Chapter 18: Time Group

Chapter 18: Time Group

Of course, the whole idea of selling his dear uncle to a wealthy older woman was just something Shinji kept to himself.

Success or not, even if such a thing did work out, it wasn’t like the woman would go easy on them in business negotiations just because of it. That kind of wishful thinking didn’t fly in this world.

“Director Matou.”

After what felt like a drawn-out silence, Udagawa Nao finally opened her mouth.

“My colleagues and I were quite taken with your Fate/Stay Night. We’re willing to bring this film to market.”

She flipped open the same notebook she’d been writing in earlier, a pen in one hand, her other hand lightly supporting her chin. Her expression was polished and professional—a picture-perfect business smile.

Even Shinji, composed as he always tried to be, couldn’t help but feel a faint thrill in his chest.

All those years of planning, all those months of filming. Now, finally—finally, he was seeing the first glimmer of victory.

He nodded politely, lips curling into a small smile.

“Thank you, Udagawa-san. It’s truly an honor.”

His composed and respectful tone seemed to please her. She continued, “I consider this collaboration with Type-Moon Studios to be a serious matter. However, the form of our cooperation is something we’ll need to discuss in detail.”

“No problem. We’ve got plenty of time to talk.”

Kariya cut in, unable to hide his eagerness. He was clearly hoping for a smooth deal.

But before he could say anything else, bam—a sharp kick from under the table.

He turned toward Shinji with a confused look, only to be met with his nephew’s irritated glare.

After wordlessly scolding his tactless uncle, Shinji shifted back into negotiation mode.

“The form, you say?” Shinji crossed his arms casually. “Isn’t that simple? I thought your company would be distributing Fate/Stay Night—nothing more, nothing less.”

“Of course Bandai will be distributing Fate.”

Udagawa lightly tapped her pen against the table, her tone growing just slightly firmer—subtle, but enough to remind everyone who was holding the reins.

“But our method of distribution would involve purchasing full rights to the film.”

“You want to buy out the entire film?”

Shinji’s smile faded slightly. His brow furrowed, a faint frown tugging at his lips.

Kariya turned his head sharply to glance at Shinji, surprised.

For independent films, being bought out by a major distributor was… normal, wasn’t it?

He didn’t quite understand what his nephew was trying to do here—and after that kick under the table, he wasn’t about to open his mouth and find out.

The old man back home had already warned him—this negotiation was Shinji’s to lead. Kariya was just here to support. Even if the talks fell apart, he wasn’t allowed to interfere.

Compared to Kariya’s visible confusion, Udagawa remained unreadable. Her face was a mask of perfect calm.

She gestured toward Shinji with an elegant sweep of her hand. “Director Matou, if you have a different proposal, we’re open to hearing it. As long as it’s reasonable and mutually beneficial, we can consider it.”

Such diplomatic phrasing. On the surface, it sounded considerate—like she was leaving room for Shinji to bargain.

But anyone who’d ever worked under a boss before would recognize the subtext:

"Feel free to speak your mind."

Yeah, sure. Anyone who believed that was a certified idiot.

But this was Shinji Matou we were talking about.

A man who could casually banter with the decrepit fossils ruling the Clock Tower wasn’t about to play nice now.

“I’d prefer if Type-Moon Studios and Bandai could enter into a distribution agreement instead—”

“Director Matou,” Udagawa cut in smoothly, “What you’re proposing is a revenue-sharing model, yes?”

Shinji was still mulling over how best to phrase the next part—but she’d already jumped ahead.

“Shin—”

Before Kariya could open his mouth, CRUNCH—Shinji stomped on his foot, hard.

Whatever he was about to say got crushed along with his toes.

Kariya let out a silent scream and forced himself to shut up.

After physically silencing his dear uncle, Shinji offered a gentle smile and gave a small nod.

“Of course. A revenue-sharing model.”

“That’s out of the question,” Udagawa Nao rejected him without a shred of hesitation. “A complete buyout of the film’s rights is a prerequisite for our cooperation.”

Her tone was sharp and resolute—leaving no room for compromise.

“Four hundred million.”

She raised four fingers and laid the number down with crisp clarity.

“That’s Bandai’s offer.”

It wasn’t generous, but it wasn’t an outright insult either. After all, most tokusatsu films in Japan barely made 1 to 2 billion yen at the box office.

That said, Udagawa had left herself some wiggle room. If Shinji pushed hard, she was prepared to up the price a little.

But Shinji just blinked at her, looking genuinely puzzled. He tilted his head slightly.

