Chapter 211: Toughness Prevents Being Crushed! Hiroshi Nohara’s Toughness!
Strength is the most important thing.
The awards ceremony’s finale was read by the gaunt-faced chairman of the cultural revitalization association in a flat tone, as if announcing an obituary, delivering the lengthy closing remarks.
That voice echoed through the luxurious yet icy cold auditorium like a wisp of fading blue smoke, powerlessly declaring the end of this grand farce.
The lights suddenly blazed bright, exposing the emotions on every face in the audience without mercy.
Hypocritical politeness, ritualistic smiles, and more undisguisable stiffness and alienation formed a bizarre ukiyo-e.
“Everyone, the banquet is ready. Would you like to stay and taste…” Toshihide Takada stood up, his voice carrying a barely perceptible fatigue, his gaze sweeping over his team.
Before he finished speaking, he was interrupted by a series of silent yet resolute gestures.
Tsuyoshi Yamamoto was the first to shake his head, his lips pressed into a rigid straight line.
Kei Tanaka and Ichiro Hashishita almost simultaneously waved their hands, their faces clearly saying “no thanks.”
“Managing Director Takada, I think we should head back early.” Keiko Matsumoto adjusted her shawl, her tone calm but exuding an indifference that kept people at bay. “The air here… it’s somewhat filthy, making my stomach uncomfortable.”
Toshihide Takada’s gaze finally landed on Hiroshi Nohara.
Hiroshi Nohara stood up, not looking at anyone, and said flatly, “Let’s go.”
Those two words set the tone.
Hiroshi Nohara now had the right to say that.
The Tokyo Television Station group moved out like a silent and aloof team against the backdrop of perfumed hair and ornate attire, with glasses clinking.
They exchanged no pleasantries with anyone, ignored all the complex gazes cast their way, and headed straight for the exit, resolutely leaving behind that false prosperity and noise.
Stepping out of the auditorium doors, November’s cold wind hit them in the face, carrying Tokyo’s uniquely crisp night air, instantly dispersing the stagnant turbid air from their lungs.
Everyone took a deep breath in unison, as if just breaking free from a suffocating nightmare.
“Heh, looks like we’re not the only ones.” Tsuyoshi Yamamoto’s gaze swept over the parking lot, a cold arc tugging at his lips.
In the distance, teams from several well-known production companies and television stations were also hurrying away, boarding their vehicles without any intention of staying for the banquet.
Those producers and directors who usually danced elegantly at various events now wore the same expression—a silence mixed with disgust and contempt.
“This time, the Japan Drama Academy Awards judging panel has offended half the industry.” A second-class director snorted coldly, his voice exceptionally clear in the night wind: “To prop up a puppet, they trod the faces of all the artisans underfoot. How like them.”
“Introducing capital was supposed to be fresh water, bringing vitality to the pond.” Keiko Matsumoto gazed at the flashing lights of Tokyo Tower in the distance and sighed faintly: “But they went and unleashed a flood, turning the pond into a quagmire. So reckless, discarding even the last bit of decorum. Who will respect this award’s authority after this?”
“Authority?” Tsuyoshi Yamamoto sneered: “Starting tonight, those three words ‘Japan Drama Academy Awards’ mean no more to me than dog shit on the roadside.”
The convoy started up in silence, weaving through the city’s glittering main arteries.
Outside the car windows was prosperous Ginza, the illusory dream of the bubble economy outlined by countless neon lights, while inside was dead silence, everyone like husks drained of energy and spirit, left only with weary bodies.
Returning to the brightly lit Tokyo Television Station Building, the empty lobby felt even colder.
“It’s still early. How about… we find a place to sit ourselves?” Toshihide Takada looked at the crowd’s dejected expressions, trying to boost morale.
“Forget it, Minister.” Kei Tanaka shook his head, looking listless. “Not in the mood.”
“Yeah, just thinking of that face earlier ruins my appetite.”
“I want to go home.” Hiroshi Nohara spoke up, his voice not loud, but it quieted everyone.
He looked at Toshihide Takada, his eyes calm: “Managing Director Takada, everyone’s tired today. Let’s head back and rest early.”
Toshihide Takada stared at him, seeing no loser’s despondency in those deep eyes, only a post-storm serenity. Knowing Hiroshi Nohara wasn’t much affected, he breathed a sigh of relief inwardly.
After all, Hiroshi Nohara was now Tokyo Television Station’s future.
So Toshihide Takada nodded, patted Hiroshi Nohara’s shoulder, then turned to the group, his voice regaining strength: “Good! Buck up! Minister Nohara is right—rest well tonight! The real battle starts tomorrow! Everyone, head home!”
They dispersed, figures vanishing into the midnight elevators and corridor ends.
Hiroshi Nohara returned to his apartment nearing midnight.
He unlocked the door with his key, and a warm, rich aroma hit him, instantly dispelling the chill and fatigue from his body.
On the low table in the living room, an rustic clay pot bubbled, the sweet scent of soy sauce, mirin, and sake filling every corner of the room.
Misae, in loungewear, knelt by the table, carefully placing paper-thin beef slices into the pot.
Hearing the door, she looked up, saw Hiroshi Nohara return, paused slightly, then bloomed into a gentle smile.
