I fully checked Cha
Ethan Reed wasn't blind to what had been happening lately.
If anything, he'd been force-fed the chaos—because Vivian Frost had turned herself into Northstar Games' unofficial intelligence bureau.
Whenever she wasn't "working," Vivian was either grinding a game like her life depended on it, or doom-scrolling the net with the focus of a corporate spy. She didn't just read rumors—she hunted them. She could tell you which post started a trend, who reposted first, and how many comments it took before the meme became a wildfire.
So it wasn't surprising that Ethan knew exactly what K-On! had triggered in the real world.
Vivian walked into his office one morning and practically threw the news at him.
"Do you understand what your anime did?" she demanded, eyes bright with disbelief. "Kids are buying instruments like they're buying snacks."
Ethan blinked. "That's… a good thing, isn't it?"
Vivian's expression twisted like she'd bitten something sour.
"A good thing, sure. But it makes me angry."
She started listing the incidents like a news anchor with personal beef:
Students dragging parents to stores to buy guitars. Schools suddenly buzzing with instrument talk. A key high school where a music teacher argued with a science teacher—not politely either—and fought for the right to teach an actual music lesson.
Then the real bomb: someone had uploaded a "life-risking stealth recording" of a teacher playing guitar in class to BiliZone.
After that, the floodgates opened.
Videos titled "My Music Teacher" and "Our Class Finally Got Music" popped up everywhere, multiplying like weeds after rain.
Ethan listened, half amused, half speechless.
Vivian, however, looked like she was reliving trauma.
"You know what my middle school music class looked like?" she snapped. "I saw the music teacher like… twice. Maybe."
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
Vivian leaned forward, voice full of bitter nostalgia.
"In high school, we had two music classes per week on the schedule. You know what those classes magically turned into?"
She slapped the desk with her palm.
"English. Math. History. Random 'extra lessons.' Music didn't exist. It just vanished."
Ethan coughed, trying not to laugh.
Vivian glared harder.
"Don't laugh. If K-On! existed back then, maybe my school wouldn't have treated music like a crime."
Ethan finally smiled, unable to help it.
It was funny in a sad way.
Different environments created different outcomes. And Ethan genuinely hadn't predicted this—he expected K-On! to be popular, sure, but he didn't expect it to spark a mini-rebellion across campuses.
In Japan, high schools had a strong club culture. Music clubs weren't a rumor—they were real. Students actually played instruments, practiced together, performed, and treated music like a normal part of youth.
Back home?
Music class often got stolen.
Or replaced with movies.
Or dissolved into exam prep like sugar in hot water.
So the idea of music teachers "rising up" because of an anime was absurd…
But it was also strangely hopeful.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, thinking.
If a cute slice-of-life music anime could cause this much turbulence, what would happen if he dropped something even more explosive?
Sports anime.
Slam Dunk.
Ping Pong.
Prince of Tennis.
Football…
He paused and coughed internally at that last one.
"Okay, maybe not football," he muttered to himself.
But still—if K-On! could inspire kids to buy guitars, then a top-tier sports anime could ignite a different kind of fire.
Would PE teachers rise up next?
Frankly, they should.
Ethan had always found it ridiculous how PE teachers were apparently "sick" every time a PE class appeared on the schedule.
Balance mattered. Rest mattered. Movement mattered.
Rote learning wasn't education—it was exam survival.
And the system was squeezing students until they forgot what breathing felt like.
So yes, Ethan was genuinely rooting for PE teachers to revolt too.
For the students.
Definitely not just because it would be funny.
But to make any of that happen…
He needed Rachel Quinn.
And Rachel wasn't even in the country.
---
Rachel Quinn's War Abroad
By Rachel's third day in Japan, the trip had already turned sour.
She'd arrived with a proposal briefcase and a clear mission: negotiate TV distribution for Northstar-linked animation projects.
Instead, she ran into two straight days of closed doors.
The team traveling with her—department staff, legal support, and one exhausted translator—looked progressively more uncomfortable.
Not just annoyed.
Worried.
Because the Japanese side didn't only reject them.
They insulted them.
And worse—someone started making threats.
Rachel learned something that week:
Politeness could be a mask.
In small things, the people she met were extremely courteous—bows, smiles, formal greetings, perfect manners.
But once business started?
Once identity mattered?
That politeness evaporated like mist.
On the first day, the deputy director of a major station barely listened to her proposal. The moment he heard she was Chinese, he cut her off.
Then it escalated into accusations—"illegal trespassing," "security will remove you," "don't waste our time."
Rachel had been stunned.
Not because she couldn't handle rejection.
But because they didn't even look at the work.
They didn't judge quality.
They judged her passport.
And by the second day, the threats arrived—quietly delivered, the kind that doesn't sound dramatic until you realize it's real.
Rachel clenched her teeth.
"This is a society ruled by law," she'd muttered that night, furious. "And they're still playing these games?"
Then someone reminded her of the obvious:
Japan's "gray zones" weren't myths. Certain groups operated openly enough to make intimidation feel like normal business.
Rachel wasn't afraid.
She was insulted.
And when she got insulted, she got creative.
With help from a senior official back in Lumen City, Rachel contacted the Japanese embassy for proper guidance and safe connections. She didn't go in begging for favors like a clueless tourist.
She went in with leverage.
Northstar Games had money.
And more importantly, Northstar had a relationship with the Lumen City government—strong enough that doors opened when they knocked.
