Chapter 254: Ryuichi Koike’s Recognition! Kiyoto Suzuki’s Sigh! Invitation To The Symposium!
In mid-November, the top-floor office of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building offered a panoramic view of the urban landscape through its floor-to-ceiling windows.
Sunlight filtered through the glass, casting a warm glow on the rosewood desk and a delicate ceramic tea set.
Ryuichi Koike personally held the silver pot, slowly and steadily pouring hot tea into the cups with the composure of an old-school politician.
Yoshihiro Shimazu sat on the leather sofa opposite him, his gaze fixed on the tea leaves suspended in the cup—they were newly produced sencha from the Tokyo Metropolis’s own tea fields this year, with fine, tender leaves and a clear, bright soup color.
He brought the cup to his nose to sniff, then took a shallow sip. His brows relaxed slightly as he spoke with the discernment of a professional tea taster, “Your Excellency Koike, the aroma of this tea is very clean. It has a faint chestnut flavor upon tasting, and a satisfying aftertaste. It must be the tender buds picked before Qingming, right? Most new teas available on the market now are astringent, but yours is exceptionally refreshing.”
Koike set down the silver pot and nodded with a smile, “Mr. Shimazu certainly knows tea. This is a special supply from the Chichibu tea fields in Saitama Prefecture. The high altitude and large diurnal temperature difference there accumulate more flavor in the tea leaves. I specifically had two jin reserved. I invited you here today for two reasons: first, to let you taste this fine tea, and second, to finalize an important matter with you.”
He paused, tapped his fingers lightly on the desk, and his tone turned solemn, “The Election Committee has confirmed that the Tokyo City Mayoral Election will be held from December 1st for three days. The list of candidates will be announced starting next Monday. You need to make preparations in advance and avoid any oversight.”
Shimazu’s hand, holding the teacup, paused slightly. A flicker of surprise flashed in his eyes before quickly returning to calm.
He set down the teacup, leaned forward slightly, and bowed deeply to Koike, “Thank you for informing me, Your Excellency! With a clear date, our team can arrange our promotional rhythm more precisely, rather than fumbling in the dark as we did before.”
“You don’t need to thank me, this is the Election Committee’s procedure.”
Koike waved his hand and took a sip of his tea, “But I do need to ask you, how are your preparations going? Last week, Tadashi Hattori mentioned that your support rate has surpassed Mikami Tanaka’s. What are the exact figures? Don’t try to brush me off; I need concrete numbers.”
Shimazu took out a neatly folded opinion poll report from his briefcase and handed it to Koike, “Your Excellency, these are the latest figures from yesterday. The overall support rate is 53%, and Mikami Tanaka has 47%, giving us a 6 percentage point lead. Looking at specific demographics, young people support us at 62%, and traditional craft practitioners at 58%—these are our fan base. The middle-aged and elderly group has been behind until recently, but after we recently increased our promotions for elderly welfare, their support rate has risen to 55%, which has stabilized things.”
Koike opened the report, his finger sliding across the data table, his gaze stopping at the “swing voters” column.
Frowning slightly, he said, “The proportion of swing voters is still 12%. These individuals are mostly small business owners and office workers in the suburbs. They are most concerned about whether ‘policies will be implemented.’ Do you have a concrete timetable for the ‘community cultural centers’ and ‘subsidy for returning to hometown to start a business’ that you promised? These people won’t be swayed by empty promises.”
“We are already working on detailed plans,”
Shimazu replied immediately with a confident tone, “For small business owners, we plan to launch a ‘small, low-interest loan’ in the first month after being elected, in cooperation with Tokyo Metropolis credit unions, to help alleviate their financial pressure. For suburban office workers, we will launch ‘express commuter buses from the suburbs to the city,’ with four round trips daily, at a fare 30% cheaper than the subway. These plans have already been drafted by the team and will be submitted to the Metropolitan Government for approval after the election.”
Koike looked up at him, his eyes appraising, “Mikami Tanaka has recently been attacking you, saying you ‘rely on television hype and lack executive experience.’ How do you plan to respond? He has been in the Tokyo City Council for ten years and, with the support of real estate developers, has won over many assemblymen. If he catches you on the ‘inexperienced’ handle, you could easily face backlash.”
“We are prepared for that,”
Shimazu took out another document from his briefcase, “We have compiled your work cases from the past twenty years. When you were an assemblyman in Gunma Prefecture, you promoted the ‘rice field water-saving irrigation project,’ which helped farmers save 30% on water. When you were the head of the branch office in Chiba Prefecture, you renovated the cold chain system for the fishing port, reducing the spoilage rate of fish catches from 20% to 5%. These all have specific data and testimonials from the public. We will turn these into brochures and distribute them to residents in every community to refute his attacks with facts.”
