Chapter 210: Intervention Of Capital Power! Hiroshi Nohara’s Calm! Strength Is What Matters Most!
Hiroshi Nohara’s acceptance speech about “the wonder and reality of urban corners,” like a stone dropped into a deep pond, stirred ripples at the Japan Drama Academy Awards Ceremony, eventually settling into a calm that left behind the profound contemplation of professionals and thunderous applause from the audience seats.
He bowed slightly, fingertips steady as stone supporting the crystal trophy symbolizing the pinnacle of script creation glory in the neon television drama industry. His face was as tranquil as a still ancient well, as if the brilliant halo of honor just bestowed was not upon himself.
Returning to the exclusive seating area for Tokyo TV, the atmosphere of vindication grew even stronger—everyone knew this was merely the appetizer for the evening’s feast of glory.
Following this, the annual grand event of the neon television industry seemed to transform into a coronation ceremony specifically for Tokyo TV and its behind-the-scenes Nohara Production Department.
Brilliant spotlights focused repeatedly, and the radiance of crystal trophies frequently flickered over Tokyo TV’s seats.
“Award for Best Television Drama of the Year—”
As the presenter’s ceremonious announcement echoed, the background screen rapidly flashed through classic scenes from the nominated dramas, finally settling on a beautiful and melancholic image of a farewell under a cherry blossom tree.
“The winning work is—Produced by Tokyo TV, the timeless masterpiece *Yesterday’s Cherry Blossoms* presented with heartfelt dedication by Director Keiko Matsumoto!”
“Clap!”
A spotlight precisely hit Keiko Matsumoto.
This industry titan, over fifty years old, who had established her status as the “Goddess of Romance” through countless classic love stories, rose elegantly. Her silk gown flowed with a gentle sheen under the lights.
She walked with composure. As she passed Hiroshi Nohara, her steps paused almost imperceptibly. Their eyes met, and a faint yet sincere admiration touched her lips, as if to say, “It’s your turn next.” She then gracefully stepped onto the path of stars.
Receiving the trophy, her voice was clear and powerful: “Thank you to the judging committee for their great love for *Yesterday’s Cherry Blossoms*. This is not only an affirmation of the work but also a gentle remembrance of that lost innocent era. The beauty of cherry blossoms lies in their fleeting moments being eternal.”
Her acceptance speech, full of artistic sentiment, earned a standing ovation.
Following closely.
The award for “Best Animated Film of the Year” was a foregone conclusion—”The winning work is—*An Shizhi*! Produced by Tokyo TV’s Nohara Independent Production Department, led by Section Chief Ichiro Hashishita and his team!”
When the host announced the name, Tsuyoshi Yamamoto, Kei Tanaka, and others in the back rows of the Tokyo TV section let out excited grunts of “Good!” and clapped vigorously.
Ichiro Hashishita’s face, with its honest demeanor, instantly turned red. The immense surprise made his steps almost unsteady as he stood up. Kei Tanaka, quick-eyed, steadied him.
He took a deep breath and almost jogged onto the stage. As he took the heavy trophy, the trembling of his fingers betrayed the turmoil within him.
“Th-Thank you, Tokyo TV! Thank you, Director Sakata, Managing Director Takada, Deputy Director Asumi…” He tried to calm his breathing, his gaze eagerly searching for a figure in the audience: “…and most importantly, I must deeply thank Minister Nohara! Without your groundbreaking vision and your unconditional trust, *An Shizhi* would not be here today! This trophy belongs to the entire team, and it is also a testament to the talent of Minister Hiroshi Nohara!”
Seeing Hiroshi Nohara’s characteristic steady nod, he seemed reassured and bowed deeply at a ninety-degree angle, his gratitude and loyalty evident.
The “Award for Best Creative Work of the Year” followed, once again falling into Tokyo TV’s hands—
“The winning work, produced by Tokyo TV’s Nohara Independent Production Department, with Minister Hiroshi Nohara leading the creation—*World of the Strange*!”
A knowing chuckle and genuine admiration filled the hall.
