Chapter 162: Poor Public Opinion Environment? That’s Exactly The Traffic We Want!
The corridor’s lighting was icy cold, casting the two men’s elongated shadows onto the mirror-smooth floor, making them appear distorted and disheveled.
Yasui Kinna’s face had long lost all color.
He subconsciously raised his hand to wipe the cold sweat beading on his forehead, his voice dry: “He… he didn’t even get angry. From beginning to end, he treated everything calmly, even showing a gentle and composed smile. This… this is the most terrifying part.”
Ito Chōan’s eyes were similarly filled with the aftershock of a disaster survivor.
As the Tokyo Faction’s strategist, he was always known for his deep scheming and skill in reading people.
But today, in front of that excessively young man, he felt like a patient stripped naked on the operating table, with all his thoughts and schemes laid bare by the other’s calm eyes that showed no ripple.
“He held the press conference absolutely not just to clarify public opinion!” Ito Chōan’s voice carried an uncontrollable tremor. “He must have other plans! But… I don’t know what will happen.”
This conclusion made Yasui Kinna’s already suspended heart sink straight to the bottom.
The two exchanged silent glances, their steps heavy as if filled with lead, moving step by step toward the power throne at the top of the entire floor.
Toshihide Takada’s office.
This Tokyo Faction’s number two person was waiting for the two of them.
“Back?” His voice was flat like a bottomless dead pond, showing no emotion.
“Yes.”
Yasui Takashi and Ito Chōan sat down on the sofa.
Ito Chōan took a deep breath and recounted everything that had happened in Deputy Director Asumi’s office earlier, exactly as it was.
He added no embellishments or personal emotions, just using the most objective tone that best highlighted the severity of the issue, clearly presenting the young man’s every reaction and every word to Toshihide Takada.
When he mentioned the “press conference,” the air in the office seemed to be sucked dry in an instant.
Toshihide Takada slowly turned around.
His usually somewhat gloomy face was now even more overcast, as if dripping water.
But he didn’t explode in rage as Yasui Takashi and Ito Chōan had expected; he just calmly walked to the liquor cabinet, poured himself half a glass of whiskey, and slowly sat down in the leather seat symbolizing power.
“Press conference…” he muttered to himself, his eyes flashing with sharp light: “Interesting. Looks like I underestimated him. I thought he’d go cry to Asumi or complain to that old fox Sakata. Didn’t expect him to… choose the most direct and stupid way.”
“Deputy Director, you mean…” Ito Chōan probed.
“He’s too young.” Toshihide Takada’s lips curled in sarcasm: “Young people always get dizzy with victory, thinking they’re omnipotent and can control everything. He thinks with his silver tongue he can turn the tables, make black into white? What does he think the media is? What does he think he is?”
He swirled the glass in his hand, the amber liquid tracing a dangerous arc on the glass wall.
“He’s digging his own grave.” Toshihide Takada’s voice was like ice: “Once public opinion’s fire is lit, it’s not something a little third-class director can control. The more he explains, the more holes he’ll show. The more he clarifies, the more he’ll confirm his ‘elitist’ arrogance. Then, without us lifting a finger, the saliva of the enraged public alone will drown him and his movie full of ‘class’ stench!”
Toshihide Takada understood public opinion well.
“Then… tomorrow, should we still attend that press conference?” Yasui Takashi asked cautiously.
“Go? Go for what?” Toshihide Takada scoffed at the question, his eyes looking at two clueless kids: “To watch him publicly humiliate himself? No need. We’re the victors. Victors just need to sit in the highest stands, leisurely sipping red wine, appreciating the losers’ final desperate struggles.”
He paused, then slowly issued the final order.
“Tomorrow, both of you, stay obediently in the office. Don’t go anywhere. What we do is wait. Wait to see how that kid step by step personally sends himself to the guillotine.”
“Yes!”
Yasui Takashi and Ito Chōan bowed in unison, their voices carrying a tacit understanding.
The two exchanged glances and saw a trace of heartfelt cruelty in each other’s eyes.
They could already envision that at tomorrow’s highly anticipated press conference, the arrogant young man would be left speechless under the barrage of reporters’ cameras and microphones, finally retreating in disgrace amid boos full of mockery and contempt.
After all, who said they couldn’t arrange reporters?
The two tactfully took their leave, and the office returned to its suffocating tranquility.
