" How's the filming of Batman: The Dark Knight going?" Edward asked as he sat at his desk, eyes focused intently on the financial reports in front of him. The first report on top belonged to Ghost Films' revenue sheet, and Edward read it with serious concentration.
According to the report, Ghost Films' box office share had already come in. The box office distribution of a film company was, in reality, a rather complicated matter. But generally speaking, when estimating how much profit a film can generate, the industry often makes a rough calculation—taking one-third of the total box office as the company's share.
Although this is a simple and crude estimate, it's usually close enough. That's why, in the industry, you sometimes hear that a movie with a one hundred million investment and a two hundred million box office still ends up losing money.
Because in truth, the investors' portion of that two hundred million might only amount to about forty or sixty million at most—far from enough to break even.
Of course, this "one-third" rule of thumb wasn't perfectly accurate. Different films often had different revenue-sharing ratios depending on distribution agreements, marketing costs, and screening schedules. But for outsiders, using one-third as an estimate was more than adequate—it was, after all, just a rough calculation.
If one really wanted to know a movie's precise profit-sharing percentage, that information wasn't easy to find out.
"Boss, the investment in The Dark Knight is really high," Zoroark said, glancing at the report's staggering figures and feeling a bit shocked. "We're already more than halfway through filming now—just the final scenes left."
Ghost Films had never before produced a movie this expensive. Their previous big productions weren't cheap either, but the most expensive among them had been Sherlock Holmes. Even then, the budget had been considered massive. But now, this Batman: The Dark Knight, though also backed by a strong comic-book IP, was seeing the majority of its funds directly invested by their boss himself.
There weren't even that many sponsors or product placements. As a result, the production cost had already risen to two hundred and fifty million pokedollar, and by the time filming wrapped, post-production included, the total would likely reach three hundred million.
Three hundred million —a staggering figure. And this time, there were very few advertising sponsors involved. Because a film like Batman, so unique in theme and tone, left the market uncertain. No one knew what kind of response it would generate or how audiences would react.
Edward, however, didn't express any concern. After all, unlike others, he was a transmigrator and knew what he was doing. Even so, he was taking on some real risk. Three hundred million might not mean much to him personally, but losing it all would still make anyone's scalp tingle.
"Relax. Money is just numbers," Edward waved his hand nonchalantly. He didn't worry about costs. Yes, the budget was high, but it also ensured a corresponding leap in production quality and special effects.
Of course, The Dark Knight wasn't particularly heavy on CGI. Most of the expenses went into practical effects—building the Batmobile from scratch, blowing up a hospital, and so on. Everything else was comparatively cheap.
"Besides…" Edward glanced down at the report again, where one line of figures immediately stood out—the total revenue of Ghost Films.
Just through the IP licensing rights for Tom and Jerry and Sherlock Holmes, the company had raked in nearly a billion pokedollars. A truly astonishing number.
And the best part was that nearly all of this was pure profit. Ghost Films didn't handle production or distribution for the licensed IPs; they only supervised the final quality of works produced by others. All the licensing fees sent back to them were net earnings—clean and effortless.
It felt good. Very good.
Even after deducting the enormous Dark Knight expenses, that IP revenue alone was enough for Edward to build several more hospitals. And that wasn't even his only source of income.
Between film box office returns, director's and actor's contract profits, and other residuals, the company's finances were abundant—enough to support several projects on the scale of The Dark Knight.
Edward flipped through the report again and found another section—one concerning the Prayer Wall Foundation.
As the foundation continued to operate smoothly under Edward's management and following the release of its recent documentary, public attention toward the foundation had skyrocketed. Some well-meaning people even began calling it "the most conscientious charity in the entire League."
Though such praise sounded nice, it wasn't always a blessing—especially when people started dragging other charitable organizations into comparison and criticism. Edward could see what those commentators were really trying to do. Still, since the Prayer Wall Foundation was running transparently and efficiently, there wasn't much room for others to find fault.
Yet, while flowers bloomed beautifully, thorns always grew nearby. The foundation's good reputation also attracted a flood of new donations. In the last quarter alone, they'd received a total of a billion in donations—money that had directly gone toward helping families in need.
"Hmm? What's this that Kode wrote here?" Edward's eyes paused on an attached work report, thoughtful.
Kode had added a note explaining that the Prayer Wall Foundation now had branches in every region. According to Edward's original directive, all donated funds were to be used solely for charitable purposes—while wages and operational costs were paid directly by Edward himself.
But Kode mentioned something else: the number of applicants who qualified under the foundation's strict aid criteria had decreased sharply.
It wasn't that people no longer fell ill—that was impossible in any world. But Edward quickly understood Kode's real point. Most of the people who did meet the foundation's requirements had already received help.
After all, not every household suffered from an unbearable medical crisis. So naturally, as more of those families received aid, the remaining eligible applicants grew fewer. And in truth, that was a good thing—it proved the foundation's success.
However, many people who didn't meet the criteria were still submitting applications, hoping for even a small amount of assistance.
Kode wanted to know if Edward intended to loosen the requirements.
"Loosen the standards, huh…" Edward scratched his head. He had originally made the foundation's criteria so strict precisely to prevent any controversy. He knew well that rigid standards were the key to smooth operation—and to avoiding negative publicity.
