Entertainment Creator System: Building an Anime Empire

Chapter 171: Chapter 171: Two Signatures

Haruki signed two contracts on the twenty-sixth of April, one at 9:02 in the morning and one at 2:40 in the afternoon. For the first time in two lives, he read page six of each twice and found nothing hidden there at all.

The first was on the fifteenth floor of the platform’s building in Shibuya, in a small meeting room with a window over the grey rooftops. It had once been the room at the end of the corridor where Ōtsuka Masaki had logged into a terminal in a tie and printed a single page at 8:21 on a Tuesday. Nobody had changed the terminal. It sat in the corner, switched off, with a thin layer of dust on the keyboard.

Mizuno sat across the table from him with the renewal agreement between them. Ōtsuka sat at the end of the table in the Guardian’s seat, in his gardening shirt, because it was a Thursday and he had come straight from the persimmon tree. He was only there, he said, as a witness.

”Read it,” Mizuno said. She turned her cup a quarter turn. ”All of it. Twice. I’ll wait.”

He read it.

It was the same paid-tier agreement he had signed two years earlier, in almost every word. There was the same digital exclusivity for two years, and the same revenue share. The reversion clause was still there, the one he had written himself: if promotion or payment ever stopped, the creator could walk away in thirty days. Everyone’s clause was there, extended to every creator on the platform.

Section ten was gone.

There was no gap where it had been, and no heading marked Deleted. The lawyer who had drafted it nine years ago had kept his promise to delete it properly himself. He had renumbered every section after it, so that anyone reading the contract for the first time would never know it had existed.

At the very end, as an appendix, was a single page. It was voluntary, and it could be signed or left blank.

The Two Percent Pledge.

Haruki read page six twice, as he always did. It was about payment schedules. There was nothing hidden in it.

He signed the agreement at 9:02 exactly, because Mizuno had called him at 9:02 about page twelve two years ago and he thought she would like that. Then he turned to the appendix and signed that too.

Mizuno looked at the two signatures for a long moment without saying anything.

”You’re staying,” she said at last.

”I told you in December.”

”I know.” She picked up the contract and put it in a folder very carefully, as though it might bruise. ”I just wanted to see it written down.”

At the end of the table, Ōtsuka stood up, came around, and shook Haruki’s hand. His palm was rough from gardening.

”The persimmon seedling is past my shoulder now,” he said. ”My wife says it’s growing out of stubbornness.” He almost smiled. ”She wanted me to tell you that, specifically.”

The second contract was signed at 2:40 in the afternoon, at the long table at the back of Studio Hikari, above the bicycle shop in Mitaka.

He climbed all twenty-four stairs, counting as he always did, and stepped over the new pale plank at the top out of habit, the way everyone did now. The bicycle-shop owner had waved at him from the pavement below with a carpenter’s pencil behind his ear.

The studio was full. All eight owners were there, and Tachibana in his armchair by the window, with his wrist free of the brace at last. On the wall behind him, beside the faded photograph of a carpenter at the top of these same stairs, hung four words on a yellowed slip of paper. Pay when the show sells.

Hirose Kenzō sat at the end of the long table in his cardigan, with the contract in front of him and his glasses pushed up on his forehead. He had read it four times already. He had taken the train from Kichijōji that morning and read it twice more on the way.

”It’s clean,” he said, when Haruki sat down. ”It’s the cleanest adaptation agreement I’ve read in thirty years. Your director drafted it herself.” He looked at Minase over his glasses. ”You’ll forgive me, Minase-san, for saying I didn’t know a director could write a contract with no page six.”

”I had very good examples,” Minase said. ”Of what not to do.”

The agreement was short. Studio Hikari would hold the right to produce an animated adaptation of Threadless Gate. The creator would keep every other right: print, merchandise, games, and whatever came after. He would have full creative consultation, a seat in every script meeting, and a veto on any change to the series’ core rules. Nobody could take a thread away from a character who had one, and nobody could give one to a boy who didn’t.