Koike took the document and flipped through a few pages, seeing newspaper clippings and signed thank-you letters from farmers and fishermen attached. He showed a look of satisfaction, “Well done, more thorough than I expected. But remember, the public looks not only at past achievements but also at future promises. You mentioned ‘controlling the real estate bubble’ before. How exactly do you plan to operate? Don’t just say ‘limit property speculation’; provide actionable solutions.”
“We have consulted with economic experts on this,”
Shimazu straightened his posture and spoke earnestly, “The first step is to increase the down payment ratio for second homes from the current 30% to 50% to curb speculative purchases. The second step is to increase the supply of affordable housing; we plan to build 20,000 units in the Tokyo suburbs over the next three years, prioritizing young people who have worked in Tokyo for five years. The third step is to strictly investigate real estate developers for withholding properties from sale. Once discovered, their development qualification in the Tokyo Metropolis will be revoked. These measures have already been discussed with the housing and construction departments of the Metropolitan Government, and they have expressed their full cooperation.”
Koike nodded gently after listening, tapping his fingers on the desk, “The idea is right, but pay attention to the nuances. Real estate developers are currently close to Mikami Tanaka. If you push them too hard, they might cause trouble. It would be best to start by targeting a few non-compliant small developers to make an example, rather than attacking large corporations from the outset, to avoid escalating conflicts.”
“I understand,”
Shimazu nodded in agreement, “Our team has also considered this. We plan to start with small developers who have arbitrarily renovated old buildings without proper qualifications. This aligns with regulations and will not cause major upheaval. Once we have a firm footing, we will gradually regulate the behavior of large corporations.”
Hearing this, Koike put down the document, picked up his teacup, and took a sip, his eyes deepening, “Mr. Shimazu, you must understand that this election is not just a contest between you and Mikami Tanaka, but a struggle between our reformists and the real estate interest groups. Tokyo City is the economic center of Japan, yet it is now shackled by real estate—young people can’t afford to buy homes, small and medium-sized enterprises can’t afford office space, and even ordinary families’ savings are tied up by housing prices. If this continues, before the bubble bursts, Tokyo’s economy will collapse.”
He paused, his tone tinged with gravity:
“What we need to do is pull Tokyo out of its ‘real estate dependence.’ After you are elected, you must focus on promoting ‘revitalization of traditional crafts’ and ‘cultural tourism cooperation.’ Just like Hiroshi Nohara’s “Tongue Tip,” make the characteristic industries around Tokyo thrive. This will create new employment opportunities and reduce the economy’s reliance on real estate. This is the future of Tokyo.”
Shimazu clenched his fist, his voice firm, “Rest assured, Your Excellency Koike! I will definitely work in this direction! The excellent promotional results this time are also thanks to Nohara-kun’s ‘information cocoon’ strategy—he helped us tailor content for different groups, without uttering a single hollow slogan, yet allowing the public to genuinely feel the sincerity of our policies. Without him, our support rate would likely still be hovering around 40%.”
“Hiroshi Nohara…”
Koike repeated the name, a hint of admiration in his eyes, “This young man is indeed extraordinary. The last time I discussed ‘information cocoon’ with him, he even had ideas for promoting ‘real estate bubble control,’ considering both the anxieties of young people and the concerns of the middle-aged and elderly. He is more thorough than many seasoned promotional consultants.”
He suddenly lowered his voice, a hint of mystery in his tone, “Moreover, you may not know, but someone in the cabinet has already noticed him. The Prime Minister’s secretary called me last week, asking if ‘information cocoon’ could be used for the nationwide ‘rural revitalization plan’ promotion, and asked me to send him a copy of the materials compiled by Hiroshi Nohara. This young man has an immeasurable future.”
Shimazu’s eyes sharpened, and he quickly said, “I have already had someone contact Nohara-kun and have detailed the ‘information cocoon’ promotional process, channel selection, and content design, compiling it into a report. After the election, it can be submitted to the cabinet for reference. Nohara-kun has been very cooperative and even suggested a few points for ‘rural revitalization’ promotions, such as using stories of rural artisans from “Tongue Tip” as a vehicle to attract young people back to their hometowns.”
Koike nodded, tapping his fingers lightly on the desk, his tone suddenly becoming heavy, “However, we cannot be too optimistic. Do you know, although the Liberal Democratic Party still holds a majority in the Diet, they are already dissatisfied because we refused to cooperate with the subsequent policies of the US’s ‘Plaza Accord.’ Last week, the counselor from the U.S. Embassy in Japan spoke with me, implicitly and explicitly stating a desire to ‘support political forces more aligned with U.S. interests,’ which, frankly, means supporting a puppet like Mikami Tanaka.”
Shimazu’s face instantly darkened, the knuckles of his clenched fist turning white, and he muttered, “Idiots! Why should the US interfere in our internal affairs? Japan is a sovereign nation, not their colony! They want us to continue relying on real estate to inflate bubbles so they can harvest wealth, but we refuse!”
“Do you think they can’t?”