“Childish.” Toshihide Takada slowly drained the whiskey in his glass, a smug smile appearing on his lips after a long time.
‘Ding ling ling—’
The internal telephone on the desk rang inappropriately.
Toshihide Takada frowned and picked up the phone.
From the other end came Masao Iwata’s voice, full of humility and flattery.
“Ta… Deputy Director Takada, it’s me, Iwata. Di… did I disturb your rest?”
“Speak.” Toshihide Takada’s voice held no emotion.
“That… the movie… the filming is basically… all done.” Masao Iwata’s voice carried a hint of excitement seeking credit: “Director Ashikaga and Director Asano both said… it went very smoothly! Now, just a few big scenes left, probably… in two or three days, it can all wrap!”
This news was like a warm breeze, finally dispersing the heavy gloom in Toshihide Takada’s heart.
A increasingly satisfied smile finally appeared on his usually gloomy face.
What good news in a row!
“Good.” He nodded in satisfaction: “Iwata, you did well this time. Didn’t disappoint me.”
This simple praise nearly made Masao Iwata on the other end cry with excitement.
“It’s all… all thanks to your great leadership, Deputy Director! It’s Director Ashikaga and Director Asano’s excellent direction! I… I’m just running errands, don’t dare take credit! Don’t dare!”
“Hmph, you know your place.” Toshihide Takada snorted coldly, but the severity was gone from his tone: “Remember, keep a tight watch these last few days! No mishaps allowed! Especially those two leads, serve them well! Once the movie wraps, immediately! Right away! Edit the finished film for me! I want to see, in the shortest time, a timeless classic that will utterly crush that old guy and that arrogant kid!”
“Yes! Yes! I understand! I’ll definitely follow the two directors’ arrangements! Rest assured!” Masao Iwata responded repeatedly over the phone.
After hanging up, the smile on Toshihide Takada’s face grew even smugger.
He slowly stood up and walked back to the huge floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the steel city below that he already considered his possession.
He could already see that on New Year’s Eve soon, his 《Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree》 full of glamour and commercial elements would crush that 《Seven Samurai》 full of poverty and controversy in an unbeatable manner!
……
The filming site of 《Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree》 was now enveloped in an atmosphere of tension and fatigue.
In the temporary conference tent, smoke filled the air, stinging the eyes.
Masao Iwata, this nominal chief director of the movie, was now like the humblest servant, carefully refilling hot tea for the two true “emperors emeritus.”
“Director Ashikaga, Director Asano, have some tea.” His posture was as humble as a workplace newbie.
However, Soji Ashikaga didn’t even bother lifting his eyelids; he just impatiently waved his hand, his eyes like shooing an annoying fly: “Put it there. Oh, right, go call those extras outside! Tell them, if that final charge scene messes up positions again, no one eats tonight!”
“Also.” Kouta Asano beside him added leisurely: “Go buy all today’s newspapers. Especially those third-rate gossip rags, not a single one missing. I want to see what that Nohara kid is being cursed as now.”
“Yes! Right away!” Masao Iwata responded without hesitation and immediately left this power center that no longer belonged to him.
He was long used to it all.
From chief director to site manager, and now to the errand boy pouring tea, buying newspapers.
This huge disparity had long crushed his already fragile self-esteem to dust.
But he endured it all.
Because he knew this was his only chance to return to the table.
He even had to endure those two leads spoiled by capital, arrogant beyond measure.
Whether it was Shunsuke Kamiki’s humiliating request to massage his legs, or Miyuki Kitagawa’s demand to buy cosmetics late at night, he did his best to fulfill them.
Because he knew he was now just a dog crawling at the feet of power and capital, barely surviving.
And dogs have no right to talk about dignity.
When he returned to the smoky tent hugging a stack of newspapers still fragrant with ink, the atmosphere inside had become incredibly relaxed.
“Hahahaha! Look at this! 《Shukan Bunshun》! They actually called Hiroshi Nohara ‘Farmer’s Son, Ungrateful Wretch’! Hilarious! This headline is… divine!”
Shunsuke Kamiki, this top idol who had just been playing a tragic romantic samurai in front of the camera, was now like the most vicious gossipmonger, pointing at the humiliating headline on the newspaper, laughing uncontrollably.
His already somewhat effeminate handsome face was now slightly twisted with schadenfreude, like an expensive drawing paper crumpled up.