This unit drama, which subverted tradition, integrated ingenious ideas, and insightfully observed humanity and society, had already become a phenomenal existence.
Hiroshi Nohara still did not rise; the trophy was once again accepted by Tsuyoshi Yamamoto, representing the core creative team.
Tsuyoshi Yamamoto took the stage and also expressed his gratitude to Hiroshi Nohara: “The journey of ‘Strange’ continues. Thank you to every audience member who finds the extraordinary in the cracks of the city. This is an extension of Minister Hiroshi Nohara’s talent. I hope I do not fail Hiroshi Nohara’s trust in us in the future!”
His acceptance speech was concise and powerful, true to his style.
The technical awards also became Tokyo TV’s stage.
When the “Award for Best Animation Visuals” went to Masao Iwata’s *Oni-bō Samurai*, Masao Iwata, sitting in the middle section of the Tokyo TV seats and having fiercely competed with Hiroshi Nohara before, stood up with a complex expression.
There was excitement, of course, as it was the highest recognition for the team’s cutting-edge technology. However, when his gaze fell upon the resplendent “Best Animated Film” trophy in Hiroshi Nohara’s hand, and then to the certificate in his own hand, which primarily proved the visual splendor, the once defiant spirit deep within him was now washed over by a profound sense of discrepancy, leaving him with mixed emotions.
The dazzling, exquisite, and painstakingly detailed visuals of *Oni-bō Samurai*, where every frame seemed to ooze oil paint, was his proudest medal.
However, faced with *An Shizhi*, a work that could instill deep-seated fear with its minimalist lines, extreme blank space, and potent sound design, he had to confront a harsh reality in front of the industry’s highest achievement award: *Oni-bō Samurai* had the most beautiful wedding dress, but lacked a truly soul-stirring core.
The collision between technology and art clearly distinguished the superior.
Of course.
It was now his turn to go on stage. He accepted the certificate with mixed emotions and delivered a cliché speech before coming down.
Until the awards segment paused, the Tokyo TV area was filled with the joy of harvest and a harmonious atmosphere.
Masao Iwata returned to his seat, his gaze shifting between the gilded letters “Award for Best Animation Visuals” on his certificate and the upright, steady silhouette of Hiroshi Nohara in front of him, finally settling into a sigh that was clearly audible.
This sigh contained a clear recognition of his own creative shortcomings, as well as the complex feelings and sincere admiration he felt in the presence of a true strong person.
In the front row, Toshihide Takada, who had been silently observing the internal atmosphere, slowly turned his naturally somber face and his gaze fell upon Iwata.
This former leader of the Tokyo Faction tapped his knees rhythmically with his fingers and said in a low, clear voice that cut through the subtly charged background noise of the ceremony: “Iwata.”
Masao Iwata’s heart tightened, and he immediately sat up straight, responding respectfully: “Yes! Managing Director Takada.”
“The visuals of *Oni-bō Samurai*…” Takada’s tone was unusually affirmative: “…are superb. Your team represents the highest level of craftsmanship in Japanese animation. This is indisputable.”
To receive such public affirmation from Managing Director Takada, known for his stern and somber demeanor, was almost unimaginable before.
A complex sense of gratitude welled up in Masao Iwata’s heart: “Yes! Thank you for your recognition, Managing Director Takada! We will continue to pursue the extreme in visual expression!”
Toshihide Takada’s gaze did not linger on him for long. Instead, it moved past his shoulder towards the astonishingly steady silhouette in front—Hiroshi Nohara was calmly speaking in a low voice with Keiko Matsumoto, who had just sat down beside him.
“However,” Takada’s tone remained unchanged, but the weight of his words suddenly increased with a decisive air: “The core value of film and television art, unchanging throughout the ages, lies in the soul of the story. No matter how brilliant the visuals, they are ultimately the shell that carries the narrative soul. Iwata-san.”
He paused, then looked sharply back at Masao Iwata: “In future creative proposals, script polishing, and the exploration of story depth… you must consult with Minister Nohara more. His achievements in dramatic structure, insight into human nature, and capture of social pain points…”
A flicker of complexity crossed Takada’s eyes: “…at this age, are truly rare. You must study with all your heart.”
