. The bending acts as an extension of the body’s movement.”

Dezaki picked up a character sheet showing Aang manipulating an air scooter, and another showing Zuko mid-kick, a wave of fire trailing his heel.

”The elements aren’t just visual flair.” Marvin pointed to the art. ”They function as living, breathing extensions of the characters’ martial arts styles. Water flows fluid and redirective, based on Tai Chi. Earth remains rigid and grounded, based on Hung Gar. Fire burns aggressive and explosive, Northern Shaolin. Air moves evasive and circular, Ba Gua.”

Maruyama started sketching on a napkin. His pen moved rapidly, translating the martial arts stances into a rough suggestion of motion, the fire trailing from the ink like a physical force.

”For animation,” Maruyama murmured, his eyes locked on his sketch, ”this presents a massive undertaking. To animate the elements as physical extensions of martial arts... it requires a deep understanding of human anatomy and weight distribution.”

”And that is exactly why I brought it to Madhouse.” Marvin stated his reasoning. ”You hold permission to push the frame counts to the limit. The bending sequences must flow as fluid and dynamic as possible. No still frames. No panning over static backgrounds to save money. We approach elemental combat as a refined, kinetic discipline designed to exhilarate and engage.

Kawajiri studied the character sheets with a burning intensity. ”How many episodes?”

”Eighty,” Marvin answered.

Maruyama’s pen stopped. He looked up from his napkin.

”Eighty episodes.” Marvin repeated the number. ”Three distinct seasons. Twenty-two minutes each. And I want the quality to hit the highest mark ever achieved for television animation. I want the action sequences to move with an intensity making every other studio in Tokyo look like they paint with their fingers.”

”Budget,” Maruyama said. The single word contained an entire negotiation.

”I know standard anime episodes cost around four to five million yen.” Marvin laid out the financials. ”I want to spend triple. Fifteen million yen per episode. That equates to roughly one hundred thousand dollars per episode at current exchange rates.”

”At that budget...” Maruyama dragged the words out slowly. The exhaustion in his face vanished, replaced by the sheer thrill of unlimited resources. ”We can afford double the key animators per sequence. Top-tier in-between work. We can animate every martial arts movement fully.”

”The elemental effects.” Dezaki’s eyes widened. ”We could treat the fire and water as actual characters... fluid dynamics on a TV schedule.”

Marvin looked at the three of them.

”Eighty episodes.” Marvin set the parameters. ”We move into pre-production immediately to coincide with the manga launch. Total budget for the series, including the per-episode costs and any facility upgrades you need, hits around eight million dollars which doesn’t involve facility upgrades.”

”Eight million.” Maruyama breathed the number. He set down his pen and looked at Marvin, finally understanding the boy did not operate as a corporate vulture. He acted as a patron.

”There is one condition.” Marvin’s voice hardened slightly. ”The quality must remain undeniable. When this series airs, I need it to stand as a global phenomenon. I want it visually stunning enough to redefine the standard for the entire industry.”

”We can do that,” Maruyama vowed, fierce pride lacing his voice.

”Then we have a deal,” Marvin finalized the agreement.

They spent the next hour detailing the practicalities—staffing the project, securing martial arts consultants, and aligning the animation timeline with the manga’s release schedule.

Marvin didn’t need to rename them or build a new studio. He simply handed Madhouse, the most prestigious animation house in Japan, the financial freedom to create a masterpiece. And in return, he secured the crown jewel of his growing anime empire.

They shook hands, all four of them, across the low wooden table. Meyers Media Japan secured another dedicated animation studio in Tokyo, staffed by three men destined to become legends, funded by a mogul witnessing their future and deciding to invest in it.

---

— September 10th, 1998

The flight from Tokyo to Seoul took approximately two and a half hours. It provided just enough time for Marvin to review the thick briefing documents Amy prepared, make three precise notations in his operational notebook, and arrive at Gimpo International Airport maintaining unruffled composure.

Seoul in September 1998 carried a distinct, bleeding quality Tokyo lacked. It projected the aura of a city surviving something acute and violent, rather than something chronic and slow.

Japan’s economic difficulties arose as the long-accumulated consequences of an asset bubble deflating slowly over seven agonizing years. The poison metabolized through the Japanese banking system in measured increments proving painful, yes, but rarely catastrophic in any single, defining moment.

South Korea’s crisis hit fundamentally different.

It struck sharper. Faster. Deeper.

The currency—the won—collapsed with the terrifying velocity of a building looking structurally sound one morning, and simply vanishing by nightfall.

The humiliating IMF bailout. The brutal, mandated corporate restructuring. The sweeping unemployment moving through the proud population with the jarring, indiscriminate speed of a plague unanticipated, even by the powerful politicians tasked with watching the horizon for it.

In all of Asia, this proud nation arguably stood the most deeply, visibly affected by the 1997 currency crisis. A country proudly counting itself as the ”first world”—the rising, unstoppable tiger of the East—suddenly found itself downgraded to a second-tier economy overnight. In some shattered industrial districts, the desperation felt almost third-world.

*****

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