“Udagawa-san, correct me if I’m wrong, but... are you saying Bandai intends to purchase all rights to Fate/Stay Night in a single deal?”

“Of course. That’s how Bandai handles all independently-produced films. Is there a problem?”

She leaned forward across the table, her body language suddenly more aggressive—clearly trying to assert dominance.

Shinji, however, didn’t even blink. Compared to getting a dagger of mercury jammed against his throat by Director Kayneth back in the Clock Tower, this was child’s play.

“Ah, well, there’s something I think you should know first, Udagawa-san.”

He cleared his throat and gave a look of mock innocence.

“Just to clarify—Type-Moon Studios doesn’t own all of Fate/Stay Night’s film rights. The overseas distribution rights are already held by our partner companies abroad.”

“Overseas?”

Udagawa frowned, clearly caught off guard.

Shinji simply raised his palms in a helpless gesture. “Yes. Today’s meeting is only regarding Japanese domestic distribution. The overseas market is managed by our international division.”

“Tokusatsu has a market overseas?”

Udagawa’s voice rose slightly—equal parts disbelief and suspicion.

“Tokusatsu? Oh, no no no, Udagawa-san.”

Shinji shook his head furiously, his expression cartoonishly exaggerated.

“This isn’t some tokusatsu film. It’s a visual effects film!”

Now, the truth of the matter was… blurry at best. The line between tokusatsu and VFX movies was notoriously vague, especially in the future when CGI would become even more dominant. If anything, the difference might boil down to whether or not your actor was wearing a rubber suit.

But Shinji wasn’t about to get bogged down in definitions. His goal was simple: reframe the narrative.

Market positioning was everything. Gloss something up enough, and you could sell it for ten times the price.

“Fate/Stay Night was shot using the latest cutting-edge cinematic technology. Many of the innovations came directly from our overseas partners, who invested significant capital into the project. That’s why the international rights belong to them.”

That part was… half-true.

The Clock Tower families had dumped a fortune into the project. But most of it went toward acquiring the Heroic Spirit Relics, not VFX tools. The so-called “movie company” was basically a glorified shell corporation.

Still, Shinji smiled like the picture of confidence.

“Udagawa-san,” he continued smoothly, “Fate/Stay Night isn’t just a film—it’s the first of an entirely new genre: Visual Effect Cinema. Targeted toward the 13–25 age group—the exact demographic that dominates the movie-going population.”

“A new genre? You’re just making things up now,” she said coolly, arms crossed. “There’s no precedent for what you’re describing.”

Shinji offered a harmless smile, the kind that only made you want to punch him more.

“Well, once we sign the contract, Bandai can host a special screening. The audience’s reaction will tell you everything you need to know.”

“We’ll discuss that after the contract is signed.”

Udagawa wasn’t buying any of his sales pitch. She pulled the conversation back on track.

“And since we’re only dealing with domestic rights, a profit-sharing deal becomes even more impossible. Still—”

She paused briefly.

“—in recognition of your storytelling talent, Director Matou, I’m willing to raise our offer to 500 million yen.”

She made it sound like a huge concession.

“That’s impossible.”

Shinji’s smile faded, his brow tightening.

“My partners will never agree to that.”

Udagawa raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across her face. Inside, she was already shaking her head.

Naïve.

This young director still didn’t understand how the industry worked.

“Director Matou,” she said with the tone of a teacher correcting a wayward student.

“Your proposed revenue-share model? There isn’t a single distribution company in Japan that would accept it. The only deal on the table is a full buyout of all Japanese domestic rights.”

Before Shinji could even process that, she pushed forward:

“Bandai is preparing to put this film on the theatrical circuit. That includes promotional campaigns, advertising, press junkets, and hundreds of physical copies for cinemas across the country.”

“All of that comes out of our pocket.”

Udagawa Nao’s eyes narrowed, her voice calm yet firm.

“Director Matou, what guarantees do you have that our company will recover its investment? Do you have any past success to back this up?”

Her words were cold, deliberate—each syllable weighed and calculated.

“If Type-Moon Studios is willing to shoulder the entire cost of marketing and distribution, then we’re open to a profit-sharing model.”

‘Are you insane, or do you just think I’m an idiot?’

Shinji fought back the powerful urge to roll his eyes.

Having the production company foot the bill for distribution and promotion?

That was basically asking him to walk into a minefield blindfolded. By the time it came to profit reconciliation, Type-Moon would be lucky to walk away with pocket change—assuming anything at all.

The truth was that large-scale promotional budgets were notoriously opaque and bloated, filled with “miscellaneous expenses” that could be quietly padded at will. Giving the distributor full control over those numbers was like giving a fox the keys to the henhouse.