Koike sighed, a hint of helplessness in his tone, “Since the day of our defeat, our hands have been tied by them. Military presence, economic aid, public opinion propaganda—which aspect isn’t being watched by them? Half of the funds of the real estate groups behind Mikami Tanaka come from U.S. investment companies. Do you think he dares to buy land so aggressively? It’s because he has American backing.”
He paused, his gaze drifting towards Tokyo Tower outside the window, his tone carrying a touch of melancholy, “The reforms led by General MacArthur back then, while seemingly giving us a democratic system, actually placed our economic lifeline in their hands. When we wanted to develop manufacturing, they forced us to sign ‘voluntary export restraints’; when we wanted to support domestic enterprises, they launched ‘anti-dumping investigations.’ Now, when we want to control the real estate bubble, they come out to cause trouble again. This is the so-called ‘ally’.”
Shimazu was silent for a moment, then suddenly looked up, an unyielding light in his eyes, “Even so, we cannot compromise! Your Excellency Koike, this election is not just about defeating Mikami Tanaka, but about fighting for a way of life for the people of Tokyo. If Mikami Tanaka is elected, he will surely continue to indulge the real estate developers. When the bubble bursts, countless families will go bankrupt, and Tokyo will truly be finished. I will stop him, even if it costs me all my strength!”
Koike looked at his determined demeanor and smiled with satisfaction, “Good! With those words, I am at ease. However, remember that determination alone is not enough; strategy is also necessary. Although the Americans support Mikami Tanaka, they are also afraid of provoking public dissatisfaction. As long as our propaganda firmly grips the pain points of people’s livelihoods and allows the public to spontaneously support us, even if the Americans want to interfere, they will have no excuse.”
He picked up his teacup and raised it to Shimazu, “Here, have another cup of tea. This tea, though light, is durable and refills well. It’s like the path of our reformists; though it looks difficult, as long as we persist, we will eventually taste the sweetness of the aftertaste.”
Shimazu picked up his teacup, clinked it with Koike’s, and tilted his head back, drinking the tea in one gulp.
The fragrance of the tea spread in his mouth but couldn’t suppress the fighting spirit in his heart. He knew that the next two weeks would be a crucial battle that would decide Tokyo’s future, and he could not afford to lose.
They chatted for another half hour, discussing everything from promotional details to lobbying assemblymen, from livelihood policies to economic planning, with meticulous attention to every aspect.
As Shimazu stood up to leave, Koike suddenly called him back, a touch of emotion in his voice, “Mr. Shimazu, we are both getting old. This election may be the last time we fight with all our might for reform. The future of Japan will depend on the young people.”
Shimazu was momentarily stunned, then understood Koike’s meaning. He turned around, looked at Koike, and said earnestly, “Are you referring to Hiroshi Nohara-kun? Indeed, although he is young, his vision and abilities far exceed those of his peers. The success of ‘information cocoon’ this time, and his understanding of policy promotion, both impress me. If there is an opportunity in the future, I would like to invite him to join our team and work together to promote Tokyo’s reform.”
Koike smiled and nodded, “I think so too. This young man not only has talent but also empathy. When he filmed “Tongue Tip,” it wasn’t for ratings, but to document disappearing crafts. When he designed ‘information cocoon,’ it wasn’t to help you win the election, but to make the public truly understand the policies. Such a person is much more reliable than those politicians who only know how to scheme.”
He paused, a hint of expectation in his eyes, “However, don’t rush to win him over. Hiroshi Nohara is currently more focused on creation. Forcing him into politics would bury his talent. What we can do is create a better environment for him, so his works can continue to convey correct values and influence more people. When the time is right in the future, he will naturally understand that his talent can do more for this country.”
Shimazu nodded in agreement, “You are right, I was too hasty. I will maintain a good cooperative relationship with Nohara-kun and not put any undue pressure on him. After this election, I want to commission him to film a documentary about ‘Tokyo’s economic transformation,’ using real stories to show the public that Tokyo, freed from real estate dependence, can have a better future.”
“That’s a good idea,” Koike nodded with satisfaction, “The Metropolitan Government can provide financial support then, so he has no worries. By the way, tell Nohara-kun when you go back that I’d like to invite him to the Metropolitan Government for tea sometime to discuss his documentary ideas.”
Shimazu acknowledged, bowed to Koike again, and then turned to leave the office.
As he reached the elevator, he took out his mobile phone and dialed Hiroshi Nohara—the call was answered after two rings, and Nohara’s steady voice came from the handset, “Senior Shimazu, is something wrong?”
“Hiroshi-kun, the election date has been set, starting December 1st,” Shimazu’s voice carried a barely perceptible excitement, “Also, Your Excellency Koike greatly admires you and mentioned wanting to invite you for tea to discuss the documentary. Thank you so much this time. Without ‘information cocoon,’ we wouldn’t have come this far.”
There was a moment of silence on the line, then Nohara’s calm voice came through, “Congratulations, Senior Shimazu, on getting a clear date. I am available anytime for the documentary. But you don’t need to thank me; I’m just doing what I should do. Good policies need good promotion. Enabling the public to understand and support policies that benefit them is inherently a meaningful endeavor.”
