The cross-promotion strategy worked well, with each party benefiting and maintaining a good reputation.
The Children of the Star Ring project was even more noteworthy.
What creative departnts fear most is managent ddling and amateurs dictating to experts.
Hattori handled this matter with clarity, giving the creative team ample room to innovate while providing only high-level strategic guidance.
For example, he would remind the team to differentiate their works: "If you've created a passionate fighting ga world, the next project should shift the tone. We don't want all our IP to compete on the sa selling points."
This is also a key reason why Sega's IP matrix can reach diverse audience segnts.
When Takuya Nakayama arrived, Hattori was in his office reviewing a quarterly sales report for rchandise.
Hearing the knock, he looked up, put down the report, and stood.
"Takuya, you didn't need to bring anything," Hattori said, smiling and shaking his head as he glanced at the bag in Takuya's hand.
"Uncle Hattori," Takuya greeted naturally.
This "uncle" wasn't just a formality.
Hattori had known Shu Nakayama, Takuya's father, for decades. When Takuya was a child, he often attended company events with his father, and Hattori had even held him as a baby.
Given their families' long-standing relationship, there was no need for formality during their private eting.
Hattori rounded the desk and invited Takuya Nakayama to sit. He then went to a nearby cabinet, retrieved two cups, and poured tea.
"Hayao called a couple of days ago," Hattori said, pushing a teacup toward Takuya and getting straight to the point. "I support you regarding the President position. You didn't need to co all this way."
Takuya took the cup and shook his head. "Precisely because you agreed so readily, Uncle, I felt I had to co in person. A simple thank you over the phone wouldn't suffice."
"You're a good kid," Hattori said with a smile. He didn't press the issue further, picked up his cup, and took a sip. "When Hayao told , my first thought was—it's long overdue. You've been leading the charge for the past two years while also managing so many other responsibilities behind the scenes. It would be wrong not to give you proper recognition. Besides, he's always talking about his grandson these days. I suspect he's been eager to retire for a while now."
Takuya didn't respond to this. Instead, he placed a bag on the desk.
The contents were simple: a file folder, slightly more decorated than usual, but nothing overly elaborate.
Hattori glanced at him. "What's this?"
"Uncle Shu has run Sega Galaxy so smoothly and has supported so much, I had to show my appreciation," Takuya Nakayama said, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed tone. "I doubt I'll get the chance to help him in a crisis, but I can at least add a little flourish."
"Cut the crap," Hattori said, though his hands were already reaching for the file folder.
Inside, two separate folders were tucked away.
The first folder bore the GAINAX logo.
Hattori paused.
He opened the folder, his eyes quickly scanning the contents before looking up at Takuya.
"Equity Partnership Agreent, Priority Copyright Developnt Agreent, and the Joint Venture Agreent for the Neon Genesis Evangelion Production Committee," Hattori said, closing the folder and tapping the cover twice with his fingers. "How did you pull this off?"
The question was pointed.
GAINAX's reputation was notorious in the industry.
They'd burned through a fortune on Royal Space Force and poured money into Gunbuster, yet both had earned critical acclaim but little profit.
After finally waiting for The Sapphire Mystery to beco a massive hit, GAINAX reaped a mountain of fa but saw little real money fall into their own pockets because they had only been contracted to produce it.
These experiences had made GAINAX's managent extrely tight-fisted about controlling equity and project revenue, making it difficult for outsiders to intervene.
"It wasn't who secured the deal," Takuya Nakayama said, picking up his teacup and taking a sip. "Hideaki Anno helped."
"Anno?"
"He approached last year when he was planning his new project," Nakayama said, setting down his cup. "He wanted to get involved and help him retain core control over the copyright."
Hattori's brow twitched slightly. He put down the folder and leaned back in his chair.
"Did he have a falling out with GAINAX?"
"I wouldn't call it a falling out," Nakayama said, carefully choosing his words. "But over the past decade, Anno has grown sowhat critical of GAINAX's managent style. Differences in business philosophy have accumulated over ti."
"He chose to make EVA at GAINAX this ti partly out of loyalty to the company they founded together, and partly..."
He paused.
"...partly as a final chance for his old company."
Hattori was silent for a few seconds, then nodded. "So he brought you in as a safeguard for himself."
"Pretty much. With Sega's influence on the production committee, GAINAX's managent would think twice before trying anything funny."
"Hideaki Anno is a creative genius, but his social skills have always been a mystery," Hattori mused. "The fact that he sought you out shows that your reputation in the ani industry has truly been established over the years."
"It's not that complicated," Takuya Nakayama waved his hand. "Simply put, I've helped them make money, and they enjoy working with . What creators fear most is working hard only to have the profits snatched away. I figured it out: whoever controls the source of profit should be the first to benefit. That way, they'll be more motivated next ti."
Hattori smiled. "That logic sounds simple, but few people actually put it into practice."
Takuya Nakayama didn't dwell on the topic, nudging the folder on the table with his chin. "Uncle, take a look at the second one."
Hattori picked up the second folder. The title on the cover read: Rurouni Kenshin—iji Swordsman Romantic Tale 1.
"[ Rurouni Kenshin ]?" Hattori recognized the na. "The one serialized in [ Shonen Jump ] this year?"
"Yes, Nobuhiro Watsuki's work. It's incredibly popular right now."
Hattori opened the folder, revealing two docunts.
The first was a ga copyright license, which didn't surprise him.
He looked closer at the second—a live-action film adaptation license.
"I understand the ga license," Hattori said, spreading the folder on the table and tapping the film license with his index finger. "But what's this? Since when does Sega do film adaptations?"
Takuya Nakayama's expression was sowhat awkward, as if he found the situation itself rather absurd.
"It's a long story. When I went to Shueisha to negotiate the ga rights with Watsuki, the conversation sohow drifted toward a film adaptation."
"How did you go from discussing gas to film adaptations?"
"Watsuki himself brought it up. He said he'd always wanted to see Kenshin in a live-action adaptation, but he didn't want to make it a traditional Japanese samurai film—the kind with formal sword drawing and a single, decisive slash. That style is so different from how Kenshin fights in the manga. He joked that he wished it could feel more like a Chinese wuxia drama."
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