The Falling Dominoes
This was slightly before the tie-up was finalized, right around the time episode 2 of Train Trail had aired and the master file for episode 3 had already been delivered to the broadcasting station.
“Congratulations. You’ve really pulled off something incredible this time.”
“Oh, please. It’s only because the raw material was so outstanding.”
Munching on karaage and picking at basic bar snacks like edamame and sunflower seeds, the producer from Studio Red Rock and the publishing house’s management representative were clinking their glasses, trading polite pleasantries.
“No matter how good the raw ingredients are, they won’t amount to a decent dish if the chef lacks skill.”
“Haha, you flatter me. With ingredients this good, how could it possibly taste bad?”
“You’re far too humble. If I were in your shoes, I’d be bragging to everyone I met…”
The two men continued in this vein, showering each other with praise so thick it would make any bystander’s ears burn. Frankly, they had every right to be smug. Even though only two episodes had aired, whispers were already circulating within Studio Red Rock about locking down the schedule for a second season.
Online, the internet was flooded with astonished posts wondering if Studio Red Rock had literally sold their souls to achieve such breathtaking directing and fluid key animation. Blu-ray pre-orders at various anime merchandise shops were already piling up at an alarming rate. There were even demands for a physical release of the opening theme, Kingdom. Every single metric pointed to the roaring success of Train Trail.
“How is the production schedule looking?”
“Well… it’s tight, of course.”
The producer took a long sip of his draft beer. He felt the sharp carbonation burn down his throat, spreading a pleasant warmth through his body.
“But we can easily meet the deadlines without any delays. As long as nothing unexpected happens, that is.”
“And if something does happen…?”
“Well, even if something happens, I’ll be the one running around ragged. What could possibly go wrong on the animation side?”
To be precise, nothing *could* go wrong on the animation side. The animators were already being pushed to their absolute limits. Of course, it wasn’t entirely forced; swept up in the intoxicating wave of unexpected success, the animators themselves were voluntarily pulling all-nighters to polish the quality even further.
“That’s a relief. By the way, about Season 2…”
“Ah, Season 2.”
So that’s what he really came to ask, the producer thought. The publisher must be itching to lock it down. With a massive hit practically guaranteed, signing a contract as early as possible would give them much better leverage.
The producer kept his thoughts to himself and offered a noncommittal reply.
“The results are promising, but it’s still a bit early…”
“It seems to me you have more than enough leverage to start planning.”
“We still need to see the sales figures for the first Blu-ray volume. If we clear seven thousand copies, we’ll start looking at it very favorably.”
“Seven thousand copies, I see.”
“We poured an astronomical budget into this project. If we don’t sell at least that much, we’ll be operating at a complete loss.”
The producer smoothly deflected the question with a practiced chuckle. The representative looked slightly disappointed, but realizing he couldn’t push any further, he deftly changed the subject.
“Do you think Season 2 can replicate this level of success?”
“Who knows? But… to be completely honest, I think the opening theme played a massive role in our current success.”
“That’s true. That song has been an absolute sensation. Hasn’t it already surpassed ten million views?”
“Yes. But for Season 2, it looks like we’ll have to use a different band.”
“Why is that?”
What do you mean, why? The producer felt a sudden, violent urge to punch the representative’s smug, innocent face. It’s because of you people. If you hadn’t tried to force Araki down their throats…
“Well, because of that whole vocal replacement incident… It seems we left a rather bad taste in their mouths.”
“Ah! Right, that did happen.”
“…By the way, why did the push to replace the vocalist even come up back then?”
“Well… Flambé is under our parent company’s umbrella, you see. The higher-ups figured we should push our own flagship talent whenever possible. They thought, ‘It’s just an anime opening, what’s the big deal?’ That was the decision they handed down.”
The representative brushed it off with a shrug. “Well, since she declined, there was nothing we could do.”
The producer offered a hollow laugh. “Haha, I see.” But he didn’t believe a word of it.
