Chapter 94: Anti-hiroshi Nohara Alliance! The Furious Recruiters!
Hiroshi Nohara had no desire to be disturbed.
However, in this world, many things do not come to a sudden halt simply because you do not wish them to.
……
Osaka, Kansai Television Station headquarters building, Production Bureau.
“Smack!”
A crisp sound rang out.
The black handset, like a condemned prisoner, slammed heavily onto the telephone, the immense force causing the entire phone to jump back in fright.
Ichiro Iwaya, the Production Bureau Deputy Director renowned in the Osaka television industry for his decisive efficiency, was now staring deathly at the already hung-up phone, his face a mask of ashen pallor.
No one had ever dared to hang up on him.
The previously relaxed air in the office instantly froze into ice.
Several subordinates holding coffee, about to report on their work, halted their steps in unison, standing like wooden puppets under a binding spell, not daring to breathe.
“Bastard…… that Tokyo TV brat……”
Ichiro Iwaya squeezed these words out through gritted teeth, his voice like a gale from Siberian winds, carrying icy cold killing intent.
He could not understand it.
He truly could not understand it.
He, Ichiro Iwaya, had clawed his way through the Osaka television industry for twenty years, from a green kid lugging a camera to his current position that countless juniors looked up to—when had he ever suffered such outrage?
He had lowered his status to personally call a fourth-class director several years younger than his own son—this alone was already tremendous face.
He had even rehearsed countless times in his mind before the call connected.
The opening should be friendly, without any airs of a major station; then, casually reveal Kansai Television Station’s keen interest in the “urban legends” theme, and their willingness to invest top-tier resources far surpassing Tokyo Television Station; next, in the tone of an experienced person, hint at the factional struggles and suppression the young man would inevitably face within Tokyo Television Station……
Finally, extend the olive branch that no young person drifting in Tokyo could refuse— the position of chief producer for horror programs at Kansai Television Station, plus a standalone mansion with a courtyard in central Osaka!
He had even thought out the contract details.
But he never imagined that his perfect pitch, capable of swaying stone, was cut off mid-opening by the other party in a manner bordering on humiliation.
The hung-up phone was still emitting an icy cold busy tone.
“Beep…… beep…… beep……”
Like an invisible slap, it stung his face with burning pain.
“Deputy Director……” A bolder section chief cautiously approached, probing: “That…… Tokyo TV side still won’t budge?”
“Budge?”
Ichiro Iwaya whipped his head around, his bloodshot eyes fixing on him like an enraged lion: “That brat Hiroshi Nohara hung up on me without even letting me finish! He doesn’t give a damn about Kansai Television Station!”
These words instantly stirred up massive waves in the small office.
“What?!”
“Too arrogant! A rookie fourth-class director dares to hang up on you?”
“Exactly! Thinks shooting a show with 20% ratings lets him fly to the heavens? People from Tokyo TV are all the same—noses in the air, looking down on us local stations!”
Curses and accusations rose one after another.
But these voices did not improve Ichiro Iwaya’s mood at all; instead, they made him even more irritated.
He knew, of course, this was not just the young man’s personal action.
Behind it was Tokyo Television Station, that behemoth dominating the Neon television industry for decades, delivering a naked, arrogance-filled silent demonstration against their local powerhouses.
“All of you, shut up!”
He roared, sweeping a stack of documents off the desk to the floor, the white sheets scattering like butterflies caught in a gale.
“What’s the use of talking big here?! The Director’s task was to dig that brat and the goldmine called ‘urban legends’ in his head over to Osaka! Now they won’t even let us touch the shovel! Tell me, what do we do?!”
The office fell into dead silence again.
Everyone exchanged glances, mouths agape, but no words came out.
Yes, what to do?
He was now the hottest commodity across the entire Neon, with Tokyo Television Station as his backer.
Their local stations, no matter how tempting the offers, paled in the face of absolute platform superiority.
After a long while, Ichiro Iwaya slowly, deeply exhaled, the breath carrying a trapped beast’s fatigue and unwillingness.
He picked up the phone that had humiliated him again, dialing that number he knew by heart with near masochistic force.
This time, he did not even bother with an opening.
He just wanted to know how arrogant that young man could be.
However, this time, what came from the other end was not the icy busy tone, but an even colder, emotionless electronic female voice.
“The number you have dialed is unreachable……”（Just leave it like that, I don’t know what’s up with Neon）
Ichiro Iwaya’s body stiffened abruptly.
He instinctively glanced at his wrist, at the pricey Rolex.
2:15 p.m.
Not yet quitting time.
That brat, he…… he actually yanked the phone line?!
“Ah——!”
A roar filled with humiliation and anger echoed from the office, startling the crows resting on the power lines outside into flapping away in panic.
……
In fact, at this moment, far from being the only one suffering Ichiro Iwaya’s fate.
Nagoya, Chukyo Television Station.
Fukuoka, Kyushu Broadcasting.
