Chapter 140: 《the Tale Of Hachiko》 Production! Tokyo Television Station’s Shock!
The next morning, as the first faint rays of dawn pierced through the thin mist and gently bathed the vast expanse of lush green rice fields, the Nohara family old house had already been awakened by a warm aroma blending the scent of rice and the fresh flavor of miso soup.
“Hiroshi, my child, you’re home so rarely—can’t you sleep a bit longer?”
In the kitchen, Tsuru Nohara looked at her handsome youngest son, who was skillfully assisting her, a gentle smile on her face.
Hiroshi Nohara plated the freshly fried tamagoyaki emitting an enticing caramelized aroma and said with a smile, “Mom, I’ve gotten used to waking up early in Tokyo. Besides, getting to eat the breakfast you made yourself is way more important to me than sleep.”
These words were like a perfectly measured spoonful of honey, instantly filling Tsuru Nohara’s motherly heart to the brim with sweetness.
“Such a sweet talker.” She laughed and scolded, but deep in her eyes was a tenderness that could never melt away.
At the dining table, the family enjoyed a harmonious meal together.
Ginnosuke Nohara, sporting faint dark circles under his eyes—clearly from not sleeping well due to excitement from last night’s engagement banquet—was slurping his miso soup while imparting his “Ginnosuke-style” wisdom on managing a wife to his equally weary eldest son, in the tone of an experienced person.
“Hiroshi, let me tell you, women are creatures you can’t indulge too much. When you need to be firm, be firm! Otherwise, your status at home later on will be…”
Before he could finish, a fist full of “Tsuru-style” killing intent landed heavily under the table with a whoosh, precisely striking his restless old leg.
“Ouch!”
Ginnosuke Nohara let out a shrill cry of pain, his aged face instantly piling up with grievance.
“Hahaha…”
A burst of good-natured laughter instantly filled the small Japanese-style room.
After breakfast, Tsuru Nohara pulled the still giggling Misae along, saying they would visit a few distant relatives she was close with, and also let this soon-to-be daughter-in-law get familiar in advance with the local customs in Akita Prefecture.
Hiroshi Nohara was even more energized; early in the morning, he drove off in the imposing Land Cruiser, carrying detailed materials on the surrounding land from his future father-in-law, rushing out to expand territory for the Nohara Agricultural Corporation.
The bustling old house finally returned to tranquility.
Hiroshi Nohara carried a cup of warm barley tea back to his Japanese-style room filled with memories from his boyhood.
He ignored the flurry of work reports flying in from Tokyo like snowflakes and didn’t ponder those complex business strategies.
He simply sat quietly at the low table, spread out a sheet of pristine drawing paper, and picked up the brush he long regarded as a companion.
Outside the window, summer cicadas chirped amid the rice waves swaying in the wind in the fields.
Inside the window, the brush tip glided across the paper with a soft rustling, like silkworms tirelessly munching mulberry leaves.
His gaze was calm yet fervent.
What he drew was the legendary story of “loyalty” and “waiting” that he had conceived countless times in his heart—
《The Tale of Hachiko》.
He needed no thought, no composition.
For all the story, all the storyboard drafts, were already etched deeply into his soul like the most profound imprint.
The brush tip danced across the paper like flowing clouds and running water.
A train station, a lonely waiting Akita dog, a master who would never return…
Spring, summer, autumn, winter—seasons cycling.
Cherry blossoms bloomed and fell, white snow fell and melted.
Crowds came and went at the station plaza, but that solitary figure, day after day, year after year, braved wind and rain, guarding for that miracle that could no longer appear.
Hiroshi Nohara drew quickly, so fast it even left afterimages.
Those classic scenes that moved billions of viewers in his previous life flowed from his brush like film reels on fast-forward, seamlessly recreated on this small sheet of drawing paper.
However, when he reached the final scene—the aged Akita dog Hachiko slowly closing its eyes amid the flying snow, finally seeing its longed-for master smiling gently at it in a dream…
Hiroshi Nohara’s hand holding the brush suddenly paused.
A drop of warm liquid uncontrollably slid from the corner of his eye, falling onto the unfinished manuscript, blooming into a small dark stain.
“Sigh…”
Hiroshi Nohara let out a long breath.
He knew that though the story was artistically refined, that “loyalty” capable of transcending species and death was real enough to touch any heart still warm.
“Movie…”
He looked at the thick stack of manuscripts before him, condensed from all his effort, and in those eyes always carrying a hint of smile, a fiercer flame ignited.
If television dramas and variety shows were the sharp blades he used to conquer and build his “ratings kingdom,”
Then movies, this magical dream-weaving machine called the “seventh art,” were perhaps truly what he wanted to conquer—the vast sea of stars brimming with infinite possibilities.
