HPDBC Chapter 211 Building a Peripheral Empire
Chapter 211 Building a Peripheral Empire
Chapter 211 Building a Peripheral Empire
The news that Kitahara Shin had broken into the top ten in the national bar exam was like a devastating storm, completely shattering the last shred of dignity left in Yoshioka's reputation.
Tokyo, Yoshioka Law Firm.
The once bustling, elite law firm was now filled with an extremely oppressive atmosphere.
Inside the office, Yoshioka was explaining something in a low voice to the person on the other end of the phone, his forehead covered in cold sweat.
"No—President Suzuki, please let me explain! This is just media hype; my professional skills are absolutely top-notch! Think about that 'right to sunshine' lawsuit before; it caused such a huge public backlash, and I still won the case for you despite the criticism! Please trust my abilities—"
"Mr. Yoshioka, haven't you figured out the real reason for our contract termination yet?" On the other end of the phone, a high-ranking executive from a large conglomerate interrupted him with a voice as cold as ice.
"Your reputation among ordinary people was indeed terrible before, but that was actually a shot in the arm for us. Because you were taking the bullet for our capital, proving that you would stop at nothing to win the lawsuit, and that was a demonstration of your value." President Suzuki paused, his tone revealing a deep disappointment and contempt.
"But who do you think you are this time? Kitahara Shin makes his movies and makes his money; it has absolutely nothing to do with our core business! You had absolutely no need to try and ride this wave of popularity, but for the sake of your laughable sense of elitism and vanity, you went on TV and deliberately provoked a top-tier tycoon with terrifying social influence. That's called acting on impulse!"
Yoshioka opened his mouth, but felt his throat tighten, and couldn't utter a single word in rebuttal.
"We're in the business of serious, high-profile business. What we need are rigorous, discreet legal advisors who maintain absolute rationality at all times." President Suzuki's voice was like a pronouncement. "A lawyer who can't even control his own emotions and desire for attention, who makes enemies everywhere for personal grudges, makes us think you're extremely careless. Today you can make yourself a laughingstock nationwide by trying to ride the wave of popularity; tomorrow, who can guarantee you won't ruin the company's multi-billion dollar acquisition deal due to impulsiveness? After a comprehensive risk assessment, the board of directors has decided to terminate our cooperation with you, effective today."
Beep—beep beep—
The call was abruptly ended. Yoshioka, trembling with rage as he listened to the busy tone, slammed the phone down on the table.
This is the fifth call I've received this morning to terminate the contract.
Those capitalist clients who had initially valued his "rogue elite" demeanor now severed ties with him as if avoiding a ticking time bomb. They not only canceled their long-term legal counsel contracts but also handed over their business to their arch-rival law firm across the street from Yoshioka. That competitor even sent a flower basket, ostensibly to "thank Attorney Yoshioka for his selfless dedication."
Yoshioka slumped in his leather chair, his eyes bloodshot, breathing heavily. He finally understood that in this extremely pragmatic world of capital, a bad reputation wasn't scary; what was scary was having your investors think you were an "emotionally unstable idiot." His career had been completely ruined by his own pathetic vanity, along with Kitahara Shin's flimsy track record.
In stark contrast to the lifeless atmosphere of Yoshioka Law Firm, Kitahara Office was bustling with activity and making a fortune.
In the president's office, Kitahara Shin sat behind a large desk, flipping through the asset summary report that the finance director had just submitted.
The success of Legal High can no longer be described as "success"; it was practically a ruthless money-printing machine.
The final episode's viewership rating exceeding 30% was just the base; what was truly terrifying was the subsequent second-run broadcast rights, the pre-sale of overseas copyrights, and the first batch of official videotapes (VHS) and DVDs that sold out instantly as soon as pre-sales began.
But this only represents the revenue from the film and television segment.
Kitahara Shin turned his attention to the investment sector. The moves he had made over the past period have begun to show astonishing explosive potential.
First, there's the V-Cinema (videotape premiere film) market, which we've been focusing on developing previously.
This was an incredibly lucrative business. Kitahara Shin had specifically approached the high school senior leader of the yakuza organization, instructing him to send his yakuza underlings to act as free actors and extras, producing a batch of low-budget, crude, but extremely appealing yakuza-themed films. To maximize profits, Kitahara Shin also farsightedly acquired several dilapidated old movie theaters on the verge of bankruptcy at bargain prices.
After simple renovations, these budget cinemas, originally designed for showing V-Cinema, have experienced a boom during the economic downturn. The lower classes, deterred by the high prices of big-budget films, have packed these smaller theaters to capacity, generating massive cash flow for the companies every day.