Sapporo, Hokkaido Culture Broadcasting……
Nearly all the major local powerhouses in the Neon television industry had, that afternoon, dialed the same number with near-humble attitudes.
And without exception, they all tasted the ruthless, Tokyo-flavored rejection of a slammed door.
This was no longer simple refusal.
This was a declaration.
A clear and arrogant declaration issued by that young man Hiroshi Nohara, in the simplest and most brutal way, to the entire industry—
I’m not going anywhere.
And stop bothering me.
……
7 p.m., Suginami Ward, downstairs from the apartment building where Hiroshi Nohara lived.
The summer evening breeze carried a touch of sultriness, rustling the listless beech trees by the roadside.
Several black luxury sedans with license plates from different regions, like sharks scenting blood, quietly parked among the apartment buildings, starkly out of place amid the ordinary cars full of everyday life.
The doors opened.
Several big shots who could make their corner of the television world tremble with a stomp, now resembled the most ordinary salesmen, gathering at the apartment entrance with irritation and unyielding persistence.
Leading them was Ichiro Iwaya, the Kansai Television Station Production Bureau Deputy Director who, after venting in his office, had decided to come to Tokyo himself.
Beside him stood a middle-aged man in a floral shirt and gold-rimmed glasses, with a somewhat sleazy scholarly air—Ken Yamada, Executive Deputy Head of Production at Nagoya Chukyo Television Station.
On the other side was a slightly plump man who always smiled amiably like a friendly uncle, but with shrewd glints deep in his eyes—Shigeru Tanaka, Head of Copyright Procurement at Fukuoka Kyushu Broadcasting.
“Iwaya-san, you sure that brat lives here?”
Ken Yamada adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone carrying Nagoya natives’ characteristic shrewdness: “This place is a bit…… too shabby, isn’t it? Doesn’t match his TV persona at all.”
“No mistake.”
Ichiro Iwaya pulled a pack of Seven Stars from his pocket, lit one, and took a deep drag; the harsh smoke slightly cleared his rage- and jealousy-clouded mind.
“I shelled out big money for intel from a Tokyo private detective. Address, photos, even his daily return time and favorite ramen flavor—all crystal clear.”
As he spoke, a flicker of barely perceptible ruthlessness flashed in his bloodshot eyes.
Since soft tactics failed, time for hardball.
He refused to believe that when he slapped a contract no one could refuse, plus a check with any amount, right in that young man’s face, he could still maintain that damned Tokyo arrogance.
“Well, well, great minds think alike.”
Shigeru Tanaka chuckled to mediate, his slit-like eyes scanning the two: “But let’s be clear upfront. Today, every man for himself. Whoever lures ‘Nohara the God’ back to their temple, the other two don’t trip them up behind the scenes.”
“Hmph, naturally.”
As the three harbored their schemes in this tense atmosphere, a Toyota Crown Majesta exuding steady dominance in the sunset glow glided silently from the street corner like a ghost, coming to a steady stop in the exclusive spot under the apartment.
The door opened, and a young man in casual suit, posture erect, stepped out from the driver’s seat.
It was their target tonight—Hiroshi Nohara.
“He’s here!”
The three perked up simultaneously, instinctively straightening their collars, faces instantly beaming with the most enthusiastic, most insincere smiles as they hurried forward.
“Teacher Nohara! Hello, hello! Long admired your name!”
Ichiro Iwaya rushed up first, his ashen face replaced by a Kansai-style hearty and friendly smile; he presented his business card with both hands, posture humble like a fan meeting an idol.
“I’m Ichiro Iwaya from Kansai Television Station Production Bureau—just call me Ichiro!”
“Teacher Nohara, pleased to meet you! I’m Ken Yamada from Nagoya Chukyo Television Station. Your《World of the Strange》—I’ve watched every episode! Absolute masterpiece! A true masterpiece!”
“Teacher Nohara, first time meeting, I’m Shigeru Tanaka from Fukuoka. This is a small token from Kyushu—humble, but please accept it!”
Shigeru Tanaka went further, taking a finely wrapped wooden box from his assistant’s hands and stuffing it directly into Hiroshi Nohara’s arms.
Hiroshi Nohara looked at these three sudden, overly enthusiastic “fans,” his face helpless.
He calmly glanced at the luxury sedans parked nearby, out of place with the surroundings, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Hiroshi Nohara seemed to have guessed something.
He did not take the business cards, nor look at the wooden box, merely giving the three a perfectly measured, somewhat distant polite smile.
“What business do you three seniors have?”
This lukewarm reaction made the smiles on Ichiro Iwaya and the others stiffen momentarily.
They exchanged glances, and finally, the thickest-skinned, Ichiro Iwaya, cleared his throat and got straight to the point:
“Teacher Nohara, to be frank, we’re here representing our respective stations to discuss…… cooperation with you.”
“Kansai Television Station is willing to set up an independent ‘Nohara Studio’ for you with top authority! Budget, staff—you name it! Our only request is that you tailor a brand-new urban legends series like《World of the Strange》 for us!”
