Note: This Chapter is Re-Translated on 6 / 15 / 2025
= = = = = =
Chapter 41: Toho Theaters: "It's Actually Pretty Good!!"
The 56th Cannes Film Festival had come to a close, and Shinji had returned to Japan.
But the whirlwind that Fate/Stay Night stirred across the Western world was only just beginning.
While the film had utterly bombed with professional critics—earning near-scathing reviews—it managed to trigger a moviegoing craze that made it the center of attention throughout the festival.
A few years from now, people might not remember who won the Palme d'Or.
They might not recall who took home Best Actor or Actress.
But Fate/Stay Night's first appearance at Cannes?
That would be the story people still talked about with sparkling eyes and popcorn in hand.
Among those who understood entertainment, Cloris was sharp—maybe not as cunning as Shinji, but easily one of the top publicists in the business.
Riding the wave of buzz from Cannes and the positive reception from audiences, she crafted a bold, borderline reckless promotional strategy.
Instead of the usual slow rollout or limited releases, Fate/Stay Night would open wide across North America and Europe in early June.
No teasers, no tiptoeing around—just a full-on blitz.
She knew the golden rule: strike while the iron's hot.
With Western audiences still burning with curiosity, she'd make sure Fate arrived as a feast for the senses right on time.
Meanwhile, Shinji wasn't slacking off either.
Back in Japan, he dragged the main cast from one promo shoot to the next.
Movie posters, video interviews, Q&A sessions—you name it, they were doing it.
All in preparation for the grand international rollout.
As the overseas campaign lit up the skies like fireworks, the situation in Japan was just as explosive—in the best possible way.
Domestic box office numbers kept climbing higher and higher.
So much so that even Toho, who had once refused to screen the movie, finally caved.
Yep. The same Toho.
The same stubborn gatekeepers who once turned their noses up at Fate.
Now? They were rolling out the red carpet.
Not because they had a sudden change of heart.
But because the numbers didn't lie.
The box office was deliciously fat, and their own staff were practically rioting.
To the Toho theater employees, the whole thing was outrageous.
"Why should our division take the hit because the PR department wanted to kiss up to critics?"
"Is the PR team going to reimburse us for every lost yen?"
The theater manager couldn't hold it in anymore.
"Marketing imbeciles! How are we supposed to run a theater when we're stuck with you parasites?!"
He knew the truth: Japan's movie market wasn't growing.
Ticket sales had long plateaued.
Every film that hit theaters was basically stealing revenue from the rest.
Sure, Japan might get a hundred-billion-yen blockbuster every now and then, but truth was, the battle for attention was brutal.
So when a film like Fate/Stay Night came along, one with real potential to be a box office monster—Missing out wasn't just stupid. It was financial suicide.
Of course, the decision to screen Fate was also a massive slap in the face to Toho's marketing division.
They had sworn up and down to critics that Toho would never show such "trash."
"Even if the company goes bankrupt," they said.
"We will never screen that film," they said.
—And then barely a month later, the theater division gave in.
So much for dignity.
Barely stronger-willed than the French.
But the drama didn't end there.
The marketing exec marched into the theater manager's office, demanding that Fate be pulled from screens ASAP.
And the response?
The theater manager simply shrugged and said,
"Sorry, you've got your OKRs. I've got my KPIs. Winning over critics isn't on my checklist. And if they throw a tantrum over this? Frankly, not my problem."
Of course, since everyone technically worked under the same roof, the theater division didn't shut the door completely.
"If you can convince the board to lower our performance targets for the year, then sure, we can talk."
And then…
Well, that was the end of that conversation.
The PR division would have to be insane to bring such a ridiculous request to the board.
After all, the theater division wasn't just one part of Toho—it is Toho's cash cow.
And even if he and that slick, old-school theater exec technically held the same rank, the difference was night and day.
If the theater team were the board's golden child, then the PR team? They weren't even the bastard son—they were more like the forgotten dog someone kicked on the street.
"Haah... Let's just hope the critics don't go too hard on us."
The PR manager sighed heavily, rubbing at his hairline, which looked more and more like it was on the losing end of a war.
If nothing else, it was a very Japanese sort of reaction.
In the West, when critics lost their grip on public opinion, companies wouldn't hesitate to push back—to twist arms, negotiate hard, or just steamroll them.
But here?
This guy was still stuck on how to repair relationships.
So painfully earnest. So painfully stubborn.
In sharp contrast to Toho's in-fighting, Bandai stood united like a well-oiled war machine.
With Fate/Stay Night dominating theaters across Japan, Bandai wasn't just raking in ticket sales—their related merchandise was flying off the shelves.
The best-seller? An Excalibur toy sold at theater snack counters.
It became the must-have souvenir.
Roughly one in every three moviegoers bought one.
Kids, teens, even adults were waving them around like they were auditioning for Saber herself.
It was like watching Star Wars fans back in the day with their lightsabers.