This was by no means just technical guidance.
This was Toshihide Takada, a veteran of the Tokyo Faction, publicly and unequivocally endorsing Hiroshi Nohara’s unshakeable position and professional authority within the Production Bureau, and a clear signal in the process of factional integration.
Prejudices must be set aside and one must move closer to the true core!
Masao Iwata felt a tightness in his throat, and a mix of immense pressure and determination surged within his chest.
He nodded vigorously, his voice filled with unprecedented sincerity and resolve: “Yes! Managing Director Takada, I understand! I will approach it with twelve parts sincerity to consult! I will not slack off!”
As if feeling that he hadn’t expressed himself enough, he took a deep breath, decided to go all out, turned around directly, raised his voice slightly, and called directly towards the figure in front: “Minister Hiroshi!”
This time, the long-held unwillingness and resistance in the address had completely vanished, replaced by clear respect.
Hearing the call, Hiroshi Nohara calmly turned halfway, his gaze landing on Iwata’s face.
There was no condescending scrutiny in those deep eyes, nor any superfluous politeness or warmth, only a calm concern for a professional peer.
A wry smile, a mixture of self-deprecation and relief, appeared on Masao Iwata’s face. His tone was sincere and emotional: “Minister Hiroshi… I won’t hide it from you, tonight, especially after seeing *An Shizhi* win the highest award, and then looking back at our *Oni-bō Samurai*… alas, I have many feelings. *An Shizhi*’s capture of those subtle tremors deep within the human heart, that atmosphere of suffocating tension created with minimalist means… it’s like a terrifyingly precise scalpel, dissecting not just the plot, but the audience’s nerves and bones…”
He shook his head vigorously, with a profound self-analysis: “In the past, I was too obsessed with piling on canvases and flashy colors. I was lost in the extremes of ‘form’ and neglected the condensation of ‘spirit.’ This visual award,”
He raised the certificate in his hand, his self-mockery deepening: “is like a shining mirror, making me wholeheartedly convinced. My skills are inferior, and I accept it wholeheartedly.”
The helplessness and complete submission in his words were clear.
Hiroshi Nohara listened silently to Iwata’s heartfelt confession, his face showing no hint of pride. Instead, he displayed respect for the value of genuine exchange in the professional field.
Because Hiroshi Nohara had already reached a certain height.
His hand, resting on his knee, gently rubbed the icy, solid edges of the Best Screenwriter award trophy with his fingertips. His gaze sincerely replied: “Iwata-san, you are too modest. Your and your team’s ultimate pursuit of visual expression and craftsmanship is a recognized monument in the industry, providing new inspiration and enlightenment in visual storytelling for all practitioners, including myself. The ‘beauty’ itself displayed in *Oni-bō Samurai* is a very high level of artistic value.”
He skillfully affirmed Iwata’s strengths at an artistic height, then naturally transitioned: “As Director Matsumoto just said.” He turned his gaze to Keiko Matsumoto beside him, who had been listening quietly with an elegant posture, as if stating an unquestionable industry consensus: “No matter how technology evolves, its ultimate mission is to serve the content itself. Exquisite visuals can make a story’s wings more full and powerful, soaring higher; while a solid and profound narrative core gives the visuals eternal vitality.”
His gaze returned to Masao Iwata: “Although our respective areas of expertise differ, we can complement each other on a technical level. Mutual learning and joint improvement are the right path.”
Keiko Matsumoto, who had been quietly listening to the conversation between the two juniors, saw Hiroshi Nohara naturally lead the conversation to her and elevate the topic to the level of industry philosophy. A gentle smile bloomed on her face, which bore traces of years but remained refined and slightly distant.
She nodded gently and continued: “What Hiroshi-kun says resonates deeply with me. Iwata-kun’s skill is already superb, reaching a state of unity between matter and spirit; while Hiroshi-kun’s stories are like sharp swords, piercing the subtle depths of the human heart and evoking profound resonance. The two are like the two ends of an artistic scale, complementing each other, neither indispensable.”
