Chapter 94: The Plaza Accord and the Anime Adaptation Proposal

The “Plaza Accord” had arrived.

Some people in later generations believed that the innocent little Lolita that was Japan had been deceived by the evil American Uncle Sam, leading to the signing of the “Plaza Accord” and the subsequent “Lost Decades.”

In reality, one only needed to look at the news of the day to understand the truth.

Ever since the “Plaza Accord” was signed, major Japanese television stations had been reporting on it at length and inviting experts to analyze the content of the agreement.

Almost all analyses focused on the pressure that the appreciation of the yen would bring to export trade.

If one went out and bought a newspaper from any newsstand, the front-page headline would likely be something like “Plaza Accord Signed: Pressure for Yen Appreciation Intensifies.”

Clearly, the Japanese people were very aware of the direct impact the “Plaza Accord” would bring to Japan.

Japan was a typical export-oriented economy; an appreciation of the yen would inevitably lead to a rise in domestic production costs.

A rise in domestic production costs would lead to a decrease in profit margins for export goods, or a decline in the competitiveness of those goods.

Knowing full well that the “Plaza Accord” would inevitably have a negative impact on the economy, why did Nakasone Yasuhiro and the Japanese government he led still sign it?

The reasons were essentially twofold: one was a guilty conscience, and the other was confidence.

First of all, before the “Plaza Accord,” the market value of the yen was indeed significantly undervalued.

In the early 1980s, Japan’s labor productivity grew at an average annual rate of 4.2%, far exceeding the United States’ 1.5%.

According to basic economic principles, high productivity should imply an increase in the value of the local currency.

However, this was not reflected in the exchange rate of the yen against the dollar; not only did the yen not appreciate, but it even depreciated for a considerable period.

This strange situation was partly due to the oil crisis causing a rapid rise in the “petrodollar,” and partly due to the “visible hand” deliberately manipulating the exchange rate.

A depreciated yen favored exports, and since Japan was an economy highly dependent on exports, the Japanese Ministry of Finance and the Central Bank maintained long-term exchange rate controls, keeping the yen at a market value much lower than normal.

That was where the guilty conscience came from.

Confidence, on the other hand, stemmed from the Japanese government’s belief that major industries like automobiles, electronics, and chemicals had already achieved technological leadership over Europe and America.

They believed that even with a slight appreciation of the yen, Japanese products would remain competitive internationally.

Furthermore, they believed that the Ministry of Finance and the Central Bank possessed strong enough judgment and execution capabilities to control the magnitude and speed of the yen’s appreciation, keeping fluctuations within an acceptable range.

With this confidence, the Japanese government naturally took active measures.

Immediately after the signing of the agreement, they publicly promised the media that they would stimulate the economy through measures such as cutting interest rates, lowering reserve requirements, and expanding domestic demand.

Because of the expectations of policy dividends brought by these promises, on the first trading day after the signing of the Plaza Accord, the Japanese stock market rose across the board, and the Nikkei Index surged in a single day.

Japanese investors welcomed a carnival!

At present, no one realized how profound an impact this carnival would have on Japan.

Nor did anyone realize that an era of red lights and green wine, spending money like dirt, and insane luxury was raising its curtain…

Oh, except for Seiko.

However, like most investors, Seiko was in a good mood.

Although the broader Japanese stock market was rising, the downward trend of certain stocks was inevitable, such as the light industry sector represented by textiles.

“Miss Yamagami, you bet right again this time…”

When Sachi Ken’ichi called Seiko, he said these words, his tone clearly very complicated.

On one hand, Seiko’s investments made money, meaning he, as a stockbroker, would get more commission, so Sachi Ken’ichi naturally felt happy.

But on the other hand, Seiko ignored his advice every single time, even going against it, yet she made money every time.

Sachi Ken’ichi inevitably felt that he, a broker with the duty of an investment advisor, was simply useless.

Seiko’s reaction was very calm; she wasn’t surprised at all.

The textile industry already had limited profit margins and was extremely sensitive to production costs.

No matter how much positive news the Japanese government released to stimulate the market, it would be difficult to salvage the fatal impact of exchange rate fluctuations on them.

The Japanese textile industry was bound to flee overseas; those that didn’t flee could only die.

At the close of the market today, the textile sector as a whole had dropped by nearly ten points.