Shimazu held his phone, and a wave of warmth suddenly surged in his heart.
He looked at his reflection on the elevator door and recalled Koike’s mention of “the future relying on the youth.” He suddenly felt that no matter how many difficulties they encountered in this election, or how tricky the U.S. interference might be, as long as there were young people like Hiroshi Nohara, Japan’s future still held hope.
The elevator doors slowly opened, and Shimazu took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The next two weeks would be a tough battle, but he was prepared—for the people of Tokyo, for a future free from real estate dependence, and to live up to the trustworthy partners by his side.
…
Inside the old bakery in Chichibu City, Saitama Prefecture, the heat from the oven mingled with the aroma of wheat, filling the air.
Hiroshi Nohara hung up Shimazu’s call, the coolness of the phone’s body still on his fingertips, but a complex expression flickered across his face.
He watched Kosuke Sato, who was kneading dough in the frame—the old man’s calloused hands repeatedly folded the dough with a skill honed from spending more than half his life with flour. He couldn’t help but murmur to himself.
Koike’s expectations, Shimazu’s reliance, and Hattori Tadashi’s occasional hints about “nurturing juniors”—these high-level figures in Japan seemed to view him as a young person they could entrust with their hopes.
But he knew in his heart that he was still the soul from Earth’s Huaxia. Even after spending some time in this world, he had never truly intended to plan for Japan’s future.
“Hiroshi-san, what’s wrong?” asked his young assistant, who was in charge of lighting, as he saw him standing in a daze.
Hiroshi Nohara snapped back to reality, shook his head, and his voice regained its composure, “Nothing, let’s continue filming. Pay attention to capturing the texture of Mr. Sato’s hands and close-ups of the bread expanding in the oven. These details are very important.”
The assistant quickly responded, and the subtle sounds of machinery running resumed on set.
Hiroshi Nohara walked to the monitor and sat down. While watching the footage on the screen, he chatted with the staff around him about the progress of “Tongue Tip”: “Episode four is editing the story of the Saitama Koi Nobori Dorayaki, focusing on how Mr. Bai Chuanliu uses his ancestral yeast to make dorayaki. Episode five filmed the thick rolled omelet from Gunma Prefecture, which, in addition to the process of selecting eggs and cream, also included local ‘matsuri’ folk customs. Episode six is cream of mushroom soup; we spent three days filming with a professional chef, and it was very comprehensive.”
He paused, his gaze falling on the bread being placed on baking sheets:
“As for episode seven, which we are filming now, it will focus on this old bakery’s ‘Christmas limited edition bread.’ Mr. Sato only makes this bread with chestnut paste every December to commemorate his late wife. We need to capture this sentiment, allowing the audience to taste the human touch in the sweetness of the bread.”
The surrounding staff listened attentively. Someone couldn’t help but exclaim, “Hiroshi-san, the themes you choose are always so heartwarming, much more interesting than documentaries that just show how to cook food.”
Hiroshi Nohara smiled and said nothing more.
He knew in his heart that these “heartwarming” designs were merely borrowing from the documentary trends of Earth in 2025. Compared to simply showcasing techniques, audiences cared more about the people and stories behind the food.
In the evening, filming at the old bakery concluded smoothly.
As Hiroshi Nohara was packing up the equipment, Shigeru Saito, who was in charge of post-production, rushed over, “Hiroshi-san, the footage for episodes four to six has been organized. The colleagues in the technical department said you need to edit it yourself; they’re worried they won’t capture the rhythm correctly.”
“Let’s go, to the editing room.”
Hiroshi Nohara nodded and followed Shigeru Saito towards Kanto Stage’s temporary editing room.
On the way, they encountered many young directors from Kanto Stage and a few newcomers from Tokyo TV who were there to learn. They greeted him enthusiastically, their eyes full of anticipation.
In the editing room, several editing machines were lined up side-by-side, with the screens still displaying the day’s footage.
Hiroshi Nohara sat down, put on his headphones, and his fingers moved rapidly across the console, initially piecing together the footage for the seventh episode.
The young people beside him gathered around, watching his operations with bated breath, occasionally taking out notebooks to record.
“The most important thing in editing documentaries is not ‘cutting beautifully,’ but ‘cutting with understanding.'”
Hiroshi Nohara explained as he adjusted the sequence of the shots, “For example, this shot of Mr. Sato kneading dough shouldn’t just show his kneading motion. We also need to add a close-up of him looking up at his wife’s photo on the wall, and then pair it with his softly spoken words, ‘The chestnut harvest is good this year,’ using synchronized sound. This way, the emotion becomes coherent.”
“Hiroshi-san, what if there’s too much footage? How do we decide what to keep?” asked Sakurako Honda, a young director from Kanto Stage, her notebook already half-filled.