As the two men raised their glasses to break the brief, awkward silence that followed, both of their smartphones vibrated simultaneously on the table.
Bzzzz—
They looked down at their screens at the exact same time. It was the same sender: an elderly voice actor working on the project. The message was identical.
[I am sorry. I couldn't stop it.]
“…Uh, did you get…”
“Yes. I got one from him too. What on earth does this mean?”
“I have no idea. Did something happen?”
“Well, that old man is quite infamous. Honestly, even if something did happen, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
The representative took a deep gulp of his beer. The producer waited for him to set his glass down before carefully probing further.
“This is my first time working with him. Are there rumors?”
“It’s my first time dealing with it directly too, but… he’s notorious. I’ve heard his agency had to cover up several drunk-and-disorderly incidents, and his love life is a mess. He’s known for messing around with very young girls… But since he’s so incredibly popular, everyone just kind of looks the other way.”
“Wait, so when Ito Kazuyuki demanded we recast him… he actually had a point? I thought he was just making a fuss over nothing and ignored him.”
“Just forget about that guy. He’s always whining about how everything is ‘unfair’ or ‘power harassment’ whenever he doesn’t get his way.”
Listening to the representative badmouth the original author—complaining about how the creator interfered too much and threw tantrums when his demands weren’t met—the producer realized that the industry was the same miserable mess wherever you went.
Normally, such a conversation would have depressed him. But what did it matter?
His anime was a massive hit.
“Well, even if that old guy caused some trouble, what can we do? His agency will handle it.”
“Exactly.”
“And really, how much trouble can a voice actor cause? He’s an old man; how bad could it be? Let’s not ruin the mood. A toast! To the success of Train Trail!”
“To success!”
Their glasses clinked with a crisp, cheerful ring. The producer drank deeply, feeling a surge of exhilaration. The bright sound of the clinking glass felt like a herald of his glorious future.
He would make Season 1 of Train Trail a masterpiece, do the same for Season 2, and cement his place as a titan of the anime industry.
That rosy future felt so close he could almost reach out and touch it.
Until the next morning, when his phone began to ring off the hook before dawn.
To South Koreans—who are notorious for virtually dragging any controversial celebrity to the public square for a live, nationwide execution at the mere hint of a scandal—it might come as a surprise that Japan is relatively lenient when it comes to the private lives of public figures.
Unlike in Korea, where even a rapid transition from one relationship to another is increasingly scrutinized as taboo, Japanese television frequently features celebrities who use their past infidelities as comedic material, or those who married partners they stole from others. Even voice actors caught in messy, triple-timing affairs often retain their roles and continue their careers, even if they face a barrage of online criticism.
But the scandal that broke this time was of a caliber that even the Japanese public could not ignore.
The devastating scoop, delivered with the full force of a Bunshun Cannon, completely upended the Japanese animation industry. The voice actor involved was a household name, having voiced beloved, long-running characters in several major franchises for years.
The shrapnel from the explosion immediately tore into Train Trail, the most popular anime currently airing. Compared to the devastation wrought across the wider industry, the damage to the show was relatively minor—but to the production team, it felt like the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs.
“Find a replacement voice actor, now!”
“B-but of the voice actors currently available, none of them are of his caliber—”
“You idiot! Do you think we have time to care about caliber right now?!”
“But if we choose a voice actor now, we’re locked in. That character appears continuously later in the story!”
“Argh…”
Finding a replacement was only the beginning. There were also the planned media mix projects and promotional campaigns centered around the disgraced actor.
“What do we do about this? Do we have to redraw all the keyframes?”
“…How long will that take?”
To make matters worse, they had subtly incorporated elements of the voice actor’s real-life appearance into the character design to appeal to his fanbase. Now, they had to completely redesign the character from scratch.
“Reassign every available staff member to the redesigns…”
“But what about the main episodes?”
