Director Tomizawa
“Now… right now?”
Takushi glanced at his watch in bewilderment. It was just past 1 p.m.
“Director Tomizawa specifically insisted that you rest today. You must be tired from the flight—no one will say a word if you start tomorrow.”
“I appreciate the director’s consideration, but sitting still is harder for me.”
“Still, you need to unpack, settle in…”
Kyung-ho shook his head and wheeled his chair back toward the entrance.
“I can unpack before bed. My technical training visa won’t last forever. I didn’t come all the way to Japan to waste that precious time cooped up in a room.”
Takushi hesitated, struck by Kyung-ho’s eyes gleaming with passion.
“That’s true, but…”
“And Director Tomizawa’s new project at Moonrise—the one stuck in endless meetings with no progress, right?”
Takushi’s shoulders twitched. How did he know about a project that hadn’t even been announced publicly?
“That work will set a new standard for the robot genre.”
Takushi couldn’t hold back at the near-certain declaration. “How do you know that?”
“I don’t.”
Takushi tilted his head.
“I’ll make it that way.”
Kyung-ho met Takushi’s scrutinizing gaze without flinching, declaring it firmly.
“With or without me, Director Tomizawa will undoubtedly turn it into a work that ushers in a new era. But that’s his limit.”
Takushi countered with a puzzled look. “Isn’t opening a new era enough? Calling that a limit sounds odd.”
Kyung-ho shook his head.
“I’ll elevate that work to the status of an eternal, inviolable sanctuary.”
A brief silence fell.
Takushi stared straight at Kyung-ho, who didn’t avert his eyes. It was hard to believe those were the eyes of a young student—steely and burning with intensity.
Finally, Takushi raised both hands in surrender.
“Haha, now I get why the director was so eager to bring you here, Kyogo. You win.”
He opened the door and grabbed Kyung-ho’s wheelchair.
“Just don’t overdo it. I’ll be the one getting chewed out by the director.”
“Of course. But before that…”
“Before that?”
“Shall we grab some food?”
They headed to “Taroken,” the place they’d talked about in the taxi, for lunch before making their way to Moonrise Production. As they arrived at the building, the thick haze of cigarette smoke and paper scent wafted even stronger from the entrance. The workshop was on the second floor, and so was the director. With Takushi’s help, Kyung-ho climbed the stairs, then transferred to the wheelchair Takushi had carried up. He thought he’d gotten used to it, but moments like this only strengthened his resolve for rehab.
He pushed open the door to the second-floor office.
Scraaape—
In an instant, the air grew dense. Heat poured from dozens of light tables. The scratch-scratch chorus of pencils on paper. Desks piled high with key animation envelopes and yellow layout sheets.
Kyung-ho’s nose tingled. He couldn’t tell if it was the ink smell or emotion, but this hellish yet serene, fierce yet still landscape—this unique scene he’d ached for—hit him hard.
Right inside the office door, a man with messy hair and a magnifying glass headset looked up from behind his desk. Moonrise’s director, Tomizawa. His hair seemed fuller than Kyung-ho remembered from before his death, and he looked even more crotchety. The glasses were the same, though.
Tomizawa adjusted his glasses and eyed Kyung-ho. A smirk leaked through his bushy beard.
“Hey, Takushi.”
The vibe was worlds apart from their phone chats. Without shifting his gaze from Kyung-ho, he asked,
“That him? Kyogo?”
“Well… you said to let him rest today, but he insisted on coming…”
Tomizawa let out a short sigh.
“Straight from the plane to the animation room. Why are you kids always in such a damn rush?”
A brief silence.
He scanned Kyung-ho up and down.
“So.”
Thud. He tapped his pencil on the desk.
“Why didn’t you listen and come to the office?”
Kyung-ho replied calmly. “To work.”
Tomizawa’s eyebrow twitched slightly upward.
“Is that what I asked?”
A short snort. “I asked why you came today.”
Kyung-ho didn’t miss a beat. “I want to draw.”
Tomizawa paused. Then he slowly removed his glasses and set them on the desk.
“Hm.”
He tilted his head. “Kyogo. One question.”
A beat.
“You think you can do whatever as long as you draw well?”
“No.”
“Then why disobey my orders?”
Tomizawa stood and approached Kyung-ho.
“No matter how talented you are, I don’t need people who ignore instructions. Get lost.”
Kyung-ho ignored the menacing tone, pulling a key animation envelope from beside his wheelchair.
“Should I take this back too?”
Tomizawa’s eyebrow jerked. He was at a loss for words.
The bratty Korean kid’s retort chilled the office. Only the copier’s whine and clunks echoed.
But Kyung-ho, oblivious or unfazed, added,
“I prepared designs that fit perfectly.”
After glaring at Kyung-ho for a moment, Director Tomizawa returned to his seat, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. He massaged his temples for a long while before finally speaking.
“……Come here and sit.”
Low, gruff voice. Impossible to tell if he was holding back anger or curiosity.
“I’m already sitting.”
As Kyung-ho tilted his head, Director Tomizawa slammed his desk and bellowed,
“Just get over here, you punk!”
Takushi, tense, hurriedly wheeled Kyung-ho right up to the desk.
“Show me.”
Rustle.
Kyung-ho pulled out a few sheets from the envelope. With practiced ease, he laid them on the light table and flicked it on.
“This is……”
A shiver ran through him the moment he saw the drawing. He snatched up his glasses and examined the sheet.