Hiroshi Nohara stopped operating and pointed to the screen to explain, “Remember three principles: First, keep visually ‘informative’ scenes—like the volume change of bread during fermentation, which lets the audience understand the production process. Second, keep ’emotional’ details—like the old towel Mr. Sato uses to wipe his sweat; it expresses his perseverance better than any narration. Third, keep ‘rhythmic’ segments—the ‘whoosh’ sound when the oven door opens, the steam when the bread comes out, these give the film a sense of breath.”
He paused and brought up the footage for soba noodles from episode five, “Look at this part. The shot of boiling soba noodles is only ten seconds, but we added a three-second close-up of boiling water in front, followed by a five-second slow-motion shot of the noodles being lifted out, accompanied by the ‘gurgling’ sound of boiling noodles. This allows the audience to feel the elasticity of the noodles. This is the ‘sensory editing method,’ using visuals and sounds to stimulate the audience’s sense of taste and touch, which is more effective than simple narration.”
The young people nodded repeatedly. Some couldn’t help but try it themselves. Hiroshi Nohara patiently guided them, explaining everything from transition styles to background music selection in meticulous detail.
Until late into the night, discussions echoed in the editing room, everyone’s face showing a look of sudden enlightenment.
“You are indeed studying diligently,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. Kiyoto Suzuki entered, leaning on his cane, a gentle smile on his face.
He had just come from Tokyo TV, intending to greet Hiroshi Nohara, but found the room full of young people gathered around the editing machines, their eyes full of concentration.
Hiroshi Nohara stood up, “Senior Suzuki, why have you come?”
“To deliver some good news,” Kiyoto Suzuki handed over a ratings report, “Episode six, the Chiba seafood bowl, achieved a viewership rating of over 42%, higher than “Super Change Change Change” last week. Who would have thought a documentary could outperform a variety show? This was unimaginable before.”
Hiroshi Nohara took the report and glanced at the figures, not surprised.
He knew this was because he had used documentary techniques from Earth in 2025—it had suspense, like when Masayasu Nomizu encountered rough seas during his voyage, making the audience worry if they could catch fish, it had educational value, explaining the best ways to consume different types of fish, and it interspersed stories of the fishermen’s lives, giving it more depth than traditional variety shows.
“Hiroshi-san, will you stay at Kanto Stage in the future?” a young director suddenly asked, anticipation in his tone.
Everyone else looked at Hiroshi Nohara, their eyes full of longing—they all hoped to continue learning from him.
Upon hearing this, Kiyoto Suzuki’s smile faded slightly, and his tone became complex, “Hiroshi-kun doesn’t belong to Kanto Stage. He is an eagle that needs to fly to higher places. What Kanto Stage can do is learn as much practical skill as possible while he is still willing to stay.”
At these words, the editing room fell silent.
The young people were stunned for a few seconds, then understood—Hiroshi Nohara’s talent far surpassed the scope of Kanto Stage. Both Tokyo TV’s recognition and the attention from high-ranking officials meant he wouldn’t stay at a local station forever.
“Senior Suzuki is exaggerating,” Hiroshi Nohara said with a smile, smoothing things over, “I am just doing what I enjoy. No matter where I am, I hope to produce good work. Kanto Stage has so many promising young people; you will surely create documentaries better than “Tongue Tip” in the future.”
He paused and looked at the young people gathered around him, “It’s getting late, everyone should go back and rest. When Kanto Stage starts preparing new documentaries, I believe you will all be able to stand on your own.”
The young people responded one after another, still quietly discussing the editing techniques they had just learned while packing up, their eyes filled with even greater admiration.
Until the last person left, only Hiroshi Nohara and Kiyoto Suzuki remained in the editing room.
“You’re quite philosophical,” Kiyoto Suzuki said, sitting on the chair next to Hiroshi Nohara, emotion in his voice, “If it were someone else, showered with admiration by so many young people, they would have become arrogant long ago.”
“Admiration doesn’t pay the bills; producing good work is the fundamental thing,” Hiroshi Nohara turned off the editing machine, “By the way, Senior Suzuki, you probably didn’t come all this way just to deliver ratings reports, did you?”
Kiyoto Suzuki smiled and took an invitation from his pocket, “This is from Tokyo Broadcasting Association, NHK. They want to invite you to a ‘Documentary Creation Symposium’ at the beginning of next month. They specifically told me that this symposium is high-level, and besides TV station personnel, there will also be officials from the Ministry of Education, and perhaps even people from the cabinet will attend.”
Hiroshi Nohara took the invitation and looked at the sender’s name, a slight pause, “Why would NHK suddenly invite me?”
“It’s all because of the popularity of “Tongue Tip,” Kiyoto Suzuki explained, “The entire country is discussing this documentary now. As a public broadcaster, NHK wants to use this opportunity to explore the future direction of documentaries. They find your proposed approach of ‘humanities + craftsmanship’ very valuable and want you to elaborate on it at the meeting.”
Hiroshi Nohara pondered for a moment, then agreed, “Okay, I will attend. However, I may need some preparation regarding what specifically to discuss.”
