Once GAINAX completed its renaming, its very first work was Royal Space Force.
A story about an utterly ordinary young man growing into someone capable of standing on his own.
The production cost eight hundred million yen.
A 120-minute film.
When the accounts were tallied, GAINAX lost more than a hundred million.
Not a feather earned, and money burned clean through. Eight hundred million gone, the director gone as well.
—The loss was so enormous that the director responsible was never again allowed to lead a frontline animation project.
But the reasons for the loss were many: the relentless pursuit of quality with zero cost control, an entire staff of young creators with no concept of money who demanded the best of everything.
The original four-hundred-million budget was doubled to eight hundred million.
Bandai was so furious they nearly asked the Yamaguchi-gumi to "deal with" the whole crew.
Tetsu Kobayashi had no use for that level of obsessive craftsmanship.
He only needed a TV anime—something to be slotted into a broadcast schedule.
And TV anime, unlike feature films, allows for cost-saving measures.
A single season could be made for one or two hundred million yen.
Tetsu Kobayashi had already planned it out:
Take the production proposal to Bandai, get funding.
Use Bandai's funding and the proposal to negotiate broadcast slots with a TV station.
With the station's procurement fees in hand, return and instruct Daicon Film to continue production.
In the end, Bandai gets toy rights; Daicon Film gets production fees; he keeps the IP; his game gets free promotion; he earns money; the station gets programming.
Everyone wins.
Tetsu lifted his head and began outlining the project to Hideaki Anno.
"I believe Daicon Film needs an opportunity—and I believe in your ability even more. All planning can be left entirely to you. I'll simply provide a basic framework."
—Absolute freedom.
The truth was simply that Tetsu Kobayashi hadn't thought anything through yet.
Without a whiteboard, he made do with the nearest sheet of blank paper and wrote a few characters.
"The story is titled Jörmungandr."
Anno blinked. "The serpent that devours the world in Norse mythology?"
Tetsu nodded. "But in this story, Jörmungandr is a colossal extraterrestrial organism. A devourer of planets, capable of swallowing even humanity's spaceborne defense fleets. At this moment of crisis, the United Human Federation builds two combat machines—designed for outer-space battle, possessing the greatest speed, strongest firepower, most enduring energy cores…"
As Tetsu spun the tale, Anno's eyes lit up—his earlier gloom swept away, replaced by pure, trembling excitement.
He didn't know why.
But every word Tetsu said landed perfectly in his heart—every concept aligned uncannily with his own sensibilities.
Jörmungandr.
Gigantic beings.
The looming annihilation of Earth.
And humanity's hope hinging on one boy and one girl—high-school students—whose survival depends on their ability to synchronize with their machines, achieving one hundred percent resonance.
Anno couldn't explain it.
He only knew—it was exactly the kind of story he wanted to make.
When Tetsu finished his outline, Anno suddenly seized his hands.
"Kobayashi-kun, please—please let us make this series! Money is not a problem!"
Tetsu raised a hand to stop him. "Money is always a problem. Without money, how can animation be made? You expect everyone to drink air? Anno-kun, listen. I know five million yen is nowhere near enough—"
Anno shook his head so hard it nearly flew off.
"No, it's already a lot! TV animation is far cheaper than feature films. Certain parts can be relaxed. For a deposit, it's enough!"
Tetsu continued shaking his head.
"Absolutely not enough. I refuse to see passionate people crushed by financial strain. Here—one hundred million. One hundred million yen, as deposit. I ask only that your studio complete episode one."
Anno nearly collapsed on the spot.
He clutched Tetsu Kobayashi's hands even tighter, eyes brimming with tears—as if Tetsu were his savior, descended from heaven.
And that wasn't exaggeration.
To receive one hundred million yen up front before any work was done—this was a lifeline they could not afford to miss.
A moment ago Tetsu had called Daicon Film "worthless," and Anno had resented it.
Now he wanted to shout:
You were absolutely right!!
A mouth at thirty-seven degrees might speak cold words—
But one hundred million yen was warm, fragrant, divine.
He nearly burst into cheers right then and there.
Tetsu Kobayashi!
Tetsu Kobayashi!
Tetsu Kobayashi!!
Anno squeezed harder.
"Please rest assured—Daicon Film will give everything we have!"
…
…
For pure hand-drawn animation, one hundred million yen was standard cost—neither high nor low.
With careful budgeting, the studio might even make a small profit.
A second contains twenty-four frames;
a minute contains sixty seconds;
a standard episode runs about twenty minutes.
Animation uses "two-frame" or "three-frame" drawing—one illustration shown for two or three frames.
So in twenty-four frames of video, only twelve or eight drawings might be used.
But Royal Space Force used single-frame animation.
Twenty-four drawings per second.
Over two hundred thousand drawings total—not including discarded cuts.
Even Disney would bleed dry making such a thing.
Thus Tetsu firmly instructed Anno:
Daicon Film must animate at three-frame minimum.
Anything lower ruins fluidity.
Five to six thousand drawings per episode would suffice.
What Daicon Film did internally wasn't his concern.
He was only paying this one hundred million.
All additional funding would come from other sources.
Once Daicon Film completed episode one, Tetsu would march straight to Bandai and the TV stations with the finished product in hand.
In this way, Tetsu felt he was already being very moral—
At least he would have a real episode before asking for money.
Not like certain people who raised funds with nothing but smooth talk.
"But that said, to stop them from burning money, some oversight is necessary."
Walking alongside Kitagawa Takeshi, Tetsu suddenly stopped.
"Kitagawa-san, have you ever heard of the 'Production Committee System'?"
Kitagawa blinked. "Is this another new policy from Nintendo?"
"Ni-ten-do what? No! A production committee is—ah, forget it, you won't get it from the name alone. What matters is that it allows proper monitoring of animation budgets. Once episode one is done, I'll gather a few parties and form a production committee. It's the only way to keep Daicon Film from blowing all my money on single-frame animation."
The production committee system technically didn't exist yet.
But that hardly mattered.
It wasn't patented or anything.
Tetsu Kobayashi would simply introduce it ahead of time—
To prevent Daicon Film from turning his funds into another Royal Space Force inferno.
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