A few days later, New York.
Netfi had staged the kickoff press conference for Death Note with the kind of surgical precision that didn't happen for "show," but for survival. The lighting was perfect. The backdrop was enormous. Camera shutters fired in steady bursts like rainfall. Translators sat ready to sand down anything too sharp before it could become tomorrow's headline.
At the bottom of the massive poster behind the cast, a small mark quietly dominated the room more than any logo ever could: 18+.
Right at center stage - where every camera naturally wanted to live - sat Alex.
It wasn't courtesy. It was gravity.
This was his film. His script. His project. And Netfi, above all else, could read heat. Alex's name - especially with younger audiences - wasn't "popular." It was a fever. A trend that didn't cool down, no matter how hard the timeline tried to move on.
Beside him, Christian Bale looked exactly like himself: controlled, elegant, unreadable. Nearby, a few heavy names from Alex's home market - veterans whose faces could sell out theaters back home - were present too, but they'd been pushed so far to the edge of the frame that, on certain camera angles, they practically didn't exist.
It wasn't disrespect. It was just the truth of the place.
Hollywood didn't care how big you were on another continent. It cared whether the local crowd recognized you without being prompted. For many people in that room, international cinema began and ended with a few legendary names from decades ago. Everyone else was simply… foreign, until proven otherwise.
Alex had built his cast with the same cold logic he applied to everything: talent first, cost second, fame only when it was necessary. The role of L had made him hesitate for several days - less because he didn't know who could do it, and more because he knew exactly what came after fame. The ego. The negotiation games. The constant "my brand" conversations.
In the end, he chose pragmatism.
He gave the part to the young actor who had played Ulquiorra in Bleach: The Arrancar Arc - Timothée Chalamet.
Timothée had range, presence, an intelligence that read well on camera… and, most importantly, he still hadn't fully crossed into that dangerous phase where an actor stops negotiating work and starts negotiating superiority. Ulquiorra had already put him on the radar in the U.S., sure - enough that his profile was rising quietly, steadily. But Timothée hadn't dared to ask Alex for a bigger check.
Not because he was humble.
Because he'd heard stories.
By now, even the foreign actors joked about it behind closed doors: Alex squeezed salaries like he was extracting truth from a suspect. Not out of cheapness - out of conviction. He genuinely believed the work itself was the prize, and he wasn't shy about acting like it.
When the microphones finally started moving, the first question came from a reporter from Alex's home country. Netfi had probably allowed it out of politeness - an easy gesture, a diplomatic nod.
"Director Alex… is it true this movie can't be released back home?"
Alex stared at him for a beat, like he was trying to locate the hidden punchline.
Then he lifted one hand and pointed calmly over his shoulder - straight at the bottom edge of the poster.
The 18+ stamp.
The answer wasn't even verbal. It was printed in black and white for anyone with eyes.
Around the room, American reporters dipped their heads and chuckled, the way people do when someone publicly proves they haven't read the most basic briefing notes. The poor guy looked like he wanted the floor to open.
And then the microphone passed to an American journalist, and the tone changed instantly - from curiosity to attack dressed up as concern.
"Mr. Alex, we've heard Netfi invested roughly six hundred million dollars into this production. And yet Christian Bale and Megan - top-tier American talent - are reportedly being paid around four million each. That's… unusually low. Are you discriminating against American actors?"
It was a long question, padded with words, but the intent was blunt: plant the word discrimination in the room and see if it could grow teeth.
Alex listened without moving, and for a second he almost found it funny.
If the first reporter had been inexperienced, this one sounded like he'd walked in carrying a prewritten accusation. Alex had heard plenty about Hollywood's growing obsession with moral theater - how every casting, every line, every choice had to survive a gauntlet of ideology before it could even pretend to be art. But watching it weaponized this blatantly, aimed directly at him, was still surreal.
You people don't understand half of what my industry swallows in silence, and you want to teach me virtue, he thought, face perfectly composed.
Still - he understood why it mattered.
Bale didn't normally show up for four million. Megan didn't either. For actors at that level, the starting point was often fifteen million and up. Cutting them down to a fraction of that was so extreme it sounded like a rumor… until you realized Alex was exactly the kind of man who would do it and call it reasonable.
He answered with the calm of someone who didn't ask permission even when he was wrong.
"Because my script is worth it." His eyes were cool, almost bored. "Only bad movies need obscene salaries to bait stars into signing."