The last clause was in Minase’s own handwriting, added to the printed draft that morning.

Page twelve of the Gate ceremony episode will be white for no less than twelve seconds.

Haruki read it and laughed out loud. Across the table, Ichinose went red to the ears.

He read page six twice. It was about delivery schedules and animation reference materials, and there was nothing hidden in it.

Tachibana held out a fountain pen across the table. It was old and black, with the gold worn off the clip.

”It was my father-in-law’s,” the old man said. ”I signed the lease for this floor with it in 1971. I’ve signed every production contract since with it, three of them.” He paused. ”None of those shows ever sold. I think the pen deserves one that does.”

Haruki took the pen and signed.

Then Tachibana signed, slowly, with his stiff wrist, beneath him. Then Minase signed as director, and one by one, the eight owners of Studio Hikari signed as witnesses. Ichinose’s hand was shaking so badly that her signature came out slightly crooked. She looked at it in horror.

”Leave it,” Tachibana said. ”Crooked is fine. Ask the prince with the crown of grass.”

The blue screen opened in front of him as the last signature dried.

It wasn’t quiet this time. For the first time in two years, it opened with a sound, a single clear chime like a bell in a temple. The screen was pale gold at the edges, the colour of a signal he had seen once for less than a second on a Sunday morning in October of the first year.

Locked Skill: Animation Production Condition 1: A director who understands the Work. — ✓ (Minase) Condition 2: A studio free to make it. — ✓ (Studio Hikari) Condition 3: The right to choose. — ✓ (April 26) SKILL UNLOCKED: Animation Production — Level 1.

He stared at it.

Below the unlock notice, in smaller text, was a line he had never seen before.

Note: This skill was listed as locked on the first screen the System ever showed the Host. It has taken 25 months. It did not unlock when the Host earned enough points. It unlocked when enough people chose to build it with him.

He sat very still at the long table, with an old man’s pen in his hand and eight people signing a contract around him.

In his first life, he had watched anime at half attention on a couch after twelve-hour days and never wondered who made it. In this life, he had watched twelve seconds of his own story move on a battered monitor above a bicycle shop and cried without trying to stop.

Now he held the pen that would make it.

Nobody at the table noticed. They were all watching Ichinose, who had put her face in her hands over her crooked signature. Tachibana was laughing so hard he had to hold his wrist again.

Minase found him afterwards on the pavement outside the bicycle shop, sitting on one of the folding chairs where two old men had once decided the fate of a building. She sat down beside him with two cans of hot coffee from the vending machine.

”Now the hard part,” she said.

He looked at her.

”The rights are ours,” Minase said. ”The story, the director, the studio, and the stairs. All of it.” She opened her can. ”But a season of anime costs two hundred million yen, maybe more. Hikari has eleven million in a loan and eight people who own their pens.” She took a sip. ”We need a production committee: a broadcaster, a publisher, maybe a music label. People willing to put money into a boy with nothing above his head.” She looked at the street. ”That’s the part Ishikawa was right about. The industry is poor. Somebody has to pay.”

”Who?”

”I don’t know yet,” Minase said. ”Tachibana-san says we’ll find them the way we found everything else. One person at a time, up the stairs.” She almost smiled. ”He also says nobody who climbs twenty-four stairs on bad knees for a meeting has ever let him down.”

Haruki’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Thursday, not Sunday. He took it out anyway.

Did you sign? Yui had written. Both?

Both, he wrote back. With an old man’s pen.

The reply came in under a minute, although it was early morning in Helsinki.

Good. I have something to tell you on Sunday. Not before. Not after.

It’s about the end of April.

[Platform renewal: Signed (9:02). Section 10: Absent. Two Percent Pledge: Signed.]

[Studio Hikari adaptation agreement: Signed (14:40). Creative consultation: Full. White page: 12 seconds (contractual).]

[Next challenge: Production funding (est. ¥200M+). Status: None secured.]