Parallel World Light Novelist

Chapter 79: Chapter 79: Signing and a New Dream Memory

Ren Hirose was a seasoned professional who had navigated the workplace for years, so it only took him a few seconds to realize he had committed a massive blunder.

He quickly understood that no one in a formal Crimson Maple Literature conference room would play such a prank. If the youth sitting there claimed to be ”Shiori Takahashi,” then it had to be the truth.

”Oh, goodness! That was entirely my mistake. My mind went blank for a second and I misidentified you. Please, forgive me,” Ren Hirose said with a practiced laugh.

He didn’t linger on the embarrassment, skillfully steering the conversation toward a more flattering angle. ”Shiori-sensei, you are truly young, handsome, and remarkably talented!”

Haruto didn’t pay much mind to the slip. It was a common enough mistake given the rumors, and he was more interested in observing Ren Hirose with curious eyes. After all, this was the man who would be responsible for bringing Anohana to the screen.

As the author, Haruto technically had very little leverage regarding the intellectual property development at this stage. The partnership with KyoAni Studios had already been negotiated by the publisher; today was simply the formality of his signature to make the collaboration official.

”I am Shiori Takahashi’s editor, Yukino Aoyama. It is a pleasure to meet you,” Yukino said, standing up with a professional smile to greet Ren Hirose.

Among the people who had entered with Ren Hirose were two legal representatives from Crimson Maple Literature. Their job was to assist Haruto and ensure the three-party agreement between the author, the publisher, and KyoAni Studios proceeded smoothly.

While it was called a signing ceremony, the primary purpose was to introduce the author to the production staff and brief him on the various conditions and details of the adaptation.

First, the total investment for the anime was set at approximately 450 million yen. The adaptation fee for the rights alone amounted to 31 million yen. In the animation industry, the licensing fee paid to the original author usually represents a small fraction of the total budget. In some cases, it can be as low as 3%. However, the standard vary, and because of the prestige of this particular project, the figure sat at 7% of the total investment.

After the split with Crimson Maple Literature and the inevitable bite from the tax office, Haruto would walk away with roughly 15 million yen. It wasn’t exactly a life-changing fortune.

So why do publishers and authors crave anime adaptations so desperately? The answer lies in the sheer market reach of video media. Most authors don’t care about the adaptation fee itself; they care about the ”Anime Effect.” A successful broadcast almost always triggers a massive surge in sales for the original novels and related merchandise.

Haruto listened to the breakdown of the fees, confirming they were within market standards before moving on. The total production cost of 450 million yen for an eleven-episode run meant each episode had a budget of nearly 41 million yen. In the Japanese animation industry, this was a solid, middle-of-the-road budget.

Since the work was currently a regional hit in Minamijo, the studio wasn’t yet willing to bet a massive, blockbuster-level investment on it.

Haruto then inquired about the broadcast schedule and platforms.

”The broadcast platform?” Ren Hirose paused to consider his words.

In this world, technology was roughly on par with the parallel world in Haruto’s memories.

However, consumer habits differed. While people in the parallel world leaned heavily toward streaming services, the audience here still preferred traditional television. Major streaming giants didn’t exist in the same capacity yet.

”We have two primary candidates for the broadcast. The first is the local station, Minamijo TV,” Ren Hirose explained. ”However, given the sheer quality of the Anohana novel, our studio is actually leaning toward a slot on Tokyo TV-7.”

Broadcasting was quite different from the world of light novel magazines. While any regional station could technically be seen nationwide, the actual viewership for a local Minamijo station was limited mostly to residents of that area. The highest traffic was concentrated in Tokyo and Osaka.

Tokyo had seven major channels, named Tokyo TV-1 through TV-7. Each of these sub-channels was managed by different corporate entities with distinct owners, though they shared a unified naming convention for the convenience of the viewers. While Tokyo TV-7 was considered a mid-tier channel in the capital, its total reach was far greater than any regional Minamijo station.

Haruto finally had a clear picture. His take-home pay from the rights was roughly 15 million yen. The studio was competent, and the anime was guaranteed to air on Minamijo TV at the very least, with a strong possibility of a Tokyo TV-7 debut. Production was expected to finish the first few episodes within four months, aiming for a premiere in the January winter season.

Finally, Haruto brought up the point he cared about most.

”Director Ren, suppose I know a musician whose work would be a perfect fit for the theme song or an insert track. Would your team be open to considering their work?”

In his previous world, the ending theme ”Secret Base ~Kimi ga Kureta Mono~” was legendary.

While KyoAni Studios might find a different, high-quality track, the odds of it reaching the emotional height of Secret Base were slim.

Haruto wanted to at least try to bring that magic to this world, regardless of whether it seemed overstepping. If they liked it, they could use it; if not, he had at least done his part.

”A song?” Ren Hirose mused for a moment. ”As long as the quality is sufficient and it doesn’t interfere with the commercial viability or censorship standards, our company respects the author’s vision. If you have a track in mind that matches the soul of the work, we would certainly consider it.”

”Tell you what. Once the contracts are finalized today, I’ll give you the direct contact information for our music supervisor in a few days. If your friend truly has something suitable, they can discuss it with him. I’ll also give you my personal contact info. If you have any reasonable suggestions regarding the production details, feel free to reach out to me directly.”

”I understand. Thank you,” Haruto replied with a satisfied smile.

A collective sigh of relief swept through the room. The deal was done. Haruto technically didn’t have the final say on the choice of partners, that right belonged to the publisher, but as the creator, he held a de facto veto.

No matter how perfect a partner Crimson Maple found, if Haruto refused to sign, the project would stall. Contracts were produced, copies for the publisher, the studio, and the author. Haruto didn’t hesitate, signing his name clearly on the dotted line.

”It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

That evening, after a celebratory dinner and several unavoidable rounds of drinks with the KyoAni team, Haruto returned home in a hazy, alcohol-induced fog. He collapsed onto his bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But in the darkness of his mind, the long-awaited dream memories flickered to life.

Through the eyes of the girl, Shiori Takahashi, he saw her sitting before a computer. This was the third or fourth time he had seen her open this particular game. Ever since she started watching the Anohana anime, she had tried to play this title several times, only to be put off by its pixelated graphics.

It wasn’t even a game in the traditional sense; it was more like a visual novel with simple pixel art and almost zero gameplay mechanics. Yet, Shiori couldn’t stop thinking about it. The game had an impossibly high user rating, and the comment section was filled with players claiming to be devastated by the ending.

”I cried for weeks.”

”I’m numb. I can’t move on from the story.”

Fans in the forums pleaded with newcomers not to be deterred by the low-resolution art or the lack of action. They insisted that the story was the only thing that mattered. Shiori was the type of person who was easily influenced by public opinion. If it weren’t for those glowing reviews, she would have deleted it long ago.

’Garbage art, garbage mechanics. We’re in an era of 4K masterpieces, and someone thinks pixel art is still acceptable?’

That was her initial thought, but curiosity was winning. If a game this ugly was this popular, the writing had to be divine.

She focused on the screen. The game began with an old man on his deathbed, clinging to a final, desperate wish. The players controlled two doctors, a man and a woman, who utilized advanced technology to enter the dying man’s memories. They were paid to fulfill his wish within his mind before his heart stopped.

The wish was simple, yet inexplicable: he wanted to go to the moon.

The title appeared on the screen.

To the Moon

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