“I told you long ago, that guy is just a lucky hick! Suddenly climbing so high, how could his tail not wag to the sky? Now he’s caught by the media, serves him right! I can’t wait to see how he holds tomorrow’s press conference! Probably cry in front of all neon!”
This vicious mockery was like the most precise joke bomb, instantly exploding the entire tent!
“Who says otherwise.” Soji Ashikaga also sneered, his voice full of superiority: “I said long ago, movies aren’t for those TV people to play with! Especially sensitive topics like ‘class,’ total no-go zones! An outsider who doesn’t even know basic industry rules dares to point fingers? Simply… digging his own grave!”
“Exactly!” Kouta Asano chimed in with schadenfreude: “I bet his so-called 《Seven Samurai》 is now the laughingstock of all neon! Then, without us doing anything, the enraged public’s saliva alone will drown him and his movie stinking of ‘elitism’!”
Listening to the waves of contemptuous mocking laughter around him, Masao Iwata silently distributed the newspapers to everyone.
But a familiar unease inexplicably rose in his heart.
He thought of that young man, thought of his eyes that remained calm without ripple no matter the dilemma.
His intuition told him things might not be that simple.
“Alright, no more talking about that buzzkill.”
Shunsuke Kamiki contentedly tossed the newspaper aside, stood up, stretched lazily, his posture like a Persian cat that had just feasted satisfactorily.
“My scenes for today are done, I’m off. The rest is for you ‘professionals.'”
With that, surrounded by a group of assistants, he left the set he had already turned into chaos without looking back.
The black minivan slid silently like a ghost into Tokyo’s ceaseless traffic flow.
Inside the car, all schadenfreude had faded from Shunsuke Kamiki’s handsome face, leaving only cold gloom.
He slowly picked up his personal mobile phone and dialed a number familiarly.
From the other end came a voice full of fawning and flattery.
“Hello? Mr. Kamiki? What are your orders?”
“I saw those newspapers.” Shunsuke Kamiki’s voice was cruel: “Well done. But… not enough.”
“Eh?”
“I want you to fan the flames higher.” Shunsuke Kamiki’s voice squeezed through his teeth. “I want ‘Hiroshi Nohara’ forever tied to ‘class,’ ‘elite,’ ‘ungrateful’ words! Make him the common enemy of all ‘commoners’ in our neon society!”
“And…” He paused, his peach blossom eyes flashing with viper-like malice: “Aim the firepower at his unreleased 《Seven Samurai》! I want all audiences hating the movie before even entering the theater! Make him and his movie die in the cradle!”
“Only then can our 《Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree》 become the undisputed, absolute samurai film king in the New Year slot without rivals! Got it?!”
“Yes! Yes! I get it!” The voice on the phone grew even more fawning: “But the price…”
“Triple!” Shunsuke Kamiki scoffed and hung up.
What money can solve.
Isn’t a problem!
……
The next morning, Tokyo Television Station’s Hall 7.
This was one of neon media’s nerve centers.
Normally used only for major station announcements or top stars’ wedding reveals, this hall could seat over a hundred reporters.
Today, it was already packed, crowded like Shinjuku subway at rush hour.
The air was thick with the agitation and oppression of an impending storm.
“Hey, Yamada-senior, what pose do you think Hiroshi Nohara will apologize in today?” A young reporter new to the field, carrying a camera, whispered to the graying veteran beside him with schadenfreude.
The senior called Yamada just scoffed: “What else? Probably a ninety-degree bow, tearfully admitting ‘youthful recklessness, improper words,’ then sobbing to the camera begging the nation’s forgiveness. Seen this routine for nearly thirty years, bored of it.”
“I think just bowing won’t quell the public outrage this time?” Another reporter from gossip magazine 《FRIDAY》 spoke up: “‘Ungrateful’ is a neon society taboo! Especially a farmer’s son saying that! I say, without a ‘dogezza’ on neon TV, kneeling and kowtowing in apology, this won’t pass!”
“Right! Must dogezza! Or us country folk won’t stand for it!” In the crowd, a reporter with a thick rural accent waved his fist indignantly.
Public opinion’s flood had already nailed the yet-to-appear young man to the pillar of shame called “class enemy.”
Yet amid this clamor of verbal assaults, there were faint voices of contradiction and struggle.
“But… I still can’t believe it.” A quiet female reporter whispered to her companion: “I’m a diehard 《Yu Yu Hakusho》 reader and 《World of the Strange》 fan. From his works, I see a gentle man full of humanistic care and deepest sympathy for the little guy… How could he be that ungrateful ‘elite’?”
