An ani that could move you to tears… and still leave your chest light, as if sothing inside you had quietly been put back in place.
To anyone reading that from the outside, it sounded contradictory.
A tragedy like Voices of a Distant Star - but with "healing" at the end? So was it a warm cody? A slice-of-life full of gentle jokes and cozy monts? And when people combined that with Natsu Yuujinchou's premise - everyday life with youkai, strange encounters, nas, promises - the uncertainty only grew.
A lot of the people who had arrived because of Voices of a Distant Star and started following the new project's official account simply couldn't picture what kind of ani this would be. And honestly, they couldn't be blad. Even in his previous life, Sora hadn't seen many titles that could land that kind of "healing" the right way. There were one or two truly unforgettable examples… and everyone else who tried to copy it only managed to mimic the surface, never the taste. The feeling was always missing.
After pinning that reply, Sora moved on. He didn't have ti to manage fan expectations in real ti. What mattered now was work. But those who were interested in the project held onto that bright look in their eyes - the almost childlike anticipation of seeing sothing rare.
"If it's even close to Voices of a Distant Star, I'm in. I'll follow first and worry later."
"I still can't believe Yumi liked Voices of a Distant Star so much she actually invested in the director's second work."
"If Natsu Yuujinchou has the sa quality and it's a full seasonal cour… when it starts airing, it's going to flip the market."
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm not. Voices of a Distant Star aired on a regional channel and still sold over twenty-five thousand Blu-rays in the first week. If it had been a cour series, with more ti to build popularity, it wouldn't have ended up 'only' fifth in average sales for that winter season. I'd bet money it could've knocked down the four productions funded by the major networks."
"That's all speculation. Voices of a Distant Star blew up because Yumi promoted it hard, and a bunch of well-known animators in Tokyo posted praise. That's why the BD numbers exploded… anwhile Natsu is everyday youkai life. No cha, no space battles, none of those insane storyboards people called a 'circus.' And it's already confird it'll air on a regional channel again… People should stop setting expectations so high. 'Flipping the market' talk just attracts hate."
"If it sells half of Voices of a Distant Star's average, in that region, it's already a ridiculous miracle. Stop comparing it to major-network productions. Nationwide broadcast versus Shikoku-and-neighbors broadcast… it's literally heaven and earth."
"Also… the project was just approved and you're already debating this? Isn't it too early?"
"Early or not, I'm supporting Sora. I want him to keep the directing style he showed in Voices of a Distant Star: bold, creative, with a real identity. Please, for the love of God, don't let him fall into the market's current template… ani that's nothing but 'cute' bait or cheap fanservice. That stuff is painful to watch."
And just like that, in a single day, the numbers climbed.
Sora's Natsuyu account hit seventy thousand followers.
Sumire's reached ninety thousand.
And Natsu Yuujinchou's official account climbed to one hundred and thirty thousand.
Yumi's influence was real - but it wasn't magic. One post from her didn't turn any production into an instant phenonon. What happened was more organic: the fans who truly loved Voices of a Distant Star naturally followed the director's next work. Everyone else simply stored the information away, leaving a faint mark in mory: Oh, that project exists. With repetition and ti, curiosity grew, and the wider crowd slowly began to pay attention too.
May slipped away without asking permission.
June arrived.
And with it, Yu Animation pushed Natsu Yuujinchou into full motion.
They hired four new production assistants at once - four "production progress" staff, as the studio called them. According to the plan, each would handle the workflow for three episodes. It wasn't luxury; it was necessity. Without people holding logistics, scheduling, and outsourced coordination together, any ani turned into chaos before it even truly began.
Ren, who had proven his competence during Voices of a Distant Star, was promoted into production managent. It was a serious jump, and he knew it - but it was also the kind of responsibility you only receive when soone believes you won't collapse the mont the first crisis hits.
Overall animation supervision remained in Haruto's hands - Sora's "uncle," a veteran with over twenty years at the desk, a trained eye, and the kind of patience only decades in the industry could forge. And for a daily-life series like Natsu, which didn't demand constant technical spectacle, he was more than capable of keeping the drawings consistent and correcting deviations before they spread.
Character design, on the other hand, didn't stay in-house. Yu Animation managed to pull in an experienced figure from another studio: Erina, a veteran key animator known for clean lines and clear readability. That kind of hire didn't happen by accident - it cost money, demanded negotiation, required a solid offer. But it also signaled sothing simple: they weren't playing around.
With the new recruitnt, the number of in-house key animators jumped from six to thirteen.
Even then, it still wasn't enough.
Even with a larger team, certain cuts and backgrounds would need to be outsourced to trusted partners. Not out of laziness - out of mathematics. A cour of ani is a machine that doesn't wait. If you try to do everything alone without structure, the show doesn't "run late"…
It dies.
