Permission Granted
Director Tomizawa's voice came through the receiver.
"Hello, this is Tomizawa from Moonrise Production."
Kyung-ho was startled by the name Tomizawa and pressed the receiver tightly to his ear.
"It's Kyung-ho."
"I've seen the drawings."
Tomizawa's voice was calm, unlike the earlier commotion, but beneath that calm lurked an excitement he couldn't hide.
"This kind of mecha design is a first for me. It looks like neither a living being nor a machine—is that right? Can you tell me what kind of structure it's designed with?"
He was asking not just about the animation techniques, but about the setting and world-building. A question worthy of Bandam's father.
"You could define it as a machine infused with life. Think of it as an artificial bio-weapon modeled after humans."
"Artificial bio-weapon... What a brilliant concept. And the segmented armor, frame structure, even the poses... all designed to work seamlessly in animation."
"You're too kind."
"So, here's the thing."
A brief silence.
"Could you come to Japan?"
"To Japan?"
At Kyung-ho's words, President Kim and Shunsuke's gazes snapped to him simultaneously. Shunsuke scratched his head vigorously and let out a sigh. Kyung-ho thought for a moment before speaking.
"I'd like to."
Then he added matter-of-factly,
"But not right now."
A short silence followed on the other end.
"May I ask why?"
"I'm not an adult yet."
"Pardon?"
Director Tomizawa hadn't heard Kyung-ho's age yet.
"You're working in Korea as a student?"
Realizing Director Tomizawa was misunderstanding, Kyung-ho explained slowly.
"I'm a Korean high school student. I'm in my senior year, so I'll be an adult soon."
"You're Korean? My apologies. So, how does being a minor prevent you from coming to Japan?"
"It's due to Korea's travel restrictions." Kyung-ho readjusted the receiver in his sweaty palm, which had made the plastic surface slick. "It's nearly impossible for a high school student to leave the country alone, especially to Japan. Getting a proper work visa requires proof of technical qualifications and complicated sponsorships, which I can't meet at my age."
"Hmm, I see. National barriers..."
Director Tomizawa muttered lowly.
"So for the time being, it makes more sense for me to handle key animation and design work from here."
After a moment of silence, the sound of rustling paper and murmurs came through.
"What? Oh... really? Ah, I see..."
Finally, Director Tomizawa spoke again.
"Have you looked into technical training programs?"
Kyung-ho's eyes widened slightly.
"...Technical training?"
"Yes. Not formal employment, but an invitation from a Japanese company for technical education purposes. It's possible even for students, and the procedures are much simpler than a work visa. If we handle the sponsorship and living expenses entirely, it should be feasible."
Aha. Kyung-ho's pupils trembled faintly. He'd only considered employment paths and overlooked this workaround.
Director Tomizawa continued. "Since it's not employment, we can't offer full salary-level compensation, but under the guise of research funds..."
"I'll do it!"
Kyung-ho answered before he could finish. Compensation didn't matter. It was a ticket to step onto Japan's vast stage as soon as possible—that was enough.
One week later. Inside Shinwon Production's rusty metal mailbox sat a thick envelope. The thin, crinkly texture of airmail. Printed boldly in deep blue on the front:
[MOONRISE PRODUCTION]
"Hey, Kyung-ho."
President Kim Sang-taek shook the envelope.
"Looks like what you've been waiting for arrived."
Kyung-ho wheeled over hurriedly. Tearing it open spilled out neatly typed documents: an invitation mixing Japanese and English, and a company guarantee stamped with Moonrise's blue seal.
MOONRISE PRODUCTION
----- Invitation to Technical Training -----
Invitee: Park Kyung-ho
Training Plan Attached:
Animation Production Technical Training
Duration: 6 months
Training Supervisor: Moonrise Production Department
Company Guarantee Enclosed
President Kim whistled.
"Invitation, training plan... guarantee too. Perfect. Even the Foreign Ministry won't nitpick this."
President Kim neatly stacked the documents and handed them to Kyung-ho.
"Let's head to Gwanghwamun."
"Shouldn't you finish that key frame first?" Kyung-ho picked up the half-drawn sheet and waved it teasingly.
"Hey, you the boss now? If we don't go now, we'll miss our shot, punk!"
"I'm just saying 'cause you'll beg for my help later."
"Arrogant little punk. You beg for help going down stairs too."
Bickering, they descended the stairs and climbed into the new triangular-star sedan President Kim had just bought.
The air in the government complex next to Gwanghwamun reeked of stale cigarette smoke and damp paper. At a threshold too steep for the wheelchair, President Kim grumbled but lifted the back wheels with effort. Thud. The jolt shot up Kyung-ho's spine to his head.
"Ow, President. Revenge for my nagging earlier?"
"Quit it, kid!"
Bickering, they entered, took the elevator to the fifth-floor Foreign Ministry, and followed the hall to the sign reading 'Passport Office.' A long line snaked ahead—elevator or not, number tickets apparently weren't a thing. He wasn't fully adjusted to this era yet. Mostly suited salarymen. They glanced curiously at his uniform and wheelchair.