“Who knows.” Her companion sighed helplessly: “People change. Maybe Tokyo’s fame arena corrupted him. But honestly, it feels off. His shows are good. I just hope he apologizes properly today. If he admits fault, I’ll… still support him.”
This is traffic’s original sin.
When you bask in the spotlight enjoying adoration, you must bear the risk of backlash from that power.
Hiroshi Nohara certainly understood this.
And planned to exploit this rule!
In the backstage lounge, the atmosphere was solemn.
Deputy Director Asumi paced the not-so-spacious space, the Cuban cigar in his hand already crushed.
“Outrageous! Simply outrageous!”
He viciously stubbed the extinguished cigar into the ashtray, his voice full of uncontainable fury: “Yasui Takashi! Ito Chōan! Those two bastards dare ghost me! No phone, no messages! Do they really think I, Asumi, can’t do anything to them?!”
Eiji Kurosawa was like a silent volcano, quietly sitting on the sofa.
He said nothing, but his bloodshot eyes burned with towering rage!
The young man they favored.
A Kanto Faction future.
Now under their protection, pushed to the cliff’s edge by the Tokyo Faction!
How could they stay calm?
Forgive?
Let those guys off!?
Beside them, the seven “samurai” who had just been joking heartlessly on the variety show now had no trace of levity.
They sat upright, their faces full of united solemnity.
“Minister, let us go on stage with you!” Shunpei Makino playing Chiyo stood first, his usually defiant face now full of youthful hot-blooded resolve: “This started with our 《Seven Samurai》, we should all bear it together! We’ll go with you! Confront those bastard reporters face-to-face! I want to see how far they twist black and white!”
“Right!” Veteran actor Taiji Miyoshi playing Kanbei nodded heavily: “Nohara-kun, you’re not alone. We’re your strongest backup.”
“Hiroshi-kun.” Deputy Director Asumi also stopped pacing, his eyes full of an elder’s concern for a junior.
“Don’t worry, I’ve arranged everything. Three reporters here are ours. I’ve spoken to them; they’ll steer questions our way. You just… follow our plan, keep a humble posture, sincerely apologize, blame it on ‘youthful recklessness’ and ‘media misinterpretation.’ The rest, leave to me.”
This protective arrangement was like the gentlest warm current, flowing through everyone’s hearts.
But Hiroshi Nohara just calmly set down his tea cup.
He slowly stood, and under those gazes full of concern and worry, deeply bowed to everyone.
“Deputy Director Asumi, Director Kurosawa, seniors.”
His voice was gentle yet full of power.
“Thank you. But…”
He slowly straightened, his handsome face that anyone would envy blooming again with a confident, composed mild smile.
“This war is mine alone. So, it should be me alone to end it personally.”
“Hiroshi-kun, you…” Asumi’s brows furrowed instantly.
“Rest assured, Deputy Director.” Hiroshi Nohara’s lips curved with a knowing arc, his clear eyes shining with absolute conviction: “I have my way.”
With that, without hesitation, he turned and pushed open the door to the storm’s center.
……
When that tall, upright figure appeared at the press site, the entire venue seemed hit with a mute button.
After brief dead silence, a tsunami of flashing lights and aggressive shutter sounds instantly drowned the young man!
The light was blinding enough to make anyone squint.
Hiroshi Nohara didn’t even blink.
He just calmly walked step by step onto the prepared judgment stage.
He stood behind the podium, his gaze calmly sweeping the faces below—curious, contemptuous, angry—finally settling on the countless lenses facing him.
He knew behind those lenses were millions of eyes waiting for his “confession.”
This was also live TV.
“I know everyone came today to hear my apology.”
No pleasantries; his first words were like a precise bomb, instantly detonating the venue!
Reporters erupted, trap-filled questions raining down on the young man!
“Minister Nohara! Your response to 《Shukan Bunshun》 calling you ‘Ungrateful Wretch’?!”
“Do you admit you disparaged ‘commoners’ on the show?!”
“As a farmer’s son, aren’t you ashamed of your words?!”
Yet facing this opinion storm that would break anyone weak-minded, Hiroshi Nohara just calmly raised his hand in a “calm down” gesture.
That breezy composure, that air of everything under control, like a bucket of ice water, miraculously quelled the boiling clamor.