Her gaze, filled with admiration, focused on Hiroshi Nohara: “Especially in you, Hiroshi-kun, I see astonishing creative breadth and depth. Whether it’s the spine-chilling eeriness of *An Shizhi*, the kaleidoscope of changes and sharp insights in *World of the Strange*, or the wave of pure joy ignited by *Super Change Change Change*, which broke through the barrier of indifference and re-embraced joy for the entire nation…”
Keiko Matsumoto’s tone became prolonged and reminiscent: “What surprised me most, and still stirs my heart to this day, is the film *The Tale of Hachiko*.”
Mentioning this work, the “Goddess of Romance,” known for her delicate emotional portrayal, showed rare genuine emotion in her eyes, and her voice carried a subtle tremor: “That loyalty and watchfulness that transcended species boundaries, almost to the point of stubbornness… that emotional bond that not only didn’t fade but became purer and stronger under the erosion of time… that power that pierced the screen, unhurried yet precisely striking the softest corner of the soul…”
She paused slightly, as if composing herself: “The impact it brought was so serene yet powerful that even today, the warmth of being filled with pure guardianship can still be clearly awakened.”
She gazed at the excessively young face before her and said with unprecedented solemnity: “At such a young age, to accurately grasp and present the most authentic, complex, and moving aspects of human nature is rare even in the history of Japanese cinema. The phrase ‘the younger generation is to be feared’ seems insufficient for you. It should be ‘the younger generation is to be respected, and their future is limitless’.”
Such praise, coming from Keiko Matsumoto, a legendary figure representing the peak achievements of the golden age of Japanese television drama, carried immense weight, like a boulder dropped into a calm lake, causing silent tremors throughout the Tokyo TV seating area and even several rows around!
Even the usually composed Tsuyoshi Yamamoto and Kei Tanaka unconsciously held their breath, enveloped by an ineffable sense of great glory.
To receive such unreserved and effusive praise from the “Goddess of Romance” was worth as much as winning a major award in the Japanese film and television industry!
Faced with such overwhelming praise, Hiroshi Nohara’s expression remained as serene as a deep ocean. Only his gaze towards Keiko Matsumoto became deeper, and his respect for her grew even more profound.
He bowed slightly, his posture humble and sincere: “Director Matsumoto, you flatter me. What *The Tale of Hachiko* strived to express was merely the most simple and unadorned emotional bond between lives, an immortal imprint that even the torrent of time cannot erase. In the works you have created throughout your decades-long artistic career, the timeless depth imbued with the spirit of the times and the profound humanistic concern are the lighthouses that we creators look up to and will always learn from. To receive your word of ‘mutual encouragement’ is already a great honor for Hiroshi Nohara. The path of creation is only through mutual encouragement and drawing from diverse strengths that we can live up to the expectations of millions of viewers and touch the pulse of the times and the deepest hearts with our works. This is the original intention and duty of a creator.”
His response was masterfully evasive, attributing his personal achievements to his adherence to his “original intention” while elevating Keiko Matsumoto and her accomplishments to a higher pedestal. His words were earnest and flawless, demonstrating political wisdom beyond his years.
This was indeed political wisdom.
“The tall tree in the forest will be destroyed by the wind.”
Hiroshi Nohara had now reached a high point in his life, having gained the recognition and shock of countless people in a short period.
Including jealousy.
If he became arrogant, he would undoubtedly provoke more underhanded tactics against him.
To avoid trouble, for a brighter future.
Hiroshi Nohara still chose to remain low-key.
Moreover, the entire Tokyo TV camp was not only immersed in an unprecedented harmony and glory, but it also marked the beginning of Hiroshi Nohara ascending to a new level.
Masao Iwata’s complete submission, Keiko Matsumoto’s strong endorsement, as well as the strong support from Director Sakata, Executive Deputy Director Takada, Deputy Director Asumi, and Eiji Kurosawa,
had pushed Hiroshi Nohara’s status within the television station to an even more solid peak.
However, beneath this harmonious facade, the undercurrents in the darkness could no longer restrain themselves, converging into a monstrous wave that, in the most absurd way, ferociously smashed into the center of the awards ceremony stage.
