Parallel World Light Novelist

Following the death of Shirley, the narrative underwent a palpable acceleration. To put it bluntly, the story finally stopped stalling and began to charge headlong into its endgame.

In previous episodes, the progression of the main plot had been quite limited. However, after EP 13, the high school subplots that many fans had complained about finally vanished for good.

Shirley’s death served as a massive catalyst for Lelouch, spurring him to sound the horn for a total counter-offensive against Britannia. It also sowed the seeds of doubt in Suzaku’s mind regarding whether Lelouch had truly regained his memories as Zero and whether he was the shadow behind Shirley’s murder.

Then came Episode 15. Lelouch, fueled by his hatred for his father, targeted a mysterious being named V.V., the Emperor’s brother and a fellow supplier of Geass powers. Alongside C.C., Lelouch launched a surprise attack. However, in a shocking twist, the Emperor reached V.V. first, seizing his brother’s Code, the power to grant Geass and attain immortality.

The Emperor then attempted to seize C.C.’s Code as well. To save Lelouch, C.C. prepared to sacrifice herself to give him a chance to escape. At the critical moment, Lelouch’s words reignited her will to live, and they managed to flee together. However, due to the interference of the Emperor’s power, C.C. lost her memories.

In short, Episodes 14 and 15 were breathlessly paced. The amount of world-building and lore revealed in these two episodes alone exceeded everything the second season had shown up to that point. When a story finally starts delivering the ”good stuff,” the fans naturally show up in droves. Episode 15, in particular, featured an amnesiac C.C. who reverted to her personality from centuries ago when she was still a slave, a development that tapped into a specific niche of fan service for the C.C. faction. Consequently, the viewership ratings for Episode 15 surged back to the 6.50% mark.

This constant fluctuation around the 6.5% threshold, sitting just a hair’s breadth away from Madoka Magica’s record of 6.51%, sent ripples through the entire anime industry.

People were losing their minds. Every time it looked like the show was losing momentum, it would come back with a vengeance. That 0.01% gap had now been challenged twice.

Meanwhile, Sword Art Online aired its second episode. Its ratings showed a steady climb, closing at 5.61%. Based on this trajectory, it was highly likely that the show would break the 6% barrier within the current season. If the quality of the upcoming episodes held up, it might even challenge Code Geass for dominance in the winter market.

Over at NOVA Studio, the entire production team had spent the last two weeks in a state of dazed disbelief. These ratings were the highest in the studio’s history. While a significant portion of the royalties from Blu-rays, merchandise, and international licensing had to be paid out to Haruto and Kiyozawa Library. The remaining profit was projected to be an astronomical figure.

Throughout the week, members of the SAO production team appeared on various variety shows. After all, opportunities for fame like this only come once in a lifetime, and they were determined to milk it for all it was worth.

Within the industry, professionals watched the steady rise of SAO’s ratings and sighed.

”What does this prove? It proves that the success of SAO, Code Geass, Madoka, and Edgerunners has very little to do with the studios and everything to do with Haruto’s scripts and brand power.”

”In the past, Haruto’s haters said Lelouch was only successful because he threw more than 3 billion yen into the production. Now, SAO is a two-cour series with a budget of little over 1 billion yen, yet its premiere still broke 5%.”

”We didn’t even need a comparison to know that. Japan has plenty of big-budget flops.”

”Exactly. Madoka Magica holds the all-time record, and its budget was only around 300 million yen. A work’s success is related to its investment, but you can’t buy a result like Code Geass just by throwing money at the screen.”

”It feels like Haruto is a transcendent entity in the industry now. NOVA Studio producing a 5% hit? Give me a break. The Big Three studios must be absolutely livid.”

”They only have themselves to blame for trying to suppress him when he was on the rise. I heard all three were interested in SAO, but Haruto used his veto power. He told Kiyozawa Library that if they signed with any of the Big Three, he’d refuse to sign off on the adaptation entirely.”

”Is that true?”

”Totally true. I’ve heard the same rumors from reliable sources.”

”Honestly, he would have made more money if he just produced SAO himself. That way he wouldn’t have to split the revenue. He definitely has the capacity to go solo now.”

”With SAO being a hit, the adaptation of Initial D should be straightforward. I bet we’ll see that hit the screens in the second half of the year. And then there’s Hunter x Hunter. With Haruto’s current market influence, it’s terrifying to imagine what the ratings will look like for that one.”

The success of Sword Art Online shifted the conversation toward Haruto’s upcoming projects. It was one thing for him to have back-to-back hits with Code Geass and Edgerunners, but even his adaptations were turning into blockbusters. In an era where 3% was considered ”prestige” and 4% was a ”massive hit,” Haruto hadn’t released a single show that premiered below 5%.