“Don’t be too nervous, just speak as you normally teach the young people,” Kiyoto Suzuki patted his shoulder, “By the way, NHK also mentioned wanting to collaborate with you on a series of documentaries about ‘the inheritance of traditional Japanese crafts.’ The budget is quite substantial. If you’re interested, you can talk to them.”
Hiroshi Nohara felt a stir in his heart—this was indeed an opportunity to document more crafts. Even if not for the future of Japan, preserving these soon-to-disappear techniques would be a meaningful endeavor.
He nodded, “After the symposium, I will discuss specific ideas with them.”
As the night deepened, they left the editing room. Only scattered lights remained in the Kanto Stage office building.
Kiyoto Suzuki looked at the young man beside him, who was not much shorter than himself, and suddenly said, “Hiroshi-kun, have you ever thought about what you want to do in the future? Will you continue to make documentaries, or… aim for higher places?”
Hiroshi Nohara’s steps faltered. He looked up at the night sky—the moon was obscured by clouds, only a faint light shining through.
He recalled Koike’s expectations, Shimazu’s reliance, and the admiring glances of those young people, and softly said, “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. I’ll focus on doing what’s in front of me first. However, I know that no matter what I do, I must be true to every shot I film and to the people who trust me.”
Kiyoto Suzuki looked at his serious profile and nodded gently, asking no further questions.
He knew in his heart that this young man’s future would never be confined to a small editing room. Just as an eagle would eventually fly to a vaster sky, Hiroshi Nohara was destined to leave his own mark in this world.
They walked side-by-side down the quiet corridor, their footsteps echoing in the spacious area, as if laying a silent prelude to the upcoming symposium and Hiroshi Nohara’s unknown yet undoubtedly extraordinary future.
…
In the office area of Tokyo City Television, the printer’s “zzzzz” sound still echoed, but Kazuo Takahashi felt a throbbing in his temples.
He had just finished a call with NHK, and the slip of paper clutched in his hand bore only one line—”Symposium slots are limited to invited organizations; Tokyo City Television is not currently on the list.” This line weighed on him like a stone, suffocating him.
“Deputy Station Manager Takahashi!” the office door was violently pushed open, and Shunsuke Kamiki strode in, his gleaming leather shoes and white suit out of place with the ink smell in the office.
He held an entertainment newspaper, its front page boldly displaying the headline “Hiroshi Nohara Invited to Attend NHK’s High-Level Documentary Symposium.” His tone was filled with urgency, “Did you see the news? Hiroshi Nohara is going to attend NHK’s symposium! Why didn’t our station receive an invitation? Please try to get me a spot; I want to go too!”
Kazuo Takahashi rubbed his temples, trying to keep his voice calm, “Shunsuke-kun, calm down first. I just confirmed with NHK. This symposium only invited specific organizations, and our Tokyo City Television is not on the invitation list. There are no extra spots.”
“No spots?” Shunsuke Kamiki’s voice instantly rose, the newspaper in his hand crinkling, “How can there be no spots? Hiroshi Nohara is just a director; I am the signature entertainer of our station! Why would NHK invite him and not me? This is clearly looking down on our Tokyo City Television, and even more so on me!”
He took a step forward, his chest heaving slightly, his face full of arrogant pride, “Deputy Station Manager Takahashi, please speak with NHK again and tell them that I, Shunsuke Kamiki, am willing to attend and can help them increase exposure. As you know, our station’s recent ratings have been entirely supported by me. If I can attend this symposium, it will also boost our station’s image!”
Kazuo Takahashi looked at his self-righteous demeanor and felt a surge of helplessness.
He took a deep breath and patiently explained, “Shunsuke-kun, the theme of this symposium is ‘Documentary Creation and Cultural Inheritance.’ Participants are primarily directors, screenwriters, and experts in the cultural field. It has nothing to do with entertainer exposure. NHK has its own selection criteria, which I cannot easily influence.”
“Criteria? What criteria are more important than me?” Shunsuke Kamiki sneered, disdain in his eyes, “What Hiroshi Nohara filmed in “Tongue Tip” was just some cooking segments, what’s so great about that? The drama “Tokyo Love Story” I starred in also had decent ratings. Why can he go and I can’t?”
He became more agitated as he spoke, hitting the table, “I don’t care! You must get me a spot! If you can’t, I won’t participate in next week’s variety show recording! If the station’s ratings drop then, don’t blame me!”
Kazuo Takahashi’s face darkened, his fingers tightly gripping the edge of the desk.
He knew Shunsuke Kamiki was telling the truth. Since the establishment of Tokyo City Television, its success has relied on Shunsuke Kamiki’s popularity. Whether it’s variety shows or dramas, as long as he appears, the ratings increase by several percentage points. If Shunsuke Kamiki truly refused to participate, the station’s situation would only become more difficult.