“Next,” the host’s voice suddenly rose, filled with suggestive suspense, instantly capturing everyone’s attention, “we will reveal the much-anticipated—Award for Best Actor of the Year!”
In an instant, all the whispers in the hall disappeared.
Accompanied by background music that suddenly became intensely passionate and oppressive, the giant screen began to rapidly switch between highlight clips of the nominated male actors in their respective dramas:
A middle-aged man sitting alone on the last train late at night, his eyes vacant and numb, his entire body enveloped by the suffocating pressure of life—from a realistic masterpiece;
A samurai bearing a heavy responsibility during the turbulent late Edo period, his eyes, in the instant of a flash of his sword, interweaving resolute defiance against fate with deep compassion for the bygone era—the protagonist of a highly discussed annual historical drama;
A man in the bone-chilling, pouring rain, from a heart-wrenching roar upon hearing of his beloved’s betrayal, finally falling into silence, leaving only a spreading, voiceless despair—the pinnacle performance of an ethical drama film…
Every scene condensed masterful acting skills, every glance, every twitch of a muscle spoke volumes and showcased the achievements of refined art.
The air in the venue was as taut as a string, everyone held their breath, speculating in their hearts who would ultimately claim this pearl symbolizing the pinnacle of Japanese acting.
The Tokyo TV seating area was also fully attentive.
Yamamoto Tsuyoshi couldn’t help but lean over and whisper to Kei Tanaka: “The performance of that senior in the ‘Snow Mountain Spectre’ segment of *World of the Strange* can definitely be written into a textbook… and Senior Chiyo in *Seven Samurai*, that presence, winning an award would be well-deserved…”
Kei Tanaka nodded vigorously, his eyes also locked onto the screen.
Swish—
The image on the screen suddenly froze without any warning.
What leaped into everyone’s sight was not any of the favored veteran powerhouse actors or accomplished actors in their prime.
It was a face that was excessively young, so handsome it seemed otherworldly, like a meticulously carved work of art, but now, due to extreme excitement and success, it appeared somewhat stiff, even distorted—Shunsuke Kamiki!
The large background screen clearly displayed his nominated work: *Cute Sakura Boy*—produced by Tokyo City Television!
“…Award for Best Actor of the Year—the winner is! Shunsuke Kamiki!”
The host’s professionally trained, sonorous, and passionate voice, after a moment of frozen silence, suddenly rang out, sounding particularly jarring and absurd:
“In the annual youth inspirational drama *Cute Sakura Boy*, wholeheartedly produced by Tokyo City Television, Shunsuke Kamiki, with his pure, innocent, sunny, and energetic portrayal, perfectly embodied the innocent beautiful stirrings, confusion, and unyielding courage on the path of youth!
“He demonstrated overwhelming popularity in the audience online voting and mail-in voting segments! With his unparalleled personal charisma and youthful aura, he successfully elevated the artistic appeal of Japanese idol youth dramas to an unprecedented new height! Let us give the warmest applause to this radiant new idol star! Congratulations, Shunsuke Kamiki-kun!”
“WHOOOOOSH—!!!!”
After a brief, suffocating absolute silence, like the moment before the universe collapses, the entire awards ceremony venue erupted not with applause, but with a surging, tsunami-like clamor mixed with shock, disbelief, the anger of being fooled, absurdity, and immense mockery!
“Pfft—”
“What?!”
“What’s going on?!”
“Nani?!”
A huge buzzing wave instantly drowned out the entire auditorium!
Almost everyone’s expression froze at that moment, stunned, disbelieving—as if they had witnessed the most clumsy and shameless satirical play unfolding in reality!
The white-haired industry veterans, meritorious actors, and veteran producers had faces filled with shock, confusion, and a deep sense of insulted anger; the other nominated powerhouse actors’ eyes shot out unmasked astonishment, doubt, and naked contempt.
Doubts erupted like cold water poured into a boiling oil pan.
Several white-haired, highly respected industry titans in the front row saw their facial wrinkles deepen instantly, their eyes widened in shock, which then transformed into undisguised disgust.