Considering the future of the Japanese stock market, Seiko thought for a moment and decided to stop there.

Next, the Japanese stock market would enter an era where one could make money by buying blindly, especially in the real estate and securities sectors.

Although the prospects for the textile industry remained unclear and the market trend should continue to go lower, continuing to hold short positions would yield limited gains compared to the potential elsewhere.

The contraction of the industry would be a relatively slow process; aside from the first wave of plummeting prices, the room for continued profit was limited.

“Close the short position on textiles,” Seiko instructed.

Although his advice had been rejected by Seiko once again, Sachi Ken’ichi did not say much this time.

After hanging up the phone, he followed Seiko’s instructions and reallocated the funds into the real estate and securities sectors.

Tuesday noon.

Seiko and Saori were eating lunch in the classroom.

Miyazaki Yū suddenly arrived at Class 2-1 carrying her bento box.

“Why are you here?”

Miyazaki Yū pulled up a stool and sat at Seiko and Saori’s table; Seiko shifted her position and asked.

Miyazaki Yū very deliberately placed an envelope next to her bento box, but her mouth spoke of something else entirely.

“I heard that Tahara Toshihiko might star in the Bunny Drop movie, is that true?”

Acting like this, Miyazaki Yū clearly wanted Seiko and Saori to proactively ask about the envelope, while she pretended to casually bring up her ‘real’ reason for coming.

However, since Miyazaki Yū didn’t mention it, Seiko and Saori tacitly pretended not to see it.

“It’s possible,” Seiko nodded. “Omori Ryo has already sent an invitation to Johnny’s. Johnny’s side said they need to discuss it with Tahara Toshihiko himself. He is currently in the United States recording a program, so Omori Ryo is still waiting for a reply; it hasn’t been confirmed yet if he will really star.”

“I thought Johnny’s would refuse outright, considering Bubble Witch has no fame at all,” Saori said. “I didn’t expect… listening to Johnny’s, it seems there is a possibility of cooperation?”

“Yes,” Seiko said. “I found it quite surprising too.”

“If only Tahara Toshihiko could really star in it; he could bring in at least one hundred million yen in box office revenue.”

“Just one hundred million?”

“A top-tier idol like him should bring in at least two hundred million, right?”

“Shouldn’t the top tier be Kondo Masahiko?”

“Who says there can be only one top tier?”

“That’s true too.”

Miyazaki Yū had proactively brought up the movie actors, so Seiko and Saori continued chatting about movie actors.

Miyazaki Yū was scratching her head in frustration beside them; several times she wanted to interrupt and guide the topic, but Seiko and Saori calmly steered the conversation back to the actor.

Finally, Miyazaki Yū confirmed that these two guys were doing it on purpose.

Miyazaki Yū puffed up her cheeks and said, “Bad guys! I’m ignoring you two!”

Miyazaki Yū didn’t leave, however; she just puffed out her cheeks and concentrated on eating, refusing to speak to these two anymore.

“Don’t be like that, Yū-chan…”

Seiko picked up a piece of tamagoyaki with her chopsticks and smilingly held it to Miyazaki Yū’s lips.

Miyazaki Yū ate it in one bite but still didn’t respond to Seiko.

However, when Seiko reached out and took the envelope from her hand, she didn’t stop her.

Seiko opened the letter and scanned it; upon looking at it, she was also surprised.

“It’s actually a letter from Fuji TV?”

“Hmph hmph…”

Miyazaki Yū finally revealed a smile again, humming triumphantly.

Hearing this, Saori curiously leaned over to read the letter as well.

The letter came from Fuji TV’s animation department, which was responsible for producing and broadcasting Fuji TV’s late-night anime slots.

The purpose of the letter was to explain to the author that they had taken a liking to the Bunny Drop manga and to express their intention to produce a Bunny Drop anime.

The signature on the letter was: Kamei Kanta.

Kamei Kanta, as an animation director, wasn’t particularly famous in his own right yet, but many people would likely have heard of the anime he would later direct: Saekano: How to Raise a Boring Girlfriend.

So it was going to be adapted into an anime.

For a manga artist, having one’s work adapted into an anime was undoubtedly a huge sense of accomplishment, so it was no wonder Miyazaki Yū’s face was written all over with joy.