Secondly, there was a highly promising angel round investment.
This investment wasn't actually something Kitahara Shin personally sought out in the market; rather, it was a plan submitted to him by his long-time, highly cooperative partner and exclusive financial advisor, Sasaki.
Some time ago, when Sasaki was screening market projects, he keenly spotted a startup team that was developing early-stage "photo booth" technology. He believed that the team had great commercial potential in the young female market, so he suggested that Kitahara Shin co-invest in the angel round. Kitahara Shin glanced at the business plan, trusted Sasaki's judgment, and readily approved the funding, essentially getting a piece of the action himself.
Unexpectedly, this unintentional investment has now become a windfall.
This machine, which uses inexpensive photo paper and cute borders to attract female high school students, has successfully passed internal testing in its prototype stage and is about to enter mass production. Once deployed in arcades and shopping malls throughout Japan, it will become another source of massive and continuous cash flow.
Secondly, there was finance and real estate. In 1993, when Japan's bubble economy completely burst and it plunged into the "lost decade," Kitahara Shin used his huge amount of liquid funds and options leverage to precisely short some traditional sunset industries that were destined to decline in the stock market, while at the same time buying up a large number of highly mortgaged real estate in the core area of Tokyo.
"President," the CFO respectfully reported, "after deducting the costs of maintaining company operations and reserved for film and television production, our readily available liquid funds have exceeded six billion yen. Moreover, with the influx of revenue from various sectors, this figure is expanding at an alarming rate every month."
Kitahara Shin nodded and closed the report.
Six billion yen in pure liquid cash was a figure that would make any established capital firm tremble in the Japanese entertainment industry at that time. But he was not satisfied with that.
He stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the Tokyo street scene, conceiving an ambitious new business empire in his mind—a physical merchandise and fan economy empire.
He turned around and looked at Ota Masakazu and several other trusted executives on the sofa.
"Gentlemen, our current money-making model is essentially still traditional content monetization"—producing TV dramas, selling ratings, and selling copyrights. Kitahara Shin's voice was calm yet persuasive. "But this is too passive and too slow. I plan to create a brand new series IP, a super cash cow that can run for countless seasons and remain popular forever."
Ota Masakazu paused for a moment: "President, are you referring to a nationally popular, long-running drama like 'Tora-san'?"
"No, it's even more commercial than that." Kitahara Shin walked to the whiteboard and wrote a few words.
— "Bayside Shakedown" (a national-level police drama IP with the highest box office and most popular merchandise sales in Japanese television history).
Kitahara Shin tapped the whiteboard: "I want to make an unconventional workplace drama, tentatively set as a police drama. But this isn't just a drama; it has to be a brand. I'm going to heavily productize clothing, water bottles, office supplies, and even mascots that we can completely control."
"For the first season, I will personally take on the lead role and be the lead writer, making the show a huge hit and establishing the absolute dominance of this IP." Kitahara Shin's eyes gleamed with the shrewdness of a capitalist. "But after the first season, I will no longer appear regularly. I will hand over the baton of the core roles to other newcomers under the company, and I will only be the big boss behind the scenes and make occasional guest appearances."
"What we're going to do is leverage the popularity of this show to bring all the items worn by the main characters—the military green trench coat, the sneakers, the mugs, even the police station's mascot dolls—to life! We're going to open a pop-up store in the busiest commercial street to make money from the fan economy!"
The executives in the office were all stunned by Kitahara Shin's grand vision. In this era, apart from tokusatsu films and anime that sell toys and merchandise, mainstream live-action dramas rarely had such a forward-thinking concept of "harvesting fans across the entire industry chain."
Ota Masakazu swallowed hard, somewhat hesitantly: "President, is it really appropriate to go down this brick-and-mortar business model of selling clothes and water bottles right now? After all, the current economic climate isn't very good—"
"Dae-tae, you're wrong. It's precisely because it was 1993 that this was the best time for us to enter this industry."
Kitahara Shin sat back in his boss's chair and began his market analysis to the executives, akin to a game of physics: "First, the lipstick effect. With the bursting of Japan's economic bubble, everyone's short of cash; they can't afford luxury homes or sports cars. In this oppressive environment, people crave inexpensive entertainment and emotional support. Spending a little money to buy a water bottle or a stylish jacket similar to one worn by a character in their favorite TV drama—this low-cost satisfaction"—is the biggest trend of the next decade. The fan economy will experience its most explosive growth during economic downturns."