Several similarly nominated powerhouse actors in the neighboring seats had their smiles instantly freeze, replaced by unbelievable stiffness and a hint of insulted anger.
They exchanged glances, needing no words, their eyes filled with naked mockery: “Him? That ‘Sakura Boy’ propped up by melodrama and sentimentality? That blockhead who only knows how to pose his hair and stare blankly in front of the camera?”
Whispers like countless cold vipers slithered silently between the seats, their targets clearly Shunsuke Kamiki and the power behind him.
“Hey, hey, see? The Kirin Group’s money power is starting to work!”
“I heard Tokyo City Television spent a lot of money on this promotion, including the ‘audience SMS voting hotline’ fees…”
A slightly overweight producer wearing gold-rimmed glasses said in a low voice to the director next to him, a cold smile on his lips, as if he saw through everything: “Look, even ‘Best Actor’ can be bought. Sato Tokugawa, that nouveau riche, is truly daring.”
The director next to him, whose face still held the admiration from applauding Hiroshi Nohara just moments ago, was now only shadowed. “Not just daring? It’s simply unscrupulous! ‘Audience SMS voting’? Hah, who knows if those ‘audience members’ are real people? I bet their own employees wore out the phone lines! This is a trampling of industry rules!”
He spoke indignantly, his voice intentionally lowered but trembling slightly with emotion: “One award is being made to smell like dung with money, defiling the entire stage! Have the old fogies on the judging committee had their bones bent by gold bars too?”
“Shh… speak quieter.” A slightly more cautious magazine editor-in-chief interjected from the side, gesturing with his eyes towards the Tokyo City Television section: “Be careful of ears behind walls. But… it’s really gone too far. Even if we take a step back, *Cute Sakura Boy*? Is that even called acting? To put it bluntly, a dog tied up in front of my house would act more vividly! Capital is truly omnipotent!”
These undisguised discussions, like fine needle tips, pricked the area where the Tokyo City Television personnel were located.
However, the expected fury did not appear.
Kazuo Takahashi, a former elite of the Tokyo City Government Publicity Department and now Executive Deputy Station Manager of Tokyo City Television, sat there, his face ashen.
That face, usually adorned with a professional smile and adept at discerning superiors’ intentions, was now like a meticulously polished piece of marble, smooth and hard, revealing no emotional ripples.
As the tide of criticism and disdain washed over him, he merely adjusted the knot of his tie slightly, his gaze fixed straight ahead at Shunsuke Kamiki, who was giving his acceptance speech, as if he were deaf and blind.
But in reality, his heart was far from calm.
His heart, honed by factional struggles into a precision gear, was now rapidly calculating gains and risks.
Mayor Mikami Tanaka’s directive was crystal clear—use the national award platform of the “Academy Awards” to add luster to Shunsuke Kamiki, Tokyo City Television, and most importantly, Mayor Tanaka himself!
Best Actor? That’s significant enough!
Mayor Tanaka needed this kind of dazzling “face-saving project” to showcase to the citizens and higher power circles the effective “Tokyo Culture” development under his leadership, Mikami Tanaka!
Takahashi knew well that, in the mayor’s eyes, the publicity value and public opinion guidance effect of an idol star’s award far surpassed that of ten Hiroshi Noharas with their genuine talent in content creation.
But he was not without concerns.
Would the industry’s naked questioning and disgust backfire? Would public opinion spiral out of control?
Would the topic of “Shunsuke Kamiki Best Actor” become like a stone thrown into a cesspool, splashing not just water, but a sky-high stench, thus tarnishing the mayor’s image?
His gaze, as if casually, swept over the angry or disdainful faces behind him, particularly glancing at the still steady, but now with a hint of knowing irony, side profile of Toshihide Takada in the Tokyo TV seats, and the undisguised smirks of others.
A shadow crept into Takahashi’s heart.
The influence of these people was not small.
He needed to ensure that the “face” brought by this “golden exterior” award would not be stripped away, turning into a “rotten core” scandal.