“Moreover…”
A confident smile tugged at Hiroshi Nohara’s lips.
“The Tale of Hachiko from my previous life raked in over two billion yen at the box office in 1987. Adjusted for this world’s prices and purchasing power, plus my current fame boost, with proper execution, the final box office absolutely won’t fall below that figure.”
“One movie, at least a pure profit of ten billion yen… Just thinking about it is exciting.”
Hiroshi Nohara certainly didn’t mind having too much money!
So he carefully organized the detailed movie script he’d long written, along with the thick stack of manga storyboard drafts, and placed them into a brand-new kraft paper envelope.
Finishing all this, he stood up, stretched lazily with a big yawn, loosened his stiff neck, and emitted a few crisp joint cracks.
It was time to let those guys in Tokyo see what a true dimensional reduction strike really was.
……
In the only print shop in Omagari City equipped with the latest high-speed fax machine, the boss—who usually listlessly made a living reprinting IDs and household registers for locals—was now staring at the young man before him like he was a monster, as the young man stuffed a brick-thick stack of manuscript paper into the fax machine one sheet at a time.
“S-Sir.” The boss’s voice trembled uncontrollably: “You… you’re faxing this to Tokyo?”
“Mm.” Hiroshi Nohara nodded.
“H-How many pages is this? My… my machine might… take until nightfall?” The boss swallowed hard.
“Don’t worry, it won’t delay your business.”
Hiroshi Nohara pulled several Fukuzawa Yukichi bills from his wallet and casually placed them on the counter, his posture exuding unquestionable boldness: “This is the deposit. Settle the rest based on actual cost after it’s done.”
Seeing those ten-thousand-yen notes that could drive anyone in the countryside mad, the boss’s eyes went straight.
He dared say no more nonsense, acting like the most loyal servant, deftly calibrating the machine for this god of wealth.
The man had paid, so no more words needed.
Just fax it!
Soon, the fax machine hummed like an awakened beast, greedily devouring those divine scripts belonging to Hachiko.
Hiroshi Nohara didn’t linger by the machine.
He took out his mobile phone and dialed the number he had memorized by heart.
The phone rang once before being swiftly answered.
“Hiroshi-kun?!” Asumi’s voice filled with surprise came through: “How’s it going? Having fun back home? Did you relax properly?”
Her tone was full of an elder’s concern for a junior.
“Thanks to you, everything’s fine.” Hiroshi Nohara smiled: “But I’m calling today not to report personal matters. I have a new movie project here—the script and storyboard drafts are already faxed to your office machine. Take a look if you have time.”
“Movie project?!”
Asumi’s voice suddenly rose, the surprise instantly replaced by thicker shock: “Hiroshi-kun! You’re… you’re not joking, right?! You already have three ace programs on hand! How… how did you suddenly decide to dive into movies?!”
“Just a half-formed idea.” Hiroshi Nohara’s tone remained breezy: “Take a look at the script first; we’ll talk later.”
He hung up decisively, giving no chance for rebuttal.
Leaving the Kanto Faction leader, who dominated Tokyo Television Station’s power chessboard, standing dumbfounded, his refined face etched with incredulous astonishment.
Not because Hiroshi Nohara dared hang up on him.
But right beside him.
The fax machine really started humming.
Asumi watched the fax machine in his office buzzing and madly spitting paper, his heart—already fragile from Hiroshi Nohara’s various “miracles”—pounding wildly again.
Almost instinctively, he rushed over and snatched the freshly faxed, still-warm sheets from the incessantly spitting machine.
His gaze fell on the cover.
There, in bold, powerful font, were words moving enough to touch anyone.
—《The Tale of Hachiko》.
“A real movie script!?”
Asumi’s breath hitched.
Then, out of trust in Hiroshi Nohara, he greedily read every word and line of the magical script with utmost care.
His expression shifted from initial confusion to astonishment, then shock, finally dissolving into profound emotion utterly submerged by the purest feelings.
When he reached the end—seeing the Akita dog named Hachiko waiting bitterly for its master for ten years at Shibuya Station, finally closing its eyes peacefully in the wind and snow…
This middle-aged man, hardened like steel in emotions from battles in business and officialdom, had a misty veil of moisture uncontrollably rising in those refined, smiling eyes.
“Loyalty…”
He murmured, his voice trembling with utter impact.
He knew all too well.
He knew exactly what “loyalty” meant to their nation, which upheld Bushido Spirit as its creed.
It was a bone-deep, near-faith-like highest moral code!