Through a suited, glasses-wearing embassy contact, Rachel was introduced to a local Shibuya District "security network."
Call it what it was: muscle.
And once that connection was quietly established, the entire mood shifted.
Suddenly, the same TV station that had chased her away was willing to "apologize."
Suddenly, the deputy director wanted to "talk."
Suddenly, everyone remembered manners again.
In the conference room, Rachel sat calmly with her briefcase on the table.
Across from her, the deputy director wore a nervous smile so forced it looked painful. He wiped sweat from his forehead like a man who'd discovered consequences for the first time in his life.
Her translator leaned in and spoke softly:
"He says he's very sorry. He didn't know you knew Mr. Oswald. He apologizes for the earlier disrespect. He hopes it won't affect cooperation. He offers gifts: fine tea and hot spring tickets."
Rachel's eyes nearly rolled out of her skull.
Hot spring tickets?
Tea?
What was she supposed to do—bathe away racism?
She didn't drink tea. And even if she did, she didn't need Japanese tea.
Still, Rachel forced herself to stay calm.
Japan was small. Their TV ecosystem wasn't like home. There weren't endless regional stations to choose from. One major deal could open the entire country.
So she didn't storm out.
But she also didn't smile.
She leaned forward, gaze sharp enough to cut glass.
Then she spoke slowly to the translator.
"Tell him I don't accept his apology. Tell him to stop wasting time. We're here to talk business. If he refuses again, I'll ask Mr. Oswald to speak directly to his station president. My time is limited. Translate my exact words."
The translator obeyed.
And the deputy director nodded repeatedly, face pale, agreeing to everything.
Rachel watched him and felt a strange emptiness.
Background mattered.
Power mattered.
Respect, apparently, was just the price you paid for influence.
The meeting ended. Rachel placed the proposal on the table, signed off the next steps, and walked out with her team.
Outside, the street was clean and bright—almost too clean, like a postcard pretending the world was gentle.
Across the road, two men in suits stood near a vehicle.
They nodded once when Rachel exited, then drove away without speaking.
Rachel exhaled and said with a dry smile, "Mr. Hayward… what kind of people did you find for me?"
She had seen them up close now.
Not movie fantasy.
Not silly rumors.
Real men with calm eyes, quiet threats, and tattoos hidden under expensive sleeves.
A part of her wanted to brag to Vivian when she got back.
Another part of her wanted to wash the entire experience out of her skin.
---
Back Home: Money, Pressure, and a New Gift
On January 15th, Vivian leaned over Ethan's desk in Northstar's office, curiosity written all over her face.
"You just got off the phone. What did Daniel say?"
Ethan stared at her for a second, then tried to summarize without sounding like a paid advertisement.
But it came out wrong anyway.
"This foreign AAA giant is different," he said with a sigh. "Massive scale. Good benefits. Everyone knows their role. Their engine tech is… ridiculous. We have to learn. Not learning isn't an option."
Vivian narrowed her eyes.
"Why do you sound like you're reading a commercial script?"
Ethan smirked. "Because Daniel sounded like he was reading one."
Then he got serious.
"In short, they visited three studios. Learned a lot about engine workflows. Optimization pipelines. Even did concept support for some character work."
Vivian nodded slowly.
Going abroad wasn't just flexing.
It was necessary.
Large games couldn't be built in isolation.
And Ethan already had a plan: eventually split Daniel's team into a dedicated "big project unit"—a spearhead for heavyweight titles.
Cyberpunk 2077 was only the beginning.
Vivian refreshed her tablet.
"And Rachel's side?"
"Resolved," Ethan said. "They're enjoying Japan now. Coming back on the 21st."
Vivian hesitated. "Revenue share?"
"The Japanese side offered less than the children's channel, but it's still profitable," Vivian admitted. "And the exposure is worth it."
Ethan nodded. Promotion mattered. Great work didn't automatically sell. Even the best product could die in silence without distribution.
Northstar's promo department wasn't the strongest—so partners filled the gap.
Then Ethan's expression shifted.
"But… how much has Daniel spent recently?"
Vivian thought.
Then said casually, like she was discussing lunch money:
"Probably over 230 million."
Ethan went silent for a full second.
Then slowly exhaled.
"Okay. So how much do we have left?"
Vivian waved her hand, smiling like a villain with unlimited credit.
"Relax. Even if we needed a billion, we could handle it."
Ethan rubbed his forehead. "Fine. Get ready. Once Daniel returns, it won't be long before the 2077 demo is ready."
Vivian turned to leave—then stopped mid-step and looked back.
"Ready for what?"
Ethan's smile sharpened.
"Promotion."
He leaned forward slightly.
"People online keep asking about a second season of Edgerunners."
Vivian's eyes narrowed.
Ethan continued, voice calm but dangerous.
"We don't have a second anime season to give them."
He paused.
"But we do have a gift."
"No new Edgerunners anime… but we have the game."
Ethan's smile widened, just a little.
"And we're going to reveal it properly—press conference level."
Vivian stared at him, then slowly grinned.
Because she understood what that meant.
A demo.
A teaser of the future.
A promise.
And a challenge to every player who doubted them.
Northstar Games could do everything…
But now it was time to prove they could deliver the one thing people feared most:
A world-scale game that didn't collapse under its own ambition.
Ethan leaned back, eyes half-lidded.
"The 2077 demo," he murmured.
"Let's see if they like it."
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