“Director Takahashi.” A deliberately lowered, obsequious voice sounded in Takahashi’s ear. It was Shunsuke Kamiki’s agent, a greasy-haired man with a fawning smile plastered on his face, like a hyena smelling gold: “Don’t worry, the process is absolutely fine! We did a lot of guiding during the audience SMS voting segment, and the fan clubs mobilized thousands of people to vote all night! The data is ‘real’ and can withstand scrutiny! This is public opinion!”
He deliberately emphasized the words “truth” and “public opinion.”
“Yes, yes!” another young, beautiful entertainer from the Tokyo City Television idol department quickly chimed in, her voice sickeningly sweet, “Shunsuke-san is incredibly popular with young audiences, especially female ones! He represents the aesthetics and choices of the new generation of viewers! The television station and Kirin Group supporting him is just going with the trend, isn’t it?”
She blinked her large eyes, coated with thick mascara, trying to use the banner of “new generation” to disguise the scent of capital.
Takahashi listened to these hasty self-justifications, his gaze shifting slightly.
The agent’s “true public opinion” was like a fragile sheet of paper, and the female entertainer’s “trend” argument was an even more hollow slogan.
Yet, it was precisely this kind of flawed rhetoric that offered him a shaky point of psychological support.
The fig leaf of “audience votes,” however thin, was still a leaf.
As long as it held up on the surface, even with turbulent undercurrents behind the scenes, there was still room for manipulation in public opinion—after all, controlling media direction was his old trade.
The scales in his heart finally tipped towards “benefits outweighing drawbacks.”
As long as the Mayor needed it, as long as the data could be made to fit, and as long as subsequent promotion could suppress negative voices… Takahashi’s furrowed brow eased slightly, and a hint of warmth returned to his marble-like expression.
He nodded slightly, a barely audible “hmm” escaping his nose, signifying his assent.
The anxiety in his heart eased a little.
This show could continue.
On stage, Shunsuke Kamiki was immersed in a huge, illusory halo of glory, completely unaware of the undercurrents below, or rather, he didn’t care.
He held the trophy with a brilliant smile, imitating the posture of his seniors, his tone exaggerated and filled with “deep emotion”:
“Arigato! Arigato gozaimasu!”
“Thank you to my parents, your support has brought me here today!” “Thank you to my fans! I love you!”
“Most importantly! I want to thank Chairman Tokugawa Sato of Kirin Group! Without your keen insight and full cultivation, Shunsuke Kamiki would not be here today!”
He bowed slightly, bending his waist with extreme deference, a look of near-fawning gratitude on his face.
“Of course, I must also thank Tokyo City Television! Mayor Mikami Tanaka, Your Excellency! And Station Manager Kazuo Takahashi! It is your platform and trust that have given me the opportunity to showcase myself!”
He straightened his back, his eyes gleaming with almost arrogant confidence: “Please continue to look forward! I will star in more wonderful works that tell of young people chasing their dreams and igniting their youthful passion! This year! Please give me your continued support!”
Amidst sparse applause and more silence, Shunsuke Kamiki, self-satisfied, stepped down from the podium.
His gaze swept across the audience like a spotlight, landing with particular precision on the group that had just been applauding Hiroshi Nohara—the Tokyo Television seats.
As he walked past the Tokyo Television section, clutching the trophy and holding his head high like a triumphant rooster, he deliberately slowed his pace for a moment.
His chin was raised high, and his carefully groomed eyes cast a sideways glance at Keiko Matsumoto’s angry and disdainful face, then at the twitching corners of the mouths of Tsuyoshi Yamamoto, Kei Tanaka, and Ichiro Hashishita, contorted with humiliation and anger.
Finally, his gaze settled on the very core—Hiroshi Nohara.
Hiroshi Nohara remained seated, his posture as calm as if he were attending an ordinary meeting, rather than being at the center of an absurd award ceremony storm.
He tilted his head slightly, seemingly listening intently to Keiko Matsumoto’s whispered words beside him. His eyes now calmly met Shunsuke Kamiki’s provocative gaze.