“Does that matter right now? Just reassign them! It’s fine if the animation quality drops a bit. Actually, wait… let’s delay the next episode by a week. We can stretch the current storyline so that character doesn’t have to appear, and then rush the plot in the following episode. That will buy us a week.”
“Will that really be okay?”
“What choice do we have in this situation?!”
Studio Red Rock chose to warp the story to buy time and clean up the mess. Although their reputation took a hit, the producer believed it was far better than airing the episodes as they were.
And indeed, the replacement voice actor they managed to secure during that borrowed week received surprisingly positive reviews. Though the animation was rough and the pacing felt disjointed, public sentiment began to shift toward praising them for ‘successfully managing a crisis’…
Until a second bomb dropped.
“Is this guy trying to drag us down to hell with him?”
Compared to the initial scandal, this new development was far smaller in scale. It wasn’t splashed across the front pages of daily newspapers or featured on prime-time television news.
Yet, the explosive interview given by Ito Kazuyuki, the original creator of Train Trail, accusing his publisher and Studio Red Rock of severe ‘power harassment’ shook the Japanese manga industry to its core.
While it was common knowledge that manga artists were often subjected to power tripping by publishers, it was unprecedented for a creator to strike back so publicly and aggressively. Furthermore, the interview laid bare the entire behind-the-scenes drama of the casting scandal, without filtering a single detail, presenting it entirely from the author’s perspective.
"At the time, I had already heard troubling rumors about the voice actor in question. Furthermore, I felt his voice simply did not suit the character."
"So, I requested a recast. I presented the information I had gathered, explaining that this character had a certain personality, whereas the roles that voice actor usually played had a completely different vibe, making him a poor fit. I asked them to reconsider the casting, expecting a formal review."
"However, Studio Red Rock refused to make the change. Instead, they condescendingly asked me what I, a mere manga artist, knew about animation or even my own characters. I am the original creator. It was incredibly insulting."
Perhaps because his manga was nearing its conclusion, the author’s words were incredibly sharp. The interview, which openly attacked the publisher, also contained a scathing indictment of Studio Red Rock, complete with highly specific details.
Needless to say, Studio Red Rock was thrown into utter chaos.
“What do we do about this?”
“What can we do? At this point, our only option is to make the animation as perfect as possible…”
The Train Trail production team, their mental state already battered to pieces by the relentless onslaught of crises, had no choice but to hunker down. They hoped that if the animation quality remained high, new fans would still flock to the show. After all, the anime itself was still excellent, and the opening theme was a masterpiece…
It was precisely at this moment that the media reached out to Group Sound.
"…And so, we were wondering if Group Sound also suffered any unfair treatment or damages. If so, we would love to give you a platform to speak out…"
“Ah… yes. Well, we…”
The call came from the very media outlet that had conducted the interview with Ito Kazuyuki. They were preparing a follow-up report.
As she listened to the reporter, Suyun quickly assessed the situation. Studio Red Rock was currently so overwhelmed trying to contain the fallout that they hadn’t even bothered to contact them. They hadn’t even reached out to ask them to keep quiet, apologize for the opening theme fiasco, or offer future compensation in exchange for their silence. Nothing.
Of course, a moment’s thought made the reason obvious. When a massive, national-level scandal breaks and you are caught directly in the blast radius, you don’t have the mental bandwidth to worry about minor details. Putting out the main fire is always the priority.
The problem was… Suyun didn’t give a damn about their problems.
The hour of vengeance had arrived.
It was a bit of a shame that they weren’t the main event, but what did it matter? As long as they could exact their revenge on those bastards, that was all that counted.
It’s a bit pitiful… but honestly, they’re already dead. What’s the harm in kicking a corpse? It’s not like I killed them.
“Actually, yes,” Suyun said, a cold smile playing on her lips. “We do have a story to tell.”
She was more than happy to deliver the finishing blow. Human grudges run deep, which is why one should never make enemies in the first place.