Chapter 16: Screening
Meanwhile, in Tokyo, Ginza.
Inside a brightly lit private room of an izakaya, the atmosphere was completely different from the tense solemnity in Suzuki’s Classroom.
Masao Iwata sat with his legs crossed, holding an expensive cup of sake in his hand, a contemptuous smile on his lips. On the TV screen in front of him, the opening of An Shizhi was also playing《》.
“Hahaha! Look, look! This is what that old stubborn Suzuki came up with? What is this drawing? Scribbles?”
One of his lackeys beside him immediately laughed along obsequiously: “Section Chief, this can’t even be called animation, right? It’s just a few ragged pieces of paper moving. Look at that coloring—dirty and messy, just like a elementary school student’s doodles!”
“More than doodles! My son could draw better with his feet!” Another flatterer pointed at the Kamishibai Uncle wearing a mask on the screen and said exaggeratedly: “And that voice acting sounds like there’s a thick glob of phlegm stuck in the throat—disgusting to listen to! For trash like this, Section Chief Takeshita actually let it pass review?”
The private room was instantly filled with a merry atmosphere, with everyone mockingly laughing without restraint at the crude and simplistic image on the screen.
In their eyes, this was not an opponent worth taking seriously at all, but a complete joke from head to toe.
Masao Iwata took a leisurely sip of his drink, his heart filled with the pleasure of victory in hand.
Something like this dares to be compared to Oni-bō Samurai, which he invested two million per episode in《》?
What a huge joke!
He could already foresee how wonderful Kiyoto Suzuki’s old face would look when tomorrow’s ratings report came out.
……
Meanwhile, on the other side, in the home of Toshihide Takada, Deputy Director of the Tokyo Television Production Bureau.
This fifty-five-year-old man, a major figure with immense power within the television station, had just finished a round of socializing. With a bit of alcohol in him, he sat alone on an expensive leather sofa to rest.
It seemed he thought of something.
He also turned on the television and tuned to the Tokyo Television Station’s late-night slot.
When the unique opening of An Shizhi《》, full of Showa-era vibes, appeared, his brows furrowed slightly.
“Sloppily made.”
He gave an icy cold evaluation.
As a veteran television professional, he could tell at a glance the poverty in this animation’s production. Whether it was the art style coloring or the almost negligible motion effects, it all exuded a cheap, small-workshop vibe.
Toshihide Takada’s lips curled into a cold smile.
“Is that all?” He thought of Asumi, who had always seemed obedient and silent, yielding to him, this Deputy Director of the Production Bureau transferred from Kanto Television Station to Tokyo Television Station, and couldn’t help but let out a snort from his nose.
His eyes were filled with utter mockery.
“Asumi, oh Asumi, do you think you can shake my status with something this unworthy? How naive.”
Toshihide Takada’s mood couldn’t help but brighten.
He picked up the whiskey on the table, planning to watch this joke to the end and then rest. He believed the market would give Kiyoto Suzuki and his backers the loudest slap.
……
In the apartment of Aiai Takeshita, Director of the Audit Department.
She hadn’t drunk alcohol or eaten snacks; she just stared intently at the screen. When that hoarse narration started, when that masked man appeared, not only was there no disdain in her eyes, but a strange radiance flickered.
She knew the good show was about to begin.
On the TV screen, the story of Fu Nü《》 officially unfolded.
A boy who moved into a new home, an ordinary apartment room. Everything looked so everyday, so mundane.
Yet so eerie!
……
“Tch, modern theme? What’s scary about that?” In the izakaya, one of Masao Iwata’s lackeys scoffed disdainfully.
In their view, horror stories had to take place in ancient temples, abandoned villages, or be linked to legendary ghosts and monsters. This modern urban backdrop couldn’t create any horror atmosphere at all.
However, as the plot progressed, their voices gradually quieted down.
The boy felt that there always seemed to be a gaze coming from the apartment building across the way.
The lens cut to the window of the opposite apartment—pitch black, nothing visible.
But that feeling of being watched was precisely conveyed to every audience member through the static image and the oppressive background sound effects.
The boy pulled the curtains.
But that gaze seemed to penetrate the walls, still fixed firmly on him.
He suddenly looked up at his own ceiling.
There, a small, old talisman was pasted.
“What is that?” In the izakaya, one of Masao Iwata’s lackeys asked puzzledly in a low voice: “It looks just like a talisman obtained from a temple?”
No one answered her; everyone’s hearts were in their throats.
The boy seemed to want to tear off that talisman, but he couldn’t reach it. The next day, he discovered that the woman in the opposite apartment was acting more and more strangely, always looking at him with an icy cold gaze.
And the talisman on his room’s ceiling seemed… to have one more than yesterday.
The mocking laughter in the izakaya had completely disappeared.
Everyone subconsciously sat up straight, staring fixedly at the screen. That simplistic art style was no longer a flaw at this moment; instead, combined with the eerie colors and oppressive music, it formed an indescribable, spine-chilling style.
No gory scenes, no jump-scare sound effects.
But that pervasive chill seeping into the bones made the air conditioner in the private room feel like it had instantly been turned down several degrees.
Masao Iwata’s brows were knitted into a “chuan” shape.
He set down his beer mug; that face slightly flushed from alcohol was now a mask of gloom.
He had dominated the television industry for over a decade—what kind of works hadn’t he seen? But this kind of extreme psychological horror created with the cheapest cost… this was his first time seeing it!
This was no longer an issue of production level; this was a dimensional reduction strike in creativity!
The story’s pace grew faster, the oppressive feeling building layer by layer.
The talismans on the boy’s room ceiling increased day by day.
And the face of that woman across the way grew more distorted day by day, the malice in those eyes nearly spilling out of the screen.
Finally, it reached the end.
The boy realized the woman had come into his home and posted even more talismans, so he finally exploded and called the police to have her taken away.
But the woman was still saying something, which the boy couldn’t hear at all.
He only knew to go back.
And tear off all the talismans!
So the boy tore and tore, even ripping off the talismans from the overturned table completely, but as he tore, his face became extremely terrified.
Because he realized something was wrong.
And the boy’s inner voice came through—
“I didn’t see it! I didn’t see anything! I didn’t see it!”
The image cut sharply!
One by one, huge, twisted, malice-filled vengeful spirits filled the entire screen!
All of them with heads bowed, looking at the boy with malice!
「The End」.