There was no anger, no contempt, not even a flicker of emotion, only a profound… understanding that saw through everything, and a condescending, almost pitiful pity, as if looking at a mantis brandishing a large sword.
“Damn it!”
Shunsuke Kamiki’s accumulated provocation and pride were like punching cotton, or like an exquisite performance encountering a vacuum.
That seemingly calm gaze was more penetrating than any insult, causing Shunsuke’s carefully maintained arrogant posture to falter, a chill of being exposed rising inexplicably in his heart.
The silent, boastful snort he had prepared in his throat was forcibly choked back, and the arrogance on his face froze unnaturally for a moment.
But an instant later, his innate arrogance made him use an even more exaggerated, almost performative, head-lifting motion to conceal his momentary inner panic. He let out a short, arrogant snort through his nostrils before quickening his pace, returning to the “victory zone” belonging to Tokyo City Television, appearing somewhat flustered yet trying to maintain his composure.
Only after Shunsuke Kamiki’s figure disappeared into the group of equally complex-looking supporters from Tokyo City Television did the atmosphere on the Tokyo Television side begin to stir with an oppressive tension, like an earthquake before a volcanic eruption.
“Outrageous!” A second-class director, unable to contain himself, was the first to speak, his low voice grinding from his teeth, his knuckles cracking as he clenched his fists, “How dare an idol star show such contempt for art! Such desecration of this hallowed hall!”
His indignation was not only directed at Shunsuke Kamiki’s ignorant fearlessness but ran deeper, stemming from extreme disappointment in this award twisted by capital.
“Hoo… I’ve really seen it all now.” The amiable smile on another second-class director’s face finally vanished completely. He took off his glasses and wearily rubbed his temples, “President Sato’s reach is really too long. This trophy… it’s not gilded with gold dust, but with the stench of money.”
“A petty person in power!” Tsuyoshi Yamamoto sneered, spitting out the words fiercely through his teeth.
Kei Tanaka remained silent, merely shaking his head with a grim expression.
Ichiro Hashishita lowered his head, his expression complicated. Having experienced betrayal and return, he could better understand the filth of the fame and fortune arena.
Even Keiko Matsumoto, a first-class director known as the “Goddess of Romance,” who had seen many storms, couldn’t help but let out a sigh filled with deep satire and sorrow. Her voice reached Hiroshi Nohara beside her clearly: “The world is deteriorating, and people’s hearts are no longer what they used to be. Minister Nohara, do you see? This is the current entertainment industry in Neon. Television stations? They are no longer pure lands. Art? It has become a commodity that can be priced and sold at will. Capital’s long arm truly reaches everywhere, encompassing everything.”
Her gaze swept over Shunsuke Kamiki, then Kazuo Takahashi, and finally landed on the emptiness ahead, “Even the last shred of decorum has been torn to pieces. The road ahead… I fear it will only get worse.”
Hiroshi Nohara listened quietly to the discussions around him and Keiko Matsumoto’s laments, his deep eyes like two abyssal pools, absorbing all the surging emotions.
Keiko’s words pointed out the harshness of reality and foretold the difficulties of the future.
The power of capital, in Neon as the bubble was about to burst, would indeed stir up fiercer waves, just like the “thunderous means” that President Shimazu had warned were about to fall from America.
He slightly turned the water cup in his hand.
However.
For him, it was an opportunity!
“Senior Matsumoto is absolutely right,” Hiroshi Nohara said, his voice low and steady, pressing down on the surrounding commotion like a rock. He looked calmly at Keiko Matsumoto, “While the surging capital is powerful, it cannot truly replace the power of creation, nor can it erase the genuine resonance in the audience’s hearts. It’s just that…” He paused, his gaze drifting to the opulent dome of the auditorium, as if seeing through it to the even more somber shadow of the impending difficult times, “It’s just that in the future, we might need more than just the power of creation.”
He said no more, merely straightening his back.
That Shunsuke Kamiki, a “purple cute cherry blossom boy,” lifted to godhood by capital, was nothing more than a beautiful bubble destined to be smashed on the beach by this monstrous wave.
Strength is what matters most.
