Donghwa Resin Processing Shop, Asakusabashi
The car pulled up at the entrance to a narrow alley. "It's too tight for the car from here," Miyazawa said quietly from the driver's seat.
Mari peered out the window. Faded shop signs crowded the street, and from the narrow gaps between buildings came the mingled clamor of hammers striking metal and machines whirring to life.
"This is the place?"
"Yes. I heard it's around here."
At Kyung-ho's reply, Miyazawa stepped out and politely retrieved the wheelchair. The wheels clattered lightly against the asphalt as they touched down. While Miyazawa helped Kyung-ho into the chair, Mari spoke up.
"As I mentioned earlier, just page me, and I'll be here in thirty minutes."
The pager in Mari's hand was an early model, capable only of basic calls, but in this era, that alone made it a luxury item. And promising to arrive in thirty minutes? Kyung-ho bowed his head sincerely at her kindness.
"Thank you."
The car slipped quietly away from the alley. Seated in his wheelchair, Kyung-ho took a moment to survey his surroundings. Asakusabashi was a labyrinth of cramped alleys lined with tiny workshops and craft shops pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, their signs dangling overhead. The whine of metal cutters. The thud of hammers. The low hum of machinery vibrating through the ground. He'd heard there were plenty of workshops here, but the whole neighborhood felt like one giant forge.
Dongdo Modeling Workshop... Kyung-ho double-checked the address scribbled on his paper. It was definitely nearby. But no matter how he navigated the alleys, no sign for "Dongdo Modeling Workshop" appeared.
Still, he pressed on, wheeling through the maze. The chair jolted over uneven stones with every turn. His shoulders began to ache from the effort.
This is weird. The address was spot-on.
"Hey."
Kyung-ho looked up from the paper at the voice calling to him. It was a high school boy in a black gakuran uniform—the old-style Japanese school attire.
The boy glanced at the wheelchair as Kyung-ho lifted his head, then asked, "Something wrong?"
Kyung-ho hesitated briefly before speaking. "I'm looking for Dongdo Modeling Workshop."
The boy's expression shifted oddly. "Dongdo?"
"Yes." Kyung-ho showed him the paper.
After checking the address, the boy scratched his head. "Uh..." He paused, then said, "It closed down a little while ago."
"...Closed?"
"Yeah. I heard the owner died of asthma."
Kyung-ho's mind went blank. It had taken considerable time just to get here. With a deadline of one week to produce the models, losing his connected workshop was disastrous. He had no idea how long it would take to find a new one from scratch.
He sat in stunned silence for a long moment. The boy spoke again. "What kind of work do you need done?"
Kyung-ho let out a short sigh. "Model fabrication."
"Models?"
"I was planning to sculpt a clay prototype and cast it in resin."
The boy's eyes lit up. "Oh, you mean resin work?" He continued with an eager look. "We do that at our shop too. Wanna come see?"
Only then did Kyung-ho notice the boy's outfit. Beneath the open buttons of his uniform peeked a gray work smock—the standard garb for workshop hands.
"Your shop?"
The boy nodded. "We're pretty good at models. Come check it out?"
Kyung-ho hesitated. But in his current situation, there were no better options. "...Please."
"Yes!" The boy pumped his fist in excitement, then sheepishly scratched his head. "Sorry. Want me to push?"
"I'm good."
The boy headed naturally into the alley depths, and Kyung-ho followed, propelling his wheels.
"I'm Hashimoto Kazuo, by the way."
"Kyogo."
"Mind if I ask where you're from?"
Kyung-ho thought for a second. "...Can I tell you after checking out the shop?"
Kazuo nodded. "Sure thing."
They walked in silence as the alley narrowed further. Soon, there were hardly any people around. A moment later, Kazuo stopped in front of a small shop. A weathered sign hung above the door.
Donghwa Resin Processing Shop
Kazuo pushed the door open. A faint resin scent filled the air, and the workbench was cluttered with molds and resin casts. This feels right, Kyung-ho thought.
Just then, an elderly man with a stooped back looked up from behind the bench.
Kazuo shouted, "Grandpa!"
"Hm?"
"Customer!"
The old man's eyes slowly scanned Kyung-ho. Wheelchair. He brushed off his rear and stood, approaching.
"You bring him, Kazuo?"
Kyung-ho spoke first. "I need some model work done."
"Models? You came to the right place."
The old man leaned an elbow on the bench. "So, what're you making? Got blueprints or designs?"
"No."
The man's brow twitched. "No? Then what do you expect me to do?"
"If possible, I'd like to make it myself."
