Chapter 120: Elephant Ancestral Elephant Dance! Ginnosuke Nohara’s Special Technique!
Osaka, Kansai Television Station KTV headquarters building, Production Bureau.
The air in the meeting room felt gripped tightly by an invisible hand, so stifling it could wring out water.
The ashtray was already piled high with burned-out cigarette butts, like tiny graves burying everyone’s inspiration and patience.
“So, after bustling around for nearly a month, this is the result you give me?”
Ichiro Iwaya, the Production Bureau Deputy Director renowned in the Osaka TV industry for his iron fist and rage, flung a thin proposal onto the center of the conference table as if tossing out trash.
His face, somewhat swollen from years of issuing commands, was now filled with undisguised disappointment and rage.
“‘New Tales of the Strange’? Did a donkey kick your brains? That outdated name sounds like the late-night ghost stories my grandfather’s generation watched! Do you want the audience to fall asleep before our program even ends?!”
His roar, like that of an enraged lion, echoed through the meeting room.
The section chiefs and directors, who usually lorded over their own territories, now huddled like quail who had done something wrong, heads bowed and silent as the grave.
“Deputy Director… this… this isn’t our fault.”
A rather refined-looking section chief finally mustered the courage to defend himself in a tone bordering on plea: “The theme of ‘urban legends’ sounds simple, but actually producing it… is really too difficult.”
“Difficult? What’s so difficult about it?!” Ichiro Iwaya slammed the table, the huge bang making everyone flinch instinctively.
“It’s… it’s Hiroshi Nohara that’s too difficult!”
The refined section chief’s voice suddenly rose, his flushed face full of helplessness and breakdown at being pushed to the brink: “He… he’s not even telling ghost stories! He’s defining it! With An Shizhi and World of the Strange, he gave the new genre of ‘urban legends’ a definition none of us can avoid!”
“We tried! We really tried!”
Another screenwriter responsible for scripts chimed in with a mournful face: “We found Osaka’s best horror novelists, even went to ancient temples in Kyoto to pore over centuries-old notebooks of strange tales! But everything we wrote, compared to Hiroshi Nohara’s, just… feels so fake! So deliberate!”
“Exactly!”
The refined section chief nodded vigorously, his voice filled with despair: “His terror is rooted in life! It’s the fear of seeing a blurry human shadow in the mirror while walking into a convenience store at night! It’s the fear of getting a silent harassing phone call, only to find the next day that the number doesn’t exist! This kind of thing isn’t made up—it’s… it seeps from the bones! We… we can’t imitate it at all!”
“Can’t imitate it?”
Ichiro Iwaya’s eye twitched, and he suppressed his anger, changing the subject: “What about World of the Strange then? That should be easy to imitate, right? It’s just twists. Get a few more screenwriters, make the endings more absurd, and you’re done, right?!”
“That… that’s even harder!” The screenwriter’s face collapsed like a bitter melon.
“Do you think it’s just simple twists? Inside… it’s an analysis of humanity, satire of social phenomena! The first episode’s Terrifying Touch is about ‘prejudice’! The second episode’s Machio Rumor is about ‘rumors’! The third episode’s Double Six Game is about ‘destiny’! Every story is like a scalpel, precisely slicing open the most hypocritical boils in our society! That depth… that intent… how could we… possibly learn it?!”
These words plunged the entire meeting room into prolonged silence.
Ichiro Iwaya opened his mouth but couldn’t say a word.
He felt like a foolish tribal leader commanding primitives with sticks to challenge a future warrior in a Gundam.
That bone-deep helplessness made his already irritable heart even more annoyed.
“What… what about Super Change Change Change then?”
Grasping at his last lifeline, he asked in a dry voice: “That nationwide audition—what do you think? Isn’t it… just that kid bluffing?”
“This… we’ve studied it too.” The refined section chief adjusted his glasses, his eyes full of confusion: “On the surface, it’s an unprecedented mode. It turns the audition battlefield from a closed studio straight to the streets and alleys nationwide. It’s less like selecting contestants and more like… conscription.”
“Conscription?” Ichiro Iwaya’s brows furrowed deeper.
“Yes, conscription.”
The refined section chief nodded, his tone laced with awe: “He uses ‘creativity’ and ‘sense of honor’ as weapons, turning ordinary people across Neon Country into his most loyal soldiers. He makes everyone feel the illusion ‘I could become a star too,’ willingly building bricks and mortar for his rising variety show empire. That tactic… is simply… too brilliant.”