"Secondly, we're buying up physical stores at rock-bottom prices. With the economy collapsing, shop rents on commercial streets have plummeted, and many previously high-end retail channels are struggling to survive. We now have a large amount of cash flow to negotiate partnerships and open physical stores at extremely low costs. We can even directly acquire some nearly bankrupt garment factories and OEM manufacturers at very low prices, achieving a vertical monopoly from design and production to sales."
"Third, we control the barriers to entry. As long as we hold the film and television IP, we control the sole legal right to interpret these products." Others sell water bottles, calling them "bottles," and only earn a few hundred yen; we sell "limited edition commemorative merchandise," which can sell for thousands of yen. Once fans get used to paying for this emotional value, our revenue will no longer solely rely on the meager production costs from television stations."
Kitahara Shin leaned back in his chair, his gaze deep: "I want our shows to be more than just things people watch; they're things people wear, things they hold, things they integrate into their daily lives. That's what a true entertainment empire is."
The entire office was completely silent.
The executives looked at the young man with the deep gaze before them, their eyes filled with more than just admiration; they were looking at a business genius who could see through the fog of the times and whose plans were infallible.
However, looking at the group of executives in front of him who were completely fooled and filled with fanaticism, Kitahara Shin, who maintained a mysterious and unfathomable aura on the surface, couldn't help but secretly complain in his heart.
He spoke with such eloquence and confidence, did he really believe things would unfold perfectly according to this script? Of course not. Running a physical business is never that easy; the supply chain, inventory backlog, and store management are all hidden reefs and minefields.
But the reason he habitually "talks big" and "makes empty promises" here is entirely due to the basic qualities of a boss.
As the president, his primary task is not to obsess over every single detail, but to provide a grand and inspiring overall direction. Only by fully igniting the passion and ambition within his team and breaking down their preconceived notions can he truly achieve "brainstorming" and get these smart people to work tirelessly to solve the practical implementation problems.
Thinking of this, Kitahara Shin silently sighed to himself.
It's kind of funny, though he hasn't received any system equipment or props related to "speech" or "eloquence" yet, but there's no doubt that his abilities in this area have been completely honed through his years of experience in the world of fame and fortune.
One is having developed a thick skin, and the other is being able to spout nonsense during speeches without any notes or hesitation.
Judging solely from his ability to "pie in the sky" and "talk big," Kitahara Shin felt that if he were to take over the jobs of those mainstream shonen manga protagonists, he would be more than capable, and even more impressive than those who rely solely on empty talk.
Kitahara Shin suppressed his inner monologue, looked at Ota Shoichi and the others, and tapped the table with a smile.
"Okay, I've given you the general direction. As for the specifics of how to implement it, how to acquire the nearly bankrupt contract manufacturers..."
"How to negotiate product placement terms with the TV station—that's your job going forward. Brainstorm ideas and get me a preliminary plan by tomorrow."
The executives seemed to wake up from a dream, as if they had been given a shot of adrenaline, and immediately agreed loudly, turning around with renewed vigor to prepare for a big undertaking.
Watching their energetic backs, Kitahara Shin picked up the coffee on the table and took a sip.
Although the pie in the sky was just a promise, it is undeniable that a behemoth spanning film, finance, and physical retail was indeed quietly baring its fangs in Tokyo in 1993.
As time went by, the calendar for 1993 gradually turned towards the end of the year.
At this time of year, the focus of the entire Japanese entertainment industry inevitably shifts in two directions: one is the "Red and White Song Battle" prepared by major television stations for the New Year, and the other is the dazzling array of annual awards.
Kitahara's music production department is currently operating at full capacity with extreme enthusiasm.
Strictly speaking, neither Akina Nakamori nor Izumi Sakai transferred their full contracts to Shin Kitahara's company; they still have their own record labels.
However, thanks to the two singers' exceptional lyric-writing and songwriting talents, coupled with Kitahara Shin's full support in planning, production, and top-tier promotional resources, the two sides have long since achieved a very deep production and profit-sharing partnership.
This year, several new singles that they co-wrote have unsurprisingly dominated the Oricon charts.
Currently, the two of them are at NHK television station participating in the final candidate recording and rehearsals for this year's "Red and White Song Battle".
With their current dominant sales and popularity, securing two heavyweight appearance slots is a foregone conclusion.
In terms of nurturing film and television actors, Kitahara Shinya has finally begun to relinquish some control.
Nanako Matsushima and Rie Miyazawa, two actresses he personally promoted, have recently each taken on a big-budget film, preparing to officially leave Kitahara Shin's wing and take on their own roles.
