This trend catapulted GAINAX to fame and allowed Sega, an early investor, to reap massive profits.
But where there are winners, there are also losers.
Other anime series airing in the same or adjacent time slots faced a crushing blow—a dimensional strike from a higher plane of existence.
Takuya Nakayama closed his notebook and placed it back into the vault.
Sunrise Animation.
The veteran mecha studio was now in the midst of a firestorm.
As a subsidiary of Sega Holdings, Sunrise's flagship project this year was After War Gundam X.
It premiered in April, hoping to leverage the legendary Gundam brand to reignite viewers' passion on the television screen.
Instead, it ran head-first into the societal-level craze sparked by EVA.
The audience's attention was completely drained away.
Ratings plummeted, and its commercial performance was a disaster.
Takuya Nakayama picked up the internal directory on his desk and flipped to Sunrise's contact page, but he didn't make the call.
According to industry custom, if a yearly anime's ratings and merchandise sales fell short of targets halfway through its run, the sponsors on the Production Committee would step in and apply pressure.
The proposal to cut the number of episodes and end the series early was likely already causing a storm in the Sunrise meeting room.
As a major shareholder of Sunrise, Sega couldn't turn a blind eye to this.
Moreover, the plan to acquire Sotsu required Sunrise's cooperation. If Sunrise's morale plummeted due to the failure of Gundam X, and its management fell into turmoil, it would severely hinder the subsequent copyright integration.
Takuya Nakayama grabbed his car keys and walked out of his office.
"No need to prepare the car, I'll drive myself," he told his secretary as he passed her desk.
In the underground garage, the engine roared to life, and the black sedan pulled out of the Sega Headquarters Building.
The autumn wind of Tokyo blew in through the half-lowered window, carrying away some of the stuffiness inside the car.
The traffic from Ōta Ward to Suginami Ward was relatively smooth.
Sunrise's headquarters was an unremarkable-looking office building.
Takuya Nakayama parked his car and walked straight to the main entrance.
There was no warm greeting from the receptionist.
The air was thick with the smell of cheap coffee and stale tobacco smoke.
The animation area was dimly lit.
A few key animators were slumped over their lightboxes, catching some sleep. Those who weren't asleep were mechanically flipping through their storyboards.
Raised voices drifted from the conference room at the end of the hallway. Through the thin wooden door, the sounds of an argument leaked out without restraint.
"The ratings have plummeted below expectations! Asahi Television is under immense pressure. We need a decision this month." This was the voice of the Asahi Television broadcasting representative, his tone purely professional and uncompromising.
"Thirty-nine episodes," retorted Hiroyuki Kawasaki, the head writer. "Any more cuts and we won't be able to wrap up the main plot. Garrod and Tiffa's romance needs proper buildup, and we still have to explain the Satellite Microwave Cannon's mechanics."
"Kawasaki-sensei, this is no time to discuss artistic creation," the Dentsu representative said, rapping his knuckles on the table. "The sponsors are extremely dissatisfied with current merchandise sales. Bandai's model kit shipments dropped by thirty percent last month. Cutting our losses now is the Production Committee's consensus. The sunk costs are already on the table—who's going to bear them?"
"Then it's thirty-nine episodes," Shinji Takamatsu, the director, interjected, his tone dripping with desperation. "Any fewer, and I'll just have the protagonist crash the Gundam into the moon in the next episode. We might as well cause a broadcasting accident and all apologize together."
"Thirty-nine episodes will drag the schedule into December. The network's year-end special slots are already full. We can have thirty-eight episodes at most, and the series must conclude by the end of November. The marginal benefit has already bottomed out."
Takuya Nakayama stopped in his tracks.
The production assistant assigned to receive him jogged over, sweat beading on his forehead. He lowered his voice as he reported.
"Executive Director Nakayama. You hear that? They're still arguing over the episode count."
The assistant sighed and pointed toward the animation department.
"This has been dragged out for nearly three weeks. With the higher-ups unable to reach a decision, the staff below simply can't get any work done. The key animators don't know which episodes to draw, and the episode directors don't know how to schedule the production. Everyone's just waiting for instructions every day. This state of limbo is even worse than a direct cancellation."
Takuya Nakayama looked at the listless animators.
Anime production was an assembly-line process. When the script and episode count—the very source—got stuck, the entire downstream operation ground to a halt. The longer this stalemate dragged on, the greater the internal attrition for the company.
"Go knock on the door," Takuya Nakayama said, smoothing the hem of his suit jacket. "Tell them I'm here."
The assistant nodded, walked to the conference room door, knocked twice, and pushed it open a crack.
The shouting stopped abruptly.
After a few seconds, the door was pulled wide open.
The Dentsu representative donned a professional smile.
The Asahi Television representative straightened his posture.
Shinji Takamatsu and Hiroyuki Kawasaki also stopped rubbing their temples.
"Executive Director Nakayama, please excuse our lack of a proper welcome."
The group gestured for Takuya Nakayama to enter the conference room.
The long table was cluttered with storyboards, viewership ratings reports, and merchandise sales data.
The ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.
Sega's investment share in the Gundam X Production Committee was relatively small.
Logically, in a meeting that decided the fate of the anime, Sega's influence should have been limited.
But notably, no one was calculating it that way.
Over the past two years, Sega's standing in the animation industry had soared.
They had brokered the deal to sell Japanese animation to Cartoon Network in the United States and established a video tape distribution network across the North American market.
This combined strategy for overseas distribution had cleared the path for Japanese animation to go global.
More importantly, there was the matter of game adaptation rights.
Sega held the Jupiter console and arcade system boards. As long as Sega was willing to greenlight the development of a tie-in game, every member of the Production Committee could share in the profits.
With ratings plummeting and merchandise sales stagnant, no one dared to slight Sega—the golden goose that brought in US dollars from overseas markets and game licensing fees.
Takuya Nakayama pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Please, continue," he said, tossing his car keys onto the table with a casual air. "I'm curious to hear exactly what the difference is between thirty-eight and thirty-nine episodes."
Silence fell over the conference room for a few seconds.
The Dentsu representative cleared his throat, breaking the tension.
"Executive Director Nakayama, you're joking. We are simply considering the overall interests of the project. With ratings failing to meet targets, the longer this drags on, the greater the losses for everyone involved."
The secretary handed over the meeting minutes.
It was a thin, two-page document.
It listed a side-by-side comparison of the ratings curves and the shipment statistics for merchandise.
The red line trended sharply downward, and the numbers were abysmal.
The demands from Dentsu and Asahi Television were stated clearly: they wanted the original forty-nine-episode plan slashed directly to thirty-eight episodes to cut their losses and exit the project.
On the other side, the Sunrise Production Team—represented by Shinji Takamatsu and Hiroyuki Kawasaki—was fighting tooth and nail to keep the thirty-ninth episode.
A single episode's difference had brought this conference room to a stalemate for three weeks.
Takuya Nakayama pushed the meeting minutes back to the center of the table.
"Everyone, relax." He leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping across the people seated around the table. "I've been listening to you argue outside for half an hour, and I thought this was some irreconcilable principled disagreement. Thirty-eight episodes versus thirty-nine—is this really what you've been fighting over for three weeks?"