“But what’s the use?” Another director retorted unconvinced: “A rabble, no matter how numerous, can they beat our professionally trained comedians? I say it’s just flashy, large-scale performance art. Once the novelty wears off, the audience will get bored fast.”
These words made everyone in the room nod subconsciously.
That’s the current view.
Yeah, what tricks can a bunch of amateurs pull off?
Whether movies, television dramas, or variety shows, they all need professional actors and stars to hold the fort.
A bunch of amateurs with no acting training.
A bunch of so-called ordinary folks.
Do they even know what a lens is?
Do they know what cinematic language is?
“If that’s the case, maybe we still have a chance to breathe.”
Hearing everyone say this, Ichiro Iwaya’s heart settled a bit, but for some reason, he still felt an intense palpitation.
……
Nagoya, Chukyo Television Station.
Fukuoka, Kyushu Broadcasting.
Almost simultaneously, the same conversation played out in different meeting rooms, in different dialects.
Those local powerhouses who once clamored to band together and “besiege” Hiroshi Nohara, after weeks of closed-door research, finally had to face a cruel reality that filled them with despair—
They simply weren’t that young man’s match.
In creativity, depth, scope—they were comprehensively crushed by him in an almost overwhelming manner.
“Sigh!”
In the end, all the arguments, all the unwillingness, dissolved into a collective sigh full of helplessness and fatigue.
“Forget it.”
A Production Bureau leader waved his hand, his posture like a fighter with a broken spine: “We’ll put the Super Change Change Change project on hold for now. Focus all our energy on gnawing down the ‘urban legends’ theme first! I refuse to believe the elites of all Kansai can’t beat one Tokyo kid!”
“Yes, sir!”
……
Night fell, and in the izakaya, the lights glowed dimly yellow.
Ichiro Iwaya, Ken Yamada, Shigeru Tanaka—the core members of the “Anti-Hiroshi Nohara Alliance”—gathered again.
But this time, their faces lacked the initial shared indignation, replaced by a mutual despondency shrouded in common failure.
“Damn it! What the hell is in that kid’s brain?!”
Ichiro Iwaya downed the sake in his cup and slammed it on the table, his flushed face full of irrepressible jealousy and unwillingness: “My bunch of useless subordinates studied for nearly a month and couldn’t even scratch the surface of one episode! All they know is telling me ‘it’s difficult’! ‘Can’t imitate it’! What do I even keep them around for?!”
“Same here.” Ken Yamada gave a bitter laugh, his face also full of fatigue: “It’s the same on my end. That Hiroshi Nohara is like a mountain, a mountain none of us can climb. We can only watch him standing at the peak, looking down on us pitiful bugs struggling at the base.”
“The scariest thing isn’t his talent.”
Shigeru Tanaka, who had been silent, slowly exhaled a breath of turbid air: “The scariest is his layout. With An Shizhi and World of the Strange, he built an absolute, unshakeable brand barrier in the ‘urban legends’ field. Then with Super Change Change Change, he opened up a blue ocean in the new battlefield of variety shows, one that belongs only to him.”
He paused, his voice carrying a bone-deep fear he himself hadn’t noticed.
“Television dramas, animation, variety shows… In less than a year at the television station, he’s already established absolute dominance in the three most important fields. Tell me, in a few more years, will there even be room for us old guys in Neon’s TV industry?”
These words stabbed like an icy cold knife precisely into everyone’s hearts.
The private room fell into dead silence.
This was indeed worth deep thought.
Every era has its discarded losers.
But when it was their turn, these Production Bureau leaders accustomed to being on high felt confusion and fear.
Especially now, they couldn’t even understand what Hiroshi Nohara was doing!
……
Akita Prefecture, Omagari City.
In stark contrast to Tokyo’s suffocating pace, time here seemed stretched by the lazy cicada chirps of an August afternoon, distant and tranquil.
In the Nohara family home’s old house, Ginnosuke Nohara sat cross-legged on the tatami with a displeased face, his thick eyebrows—identical to his youngest son’s—knitted into a knot.
In front of him lay a vibrant promotional poster.
On it, in artistic font full of demonic allure, danced big letters—《Super Change Change Change》·Akita Region Audition, Enrollment Hot!