“Ha……”
Tomizawa clamped his mouth shut, his fingertips trembling faintly. After agonizing over what to say, he muttered,
“Kyogo, are you an alien?”
“I’m disabled.”
Tomizawa grabbed the drawing, nearly hurling it at Kyung-ho, but couldn’t. He just stared at the ceiling, blinking rapidly.
“Now that I know, let’s get to work, you brat.”
Only then did Kyung-ho grin. “Of course, Director.”
He couldn’t resist adding, “You’re more hot-blooded in person than on the phone, though?”
“Hey!!!!! Got any candy? Candy!!! Someone shove some candy in this punk’s mouth!!!”
Kyung-ho was debating with Tomizawa.
“I’ve never seen joints drawn this realistically and detailed. I love it, really. But it’ll take too damn long to animate.”
“The key animation team just needs to maintain the base forms. I’ll handle the details.”
“I know you’re fast, but how the hell are you gonna do that solo? Be realistic.”
Kyung-ho leaned back in his wheelchair, replying coolly. “Is there a better design than this?”
Yasuhiro, the mecha designer watching from behind, nodded heavily in agreement.
“If I hadn’t seen this design, maybe I’d compromise. But now? No way.”
Then, “Still, as expected from Teacher Kyogo. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, no matter how many times I look.”
As Yasuhiro showered Kyung-ho with praise, Director Tomizawa glared and yelled,
“You Kyogo’s lackey now, Yasuhiro? Cut it out!”
“I get the awe, honestly.”
Another mecha designer, Okawa, chimed in.
“I can’t fathom how you make something nonexistent so… functionally elegant and concrete.”
“The detail density is too high! Key animation difficulty skyrockets!”
“I’ll finish them all.”
“I believe Teacher Kyogo can do it!”
Soon, people gathered around the director’s desk until there was no room to stand. Mecha setting sheets littered the light table; everyone talked over each other. As more crowded in, gasping at Kyung-ho’s mecha designs, even non-key animators sneaked peeks into the chaos.
“This is… wow……”
“Lemme see.”
“Korean high schooler, right?”
“What kinda drawings are these?”
Pure pandemonium.
Finally, unable to converse, Director Tomizawa shot up, glaring at the staff.
“Everyone back to your seats!!!”
“Eek!”
“Sorry!”
Tomizawa sighed and sat back down. He glanced at the wall clock. 5 p.m. Nearly three hours of idea-bouncing already.
Yet—
“How do you balance it that way?”
“Ah, that part— like this—”
Kyung-ho casually sketched lines on A4 paper. He’d just proposed a new spaceship design, tossed out a casual comment, and whipped up another on the spot. This had repeated nearly ten times now.
The scariest part? Every design was insanely captivating.
A bottomless well of talent.
This kid’s a once-in-a-century genius.
Director Tomizawa had fully acknowledged Kyung-ho by now.
“That’s impressive. But doesn’t that make it useless in combat?”
“There’s a setting tweak I’d like for that part.”
As Kyung-ho looked at the director, Tomizawa snorted.
“When did I ask? If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”
“Sorry.”
Kyung-ho scratched his head with a laugh. “As you know, real robots aren’t made for combat.”
Things would change in the future, but not now.
“Right.”
Everyone nodded.
“But that doesn’t mean they can’t fight.”
“Really?”
“…!”
The director’s eyes widened as something clicked; he slammed the desk.
“That’s it, Kyogo!!!”
As expected of Director Tomizawa. That single hint unlocked the core setting that would make the story epic.
“Director?”
“We’re not quite…”
Tomizawa sprang up, sweeping the setting sheets together.
“Work machines!”
He jabbed the paper with his pencil.
“They’re not originally for combat!”
Yasuhiro blinked. “Pardon?”
Frustrated, Tomizawa thumped his chest.
“Even work robots get retrofitted for war!”
“But doesn’t that weaken the need for humanoid shapes?”
“Why not tanks or fighters per the setting?”
Tomizawa crossed his arms briefly, pondering, then tossed it to Kyung-ho.
“How do we smooth that over, Kyogo?”
Kyung-ho chuckled. This had stumped the real production team longest.
They couldn’t grasp the full settings from one line alone.
“Skilled forklift operators handle their machines like extensions of themselves. For them, robots don’t need to be humanoid.”
Everyone looked puzzled. “Then communication issues?”
“Kyogo, aren’t you thinking backwards?”
Kyung-ho raised a hand to calm them.
“But that’s rare. That’s why skilled operators command high pay.”
“So?”
Under the director’s urging, Kyung-ho continued, sweating a bit.
“In war, you need to train and deploy as many people as possible fast. So, the most efficient manpower-wise is robots shaped like what most people know best—humanoid, naturally. Plus, general-purpose robots cut special-unit production, simplifying assembly lines. Solid logic.”
“……!”
Tomizawa bolted up like he’d been struck by lightning. The others stared blankly, deep in thought.
Once he’d sorted it out, Tomizawa faced Kyung-ho, face flushed.
“Kyogo, how the hell did you come up with that?”
Couldn’t say he was from the future.
“…Beats me?”
Kyung-ho’s vague response drew a tsk and a grin from Tomizawa.
“Always such a pain in the ass.”
The onlookers nodded in unison.
“Totally.”
“Teacher Kyogo gets a pass.”
Kyung-ho felt wronged. “Hey, why me?”