On the far end of the table, Reagan - the Netfi executive whose job was essentially to smile through disasters - held his expression steady, but something subtle tightened at the corner of his mouth. Alex's line had teeth, because everyone in the room remembered Netfi's last expensive superhero swing: a two-hundred-million-dollar production that burned nearly half its budget on three massive stars… only to land with a middling reception. Not a catastrophe, but for that price tag, anything short of a cultural event felt like a public bruise.
The journalist didn't let go. He wanted Alex bleeding on camera.
"So you guarantee this film will be a massive success? And if it isn't - how will you take responsibility?"
Alex raised an eyebrow, faint amusement flickering.
"What - do you want to bet?"
The journalist's face lit up like Christmas morning. A bet with Alex meant visibility no matter what happened. Win or lose, you became part of the narrative. You got clips. You got shares. You got a story that would live longer than your actual career.
"Would you really do that?" he asked, almost eager.
For a heartbeat, Alex's expression suggested he might. Then his smile cooled into something sharper.
"I'm kidding." His voice stayed gentle, which somehow made it worse. "Who are you, exactly? You think you're important enough to bet with me? If you want games, go bring someone with a name. Bring your editor. Bring an executive. Bring someone who actually matters."
He paused - just long enough to let the humiliation settle into the man's skin.
"I'm not dropping my level for this." Alex's gaze swept the room like a blade. "That would be like watching Nika fight Lucci. It kills the aura. I win or I lose, and either way… the only person who benefits is the guy who never deserved the stage."
A silence fell - not empty, but thick. The kind of silence that made cameras feel louder.
Some reporters looked offended. Others looked impressed in spite of themselves, like they'd just witnessed a kind of confidence they didn't get to see often in real life - raw, unapologetic, almost shameless.
And the strange part was this: instead of turning the room against him, it worked.
The American press didn't understand the instinctive "humility" Alex grew up around. They weren't wired to respect quiet modesty. They worshiped individual heroism. They adored a man who walked into a room and made the room adjust to him.
Alex had always hated the "play weak to look strong later" routine in stories. If you're a tiger, why pretend to be a pig? It was cowardice disguised as strategy, and he'd never had patience for it.
So now that he was on foreign soil - where arrogance could read like charisma - he stopped editing himself.
I'm good. I know I'm good. And you'll buy tickets anyway.
The more he pushed back, the more the room recalibrated. You could see it in their eyes: not hostility, but a reluctant spark of respect. It was so absurd it bordered on comedy - Alex verbally sparring with the media, and the media quietly admiring him for it.
After that, the questions became more careful. No one wanted to be the next man used as a stepping stone. Reagan started steering the tone toward praise, smoothing the atmosphere like a professional firefighter. Timothée jumped in as if it was his natural role to be Alex's loudest believer - so enthusiastic it was almost comedic.
For several minutes, the two of them practically inflated Death Note into something that could punch The Shawshank Redemption and stomp Titanic on the way out.
Alex, for once, almost felt embarrassed. Almost.
Finally, a more competent reporter from Alex's home country got the microphone - someone who had clearly done the homework.
"Director Alex… going forward, will anime-inspired productions gradually shift from television to film?"
"No." Alex didn't hesitate. "This is a movie because this script fits the format. That's all."
The reporter hesitated, then pushed anyway, because the question was too tempting not to ask.
"But film carries more prestige than television. Don't you want to climb higher?"
Alex leaned back in his chair, calm as ever, like he wasn't being challenged at all.
"Where I'm from, we have a saying: gold shines on its own." A faint smile touched his mouth - not soft, but certain. "A rock wrapped in the prettiest cloth in the world is still a rock."
He let the sentence breathe, then finished it with the ease of someone stating a natural law.
"A work doesn't change because it's a movie or a series. Good is good. Bad is bad."
The flashes intensified, capturing the exact moment his confidence turned from attitude into doctrine.
"And me," Alex said, voice low and steady, "I'm always the first kind."
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Additionally, more chapters exclusive content are available on Patreon: https://patreon.com/ImmortalEmperor?utm_medium=unknown&utm_source=join_link&utm_campaign=creatorshare_creator&utm_content=copyLink
- CHRONICLES OF THE ICE SOVEREIGN
-PLAYING ANIME LEGENDS
-THE OTHER WORLD'S ANIMATOR
Join now and help shape the future of the story while enjoying special rewards!