The Sponsor's Verdict
Moonrise Production office.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The ticking of the second hand grated on the nerves more than usual.
With every tick, Tomizawa's anxiety amplified, his fingers interlaced and forehead resting heavily on them.
"...Yamada's not back yet?"
"Y-yes? No... not yet..." The employee tensed even more than usual under his hysterical tone, stammering a reply.
"What time is it now?"
"T-ten... ten a.m."
Tomizawa puffed furiously on his cigarette, as if he meant to burn the filter too. The ashtray was already piled high with stubs. Today was the day the sponsor was due. No exact time had been set, so they had no idea when they might barge in.
But—
"When the hell is Kyogo getting here?"
The most crucial person, Kyung-ho, still hadn't arrived. He'd sent Yamada out early that morning, but for some reason, there was still no sign of them.
...Is this the end?
His Adam's apple bobbed heavily. A tightening sensation gripped one side of his chest—not mere anxiety, but something closer to a physiological rejection threatening his very survival.
That was when it happened.
Clack. Tap. Tap.
From the end of the hallway came the sound of sturdy shoes approaching. A rhythmic, dry popping noise. Tension in the office spiked instantly.
"...He's here."
Someone muttered it like a groan. Click.
The door swung open, flooding the room with cold air from the hallway. Black suit. Wrinkle-free shirt. Peeling scalp hinting at age, small and stocky build. And—
Indifferent eyes.
It was Kamiyama Yoshinobu, executive managing director of Glover Company.
He scanned the room from the front. Shoulders visibly hunched wherever his gaze passed.
"Welcome, Managing Director Kamiyama?"
Tomizawa shot up from his seat like he'd been launched. His chair scraped backward with a clatter.
"Director Tomizawa." Unfazed by the reaction, he cut straight to the chase. "I've come to see the results."
A sharp plunge into the point, devoid even of business pleasantries. "Ah, yes. The results." "If production delays any further, even if you handle the animation side, there'll be issues with toy manufacturing. Is everything ready?" His attitude brooked no excuses. Tomizawa squeezed his eyes shut briefly before replying.
"Of course."
"Good." Kamiyama's expression didn't shift a millimeter as he strode familiarly to the conference table and took the head seat. "Can I see it?"
Someone gulped under his piercing glare.
"...We'll show you."
Tomizawa signaled Kenji with his chin. Kenji's hands trembled like he was holding a live bomb as he opened the thick document bag.
Ziiiip—
The zipper's rasp tore through the silence. Kenji couldn't even meet Kamiyama's eyes as he slid the neatly wrapped black plastic bundle onto the table.
Thud.
Crude packaging. The secretary from Glover twitched an eyebrow.
"Is this... the prototype?"
Kamiyama's voice dropped another octave.
"We asked for a prototype."
He began tapping the desk rhythmically with his finger. Tap—tap—tap— "To my eyes, this doesn't look like paper."
A heart-squeezing silence stretched on until Tomizawa bowed his head to the executive.
"Could you just take a quick look, please?" Tap—tap—tap—tap—tap— The tapping continued. "Fine. Let's at least check it."
Kenji, who'd been standing awkwardly, peeled off the plastic the moment the words landed.
"At best, a slapped-together clay model..." Shhrrk—
From between the shed plastic emerged it.
"...!"
For the first time, a flicker of interest sparked in Kamiyama's bored eyes. What had been wrapped in plastic wasn't a clay model—it was a fully resin-cast prototype.
Not some half-assed thing.
The roughly sanded surface gleamed machine-smoothed. The armored panels' edges were chillingly precise. No separate painting, but part-specific resins gave it the feel of a finished product.
"What do you think?"
Tomizawa ventured cautiously as Kamiyama stared silently.
"I'll take a closer look."
Kamiyama finally stood and picked up the model. Up close, details jumped out: clearances impossible without mold design in mind, organic part integration. Not simple joints, but ball joints for free articulation. Joint caps concealing the ball joints without compromising aesthetics. In that moment, he realized.
The design philosophy is at least ten years ahead.
"Who... who made this?"
A subtle tremor in Kamiyama's voice—pure curiosity for the artisan behind it. Tomizawa answered.
"...Kyogo, our trainee."
"...Did I hear that right?"
"You heard correctly."
After a pause, the executive spoke.
"Could I... meet him?"
Tomizawa swallowed dryly at the question.
"Well... he's stepped out briefly."
A faint furrow creased Kamiyama's brow. The creator absent on sponsor visit day was incomprehensible, but he turned back to the model instead. His fingertip traced the armored edge with care.
Soon, his admiring gaze cooled.
"Certainly... the concept is radical. But."
He set the model down on the table.
Thud.
The plastic clack echoed through the conference room.
"Up close, the flaws are evident. No shrinkage control at all overall. And the part splits are overly complex. The armor plating looks under 0.5mm thick—obvious short-shotting in injection molding, where resin won't flow fully and solidifies midway."
Like a true expert, he pinpointed mass-production killers.
"Undercuts are somewhat considered, but sloppy. This structure means high breakage in demolding."
Staring long at the model, he shook his head regretfully, smacking his lips. "Impressive work personally, but as I said on the phone, mass-production is impossible."
"Director, but this level of detail..."
Tomizawa tried to interject desperately, but Kamiyama cut him off with a raised hand.
"Director Tomizawa. We're in business, not art."
The words stabbed like daggers into everyone's hearts.
"We're in the toy sales business. Profitability-wise, something this close to 'art' can't hit the market. Painful, but bring another design..."
As Kamiyama sat back down, Tomizawa blurted out.
"...That's the failure!"
