Chapter 17: Ratings
“Ah——!”
In the izakaya in Ginza, there was a deathly silence.
One of Masao Iwata’s subordinates, who had just picked up his beer mug to drink, froze completely in place, beer spilling from the tilted mug onto the table, yet he was completely oblivious.
Everyone’s eyes were wide open, mouths agape, as if gripped by an invisible hand around their throats, unable to utter a single word.
That final ultimate terror, like a tsunami, instantly shattered all their previous mockery and disdain!
The animation ended.
……
In Toshihide Takada’s home, this deputy director’s face was ashen.
The impact of that final scene made even this man in his fifties, who had seen all kinds of storms, feel a twinge of heart palpitations.
He subconsciously reached for the telephone, wanting to call Masao Iwata immediately to warn him not to underestimate it.
But his fingers stopped the instant they touched the telephone.
No.
Calling now wouldn’t that make him seem flustered? Wouldn’t that admit he was scared by some no-name little production?
It would damage his dignity as deputy director.
“Hmph, just bluffing.” Toshihide Takada snorted coldly and turned off the television.
Ratings… everything comes down to ratings. In such a late time slot, with no promotion at all, how many people could be watching? And such a crudely produced animation at that!
He forcibly suppressed that trace of unease in his heart and got up to walk into the bedroom.
……
Meanwhile, in that izakaya, the deathly silence lasted a full half minute.
Until Anren, the subordinate most skilled at flattery, coughed twice and forcibly broke the silence.
“Ahem… this… what the hell is this! Bluffing!”
In an exaggerated tone as if trying to cover something up, he said: “The story is pretty scary, but the production is total garbage, right? The color fills are a mess, the filming techniques are like a grade schooler’s, just slideshows playing back and forth! How could anyone like watching something like this? It’s dragging down the standards of our Tokyo Television Station!”
His words were like a lifeline, causing everyone else to snap back to reality.
“Yeah, yeah! Anren-kun is right! This animation is total garbage!”
“Exactly! No artistry at all! Compared to our 《Oni-bō Samurai》 with its superb production, it’s like heaven and earth!”
“Section Chief, you don’t need to worry at all. Something like this will definitely have abysmal ratings!”
Various comforts and praise enveloped Masao Iwata once more.
A smile reappeared on Masao Iwata’s face as he raised his beer mug and laughed heartily: “Exactly right! A pile of junk trying to fight me? Just wait and see, tomorrow I’ll make that old guy Kiyoto Suzuki come crying to beg me!”
He basked in all the flattery, seemingly regaining his previous smug confidence.
But beneath that seemingly relaxed smile, his eyes flickered with unprecedented solemnity.
He raised his beer mug and drained the contents, the spicy liquid sliding down his throat, yet unable to dispel the chill quietly spreading in his heart.
This young person named Hiroshi Nohara…
And his 《An Shizhi》…
Perhaps, it really wasn’t that simple.
……
In Suzuki’s Classroom, when “The End” appeared in big black letters on the TV screen, that string stretched to its limit finally snapped with a “pop.”
“Hoo——”
Kiyoto Suzuki let out a long breath of turbid air, his whole body going limp as if exhausted, slumping against the chair back. He looked around and saw young faces all marked with fatigue, yet also excitement and nervousness.
Those few days of hellish crunch time had nearly drained everyone’s energy.
A warm feeling surged in his heart. He stood up and said in a voice still slightly hoarse: “Everyone, good work. That’s it for today—go get some proper rest! I’ve booked rooms for everyone at an apartment hotel nearby; expenses are all covered by the classroom!”
“Woo!”
“Long live the Section Chief!”
The young people, survivors of the ordeal, let out a cheer; though their bodies were fatigued, their spirits were unusually exhilarated.
The weary they left this battlefield where they had fought for a week.
Soon, only Kiyoto Suzuki and Hiroshi Nohara remained in the office.
Under the lighting, Kiyoto Suzuki looked at the young person before him, who was calm to an excessive degree, and his worries resurfaced.
He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag; amid the swirling smoke, his voice seemed somewhat ethereal.
“Nohara-kun, do you think… we can make it?”
He knew he shouldn’t ask this question—it would shake morale.
But he couldn’t help it.
That death slot at 12:20 a.m. was like a Sword of Damocles hanging over their heads. No promotion, no hype, just thrown naked into the vast midnight sea.
Could it make a splash? Or would it sink silently to the bottom?
Hiroshi Nohara looked at his bloodshot eyes and furrowed brows, and said calmly: “Section Chief, you needn’t worry.”
“But…”
“Do you think the story just now was terrifying?” Hiroshi Nohara interrupted him.
Kiyoto Suzuki was stunned, recalling the image of the resentful spirit filling the entire screen at the end; even as the producer, his heart couldn’t help but twitch: “…Terrifying, the kind that comes from deep inside.”
“That’s enough.” A confident arc appeared at the corner of Hiroshi Nohara’s mouth. “Section Chief, this kind of terror is contagious. The people who see it tonight will tomorrow in school, in the company, on the train, can’t help discussing it with others. ‘Hey, did you watch that horror animation on Tokyo Television Station last night?’, and as soon as one person asks that, the snowball of word-of-mouth will start rolling.”
His words carried a conviction and composure beyond his years, as if he had already foreseen the future.
Kiyoto Suzuki stared at him in a daze, and the anxiety in his heart was indeed soothed quite a bit by these words. Yes, this young person had been creating miracles from the start. He should believe in him.
“Alright, I believe you.” Kiyoto Suzuki stubbed out the cigarette butt. “You should go rest too. Tomorrow morning, everything will be revealed.”
“Mm.” Hiroshi Nohara nodded and turned to leave.
Of course he wasn’t worried.
In his previous life, in the 2013 information explosion era, 《An Shizhi》 had broken through with its unique style to become a phenomenal work.
In this 90s era with relatively scarce entertainment options, its power would only be infinitely amplified!
This was his confidence as a traverser!
His “golden finger”!
……
At the same time, at Tokyo Television Station, Screening Department office.
Director Yamamoto’s office was brightly lit; he hadn’t gone home and was anxiously waiting.
As a trusted subordinate personally promoted by Deputy Director Takada, he knew his duty well—Deputy Director Takada habitually browsed important work briefings first thing in the morning upon waking.
And for the animation 《An Shizhi》 that he had personally ordered placed in the death slot, its premiere ratings were undoubtedly one of the pieces of intelligence the deputy director cared about most.
Time ticked by second by second.
About an hour later, preliminary data from the Statistics Department came through the internal network.
Yamamoto immediately opened the documents, his gaze sharp as lightning, quickly locking onto that key number.
“Late-night Animation 《An Shizhi》, premiere ratings: 1.75%.”
“Ratings level—poor.”
