Chapter 11: Viewing
In the Audit Department’s office, it was so quiet that the faint sound from the air conditioner vent could be heard.
Aiai Takeshita sat behind her desk, with documents and stationery neatly arranged on the desktop, along with a desktop computer with a large monitor, and a small projector connected beside it.
She first picked up the Oni-bō Samurai proposal that Masao Iwata had sent.
Flipping to the first page, there were gorgeous effect images and cast introduction.
Famous novelist, veteran director, popular actor… every name shone brightly.
She flipped through page by page; the proposal was indeed very detailed, from script outline to storyboard sketches, to scene settings, all exuding a “money is no object” extravagance.
However, when she turned to the budget page, her brows finally couldn’t help but furrow.
“Per episode budget, two million yen?”
She lightly tapped the desktop with her finger, producing a rhythmic “tap tap” sound.
This number was outrageously high for a late-night slot horror short drama.
Based on her experience, this money was enough to produce a quarter of a prime time slot animation episode.
She could see there were too many unnecessary expenses, too many flashy gimmicks. This didn’t seem like making a project; it was more like hosting a money-burning banquet.
“Deputy Director’s project…” she murmured softly, a hint of helplessness and annoyance flashing in her eyes.
In a place like a television station, professional judgment sometimes had to bow to power. She could raise doubts, but the final outcome would probably be hard to change.
She set the gorgeous proposal aside, thinking of Deputy Director Takada, who was always reputed to be a greedy glutton, and already had a preliminary judgment in her mind, with utter disgust in her eyes.
Then, her gaze fell on that somewhat ordinary-looking proposal and cheap video tape.
《An Shizhi》.
The name was somewhat interesting.
She picked up those few simple explanatory documents, which only had a brief project summary and a budget sheet.
When she saw the total amount at the bottom of the budget sheet, a genuine look of surprise appeared for the first time in her calm, unrippled eyes.
She even suspected she had misread it and leaned in closer to carefully read it again.
Then, she placed this budget sheet side by side with the Oni-bō Samurai budget sheet nearby.
Two million.
And… one million.
One in the heavens, one on earth.
A playful, intrigued expression appeared on Aiai Takeshita’s face. She leaned back in her chair, her slender fingers lightly tracing over the video tape.
In this world filled with lies, exaggeration, and interest exchanges, the sudden appearance of something so “real” it was almost crude instead piqued all her curiosity.
She picked up the video tape, stood up, and walked to the projector in the corner of the office, wanting to insert it and play it.
But then she thought better of it.
Aiai Takeshita still hesitated and put 《An Shizhi》 back on the desk, picked up 《Oni-bō Samurai》, and inserted it into the projector.
Her face looked somewhat reluctantly compliant and unpleasant.
She returned to her chair and sat down, turning on the small projection control equipment next to the computer. With a “click,” the animation began playing on the curtain hanging on the wall.
Accompanied by a eerie flute sound, the 《Oni-bō Samurai》 title also appeared on it.
The screen flickered, and the 《Oni-bō Samurai》 image occupied the entire screen.
……
The image quality was excellent, with a film-like graininess paired with carefully tuned gloomy tones, instantly pulling one back to that ghost-infested Edo era.
Eerie ancient temple, dim long street, samurai in heavy armor flashing by like ghosts, accompanied by shrill screams and the dull sound of blades entering flesh.
The first few minutes indeed created a top-tier horror atmosphere.
Aiai Takeshita leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp and focused behind her gold-rimmed glasses. Like an experienced hunter, she scrutinized the prey before her, assessing its every bit of value.
Sound effects, music, editing… all technical aspects were top-notch.
However, as the plot unfolded, Aiai Takeshita’s forward-leaning body slowly leaned back against the chair bit by bit.
The focus in her eyes gradually gave way to a familiar blandness.
The story’s structure was almost exactly as she had expected.
A samurai poisoned by his wife’s affair, his resentment lingering, turning into an evil spirit that indiscriminately slayed passersby on nighttime streets.
Then, a compassionate wandering monk and a powerful onmyoji happened to meet and decided to join forces to subdue the demon.
The battle scenes were gorgeous, with talisman glows and samurai sword gleams intersecting, special effects burning through a large budget.
In the end, the evil spirit was defeated, and before dissipating, his hateful visage reverted to his handsome living appearance, shedding bloody tears as he recounted his injustice.
The monk and onmyoji joined forces, found the adulterous couple, and used Buddhist dharma and shikigami to make them see the evil spirit’s tragic state, ultimately leading them to sudden repentance and confession at the evil spirit’s grave.
The story ended.
Very complete, very standard, and very… boring.
Aiai Takeshita pressed the stop button, and the projector’s hum abruptly ceased, the office instantly returning to silence.
She removed her glasses and gently rubbed her brow.
The bloody images and startling sound effects from earlier had indeed caused some adrenaline surge, making her face look somewhat pale.
But it was like riding a roller coaster—stimulating, yes, but once it stopped, nothing remained except momentary dizziness.
She saw dozens of versions of such stories in various proposals every year.
Same old story, different packaging.
Nothing more than swapping samurai for princess, monk for shrine maiden, poisoning for framing.
The core was always that bit of male-female love, hate, and passion, forcibly elevated at the end with themes of “letting go” and “forgiveness.”
“Two million yen…” Aiai Takeshita looked at the exquisite proposal, a faint, almost imperceptible sarcasm curling her lips: “Just to tell an old, stale story that even street rakugo performers wouldn’t bother repeating?”
Money could indeed buy gorgeous packaging.
But beneath the packaging, if the soul was hollow, it was nothing more than slightly more expensive trash.
She pushed the 《Oni-bō Samurai》 proposal aside, as if it were tainted with something unpleasant.
Then, her gaze fell on that cheap video tape.
《An Shizhi》.
The three hand-written, somewhat childish kanji on the cover now appeared to Aiai Takeshita as a plain, unadorned sincerity.
She picked up the video tape; it was very light, and the plastic shell even had some rough edges you could feel.
Could this thing really be watchable?
With a curiosity she herself hadn’t noticed, Aiai Takeshita inserted the video tape into the projector.