"Pardon?"
Kamiyama frowned.
"The creator himself called it a failure."
"A failure? This model?" His mind reeled at the unbelievable claim. ...So where's the finished product? He opened his mouth to ask—
"Then why bring a failure here..."
Rrrroll— "Director! I brought Kyogo ba—!"
Yamada's voice sliced through the heavy air. But he froze upon spotting Kamiyama's glare from the head seat. The heavy door swung open, cold hallway air rushing in. Panting Yamada, and ahead of him, a boy in a wheelchair clutching a massive document bag.
Park Kyung-ho.
...Finally!
Tomizawa's heart raced with relief. Not just him—the Moonrise staff felt an inexplicable confidence that Kyogo could sway this picky executive.
"...!"
Kamiyama shot up at "Kyogo." His gaze passed Yamada to the wheelchair-bound boy. Eyebrows twitched. Wheelchair. Youthful face.
This kid?
Shoes clicking, Kamiyama approached Kyung-ho. With businessman's restraint, he proffered a business card from his pocket.
"Pleased to meet you. Kamiyama Yoshinobu of Glover Company. You're... Kyogo, right?"
"Yes. Kyogo of Moonrise."
Kyung-ho took the card nonchalantly and shook hands. Kamiyama noted the boy's soft palm, confused again. Even young, such work demanded seasoned skill—grueling repetition. Yet the hand felt like an office worker's, not a craftsman's.
Hiding his turmoil, Kamiyama pointed to the massive bag on Kyung-ho's lap.
"Is the 'finished product' Director Tomizawa mentioned inside?"
"Yes."
With Kyung-ho's curt reply, Yamada hurriedly wheeled him to the conference table. The office stayed deathly silent until the bag was placed down.
Click—click—
The combination lock's dry metal clicks shattered the quiet. Opening the bag revealed multiple individually wrapped black plastic bundles.
"... "
Tomizawa gulped, hesitating on where to start—until Kyung-ho took calm control.
"May I explain myself?"
"...Fine. Proceed."
Kamiyama leaned back, arms crossed. Kyung-ho picked the largest bundle and placed it center table.
Shhrrk—
A model utterly unlike the previous emerged from the shed plastic.
"This is my idea of the 'real thing'."
Low and steady, yet laced with strange conviction. Kamiyama's eyes locked on it. The "failure" had been impressive, but this was different. From surface gloss to part meshing, showroom-ready perfection.
Without pause, Kyung-ho opened another. Fragments spilled out.
"These are replacement parts included."
His fingers moved deftly. He lightly removed shoulder and chest armor, slotting in new pieces from the bag.
Click, click.
With each crisp metallic snap, the sleek robot's surface transformed. Bullet dents like real impacts, melted armor from overheating, battlefield scratches.
In seconds, the display-piece robot reborn as a battle-scarred weapon dancing on death's edge.
"...!"
Kamiyama reached out in shock. Kyung-ho handed it over wordlessly. He traced the damaged armor details.
"Insane..."
He muttered blankly, removing and swapping a plate himself. Tool-free, satisfying lock-in. Durable even in play.
"Unbelievable. Barely any play. Calculated injection shrinkage perfectly?" He stroked the flawless surface—no trace of prior flaws. Grown since then?
"Kyogo, you're a real... monster."
Kamiyama set it down, entranced. Staring long, he sighed deeply, regaining reason.
"But... regardless of modeling perfection, mass-producing this detail means insurmountable unit costs. Part count and painting labor—can't approve as sponsor."
"Then look at this."
Kyung-ho opened another. A crudely gypsum-and-silicone mold.
Kamiyama's brow furrowed.
"A mold? Why show this? Not planning mass-production with that, right?"
"Of course not. Director, how was the weight when you held the model?"
Kamiyama lifted it again, eyes widening. Lighter than it looked.
"Is the inside... hollow?"
"Not just armor. Entire thing molded and assembled per part."
"What?"
Shocked—the expert hadn't noticed the assembly's precision. But more parts meant skyrocketing costs in toys.
"Assembly costs would be insane! Factory labor for each—"
"I'm thinking no assembly."
Kyung-ho cut in. Hinting at plastic models, Kamiyama fell silent. Robots as plastic kits? Untried.
"How was swapping parts yourself? Fun, right?"
"Well..."
"The toy's core is assembly itself. Users detach, assemble, customize battle scars. Induce ultimate realism and story ownership. That's my vision."
Kamiyama was speechless at the depth. Who thinks like that? Yet he pondered, then spoke.
"But for kids' toys, isn't the entry barrier too high?"
Kyung-ho continued seamlessly.
"My answer: If it's cool, they buy."
"... "
No immediate rebuttal. The design and concept demanded it. But Kyung-ho wasn't done.
"Worried about difficulty? Ship partially assembled from factory. Vary by level: full kit, 10% assembled, 20%—tiered pricing. And not just for kids. Plenty of adults do tank/fighter kits—huge appeal potential. Diversifies consumers, perfect opportunity."
Kamiyama mulled silently, complex calculations churning. Market-shifting gamble. But the model screamed worth it.
Guessing his thoughts, Kyung-ho asked softly.
"Director, would you buy this?"
Gaze back to the model. Fluorescent light shattered on battle-worn armor. Silence stretched. Tomizawa and Yamada held breath, eyes on his lips.
Finally, Kamiyama smirked.
"Me? ...I'd buy it."
"Hoo..."
Relief sighs erupted. Tomizawa gripped the desk, legs weak. But Kamiyama had more.
"But, Kyogo."
He pointed to the unopened bundles.
"I want to see what's in the rest too."