But he also knew that NHK would not budge. This symposium was spearheaded by the Ministry of Education, and the invitation list had been finalized long ago. Even Tokyo TV only received two spots, let alone their local station, which was supported by Mikami Tanaka.
“Shunsuke-kun, it’s not that I don’t want to help you, it’s truly impossible,” Kazuo Takahashi’s voice held a hint of weariness, “NHK clearly stated that spots cannot be increased or replaced. If you really want to attend, I will definitely prioritize securing a spot for you in similar events next time.”
“Next time? Who knows when that will be!” Shunsuke Kamiki suddenly took a step back, his face full of anger, “I think you just don’t want to help me! Do you think Hiroshi Nohara is better than me? I’m telling you, he just got lucky! If I had his resources, the work I produced would definitely be better than his!”
He glared fiercely at Kazuo Takahashi, turned, and walked towards the door, “If you don’t help me, someone else will! I’ll go find President Sato; he’ll definitely have a way to get me a spot! Don’t regret it then!”
The office door slammed shut, leaving Kazuo Takahashi alone in his chair, his expression extremely grim.
He looked at the crumpled newspaper on the desk. Hiroshi Nohara’s photo was printed on it, his eyes calm and collected, a stark contrast to Shunsuke Kamiki’s arrogant demeanor just moments ago.
Kazuo Takahashi stood up, walked to the window, and watched Shunsuke Kamiki get into a black sedan and drive away.
An inexpressible anger surged within him. Shunsuke Kamiki was merely an [Truncated: Max tokens]
“This is outrageous!” Kazuo Takahashi muttered under his breath, his fists clenched tightly.
He remembered his original intention when he was establishing Tokyo City Television—he wanted to create some in-depth programs and change the cultural atmosphere of Tokyo City, but now it has become a propaganda tool for Mikami Tanaka, barely surviving solely on Shunsuke Kamiki’s popularity.
He walked to the desk and opened the station’s ratings report—the variety show starring Shunsuke Kamiki, Tokyo Stars, had a rating of 18%, making it the station’s highest-rated program; while other programs, whether news or documentaries, had ratings below 5%.
If Shunsuke Kamiki really boycotts the recording, the station’s ratings will probably plummet, and then Mikami Tanaka will definitely blame him, and he won’t be able to keep his position as Deputy Station Manager.
“An idol star, and he’s really taking himself seriously.” Kazuo Takahashi sneered, disdain in his eyes. “NHK’s discussion panel is about documentary creation, not a fan meeting. What’s he going to do there? Other than put on a grumpy face and throw a tantrum, what profound things can he say?”
He recalled his previous experience working with Shunsuke Kamiki—during a variety show shoot, Shunsuke Kamiki not only arrived late and left early, but also bossed the staff around and couldn’t even remember simple lines, relying entirely on post-production editing to piece it together.
Someone like him actually wants to be compared to Hiroshi Nohara, even thinking he’s better than Hiroshi Nohara. It’s a huge joke.
Although he was angry, Kazuo Takahashi had no recourse.
The majority of Tokyo City Television’s funds came from Tokugawa Sato’s real estate company, and Shunsuke Kamiki was Tokugawa Sato’s “canary,” so no one at the station dared to offend him.
If Tokugawa Sato really came forward to secure a spot for Shunsuke Kamiki, even if NHK was unwilling, they would probably have to give him some face.
“Enough, enough, let them be,” Kazuo Takahashi sighed and sat back down in his chair.
He picked up the telephone and dialed the number of Mayor Tanaka’s secretary—whether Shunsuke Kamiki got a spot or not, he had to report it in advance to avoid any problems later and bearing responsibility himself.
After the call connected, Kazuo Takahashi’s tone became respectful: “Hello, this is Kazuo Takahashi. There’s something I’d like to report to Mayor Tanaka…”
The black sedan stopped in front of the Kirin Group building. Shunsuke Kamiki quickly entered the elevator, his fingers sliding rapidly across his phone screen. He looked at the reports about Hiroshi Nohara online, his expression growing increasingly grim.
He could not accept that Hiroshi Nohara was valued more than him, nor could he accept that he didn’t even have the qualification to attend the symposium.
The elevator door opened, and Shunsuke Kamiki strode directly towards Tokugawa Sato’s office. The secretary tried to stop him, but he pushed her aside: “Is President Sato inside? I have an urgent matter to see him about!”
In the office, Tokugawa Sato was sitting on the sofa, holding a real estate report. Seeing Shunsuke Kamiki barge in, a hint of impatience appeared on his face: “What are you rushing around for? Don’t you see I’m busy?”
“President Sato, you have to help me!” Shunsuke Kamiki walked up to Tokugawa Sato, his eyes slightly reddening, his tone tinged with grievance. “NHK is holding a documentary symposium and invited Hiroshi Nohara, but not me! Deputy Station Manager Takahashi said there’s no way to get a spot, please help me think of a way, I must go!”