After all, every applicant was a patient, and every family had its tragic story. If they allowed emotional appeals to dictate decisions, chaos would follow. Strict rules, paradoxically, ensured fairness.
But now that the truly eligible patients were fewer and fewer—well, it was a sign of progress, wasn't it? The foundation had already helped most of those who were terminally ill and penniless, the ones who would otherwise have been left to die.
Such cases were rare in society to begin with.
"No, relaxing the standards won't work," Edward said as he drafted his response. "Doing that will only invite criticism from every direction."
Because when standards changed, people always compared. "Why could they get aid under the new rules when I couldn't before?"—that kind of resentment could easily explode online.
There were always going to be eccentric, unreasonable voices out there.
So, to handle the issue carefully, Edward proposed a new solution: rather than lowering the main standards, the foundation could create a new, separate category of aid—an auxiliary program with looser qualifications but smaller grants and additional restrictions.
This required amending the foundation's policies, balancing both fairness and flexibility—a tricky challenge indeed.
He called in the think tank to discuss it, notifying Kode's branch and the legal department as well. The legal experts would take the lead, since they specialized in scrutinizing every clause and regulation.
Before long, everyone gathered in the conference room. Kode himself attended too, fully aware of how urgent this problem had become. Donations were increasing daily, but if the number of beneficiaries kept dropping, public opinion could easily turn into a flood of backlash. The issue had to be resolved fast.
The meeting lasted five hours. Two packs of bottled water and countless pots of tea were consumed. People came and went for bathroom breaks frequently. But everyone remained serious—after all, the Prayer Wall Foundation had become Ghost Films' most trusted public face, a beacon of good reputation.
Even Kennedy personally joined in the discussions.
If Edward hadn't made the final decision himself, the debate might have continued endlessly. By the end of it, his temples throbbed, and a few new hairs had fallen victim to stress.
Still, they had managed to reach a concrete resolution. Edward was satisfied. This foundation was his brainchild, and maintaining its integrity was of utmost importance to him.
In the following days, the Prayer Wall Foundation launched a new publicity campaign, announcing that most of the severely ill families who qualified under the original rules had already received assistance—thanks to the generosity of countless kind-hearted donors.
A few days later, they introduced a new application category titled "Life Support Line."
Its criteria were somewhat relaxed compared to the original, but the vetting process remained strict. Patients had to receive treatment at designated hospitals under the foundation's supervision.
For patients who were unconscious and unable to verify identity, the foundation could temporarily pay to keep them alive until their circumstances were confirmed.
All of this was legally notarized and officially recognized by the League government, ensuring that no one could exploit the system for fraud or extortion.
Soon, the new program received overwhelming gratitude from the public. Applications flooded in again, and the foundation's activity flourished anew.
Edward massaged his temples. They had done their best to anticipate every possible issue, but he knew it was impossible to eliminate all risk.
Though most of the online reactions were positive, there were still trolls and skeptics. When questioned, they'd simply sneer and mock—but Edward didn't bother responding. Such people existed everywhere. Even if you handed them money, they'd probably curse you for being a fool.
He focused only on the majority's sentiment—and for now, the public response was overwhelmingly supportive. That alone lifted his mood considerably.
With the foundation's affairs settled for the moment, Edward turned his attention back to film production.
He wasn't in a rush to release Shutter, even though it had finished filming. He planned to delay it until after Batman: The Dark Knight had finished its theater run. That might take half a year—but that was nothing. Some movies took years before release; six months was practically fast.
In the meantime, Edward decided to spend some quality time with his girlfriend, Shizuka.
And so, two peaceful months passed pleasantly. By then, Batman: The Dark Knight was complete—editing finished and ready for release.
"Zoroark, start the trailer rollout," Edward said, while running his hand along the sleek frame of the vehicle before him—the Batmobile.
This wasn't just a prop; it was a fully functional, high-tech machine. Edward had poured an enormous amount of money into its design and construction.
Its speed, handling, and defensive systems were top-tier, even equipped with light offensive mechanisms and special anti-ghost phasing shielding.
In short, the Batmobile's build cost exceeded one hundred fifty million pokedollars. It could even accelerate with real nitro boosters and drive up walls. Every component was made from the finest materials available.
Naturally, Edward kept it for himself. Some wealthy fans of the Batman comic had offered to buy it, but he turned them all down. It was the genuine Batmobile, and Edward intended to keep it forever.
Driving laws in the Pokémon world differed from those of his previous life, so it was legal to register the car. The only problem? Edward didn't have a driver's license yet.
He sighed, thinking maybe it was time to finally take the test.
"Understood, boss," Zoroark replied, eyes locked on the Batmobile, utterly entranced.
Edward climbed in, savoring the feel of the seat, the craftsmanship, the balance—it was perfect. He was more than satisfied.
And with that, the promotional campaign for Batman: The Dark Knight officially began.
This time, Roda's signature dark tone took center stage. The trailer opened with Batman's voiceover—his solemn, introspective narration echoing over shadowed streets.
But it revealed very little, ending only with a haunting question:
"When a vigilante like me rises from the shadows… am I justice—or am I the criminal?"
(End of Chapter)