Moonrise
Mari shot up from her seat as if fleeing. Her hands, snatching the bundle of nearly 2,000 key animation sheets—504 cuts in total—from Kyung-ho's desk and stuffing them haphazardly into the animation folder, were a complete mess. The Toei heiress who had stood so boldly before a veteran animation director was nowhere to be seen.
"Uh, you haven't finished checking all the work yet..."
"The payment will be wired within three days! As soon as the voucher processes!"
Mari cut off Kyung-ho mid-sentence and kicked open the president's office door. Her steps were so hurried that Shunsuke, who had been chatting with President Kim in the hallway, jumped back in surprise.
"Huh? Miss Tokita! Leaving already?"
"Shut up!"
Ignoring Shunsuke's voice from behind, Mari's white dress fluttered as she dashed down the stairs. The sharp clack of her heels striking the cement steps echoed through the entire rundown building.
The moment she burst outside, Mari flagged down a yellow Pony taxi idling by the roadside.
"Anywhere's fine, just hurry… no, to Gimpo Airport!"
The taxi door slammed shut with a thud, but the driver just stared at her blankly, not moving. Only then did Mari remember she was in Korea.
"G-Gimpo... G-Gong-ang?"
"Ah, Gimpo Airport?"
Finally, the car lurched forward, belching acrid exhaust. Mari pressed her sweat-slicked palms to her burning cheeks.
He thinks he likes me? What a misunderstanding...
Jongno's rough cityscape blurred past the window. Mari carefully pulled a single sheet from the key animation folder clutched to her chest—the portrait Kyung-ho had sketched on the spot.
It captured her as she had been just moments ago, glaring at him: arrogant eyes, slightly parted lips, even a single strand of hair tousled by the wind, rendered with obsessive detail yet impossibly adorable.
"......"
Mari's fingers trembled faintly around the paper.
Is this how Kyung-ho sees me?
The eyes in the drawing seemed to pierce right through her, and she hurriedly covered it. Her pounding heartbeat drowned out even the engine noise. With her ears burning red, she murmured low,
"Still... so irreverent."
Suddenly, she felt like she'd forgotten something.
"Oh no, I forgot to ask why they rejected me!"
The taxi sped toward Gimpo Airport, piercing September's stifling heat.
"......What a storm of a girl."
"Isn't she always like that?"
President Kim muttered in bewilderment, and Shunsuke nodded. Kyung-ho wheeled over to Shunsuke's side. The echoes of Mari's chaotic exit hadn't even faded yet.
"Mr. Shunsuke."
"Ah, yes. Kyung-ho-kun. What is it? Did something happen with Mari-san?"
"No, nothing like that."
Kyung-ho continued with a blank expression.
"I was wondering if you could make a call to 'Moonrise' for me."
Shunsuke's eyebrow twitched faintly. President Kim, smoking nearby, narrowed his eyes and turned to Kyung-ho.
"Moonrise... I know of them, sure. But why there all of a sudden?"
"I really want to make the call."
"Right now? But..."
Shunsuke scratched the back of his head awkwardly. But Kyung-ho's eyes sparkled with unyielding resolve.
"There's a project I absolutely want to join."
That's why I turned down Mari's scouting. They might still take me if I called now, but...
Recently, a certain work had popped into Kyung-ho's mind. The show that would completely reshape Japan's animation landscape next year—a timeless masterpiece still running as a series even in the modern day. The year Mobile Weapon Bandam would premiere. Airing in 1979 meant the planning gears were grinding at full speed right now in 1978.
The Genesis of Real Robots.
That's what Kyung-ho called Bandam's debut. Not treating giant robots as superheroic figures ignoring physics like super robots, but interpreting them as true weapons, emphasizing narrative depth and realism—it birthed the very concept of "real robots." A revolutionary work.
But even that masterpiece had flaws. Even accounting for the 1970s limitations: contrived plot conveniences, brutal budget and staffing shortages leading to collapsed key animation quality.
Kyung-ho recalled the crude designs, distorted poses, and broken proportions glorified under the "classic" label. He didn't know why he'd regressed to the past. But now that he had, he wanted to create the anime of his dreams in this life.
I want to make Bandam... an untouchable holy grail of real robots.
As he mentally redesigned Bandam in his head, Kyung-ho's grip tightened. Shunsuke noticed.
"Ha... Kyung-ho-kun. No, Kyung-ho. No shame asking me directly to connect you to a rival company?"
Shunsuke let out a hollow laugh. The guts to demand Moonrise right in front of Tatsumino's people.
But Kyung-ho fired back calmly.
"You said before you'd help me look into other companies responsibly. That's a promise, right?"
"......"
Shunsuke fell silent.
"......I dug my own grave. Can't win against you."
Shunsuke sighed, pulling a notepad from his suit pocket. President Kim watched with interest, exhaling smoke.
"International call fees are on you, Kyung-ho."
Cheapskate.
The rotary phone dialed with a click and grind.
"Irubon (Japan), 03-XXXX-XXXX, please."
Shunsuke spoke awkward Korean to the operator, hung up, and waited. Minutes later, the phone rang back. He picked it up, wedging the receiver between shoulder and ear, switching to Japanese.
"This is Shunsuke from Tatsumino. Please connect me to Yoshi from production. Yoshi? It's me, Kimura from Tatsumino. Yes, yes. Nothing major... Got a friend who draws really well. Yeah, yeah, Korean. High schooler. No, he insisted on calling himself. Speaks Japanese fluently. Yeah."