For background art, Sora held firm to his decision: he entrusted that sector once again to the studio tied to Ren - the sa team he'd worked with successfully on Voices of a Distant Star. In Tokushima - and Shikoku in general - recruiting strong background artists quickly was difficult. This wasn't Tokyo, where talent was everywhere. Here, anyone truly good was already locked into a stable company, and pulling soone away like that required money, ti, and luck.
On top of that, Ren's na had gained value after the previous project. The lush, almost dreamlike backgrounds in Voices of a Distant Star had been widely praised, and his reputation rose with them. When Sora suggested working together again, the answer ca fast, without hesitation: yes.
Add in the newly recruited photography team, the expanded compositing staff, and the music-and-effects crew… and when the dust finally settled, Yu Animation had reached thirty-five people.
Still not enough to produce an entire ani completely in-house.
But Sora understood what truly mattered.
The goal wasn't to do everything under one roof. The goal was to keep the right people in the key positions. When the critical roles were held by "their own," communication costs dropped, decisions moved faster, and - most importantly - quality control stopped being a gamble.
They spent an entire week on nothing but this.
Small etings, big etings - etings that turned into argunts, argunts that turned into schedule edits. More than ten formal sessions, not counting hallway talks and late-night ssages.
Until, finally, the full workflow was locked in: who did what, when it was due, who it passed to, where the bottlenecks were likely to appear, where the biggest risks lived.
And when that eting ended, a new phase opened for Sora and Sumire.
Now ca the work that truly shaped the soul of an ani.
Storyboards.
Directing drafts.
Decisions of rhythm and silence.
The kind of choices the audience never sees…
But always feels.
Yumi, who had been spending entire days at the studio "observing as an investor," had joined a few of the etings. And the mont she looked at the detailed schedule - dozens of steps, each with deadlines down to the day - she felt her scalp tingle.
"This looks like… a nightmare," she admitted, staring at the table like it was a curse.
In the past, she'd open her computer, record a video, and tear into a bad ani without rcy. But now, seeing that maze of processes, she began to realize sothing uncomfortable: even "trash ani" had to pass through this hell. It carried the sweat of dozens - sotis hundreds - of people. And she… she crushed all of that online with sarcasm, like it was just another disposable product.
Guilt wasn't enough to make her stop.
But it was enough to leave a scratch.
"If everything goes exactly according to plan - with quality and no delays - you can breathe," Sumire replied calmly, studying the papers with seriousness. "The problem is, ani never goes according to plan. Sothing always happens… and when it does, that's when it becos real hell."
She said it, and without aning to, her gaze slid to Sora.
At the end of Voices of a Distant Star, with only two or three weeks left, he'd caused a storm: he decided to replace entire battle scenes. That period had ripped sleep away from everyone. The internal staff, the outsourced partners, the collaborators… there were days when five hours of sleep felt like luxury.
"I see…" Yumi murmured, and then smiled, as if her conclusion was both absurd and inevitable. "If a disaster like that happens again, I'll have content for my videos. My followers will love watching the chaos behind the scenes."
The comnt ca out far too light, shalessly so.
Sumire didn't get irritated. Over these past days, she and Yumi had gotten along surprisingly well. Yumi liked people who worked seriously - and Sumire was exactly that. And for the "educational" videos Yumi wanted to produce about ani production, it was Sumire who answered everything in detail, as if she were - without noticing - becoming that influencer's unofficial consultant.
Sora cleared his throat, uncomfortable with how unfiltered she was.
"That's exactly why… as director, I'll do my best to avoid that kind of situation," he said, trying to sound firm, as if he could make that promise to fate itself.
Then he turned to Sumire.
She was calm, as always - composed, steady - like that world of deadlines and risks was simply… her natural environnt.
And for so reason, that made Sora even more aware of how much he relied on her.
"And over the next few months…" he said seriously. "I'm going to need you a lot, Sumire."
It wasn't empty praise. Even after directing Voices of a Distant Star, Sora still had zero real experience with what truly defined a full cour. A short film or a smaller project lets you breathe. A season forces you to maintain rhythm, consistency, and decisions under pressure for weeks on end.
A different scale.
A different monster.
Sumire straightened.
"We're in the sa boat," her voice ca out steady. "I'm only a little older, and I entered this industry a few years earlier. But with your talent… it's very possible that during Natsu, you'll show even more creative directing thods. And if that happens, it might be who needs to learn from you."
The two of them spoke like they were standing in a formal ceremony.
Yumi looked from one to the other and made a face.
"You two…" she cut in, laughing. "Do you really have to talk this weirdly? I feel like I'm watching so bargain-bin corporate drama."
The tension that had gotten too serious snapped in an instant.
She crossed her legs, rested her chin on her hand, and smiled - now with a competitive sparkle in her eyes. Not gossip.
Ambition.
"Since you two love speaking so beautifully…" Yumi leaned forward. "Then think about what actually matters. What's your target for Natsu Yuujinchou? What result do you want to achieve?"
"Target…"
Sumire repeated the word in her mind, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully, as if she were already pulling numbers and scenarios out of thin air.
And the silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was the kind of silence that announces a decision.
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