And this story elevated that “loyalty” to a sacred height in the purest, most tear-jerking, most unreasoning way—enough to move anyone!
“G-Good… what a script! This… this is simply… a god-level script tailored for us Neon nationals!”
Asumi slammed the table, all hesitation gone from his refined face, replaced by bone-deep fanaticism!
He could guess the energy this movie would unleash upon release—far surpassing World of the Strange and Super Change Change Change combined!
It would no longer be mere ratings!
It would be a cultural phenomenon sweeping all Neon society, even… going global to move the world!
No one would deny loyalty.
Once humanity developed class, gaps, distance.
Loyalty became the most fundamental bond between people.
Yet after the ecstasy, a heavier cloud of worry enveloped Asumi’s heart.
“Sigh…”
He let out a long breath, laced with helpless frustration at unfulfilled potential.
The script was god-level, the concept invincible.
But…
He looked at the script in hand, then at the noisy, restless Tokyo outside the window, suddenly feeling a sense of helplessness.
Hiroshi Nohara was indeed a god.
But even gods get tired.
Animation, television dramas, variety shows…
This 23-year-old young person had already plowed three enviably fertile fields on this barren land for their Kanto Faction, like an tireless ox.
Now, he even wanted to challenge “movies.”
This endless deep sea full of unknowns and dangers?
A sliver of doubt crept into Asumi’s mind: “Is Hiroshi Nohara… a bit too proud?”
He didn’t doubt Hiroshi Nohara’s talent.
He just… didn’t believe Hiroshi Nohara could adapt to the film industry.
It was a world utterly different from television—more closed, more exclusionary, an independent kingdom.
There, talent wasn’t the only pass.
Connections, seniority, factions, even… luck, could be the final straw crushing a genius.
Otherwise, why had their Kanto Faction’s Director Eiji Kurosawa, the top samurai film master, been silent for nearly seven or eight years without a single movie?
He was just gearing up for another samurai film this year.
But from what he knew…
Director Eiji Kurosawa’s samurai film was still disastrously stalled, halting several times already.
Just then, the office door was lightly knocked.
His chief secretary, the intellectual beauty, entered with a strange expression.
“Deputy Director, this is… from Director Kurosawa, just sent over—the latest version of the proposal report for his new movie 《Samurai in the Blacksmith Shop》.”
She gently placed the document on Asumi’s desk.
Asumi eyed the familiar proposal report—returned who-knows-how-many times—his already irritated heart ignited by nameless fury.
He didn’t even bother opening it, asking in exhausted tone: “What now? Which part failed this time?”
“It’s… the budget.”
The secretary’s voice was cautious: “The board still thinks Director Kurosawa’s project has too high investment and risk, not matching… current market expectations. They… suggest cutting the budget by another… thirty percent.”
“Outrageous!”
Asumi slammed the table, his refined face blazing with unconcealed rage!
“Even a national treasure master like Director Kurosawa is tortured and humiliated repeatedly like this by them! This damned film industry, long corrupted by capital and factions—does it even have salvation?!”
He looked at the hopeful The Tale of Hachiko in hand, then the despair-filled Samurai in the Blacksmith Shop on the desk, a surging helplessness nearly drowning him.
For Hiroshi Nohara’s ship to carve a bloody path through this dead sea blocked by old-era icebergs.
The difficulty was far greater than he imagined.
And…
Asumi looked at this Samurai in the Blacksmith Shop, slowly pursing his lips in reluctant admission.
Samurai films.
Were indeed somewhat outdated.
Movies were like that—once-hot themes became passé after a phase.
Even a big director like Eiji Kurosawa was no exception.
Not yet in the film industry.
Could Hiroshi Nohara, wanting to enter, really succeed?!
Or rather.
Asumi worried: Would Hiroshi Nohara really make a movie?
……
Tokyo suburbs, Eiji Kurosawa’s Studio.
In a perpetually sunless editing room, Eiji Kurosawa repeatedly viewed that rough cut sample he’d seen hundreds of times, in a near masochistic posture.
This film industry giant, once famed for “Bushido Spirit,” now resembled an aged lion caged, his sharp eyes that shot countless classic lenses filled only with lingering fatigue and irritation.
“Stop.”
His hoarse voice cut through the editing machine’s monotonous clatter.
The image froze on a samurai’s face full of tragic heroism and resolve—the lead of his heartfelt new work, Samurai in the Blacksmith Shop.
“Shohei, Ichiro Watanabe.” Eiji Kurosawa didn’t turn, lightly tapping the icy metal console irregularly with his knuckles: “You two, tell me honestly. Isn’t this film… too flat?”