“Hmph, messing with all this flashy stuff.” Ginnosuke Nohara snorted a mix of old farmer stubbornness and disdain from his nose, sipping warm barley tea, but his eyes uncontrollably scanned the poster’s imaginative comical images.
Deep in that gaze hid a restless eagerness he himself hadn’t noticed.
“Hey, dear, you’ve been staring at that paper all afternoon—aren’t your eyes tired?”
From the kitchen came his wife’s voice, helpless yet full of gentle laughter.
She emerged carrying a plate of freshly sliced iced watermelon, its red flesh and black seeds exuding summer’s clear sweetness.
“Who… who was looking!” Ginnosuke Nohara’s old face reddened like a child caught, shoving the poster aside and assuming his family head demeanor: “I’m critiquing! Critiquing this crowd-pleasing, unserious program! The Nohara family has always been hardworking folk generation after generation! No time for this undignified nonsense!”
Tsuru Nohara just covered her mouth and chuckled softly, placing the watermelon on the low table. Her eyes, etched with fine lines by years yet still clear and bright, brimmed with understanding of her husband’s little schemes.
“Is that so? I heard Uncle Yamada next door was bragging yesterday about signing up with his grandson for this show to do a ‘grandpa-grandson joke routine’?”
“That old fool Yamada?!” Ginnosuke Nohara’s eyebrows shot up; he slapped his thigh hard, his small eyes shooting flames of unwillingness: “He can’t tell jokes worth a damn! That off-key croak of his makes even the village dogs detour! If he dares go, why… why can’t I, Ginnosuke Nohara?!”
“Oh?” Tsuru Nohara’s lips curved playfully. “So what are you planning to perform? I don’t recall you having any standout talents.”
“Who says I don’t?!”
These words ignited Ginnosuke Nohara’s pride-filled powder keg like a fuse!
He shot to his feet, his weathered face showing anger at having his artistic skills belittled.
He “whooshed” shut all the paper sliding doors and “bang” closed the living room windows; the room darkened instantly, lit only by slivers of light through cracks, lending the atmosphere a touch of mystery… and a bit of sleaziness.
“Tsuru, today you’ll witness your husband’s true special talent, hidden for decades!”
Tsuru Nohara eyed his secretive antics, a bad premonition crossing her usually warm-smiling face for the first time, her voice stumbling: “You… you old rogue… you’re not thinking of performing… that, are you?”
“Heh heh heh…”
Ginnosuke Nohara let out a demonic chuckle, turning his back to his wife. After rustling sounds, he spun around!
He lifted his white T-shirt, revealing a belly that, though over fifty, was still well-maintained.
“Elephant~ elephant~ why is your nose so long~”
Singing the childish nursery rhyme, he twisted his waist, his profile bearing what he thought was suave but was utterly sleazy smile.
‘Smack!’
A crisp, anger-filled slap exploded alongside Tsuru Nohara’s furious roar in the small Japanese-style room!
“You shameless old man! Reflect on yourself!”
Ginnosuke Nohara clutched the rapidly swelling lump on his head, pouting aggrievedly as he squatted in the corner.
“Tsuru doesn’t get art at all…” he muttered softly, his small eyes drifting uncontrollably back to the tempting promotional poster on the table.
He was still… a bit tempted.
Just then, a steady car engine sounded from the yard, followed by polite knocks at the door.
“Dad, Mom, I’m home.”
It was Hiroshi Nohara’s voice.
“Oh! Hiroshi’s back with Ikuna!” Tsuru Nohara’s anger vanished instantly; she straightened her kimono, resumed her gentle maternal smile, and hurried to open the door.
At the doorway, beside Hiroshi Nohara’s burly figure stood a pretty girl.
It was Sakuruda Ikuna.
She wore a simple floral dress, carrying a beautifully wrapped fruit basket, her gentle-featured face showing shy nervousness of a first visit.
“Hello, Uncle. Hello, Aunt.”
“Oh! Ikuna-chan! Come in! Come in!”
Ginnosuke Nohara instantly dropped his aggrieved look, resuming his future father-in-law dignity, urging Tsuru Nohara to serve tea to the future daughter-in-law.
Watching her eldest son’s clumsy yet always careful protectiveness beside Ikuna, and the girl’s clear eyes full of undisguised admiration and trust for her son.
Tsuru Nohara’s heart was thoroughly filled with an unprecedented warmth called happiness.