“Chukyo Television Station offers three times—no! five times Tokyo TV’s salary! Nod, and tomorrow you’re our Production Bureau’s chief horror project producer!”
“Kyushu Broadcasting……”
The three eagerly pitched their prepped offers, each tempting enough to drive any industry pro mad.
Their postures like three starving wolves eyeing a priceless treasure, itching to devour the young man bones and all.
Yet Hiroshi Nohara merely listened quietly from start to finish.
No response.
No change on that handsome face, calm as a bottomless lake.
Only after they had talked themselves hoarse did a glint of amusement flicker in those clear eyes.
“I appreciate the good intentions of you three seniors.”
He spoke slowly, voice mild yet resolute: “However, personally, I believe Tokyo Television Station is an excellent platform. I’m doing very well here and have no plans to move for now.”
With that, he gave them another polite smile, bowed slightly in farewell.
Then turned and walked into the apartment without looking back.
Leaving Ichiro Iwaya, Ken Yamada, and Shigeru Tanaka like three weathered statues, stunned in place, faces etched with incredulous shock.
He…… he just…… left?
They had prepared threats, inducements, countless negotiation tactics, even the celebration banquet venue.
But they never imagined he lacked even the interest to sit and talk.
The utter disregard humiliated them like a bucket of ice water, dousing the heat born of their coveting into coldness.
“Bastard…… this Tokyo brat……”
Ichiro Iwaya clenched his fists, his once-smiling face now twisted; staring at the cold, closed apartment door, his eyes like a wild dog robbed of all food, filled with endless malice and madness.
“Too arrogant! Utterly lawless!” Ken Yamada trembled with rage, crumpling his business card and grinding it under his gleaming leather shoes.
“Sigh!” Only Shigeru Tanaka exhaled, the breath carrying resignation at reality.
“Forget it.”
He shook his head, a trace of bitterness crossing his ever-smiling face for the first time: “Looks like he’s dead set on hanging from that big tree. To him, we local stations aren’t even backup options.”
Glancing at his two colleagues still stewing in anger and unwillingness, he proposed in near self-mocking tone:
“Let’s go, you two. Since we can’t lure the god, no need to embarrass ourselves here. I know a good izakaya nearby—how about…… a drink?”
……
In the izakaya, dim yellow lights, air thick with the scorched aroma of grilled skewers and sake.
A few cups of harsh shochu down, the pent-up fury found release.
“Damn it! Pissed me off!”
Ichiro Iwaya’s flushed face looked savage under alcohol: “Who the hell does Hiroshi Nohara think he is?! Just got lucky with shit-tier fortune and made a decent TV drama—why’s he so arrogant?! Why look down on us?!”
“Exactly!” Ken Yamada, tipsy, undid the top two buttons of his floral shirt, exposing his sagging chest, eyes cold: “Tokyo TV folks are all alike! Self-important, lawless! Think top resources mean eternal dominance! Dream on!”
“You two, calm down, calm down.”
Shigeru Tanaka refilled their glasses with a chuckle, but his slit eyes gleamed with fox-like cunning.
“Since he won’t give face, no need to hang from one tree. Tokyo TV’s strong, but not invincible. Hiroshi Nohara’s a genius, but not a god.”
He paused, downed his cup, voice laced with icy seduction:
“I have a proposal.”
“Since we can’t recruit him, let’s…… team up and drag him off that pedestal!”
“Hm?” Ichiro Iwaya and Ken Yamada paused, eyes on him.
“Simple.” Shigeru Tanaka’s lips curved coldly: “He’s good at ‘urban legends’? Then we do it too!”
“Our three—Kansai, Chukyo, Kyushu—unite, pool all our top resources, elite producers, ace screenwriters, and make one—no, three brand-new urban legends shows!”
“I refuse to believe his one brain beats the collective wisdom of hundreds of elites from our three stations!”
“Same time slot, same theme—go head-to-head! Use ratings to show that cocky kid, show all Neon viewers, who’s the real king in this field!”
These words sparked the already blazing anger in Ichiro Iwaya and Ken Yamada like a drop in boiling oil!
“Good! Let’s do it!”
Ichiro Iwaya slapped his thigh, a trapped beast’s madness on his savage face: “He airs weekly? We start next month, weekly too! One episode from him, three from us! Bury him in quantity!”
“Right!” Cold light in Ken Yamada’s eyes: “And poach his team! That Ichiro Hashishita—I hear he’s reactivated him. A guy with betrayal on his resume will flip again if the price is right!”
“And his crew’s actors! That Xiao Xunhua—I checked, just a background-less country girl. Send someone; offer a prime time lead role—I dare him not to bite!”
Conspiracy and scheming, fueled by alcohol, snaked like wild vines through the small private room.
These three local overlords, after shared failure and humiliation, formed a black humor-filled…… Avengers alliance.
They clinked glasses hard, the crisp sound like a death knell tolling early for the young man far in Tokyo, brimming with killing intent.
“To victory!”
“Cheers!”