Tokugawa Sato put down the report and glanced at him: “It’s just a symposium, what’s so great about going? You focus on filming your variety shows, don’t waste your time on these useless things.”
“It’s not useless!” Shunsuke Kamiki said quickly. “Hiroshi Nohara is getting more and more popular. If he steals the spotlight at the symposium, he’ll definitely overshadow me in the future! Moreover, officials from the Ministry of Education will be attending this symposium. If I can go, maybe I can get to know some high-level people, which would also be beneficial for my development!”
He grabbed Tokugawa Sato’s arm, his tone carrying a hint of playful pleading. “President Sato, you care about me the most, won’t you help me this once? You can put in a word with NHK, they’ll definitely give you face.”
Tokugawa Sato frowned, feeling a bit hesitant.
He did indeed have some connections with several high-ranking officials at NHK, and if he asked, he might actually be able to secure a spot.
But he also knew that the theme of this symposium was documentary creation, and Shunsuke Kamiki wouldn’t be able to contribute much even if he went, and might even make a fool of himself.
“What will you do if you go?” Tokugawa Sato asked. “The symposium is about discussing documentaries. Do you understand what a documentary is? If they ask you questions then, and you can’t answer, it will be my face you’re losing.”
“I don’t need to understand!” Shunsuke Kamiki said. “I just need to sit there so everyone knows I was also invited, and that I have more face than Hiroshi Nohara. Plus, I can tell the reporters that I’m here to learn, so I won’t lose face and I can gain a reputation for being studious.”
Tokugawa Sato looked at his eager expression and suddenly found it a bit amusing.
He shook his head and picked up the telephone on the desk: “Alright, alright, I’ll ask for you. But I’m telling you, if NHK doesn’t agree, don’t make a fuss.”
Shunsuke Kamiki immediately broke into a smile and nodded repeatedly: “Thank you, President Sato! Don’t worry, if they don’t agree, I definitely won’t make a fuss!”
Tokugawa Sato dialed the number of the NHK director, his tone carrying a hint of arrogance: “Hello, it’s me, Tokugawa Sato. Can you reserve a spot for me at your documentary symposium? I have an entertainer who wants to attend, and it will also help increase your viewership.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by the director’s polite but firm voice: “President Sato, I’m truly sorry. The spots for this symposium are all determined by the Ministry of Education, so we cannot arbitrarily increase them. Furthermore, we are inviting professionals in related fields, and it is indeed not very suitable for entertainers to participate. We hope for your understanding.”
Tokugawa Sato’s expression darkened: “Why is it unsuitable? The entertainers under me are the face of Tokyo City Television. If he attends, your symposium’s attention will surely be higher. Talk to the Ministry of Education again and tell them it’s my request.”
“There’s really no way, President Sato,” the director’s tone remained polite. “The Ministry of Education specifically emphasized that this symposium should focus on professionalism and not incorporate too many entertainment elements. If your entertainer wishes to attend, we will definitely prioritize inviting them to entertainment-related events next time.”
Tokugawa Sato hung up the phone, his face extremely displeased.
He looked at the expectant Shunsuke Kamiki, his tone tinged with impatience: “Don’t wait anymore, NHK didn’t agree. They said the spots are determined by the Ministry of Education and cannot be increased.”
Shunsuke Kamiki’s smile froze on his face, his eyes full of disbelief: “How could they not agree? Aren’t you very familiar with their executives? Why aren’t they giving you face?”
“Face?” Tokugawa Sato sneered. “What is my face worth in front of the Ministry of Education? They value professionalism, not some idol like you who only throws tantrums!”
Shunsuke Kamiki’s face turned pale. He took a sudden step back, muttering to himself: “Impossible… they’re definitely doing it on purpose, to give Hiroshi Nohara face, and deliberately not invite me…”
He turned and rushed out of the office, his heart full of anger and unwillingness.
He looked at the Tokyo cityscape outside the window and secretly vowed: Hiroshi Nohara, you just wait. One day, I will let you know that I am more capable and more valued than you!
Meanwhile, in the office, Tokugawa Sato watched Shunsuke Kamiki’s retreating figure and shook his head helplessly.
He picked up the real estate report on his desk, suddenly feeling that instead of wasting time on these useless entertainers, it would be better to pay more attention to the real estate market—Tokyo’s housing prices have been rising faster and faster lately. If he could seize this opportunity, the money he could earn would be far more than from promoting entertainers.
At the same time, Kazuo Takahashi received a call from Tokugawa Sato’s secretary and, upon learning that NHK did not agree to increase the number of spots, finally felt relieved.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at the ratings report on his desk, and a strong sense of helplessness suddenly surged within him—if Tokyo City Television continues to rely on entertainers like Shunsuke Kamiki, it will probably be eliminated by the market sooner or later.
He thought of Hiroshi Nohara’s development at Tokyo TV, and the influence brought by 《Tongue Tip》, and suddenly felt a bit envious—if Tokyo City Television could also have such talent, perhaps they wouldn’t be in such a sorry state.