As the boss and senior, he has done his best to pave the way for them in the early stages. Now it's time for them to carry the box office on their own.
Besides the schedules of celebrities, the year-end award ceremonies are also starting to stir up some tension.
Kitahara Shin sat at his desk, flipping through some industry gossip in his hand.
Looking back at his previous award-winning experiences, this time he stole the show in France, winning the Cannes Jury Prize as the "first screenwriter," not as an actor.
However, last year he already won the Japan Academy Film Prize for Best Actor for his film, and he has won so many Best Actor awards in the film industry that he can't even count them all.
Therefore, this year, he naturally set his sights on the highest honor in the television drama field—the Japanese Drama Academy Awards.
Although the official nomination list has not yet been released, Kitahara Nobu is quite confident. Whether it's the previously sensational and oppressive drama *The Flower of Evil*, or the recently concluded *Legal*, which garnered both love and hate due to its phenomenal ratings...
With two phenomenal hits like "High" in hand, he has every chance to snatch the "Best Actor" award at this year's Japanese Drama Academy Awards.
Just as Kitahara Shin was methodically advancing his year-end plans, a rather weighty invitation was delivered to his desk.
That was an internal invitation from the "Second Science Association".
That is, the veteran actors' association that Yoshinaga Sayuri had taken him to before.
The content of this invitation is very timely: the Second Division is preparing to hold a private winter exchange event for the actors at the end of the year. Everyone will book a high-end private hot spring resort in Karuizawa, a suburb, to go skiing, soak in the hot springs, and hold an internal winter banquet.
Kitahara Shin looked at the invitation, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.
Logically, he could easily find an excuse to decline.
With his current substantial financial resources and his recent Cannes award win, he has long been qualified to break free from the outdated rules of the traditional Japanese entertainment industry.
He no longer needs to ingratiate himself with those old-fashioned social relationships, nor does he need to act according to the whims of any seniors.
He was just about to throw the invitation into the drawer when the massive plan for the "peripheral business empire" that he had just finalized suddenly flashed through his mind.
To create a super long-running series like "Bayside Shakedown" that enjoys enduring popularity, can run for countless seasons, and continuously sells merchandise, one or two young lead actors alone cannot carry the show.
To maintain the premium feel of this IP, it is essential to invite highly respected and skilled veteran actors to make guest appearances in important roles each season.
And isn't this so-called "Nikokai" gathering the most outstanding and hardest-to-get actors in all of Japan?
Kitahara Shin's eyes lit up instantly.
Isn't this a perfect, free product selection event delivered right to our doorstep?
While relaxing at the ski resort or enjoying warm drinks around the fireplace at a dinner party, you can use your brilliant script outline to throw out some bait and lure these old guys into making cameo appearances in your new IP. This will not only greatly enhance the prestige of the new show, but also boost the sales of related merchandise by leveraging their fame.
Having figured this out, Kitahara Shin immediately signed his name on the invitation confirmation slip.
However, in such social occasions that require serving tea and water and exchanging pleasantries, one person definitely cannot handle it alone; he needs to bring someone with him.
The name Matsu Takako popped into his mind.
He brought Matsu Takako along, not to use her prestigious family background to fit into the circle—given Kitahara Shin's current status, there were few people in all of Japan who could surpass him in terms of prestige.
His real considerations were twofold. First, while Matsu Takako, as a promising actress he was grooming for the future, possessed exceptional acting talent, she was still young and her network within the film and television industry was actually quite weak.
Sending her to a place where top veteran actors gather to become a familiar face will greatly benefit her future career.
Secondly, and this is Kitahara Shin's truest and most capitalist idea: he wants to push all the troublesome things like serving tea and water and socializing to Matsu Takako, so he can just relax on the sidelines, soak in the hot spring, enjoy the snow, and fool people along the way.
at the same time.
Matsu Takako sat properly at the dining table, enjoying a sumptuous dinner with her parents.
"Achoo—!"
Matsu Takako, who was sipping her hot soup, suddenly sneezed loudly without warning.
The atmosphere at the dinner table paused slightly. The stern father frowned slightly, put down his chopsticks, and said with concern but a hint of seriousness, "What's wrong? It's gotten quite cold in Tokyo lately. Did you catch a cold?"
"I'm fine, my nose is probably just a little itchy."
Matsu Takako quickly grabbed a tissue and rubbed the tip of her nose.
For some reason, just as she sneezed, she suddenly felt a chill run down her spine.
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