She held Ikuna’s hand like her own daughter, her gentle face full of gratification.
“Hiroshi.”
She turned to her eldest son, dressed in a new Armani suit, driving a clearly “expensive” Toyota Land Cruiser, yet still simple and honest, and admonished lovingly: “You’re a ‘president’ with status now. But don’t forget your roots. Be good to Ikuna, got it? Don’t learn those city playboys and fool around just because you have money.”
“Mom! I know!” Hiroshi Nohara’s dark face reddened; he glanced at the giggling girl beside him, his honest heart melting sweetly.
“But Hiroshi, you need to tell your brother about this.” Tsuru Nohara beamed at her son’s happy simplicity.
She patted her eldest son’s hand gently, her gaze soft as water, her tone solemnly firm: “Hiroshi’s our family pillar now. He’ll be thrilled you’re with such a great girl.”
“What’s there to say! No need to bother our family big shot for this trifle!” Ginnosuke Nohara puffed out his chest, his thick eyebrows—matching his youngest son’s—wiggling proudly like dancing caterpillars.
He snatched the well-worn Super Change Change Change promotional poster from the table and thrust it proudly before Sakuruda Ikuna.
“Ikuna-chan, look at this!” He pointed to the demonic program logo, his weathered face beaming with pride enough to turn heads across Akita Prefecture: “See? This is made by my son, Hiroshi Nohara, section chief at Tokyo Television Station—section chief, mind you! The whole Neon Country’s watching his shows!”
He grinned proudly: “They say the Nohara family were literary elites in ancient times! Now we’ve got Hiroshi Nohara, a great man!”
Sakuruda Ikuna had already heard of Hiroshi Nohara from Hiroshi.
And watched An Shizhi, World of the Strange, Super Change Change Change, and more.
But hearing her future father-in-law boast, her clear eyes still sparkled with genuine amazement and worship.
“I… I’ve seen it on TV… Teacher Nohara is really amazing.”
She bowed slightly, her gentle face shy from the first visit: “Hiroshi often tells me about you, Aunt, and Teacher Nohara. He says becoming part of the Nohara family is his greatest pride. I… feel very honored to be with him.”
These words were too humble.
But the heartfelt sincerity and propriety made Tsuru Nohara like this obedient girl more and more, her laugh lines deepening.
Hiroshi Nohara’s dark face turned liver-red at the sudden confession; he fidgeted, rubbing his callused hands, gazing at the sunbrighter girl beside him, his honest heart full of happiness.
He stood, declaring to Sakuruda Ikuna with oath-like solemnity: “Ikuna, rest assured! I’ll… be good to you for life!”
He paused, glancing at his pricey Armani suit, unease crossing his dark face: “But… I still feel more comfortable in work clothes. When we get back, I’ll change out of this and store it properly.”
“Pfft—”
This adorably contrasting remark made everyone burst out laughing.
Tsuru Nohara laughed till tears nearly came, holding Sakuruda Ikuna’s hand like her own daughter, her gentle face full of gratification: “Good child, our Hiroshi’s just that honest. From now on, take good care of him, alright?”
“Mm!” Sakuruda Ikuna nodded firmly, her clear eyes brimming with happy light.
Watching this harmonious scene, Ginnosuke Nohara’s fatherly heart was finally filled with immense satisfaction.
He drained his warm barley tea, his old face breaking into a hugely smug smile.
“Great! Great! Great!” He said “great” three times, his small eyes gleaming with longing for the future: “Once you’re married, give me a chubby grandson quick! Then I’ll teach him all my hidden decades-old unique skills!”
As he spoke, his thick eyebrows wiggled uncontrollably again.
Looking quite pleased with himself.
But a murderous gaze shot from beside him.
Ginnosuke Nohara jolted, turning stiffly to see his wife Tsuru Nohara glowering, her usually gentle eyes burning with all-consuming fury.
He hastily lifted his teacup, pretending he hadn’t said a thing.
Seeing the old couple’s familiar banter, Hiroshi Nohara and Sakuruda Ikuna exchanged looks, seeing heartfelt happy smiles in each other’s eyes.
The entire Nohara family home was immersed in warm atmosphere.
Utterly harmonious!
PS: Brothers, keep voting! Monthly or recommendation tickets welcome~ If you like this book, please recommend it to fellow readers~