That said, Shinji had to admit—Udagawa Nao wasn’t wrong. Lack of past experience was his greatest weakness in this negotiation. If she decided to lock onto that point and press it, there wasn’t much he could say to counter it. It was a fact, after all.

‘Figures… you don’t get to be a corporate executive without knowing how to play dirty. Guess it’s time to switch tactics.’

Fortunately, the fact that his opponent was Bandai gave Shinji one very important card to play.

“Udagawa-san,” he said, straightening up and adjusting his tone to something far more casual.

“While I can’t sell you the full rights to the film, what I can offer… is exclusive global merchandising rights for Fate/Stay Night.”

“…Global?”

Her brows arched in surprise.

“Worldwide,” Shinji repeated confidently, his lips curling into a sly smile.

Udagawa Nao crossed her arms, her lips pressing into a tight line. She didn’t look convinced.

“With all due respect, Director Matou—even if you handed Bandai global rights, what’s the point? We’re the biggest toy manufacturer in Asia, sure, but we have almost no retail channels in the West.”

She leaned back slightly, her tone edged with annoyance.

“Are you trying to waste my time?”

But this time, Shinji leaned forward, closing the distance between them—his eyes gleaming.

“What if I could broker the connection for you?”

His voice was low, composed, confident.

“What if I could introduce Bandai to reliable Western distributors?”

Now the tables had turned.

Shinji could feel the shift—however slight.

The power balance in the room was no longer one-sided.

“I told you already—my overseas connections are quite solid. If everything goes as expected, Type-Moon will be partnering with Time Group for North American distribution.”

Udagawa Nao’s expression faltered. Her sharp gaze flicked between Shinji and the quietly suffering man next to him, Kariya Matou.

Time Group.

That name hit like a thunderbolt.

It was one of the biggest media conglomerates in North America—leagues above a company like Bandai in terms of global influence.

“You’re saying… you can work with Time Group?”

“Nothing’s been officially signed,” Shinji replied with an expression of genuine honesty, “but it’s more or less a done deal. After all, the Matou family and the Flora family—Time Group’ major shareholders—have been close for generations.”

As he said that, Shinji couldn’t help letting out a soft sigh in his heart.

‘Well… that’s not a complete lie, but not the whole truth either.’

This world’s Time Group had taken a very different path from the one he remembered in his past life. It was originally founded by old European magus families who migrated to the New World. Their initial goal? Use the media to shroud the existence of magecraft and the supernatural from public view.

But as time went on, their empire grew larger and more profitable… until they’d become one of the most dominant forces in North American media.

And unlike the world Shinji remembered, this Time Group had never bothered buying out Warner. No “TimeWarner” nonsense here. But that didn’t mean they had no interest in film.

And yes, the Matou and Flora families really did have close ties. When Shinji had gone abroad, the Flora family had welcomed him with open arms, even helping him settle in.

So technically, what he said was true.

But what Shinji didn’t say was far more important.

Like the little “incident” with the Flora family’s daughter.

The one that led to his very sudden return to the Clock Tower.

Yeah… that was one of the reasons he stayed the hell away from talking to Time Group directly.

Still, very few people knew the full story.

And Shinji was banking on the fact that no one from Bandai would dig deep enough to uncover that particular skeleton.

Udagawa Nao stared at the boy across from her.

There it was again—that flicker of something behind his eyes. Something fox-like.

She could practically see the bushy tail swishing smugly behind him.

‘Why did I think this little brat would be easy to handle…?’

Her lips twitched in frustration.

She had entered the meeting thinking that the real obstacle would be the elder Matou—Kariya. But the man had barely spoken a single word the entire time.

Instead, it was the boy she had completely underestimated who kept deflecting, twisting, and—damn it—negotiating.

And the worst part?

He was good at it.

Shinji’s offer was dangerously tempting.

He had aimed directly at Bandai’s greatest vulnerability: their failure to break into Western markets.

The opportunity to work with a solid overseas distributor was exactly what Bandai needed. It was practically a gift from the heavens—and judging by the way her colleagues beside her were practically drooling, they agreed.

But even if she found the proposal appealing, it wasn’t a decision she could make.

It was far, far above her pay grade.

Just as the room settled into tense silence, Shinji leaned ever so slightly to the side and—

Tap

He kicked his uncle again.

“—Hngh?! What now?”

Kariya gave a confused little gasp, his face the picture of wide-eyed innocence as he looked toward Shinji’s equally innocent expression.

‘Why me again?!’

His soul screamed the question internally, tears welling behind his tired eyes.