The named assistant director Shohei Soejima and editor Ichiro Watanabe exchanged glances, their faces showing perfectly measured, respectful confusion.
“How could it be, Director?” Shohei Soejima stepped forward: “I think this is your best samurai work in nearly a decade! Especially the ending—pure genius!”
“Yes, yes!” Editor Watanabe nodded in agreement, pointing at the frozen screen, his voice full of professional analysis and praise: “The protagonist fights bloody with his last comrades, dying tragically under the daimyo’s castle. And on the walls, the seemingly inept daimyo reveals a sinister smile, pulling out a full rank of matchlock guns against the undefended advancing enemy! This twist is so unexpected!”
“The samurai era ends under gunfire. Declaring an era’s close with tragedy. This small-to-big technique is full of your unique tragic aesthetics! I believe it’ll cause a sensation on release!”
Their flattery, like lukewarm sugar water, failed to soothe Eiji Kurosawa’s agitation—instead worsening his annoyance.
He exhaled deeply, the breath carrying a hero’s late decline desolation.
“I know all that,” he said slowly, turning, his weathered face etched with a top creator’s harshest self-scrutiny: “But… it’s not enough.”
He pointed at the screen, voice pained: “Don’t you think the story’s core is too old? Still that same set: loyalty, betrayal, glory, revenge… I’ve shot samurais my whole life, told these things forever. Audiences… are tired of it.”
“But Director, aren’t samurai films about that?” Shohei Soejima was puzzled.
“Yes, but no.” Eiji Kurosawa shook his head, a flicker of unnoticed confusion in his slightly cloudy eyes: “I just feel it’s… missing something. Missing something new that can truly pierce this era.”
Amid this stifling atmosphere of artistic creation dilemma, the editing room door was gently pushed open.
His assistant Kobayashi entered with fearful averted eyes, placing a document before Eiji Kurosawa like a death notice.
“Director… notification just from the board.”
Eiji Kurosawa glanced at the document, his already gloomy face turning pot-black.
“Budget cut? Third time?” His voice was low but icy with killing intent: “From five billion initially, to four, now only three? They… want me to shoot a war with one camera?!”
“The board says… you insist on no popular idol star as lead, making the film’s commercial prospects unclear, so…” Kobayashi’s voice trailed to inaudibility.
“Popular idol star?” Eiji Kurosawa sneered with contempt and disdain: “Let some pretty boy who can’t hold a sword steady and fakes tears with eyedrops play the samurai bearing an era’s tragedy from my heart? Are they… insulting me, or insulting ‘samurai film’?!”
He crumpled the document and hurled it to the floor, eyes spewing furious flames.
“Tell them! Three billion it is! Even if one billion left, I, Eiji Kurosawa, will never bow my proud head to capital or that trash!”
“Yes!” Kobayashi fled in relief.
The editing room fell into dead silence again.
Shohei Soejima and Ichiro Watanabe watched the man pacing like a thoroughly enraged lion, their faces full of suppressed helplessness and sympathy.
They knew all too well.
The era had truly changed.
Twenty years ago, ten years ago, who dared cut Eiji Kurosawa’s budget? Producers begged with money for more shots.
But now…
Hero late in life, tiger fallen to plain.
“Director, then… our subsequent filming plan…” Shohei Soejima asked cautiously.
“Cut!” Eiji Kurosawa spat through gritted teeth, voice thick with unwillingness and humiliation: “Change the planned thousand-man battle to a hundred. Switch street sets needing real builds to soundstage. Tell the art team: cheapest money for the most textured ‘shabby feel’!”
He slumped wearily into the chair, his lifelong straight spine slightly hunched for the first time.
He knew he’d lost.
Not to rivals, but to this icy era that no longer belonged to him.
But as Eiji Kurosawa sat, a name came to mind.
A young person’s name.
“Hiroshi Nohara.”
Eiji Kurosawa didn’t know why he thought of this young person—especially since he hadn’t made movies, only animated films, unit drama television dramas, and successful variety shows.
All indeed very successful.
All record-breaking.
Even on his closed set, he’d heard countless praises for Hiroshi Nohara.
But now, Eiji Kurosawa was sure Hiroshi Nohara hadn’t made movies, didn’t know how.
After all, Hiroshi Nohara wasn’t from the film industry.
“But why think of him?” Eiji Kurosawa rubbed his brow, finding his own thought absurd.
Because deep down, he inexplicably felt it’d be better if Hiroshi Nohara were by his side…
He, a long-famous first-class director.
Now thinking of a fresh college grad who’d never touched movies?
Absurd, right?
Eiji Kurosawa couldn’t help a bitter smile: “Am I really outdated, hoping a young person… to teach me?”
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