Just like the lightsaber, Excalibur had become more than a prop—it was a symbol.
A shining emblem of the Fate brand.
And for Bandai, the best part was yet to come.
Shinji hadn't been lying.
He really had struck a deal with Times Group to get their merchandise into the Western market.
Maybe he genuinely didn't care about merchandising profits.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was using it to show good faith.
Either way, Cloris had surprisingly signed off.
She agreed to let Bandai distribute Fate merchandise through Times' global channels.
She didn't even make a fuss about the revenue split—just asked for basic cost coverage.
For Bandai, it was the perfect starting point.
Even if they could only sell Fate/Stay Night products for now, the road ahead looked promising.
A foot in the door was more than enough.
So yeah, everyone riding the Fate train in May was living the dream.
Except for one person.
Shinji Matou.
Because while everyone else was rolling in cash, he was broke.
Now, in theory, Shinji shouldn't be out of money.
Distributors at Cannes had already wired large sums to Type-Moon for national screening rights.
Bandai had just paid their share of the film's first profit wave.
The company's bank account should've been bursting.
Everyone should've been celebrating. Feasting on the fruits of victory.
And yet... Shinji Matou was broke as hell.
Why?
Simple.
When it came time for the company to divvy up the spoils, Shinji had made a key accounting choice.
He didn't list the cost of summoning Heroic Spirits as part of the film's official production budget.
He paid for it personally.
And that wasn't just a few bucks.
Forget the rental fee for the Tohsaka family's leyline—the real money sink was the Heroic Spirits' relics.
We're talking artifacts on par with national treasures.
You couldn't just pick them up at a thrift store.
Whether you bought or rented, the price tags were brutal.
After adding everything up, Shinji not only missed out on the first wave of profits—he actually owed the company money.
But Shinji had a reason.
He took on the burden of those costs himself—because in his mind, this wasn't just a movie.
It was a real Holy Grail War.
And the price of summoning heroes?
That was his personal responsibility.
Now, if this were any normal film company, the cost of summoning Heroic Spirits would've been lumped into the production budget without a second thought.
But doing that would've meant their fees would match those of ordinary A-list actors—which defeated the whole point of using Heroic Spirits in the first place.
Their biggest advantage?
Top-tier performance, dirt-cheap cost.
If that edge vanished, then so would Shinji's entire pitch.
So, to keep costs "low" on paper and make Heroic Spirit actors look like a bargain, Shinji took the entire summoning bill onto his personal account.
It made sense long-term.
After all, celebrity actors demanded higher and higher fees every year, while Heroic Spirits? You only paid once.
Rent their relics, summon them, and done.
No agents, no scandals, no paparazzi.
But even if it was the smart play for the future, that didn't change the fact that Shinji Matou was dead broke right now.
Well—okay. Not completely broke.
Zouken still doted on his dear grandson, so he occasionally handed him some pocket change.
Still, 50,000 yen might be a lot for an average high school student, but for Shinji? It wasn't even enough for a night of freedom in Kabukichō, Tokyo's infamous red-light district.
To make matters worse, Sakura has been relentless lately.
Day after day, she teased and tempted him into buying Arturia's photobooks and "private" video collections.
Honestly, Shinji found it hard to believe she even had that stuff.
Especially after what happened the day he came home—Arturia had gone berserk, nearly demolishing the entire Matou residence.
How the hell did Sakura manage to preserve those photos and clips without getting caught?
It was terrifying. No, it was admirable.
That's when Shinji realized:
He was completely and utterly under his little sister's thumb.
"Damn it... She really made Arturia wear that kind of outfit... Ugh, now I have to see it..."
With his wallet gasping for air, Shinji made a critical decision.
He stood up in the office and smacked his palm down on the meeting table.
"Everyone! I've made up my mind—we're making a new movie."
"Master, seriously?!"
Cu Chulainn practically jumped out of his seat, like a puppy that just heard the word "walk."
"I'm the lead this time, right?" he asked, beaming with confidence.
Of course he was confident—As far as he was concerned, no one in the Heroic Spirit crew could match his acting chops.
But Shinji crushed that fantasy like a cockroach under a boot.
"Sorry to disappoint. You won't be playing a major role in this one, Cu."
He glanced around the room.
"Archer, Medusa, Herc—you three are out too. No main roles."
The three of them nodded silently, clearly expecting this.
Archer and Rider weren't all that into acting anyway, and Heracles was always obedient to Master's decisions.
If Shinji said "no part for you," then that was that.
But Cu?
Cu refused to take it lying down.
He slammed both palms on the table, loud and hard.
"Master! This is totally unfair!"
"That damn golden pretty boy gets all the spotlight while I, the hardworking, loyal everyman, get shafted?!"
"Why? Why him and not me?!"
Shinji sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Then, wordlessly, he tossed a thick proposal onto the table.
On the white cover, in bold, unmistakable print:
[Fate/Zero]
"Because... the next movie we're making is a prequel to Fate/Stay Night."