After a long wait, it was their turn. President Kim pushed the wheelchair to the counter. An old fan rattled overhead, blowing down hot air and dust. The male clerk inside, sleeves rolled up, wiped sweat and scanned them before extending a hand.
"Application."
They handed over the prepared documents. The clerk peered through his magnifier.
"Passport issuance... purpose Japan... technical training." His eyes flicked from papers to Kyung-ho's uniform, then wheelchair. "A student invited by a Japanese company?"
"Yes. As a trainee."
The clerk rubbed Moonrise's blue seal, unfolded the invitation again. "Stay three months... guarantor Japanese company." He paused, then asked, "Military service?"
"High schooler, so no draft exam yet, but lower-body paralysis diagnosis."
Kyung-ho handed over the university hospital certificate. The clerk nodded after checking, flipped more pages. Silence. Thunk—the inked receipt stamp slammed down, red mark blooming on the paper.
"Received."
Adjusting his glasses, he added, "Usually takes three weeks. Come back then."
Outside, late summer sun pressed down on Gwanghwamun Plaza. Heat shimmered off the asphalt. President Kim released the wheelchair and lit a cigarette.
"Filed, so now we wait."
"Three weeks, he said."
"Military sorted?"
Kyung-ho nodded. "Showed the hospital cert, got grade 6 easy."
Surprisingly straightforward—he'd been stunned.
"Good job." President Kim inhaled deeply, exhaling smoke skyward. "School cool with it?"
Kyung-ho thought briefly. "Yeah, sure."
The next day. School staff room. Flickering fluorescent buzzed overhead amid chalk dust and tobacco stench. On the homeroom teacher's desk sat Kyung-ho's documents: Moonrise invitation, training plan, company guarantee.
The teacher flipped through, then looked up. "What's Moonrise do?"
"Animation... cartoon production company."
"Drawing, and now Japan? Passport filed?"
"Yesterday."
"Okay."
Already forewarned, no big surprise. Murmuring "Japan technical training...," the teacher glanced over.
The history teacher, just back at his desk, perked up. "What? Technical training?"
"Japanese company training."
"Japan?" History teacher leaned forward. "Sending a student to Japan?"
Homeroom shrugged. "Company sent invitation."
Handing over papers, the history teacher donned specs and read. "Moonrise..." He snorted, returning them. "Animation's cartoons. Why go to Japan for that?"
"It's Japan—probably different."
A female teacher across interjected. "Aigoo, Mr. Jang. Japan's shit gold now? Cartoons are cartoons."
History shook his head, scolding her. Expected reaction.
"Teacher."
"Yeah, let's get it signed."
Uncomfortable with the talk, homeroom grabbed the papers at Kyung-ho's prompt, pushed his wheelchair to the principal's office.
The elderly female principal took the documents, magnifier on, reading slowly. "...Japan technical training." She glanced at Kyung-ho: uniform, wheelchair. Back to papers. "Three months."
Kyung-ho met his first teacher using formal speech since regressing to 1978. Her seasoned voice felt kindly. A beat late, he replied.
"...Yes."
Silence. Principal eyed homeroom. "This the kid working for that Japanese company?"
"Yes."
Principal scanned again: Moonrise seal. Picked up a fancy fountain pen. Scratch. Signing, she asked, "No studying?"
"I draw too well for studying."
Her pen paused. Eyes scanned his face through magnifier. Clearing throat, she finished signing, slid papers to homeroom.
"Approved, but now I'm curious. Can I see a drawing, Kyung-ho?"
Calm face, but his pride irked her. Prove it, then.
"Of course. Paper and pen?"
Principal handed A4 and her pen. P-brand fountain pen. Heavy metal weight on his fingers. First in ages. Eyed the nib—M tip. Ink scent wafted.
"What should I draw?"
"My granddaughter loves Candy Candy. Could you?"
Candy Candy. Right—this era's women obsessed over it.
"Right away."
Scratch, scratch.
The fountain pen scraped the rough paper, breaking the silence. Despite rarity, Kyung-ho drew without hesitation.
Candy's big eyes took shape first. Precise highlights before ink bled—machine-like. M-nib's thick strokes varied under his hand, tracing rhythmic hair curves.
Fountain pen's not bad.
Unlike G- or spoon pens for key frames, it had a weighted feel. No sketch, lines flowed bold. As Candy emerged, principal's eyes widened. Homeroom gasped.
"Done."
Five minutes? Less. "Not thrilled... but don't touch for ten—ink might run."
Capping the pen, he slid the paper over. Ink's unique scent lingered.
On the paper: Candy winking, V-sign, beaming. Precision impossible in 70s prints or CRT TVs. Principal lifted it with trembling hands.
"...This doesn't please you?"
"Don't use fountain pens much—line control off."
Principal burst laughing, clapping. "Not a Candy Candy expert, but no need for humility here."
"Next time, proper one."
His boldness drew another laugh; she stared long at the drawing. Even as educator, she couldn't ignore the overwhelming talent.
"'Draw too well for studying'... no bluff."
"Thank you."
Kyung-ho bowed politely from his wheelchair.
"Learn well in Japan."
Kyung-ho swallowed the retort about if there's anything to learn.
And three weeks later, the exit permit came through.