This massive gap in performance left his competitors with nothing but bitter smiles. It was impossible to catch up. This wasn’t just about the quality of the work anymore. The current Haruto was a media juggernaut fueled by the combined fanbases of SAO, Madoka, Edgerunners, Initial D, and Hunter x Hunter. If SAO had been produced by a rookie, a 4% premiere would have been a miracle. But because it carried Haruto’s name, breaking 5% and aiming for 6% was treated as a given.

Over the next week, the media provided a breakdown of the winter season’s lineup, and Haruto was once again the focal point of every headline. However, Haruto himself wasn’t obsessing over the ratings. Instead, he was focusing on the two original projects his own studio, Haru-Yuki Animation, was producing this season.

The results for those two were 1.73% and 2.16% respectively. These were respectable numbers in the middle-to-high tier for a winter season. However, many employees at the studio had become so accustomed to Haruto’s 5% and 6% hits that they looked at their own original works with disappointment. Haruto had braced himself for this, but he still couldn’t help but sigh.

His vision for Haru-Yuki was a company that, within the next decade, would be able to stand on its own feet.

He wanted a studio with enough creative talent to thrive even without his personal scripts, much like the Big Three studios.

But the data from this experiment suggested that his investment into these originals would likely only break even. Without his name attached, Haru-Yuki was currently a second-rate studio.

”Sigh...” Haruto leaned back in his chair.

Yukino entered the office, her long legs encased in black stockings and a chic black dress. She saw the papers on his desk and guessed his thoughts immediately.

”Stop being so greedy,” she said, placing a stack of documents in front of him. She pulled up a chair and sat down. ”Think about the Big Three. They were famous when I was a kid. It took them over twenty years to become industry leaders. How long has our company been around? Less than four years, if you’re being generous.”

”I know the logic, but still...”

”But what?” Yukino looked at him. ”You’re only twenty-one. Why are you more impatient than my father? He’s fifty, and his production company has been around for thirty years. It’s not even half the size of Haru-Yuki, and he still thinks he’s a genius.”

Haruto thought about that for a moment and finally smiled. ”You’re right. I can’t expect Haru-Yuki to become a world-class titan in just a few years. Our revenue is great, but our independent creative capacity needs time to mature.”

”And you have to understand something else,” Yukino added, pausing for a second.

”You can’t hold your staff to your own standards. If you expect them to produce something like Code Geass or Madoka within a few years... well, I don’t think you’ll live to see that day.”

Haruto looked at her.

”In the decades that the industry has been flourishing, there has only been one monster like you. There is no one else,” Yukino said softly.

Haruto was stunned for a moment, then let out a long breath.

”Anyway, the production for Code Geass is nearly finished,” Yukino said, changing the subject. ”We’re going to have two hundred people with nothing to do soon. Are you going to let them try another original project?”

Haruto’s original plan was to let the staff have some freedom for a year after Lelouch so he could enjoy his graduation and go on a vacation with Yukino.

He was exhausted after four years of juggling school and work. But looking at the current situation, letting them ”freestyle” was a recipe for financial loss.

”Alright, I get it,” Haruto said with a wry smile. ”I was probably dreaming, thinking some hidden genius would suddenly pop up and carry the company for me. I’ll find something for them to do.”

However, Haruto was no longer interested in short, single-season projects. They were too labor-intensive for the return they provided.

He had to oversee every script, design, and storyboard for every new project, only to start the process over again a few months later.

A long-form series, on the other hand, would save him a lot of energy.

By the later stages of Code Geass, the staff already knew his style and standards; they didn’t need much supervision to produce work that met his expectations.

Yukino’s eyes lit up. ”Does that mean...?”

”It’s hard to manage a few hundred people without a steady anchor,” Haruto explained. ”I’ll try to provide a long-form work. Otherwise, I’ll be stuck worrying about their next project every three months. I feel like I’ve become their nanny.”

”A long-form anime?” Yukino blinked. She understood his logic, but... ”You’ve never done a long-form work before. The longest is Lelouch, and even with both seasons, it’s only about fifty episodes.”

”Maybe not in anime, but Hunter x Hunter and SAO are exactly that,” Haruto laughed. ”Don’t worry. I know my standing in the industry. I won’t tarnish my own brand. Besides, it’s time to start laying the groundwork.”

”Groundwork?” Yukino looked confused. ”For what?”

”It’s hard to explain now, but you’ll see eventually.”

Haruto knew he would likely be in this industry for the next few decades.

It was better to start accumulating popularity for certain works sooner rather than later.

For example, the true heavy hitters like Pokemon or Marvel, were in a completely different league than Code Geass or Madoka. Their influence was measured in decades, not seasons.

He could start introducing those works now, but he would have to be prepared to invest heavily for years to ensure they reached their full potential. It was essentially like incubating a golden egg.

But for now, the company’s growth still relied on works like Code Geass.

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