Shunsuke glanced at Kyung-ho and handed over the receiver. Kyung-ho pressed the cool plastic to his ear. Static crackled, then an unfamiliar man's voice emerged.
"......Hello? This is Kyung-ho from Shinwon."
"Yoshi from Moonrise here. You really wanted to get in touch. What's this about?"
Polite, but Yoshi's tone dripped exhaustion and skepticism. Even with Shunsuke's intro, just a high schooler. Sure, he might draw well, but still a kid. Moonrise, starved for manpower, needed solid mid-level animators, not raw recruits to train.
"Mr. Yoshi. I want to talk about the 'robot anime' you're prepping."
The line's static cut out for a beat.
"......No idea how Shunsuke-san knew that. It's classified."
"He didn't tell me. Just chalk it up to luck."
Kyung-ho's lame excuse muddled Yoshi's thoughts.
"Doesn't matter. I want in on that project."
"...You're a high schooler, I heard."
Yoshi's voice chilled, perfunctory courtesy gone.
"Age isn't written on the drawings."
"Fair point. Viewers don't care who drew it if it sucks."
Facing Yoshi's hardline attitude, Kyung-ho listed his credentials.
"I'm currently handling the most critical key animations for Captain Valor and Science Ninja Team Eagleman. Just delivered all 504 cuts for Captain Valor's theatrical version today."
A sharp intake of breath from the other end. Those shows were praised for solid key animation. And 504 cuts solo?
"......Can I see the work?"
Yoshi finally bit, requesting faxes. Kyung-ho handed the receiver to Shunsuke, got President Kim's help selecting ten sheets best matching Mobile Weapon Bandam's vibe, and faxed them. Moments later, wheeling back, he took the receiver. Yoshi's voice mixed shock and disbelief.
"Th-this... This is really yours?"
"Of course. Like it?"
Yoshi spread the steaming fax sheets across his desk. The fishy ink stench stung his nose, but he ignored it.
...A Korean high schooler drew this?
Overwhelmed by the unreal quality, Yoshi blinked hard. The fax paper showcased animation beyond anything he'd seen: an elder's face alive with emotion via intricate wrinkles, a kid bursting off the page in dynamic pose, masterful extreme perspective and spatial command. Especially the fifth sheet—the robot key animation. Yoshi knew: this was beyond his call.
"H-hold on, please?"
Spotting Bandam's director, Tomizawa Yoshiro, crossing the planning room, Yoshi blocked him desperately.
"Yoshi-kun, don't you know I'm busy? What is it?"
"D-Director, you need to see this."
No explanation—Yoshi shoved the fifth sheet (the robot) in his face. Tomizawa frowned, took it, but his pupils dilated before flipping even the first page.
It wasn't a robot; it was a living steel organism. Fluid curves mimicking human muscle, layered precise armor plates crossed by intricate frames. Tomizawa swallowed dryly. He'd been doubting the sponsor-compromised design. But this? An artwork of overwhelming personality and seductive lines.
"Get Yasuhiro here now!"
Mecha designer Yasuhiro, buried in the corner furiously sketching, staggered over looking half-dead.
"I'm swamped—what the—"
He snatched the fax from Tomizawa's hand mid-sentence.
"Th-this..."
Beneath his messy hair, Yasuhiro's eyes shook wildly. Piercing the crude fax noise was a mech radiating presence: calculated play in every armor gap, frames evoking human muscle fibers. Not mere surface—this was alive.
Metal texture and mechanical precision fused perfectly into every pen stroke.
"......"
Yasuhiro's eyes reddened instantly. Nights burning cigarettes against mecha design limits—this drawing was beyond imagination. A clear teardrop plopped onto the rough fax paper.
"Wh-who drew this? Which master's key animation?"
"On the phone. Kyung-ho-kun from Korea..."
Before Yoshi finished, Yasuhiro seized the receiver. His fingers trembled.
"Hello! Hello! Can you hear me?"
From the line, Kyung-ho's calm voice.
"Yes, Kyung-ho here."
"Sensei! This drawing...! Did you design and draw the inner frame structure too? Any reference machine? How do you even conceive a living machine like this?"
"I just thought robots don't have to be pure steel..."
Yasuhiro poured out near-screams. Veins bulged on his receiver-gripping hand.
"Sensei! Come to Moonrise, please! I must see you draw in person!"
No patience for a reply—Yasuhiro leaned forward desperately.
"No, I can't wait! I'll come to you! Korea, right? I'll book a flight right—"
"Where do you think you're going, you lunatic! Snap out of it!"
Tomizawa grabbed Yasuhiro's collar from behind and bellowed.
"Forgot how many setting sheets are due tomorrow? Get back to work!"
"Director, how am I supposed to work after showing me this?!"
Yasuhiro flailed against Tomizawa's grip, but the director signaled Yoshi to reclaim the receiver. The planning room devolved into chaos.
Listening to the commotion through the crackling line, a faint smile tugged at Kyung-ho's lips. But a bitter pang lingered too. The faxed designs were his, no doubt—but he knew their origin. The legendary 1990s mecha he'd rewatched endlessly. That purple design that nearly stopped his heart first time: muscle-like writhing frames, bio-curves piercing armor gaps. No wonder the planning room was losing it. It didn't exist in this era.
But Kyung-ho shook his head.
This is just the beginning. Someday, I'll prove my originals too.