“Everyone, please let me finish.”
His voice wasn’t loud but reached every corner clearly.
“Regarding the recent public opinion issue, I’m sorry for the trouble. But we were all misled. We’ve all fallen into a huge mental trap built by the word ‘class.'”
His tone shifted, his clear eyes flashing with a historian’s depth.
“We always discuss samurai, farmers. Elites, commoners. But we ignore the true protagonist that decided all their fates—the ultimate, only one.”
“That is, the era.”
“The samurai era’s end wasn’t because they weren’t elite enough. It was guns appearing, letting a trained farmer easily kill a samurai who practiced swordsmanship for twenty years. This is technology’s victory, productivity’s victory, era’s victory.”
“The commoner era’s arrival wasn’t overnight. It evolved into our current national era where everyone is equal, everyone can change their fate. This too is the era’s progress.”
The grand narrative full of philosophical depth struck like thunder on everyone’s hearts!
The reporters were stunned.
They came for gossip, spectacle, to judge an “ungrateful wretch.”
But now this young man was giving them a public lesson on “historical materialism”?!
This… this doesn’t fit the vibe?!
“Minister Nohara! Stop dodging, changing subjects!”
Finally, the 《FRIDAY》 reporter reacted first, jumping up, his face behind black-rimmed glasses full of manipulated rage!
“We don’t care about your crap ‘era’! We want to know, you, Hiroshi Nohara! Did you say farmers are ‘cunning, stingy, murderers’?! Do you look down on us ordinary citizens deep down?!”
This question stabbed like a poison dagger at Hiroshi Nohara’s seemingly flawless theoretical armor!
All eyes focused back on the young man!
They wanted to see how he’d wriggle out this time!
Yet under this hostile scrutiny, Hiroshi Nohara’s lips slowly curved into a playful, mischievous child’s triumphant grin.
“Correct.”
He calmly uttered these two earth-shaking words for all neon.
“I did say that.”
Boom—!
The venue exploded!
Reporters like sharks smelling blood went berserk!
He admitted it!
He really admitted it!
But before their ecstatic shutters could freeze this “scandal,” Hiroshi Nohara’s unhurried, magnetic voice rang out again.
“But, so what?”
Looking at the dumbfounded faces below shocked by his bombshell, his smile grew brighter.
“Because all this was just a little Easter egg I carefully prepared for everyone, to promote my new movie.”
“……”
Easter egg?!
The whole world seemed muted.
Everyone stared blankly at the young man, their faces showing deep numbness and absurdity from worldview hammered repeatedly!
What… did they hear?!
This opinion storm they ignited, sweeping neon, turned out to be… just a ploy for movie promo?!
Backstage, Asumi and Eiji Kurosawa also stood stunned, their worldly eyes full of incredulous shock!
Watching on the monitor the young man single-handedly toying with all neon’s media.
Those two iron hearts tempered by countless power struggles suddenly had a new term.
“The young are to be feared!”
To stay composed in such opinion hell, explain reason flawlessly, and pivot to movie promo.
This mentality, wisdom, ability…
Stronger than many old foxes!
“So, everyone.”
Hiroshi Nohara’s performance wasn’t over; looking at the petrified faces, he slowly spread his arms like a magician revealing the final secret.
He declared loudly:
“Today’s press conference was never an apology.”
“It is the official launch of my first movie in life—《Seven Samurai》!”
No promises, no extra explanations.
He just calmly stared at the cold lenses, his clear eyes shining with absolute confidence convincing anyone!
“I, Hiroshi Nohara, stake all the reputation from my past works here, to guarantee to all neon audiences.”
“December 24, Christmas Eve, come to the theater.”
“All answers about ‘class,’ ‘era,’ ‘humanity,’ ‘whether a farmer’s son is ungrateful’…”
He paused, under countless gazes ignited with curiosity, enunciated clearly:
“—Are all in this movie.”
Whoa—!
The venue erupted completely!
This was beyond simple promo!
This was a declaration of war!
The young man pushed to the cliff by them, declaring final war full of high stakes to them, to all neon society!
Win, ascend to godhood, secure unshakable status in this era!
Lose, ruined forever!
This young man, when all wanted opinion results, used bold tactics for great promo, and… the strongman’s game for the timid!
PS: Three updates today, some small errors from coding daze. Fixed them. Still begging for rec votes and monthly tickets~
