It was eleven at night…
Sora Kamakawa dragged himself back ho, exhausted. The apartnt had four bedrooms, yet despite its size, it no longer felt secure-his father had already used it as collateral for a bank loan. The place felt both familiar and strangely distant at the sa ti. His first day after everything had changed was still unfolding, and no matter how much he tried to ignore it, there were countless things he would have to get used to.
He turned on the stove, set the pan down, poured in so oil. The sizzle ca instantly. Two eggs cracked and popped in the pan, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he flipped them both at once, as if this simple motion were the only thing in his life that still worked smoothly.
Once they were done, he placed the eggs into a bowl, opened a pack of instant ran, added a sausage, and poured in boiling water. Two minutes later, a so-called "luxury" al sat in front of him-the kind of dinner only soone short on ti, money, and options would ever describe that way.
Eating as if it were his first proper al of the day, Sora pulled out the manuscript notebook he kept at ho, the one reserved for production drafts and planning notes.
"I need to write the script for Voices of a Distant Star as soon as possible."
He knew exactly what procrastination led to. Earlier that day, he had managed to keep Sumire talking long enough to stop her from resigning on the spot. But she had been clear about one thing: she wanted to read the script for Voices of a Distant Star before deciding whether she would stay with the company or not. And Sora couldn't afford to stall.
In theory, writing a text script for an animated work wasn't the hardest part. The real hell ca afterward-turning that script into a storyboard, cut by cut. That was where things beca truly brutal.
Before any animation could be born-setting aside funding, sponsorships, and negotiations-the first real step was always the creation of the script and the storyboard. And for a short work of just over twenty minutes, that ant hundreds of shots. Every single one of those cuts had to exist on paper, drawn out, planned carefully, each with a clear purpose.
It was the kind of work that devoured ti.
Of course, he could sketch the storyboard at a very basic level. Plenty of animation directors weren't particularly skilled artists. But that wasn't the point.
The real goal was to make sure that whoever received those storyboards-key animators, animation supervisors, layout artists-could imdiately understand what he was trying to convey.
In a single cut, how many characters appeared? Was the cara angle low, high, or from the side? Was the character moving or standing still? Was their expression calm, tense, or overflowing with emotion? What kind of emotional weight was that image ant to carry? What feeling was it supposed to leave lingering in the viewer's chest?
And even then, storyboards alone were never a guarantee. During production, the director had to constantly communicate, revise, insist, and adjust-guiding both the artwork and the backgrounds so that everything stayed true to the core intent of the piece.
That said, the storyboard could wait a little. At the very least, it made sense to start that phase after he managed to assemble a minimum production team.
The script, however, couldn't wait.
If Sumire would only decide after reading it, then he had to produce sothing tonight-no excuses. Even if it ant staying up all night.
In his head, it sounded simple.
In reality… nothing was that easy.
An animation script had its own strict format, completely different from a school essay, a diary, or any ordinary piece of writing. And Sora was struggling to juggle two things at once: recalling, in precise detail, the story of Voices of a Distant Star that lived in his mories… and drawing out, from the remnants of the original owner of this body, the technical knowledge required to write a proper animation script.
Those two "layers" clashed head-on.
It was a strange sensation-like his brain was itching from the inside, as if he were literally growing new neural pathways while forcing himself to work. Progress was painfully slow, far slower than he wanted.
…
anwhile, in a small rented apartnt in a residential complex, Sumire-now dressed in a pure white pajama set-sat in her living room watching a specific ani.
The very ani that had plunged Dream Animation into its recent crisis, caused loss after loss, and pushed the company to the brink of bankruptcy.
The Sacred Knight and the Princess.
The glow of the television reflected in her eyes. Her pale, refined face was serious, completely focused on the screen.
"Sir Slan, the Sacred Knight… are you really going to be this heartless? In your eyes, does my body truly hold no appeal at all?"
"Princess… I… I am rely your vassal. Y-you can't…"
The voice actors' performances filled the room, rich with emotion. Listening to the audio alone might give the wrong impression, but there was nothing inappropriate on screen-this was a TV broadcast ani, after all. Explicit content simply wasn't an option.
As she watched, Sumire took notes with a pen, marking down what she personally believed were the weaknesses of the production.
Because yes-The Sacred Knight and the Princess was exactly the kind of work that flooded the market: an isekai with harem elents, adventure, romance, fanservice, battles, and cheap humor. It checked every box.
The problem was that, in that particular season, there were dozens of similar titles-many with larger budgets and far better execution. Hardcore ani fans could barely keep up with the high-profile productions. Who, in their right mind, would stop to watch a low-budget story about a "forbidden romance" between a knight and a married princess?
"…Sigh." Sumire exhaled and let herself fall back onto the couch.
Her black hair spread out like water, her body curling slightly, as if even her posture betrayed her frustration.
"Just like I thought… it's really boring."
She had worked on this ani, yet she didn't like it at all.
The script was riddled with plot holes, the logic stumbled from scene to scene, and aside from episode four and episode nine-where she had personally pushed the production quality higher-the rest of the series made its lack of care painfully obvious. Choppy animation, subtle character distortions, hollow backgrounds with no impact or presence.
Five years.
From her first year in college until now, five full years had passed.
During that ti, Sumire had worked on three complete TV ani productions, as well as countless outsourced episodes the company picked up here and there. And yet… she had never once been involved in an animation she genuinely found interesting.
Dream Animation was simply too small. Too invisible.
Major studios never entrusted them with important episodes of high-profile series. And the company's own original works were, at best, this kind of disposable isekai-empty, soulless, created rely to fill broadcast slots.
In the end, it was the reality faced by many people in the industry. You enter with the belief that one day you'll work on an ani you truly love. But years pass, and you find yourself endlessly producing the very kind of shows you would have switched off within two minutes back when you were just a viewer.
Sumire's reason for entering this world had always been simple: love.
As a child, after watching a classic animated film called Star Troopers on television, she had fallen completely in love with animation. And for all these years, the only thing that had driven her forward was a stubborn dream-to take part in a work that genuinely moved people. A story the audience would love. One that, years later-maybe ten, maybe more-would still be rembered fondly.
And yet…
Five years into the industry, she felt as though she were drifting farther and farther away from that dream.
It wasn't just that she failed to move the audience. She herself had yet to work on a single episode that truly moved her.
Each cheap production, each carelessly made project, slowly consud the intense passion she had carried since childhood.
The Sacred Knight and the Princess was already dull enough on its own. And what would co next…?
For once, uncertainty flickered across Sumire's eyes. She thought back to the conversation she'd had that afternoon in the office-with Sora.
…
Two days later, on the afternoon of December 16th, the employees of Dream Animation finally received the salaries they had been waiting for.
At the sa ti, Sumire received a call from Sora, asking her to co to his office.
The company president, Sora Kamakawa, had faint dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept properly in days. On the desk in front of him lay a thin stack of neatly printed pages.
On the first page, a title was printed in large, clear letters.
Voices of a Distant Star.
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