"You know it's rude to touch another man's tools?"
"Yes. But time's tight... Can't it be done somehow?"
"......"
As the old man fell silent, Kyung-ho pressed on. "I'll sculpt the prototype straight in clay. The structure's all in my head. From there, make a master model and cast in UV resin—it won't take long—"
"Hold up. What?" The man cut him off. "UV? What's that?"
"You don't know UV resin?"
"Some kind of resin?" The old man snorted. "No shop around here uses that. It's all polyester."
Only then did Kyung-ho realize his oversight. His expertise was in drawing. He'd handled models for composition, poses, and design at a basic level, but he had no clue when UV resin entered the scene. In his past life, 3D printers and easy duplicators made it commonplace, so he'd assumed it existed here too.
Now aware that Japan in this era didn't use UV resin, Kyung-ho paused, then asked cautiously, "Then... can my concept be done with polyester?"
The old man narrowed his eyes. "What concept?"
Kyung-ho hesitated, then said, "A structure with separated joints."
"Joints?"
"Yes. Not a solid lump—instead, make the joints separately and fit them together."
The old man scratched his chin. "How?"
Kyung-ho started to gesture in the air but grew frustrated and scanned the room, spotting a grubby ballpoint pen. "Can I use this?"
The old man nodded and handed over some paper. Kyung-ho spread it on the bench. He paused in thought, then the pen flew.
Scratch—
At first, just simple lines: torso centerline, shoulder position, pelvis angle.
But in seconds, they wove organically, building staggering depth. Soon, the robot's signature heavy weight sprang to life in precise perspective.
The old man's eyes grew serious as he watched Kyung-ho's impossibly swift work.
"......"
Kyung-ho's hand didn't stop. He outlined the torso silhouette in one go, then flipped to draw part breakdowns.
Shoulder. Elbow. Knee. Spherical ball joints and enclosing caps in cross-section. Perfect part division, even accounting for assembly order.
Kazuo leaned in, mesmerized. "Whoa... never seen anything like this."
"Don't crowd him, go inside, kid."
Shooing Kazuo away, the old man's intense gaze stayed glued to the paper.
"The joints separate like this. Internal frame first, then armor plating over it."
"...Undercuts calculated too. Color splits and assembly order considered. This ain't doodling."
The old man's eyes lingered on the drawing. Then Kyung-ho snapped out of it and set the pen down. He'd gotten lost in the flow. This design was still confidential.
"Ah. This... it's actually proprietary. Shouldn't show before a contract. Got too excited."
Kyung-ho tapped the paper lightly.
"So, shall we do the contract now?"
The old man narrowed his eyes. "Proprietary? From a company?"
"Moonrise Production. Name's Kyogo." He offered a handshake, and the old man took it, introducing himself.
"Sato Hiroshi. Moonrise, huh? First time hearing it."
"Animation company."
"Ah, got it."
Sato peered at the paper again. "So you nailed the structure but know zilch about actual production."
His rough fingers drummed the bench rhythmically.
Tap, tap.
"Fun structure. Mass production's out, but one-off in polyester? Easy. Contract."
"Contract's fine, but I plan to mass-produce this."
"......What?"
Sato's brows shot up.
"Mass-produce?"
He looked incredulous, chuckling dryly as he jabbed the paper. "You don't get it—this many parts? Tooling costs alone buy a house. And assembling by hand? You'd need hundreds in a factory."
Sato's voice roughened. "More parts mean higher tooling, more defects, higher assembly costs, longer processes. Longer processes jack up base prices and wages. Long-term, that's the killer. This ain't mass-producible."
To him, "mass production" meant fully assembled, boxed products from factories—common sense then.
But Kyung-ho wasn't selling finished goods. "Mr. Sato, ever heard of 'plamo'?"
"......Plamo?"
The old man's eyes narrowed. He'd heard the term.
"Assembly kits? Like battleships or fighters."
"Exactly."
"Make consumers assemble this complex robot themselves?"
Kyung-ho tapped the part diagram with the pen. "Starting with full complexity is tough. Factory pre-assembles halfway. Vary by difficulty: full unbuilt, 10% built, 20% built—with tiered pricing."
"......"
"This structure fits. Pre-assemble tricky bits, let buyers do the rest—saves big on labor. Less padding needed too."
Sato went quiet, his eyes calculating like an abacus.
Sell an unassembled robot?
The shop's machine hum suddenly seemed louder.
"You're crazy."
Kyung-ho smiled faintly.
"But convincing."
Sato stared piercingly at the intricate, beautiful joint structure.
"Contract."