“You’re back.”
“Yeah, I’m home.” Hiroshi Nohara nodded.
“I watched the awards ceremony live.” Misae stood, took his coat, and said lightly, “Though that Best Actor was a bit… um… but in my heart, you’re always the best! Congrats, Hiroshi!”
She didn’t mention the disappointing awards, just gave the most direct affirmation in her own way.
Hiroshi Nohara felt a warmth in his heart, changed shoes, walked over, and sat beside Misae. Looking at the bubbling broth and fresh ingredients, he asked, “Why are we eating so late?”
“Yeah.” Misae smiled: “I forgot watching your awards ceremony. But Hiroshi, why didn’t you go to the banquet? The live stream said there was a lavish one after the ceremony.”
“Sigh…” Hiroshi Nohara picked up chopsticks, took a freshly scalded beef slice coated in sweet sauce, and put it in his mouth. The warm texture and rich flavor seemed to smooth the wrinkles in his heart bit by bit.
He sighed, recounting the absurd scene at the awards ceremony and the audience’s reactions exactly as they happened.
Misae listened quietly, occasionally adding vegetables and tofu for him.
When he finished, she blinked, asking puzzled: “But isn’t it just one ‘Best Actor’ award? Why did everyone… react so strongly? Is it really that important to you, to the station?”
Hiroshi Nohara set down his chopsticks, looked at her earnestly, and explained: “Misae, it’s more than just an award. In the industry, it’s a benchmark, a declaration of values. It tells everyone what kind of performance is good, what kind of work deserves respect. When this benchmark is casually distorted by money, when an idol with no acting skills can stand on the top podium through capital’s power, the signal it sends is—effort is useless, talent is cheap, art can be bought.”
He paused, his voice growing lower:
“For those who truly love this industry and pour their heart into it, it’s a devastating blow. It confuses creators, misleads audience aesthetics, and over time, corrodes the industry’s very foundation. We’re angry not because I didn’t win personally, but because the rules we live and strive by have been trampled.”
Misae nodded as if half understanding.
She might not fully grasp the industry’s complex rules and far-reaching impacts, but she felt the weight and disappointment in her husband’s words.
She reached out, gently held Hiroshi Nohara’s hand, and said softly: “I get it. They went too far. But Hiroshi, truly good things won’t lose their shine because of one tainted award. The audience’s eyes are the sharpest.”
Hiroshi Nohara gripped his wife’s hand in return, the last shadow in his heart dispelled by her simple, sincere words.
Yes, the audience’s eyes.
He picked up his chopsticks again, a genuine smile appearing on his face for the first time that night: “You’re right. Come on, eat some meat. This wagyu beef is really good.”
“Of course! I ran several streets to buy it!”
“Thanks for the effort.”
“Eat quick, it won’t taste good cold.”
Outside, night deepened; inside, steam rose warmly. One pot of sukiyaki soothed the weary souls. The storms stirred in the fame and fortune arena seemed isolated by this worldly warmth.
Hiroshi Nohara’s heart immersed in it.
While eating the beef, Misae seemed to sense his lingering unhappiness, thought for a moment, and said: “Hiroshi, if you’re feeling down, how about in a bit we go visit Kumamoto Prefecture?”
“Hm?” Hiroshi Nohara looked at her: “Kumamoto Prefecture?” That was Misae’s hometown.
“Yeah.” Misae smiled: “We have great scenery there too…” Her face reddened as she said: “My mom and dad want to meet you too.”
Hiroshi Nohara nodded with a light laugh: “Sure, let’s go back sometime.”
It was indeed time to check on the future with Misae.
……
However, the storm had just begun.
The next morning, as the first ray of sunlight pierced Tokyo’s morning mist, the entire neon country’s public opinion field exploded like a depth charge had been dropped.
Major newspapers’ morning editions and television stations’ morning news all prominently featured the results of the “XX Japan Drama Academy Awards.”
And every report’s focus zeroed in on the same name—Shunsuke Kamiki.
But this time, the coverage showed a stark polarization.
Mainstream authoritative media led by 《Asahi Shimbun》 and 《Yomiuri Shimbun》 unanimously adopted an extremely cautious, even critical brushstroke.
《Asahi Shimbun》’s culture section headline was concise yet powerhouse—《The Japan Drama Academy Awards’ Night of Disgrace: When Art Bows to Capital》. The article didn’t name Kirin Group or Tokyo City Television directly, but every word was incisive, pointing to “non-professional factors” in the judging process, quoting unnamed senior film critics calling Shunsuke Kamiki’s performance “hollow, formulaic, a desecration of acting art,” and expressing “deep regret and confusion” over Hiroshi Nohara’s “phenomenal performance” in 《Half-Zea Straight Tree》 being snubbed.
《Tokyo Economic News》 approached from an industry angle with a deep commentary titled 《Warning Bell at the Bubble’s Peak: Capital’s Arrogance May Backlash on Cultural Industry Foundation》. The piece sharply noted this event as a dangerous signal of capital’s overinflation under the bubble economy, attempting to meddle in every field, warning that such short-sighted “traffic-only,” “money-only” behavior would ultimately destroy the content industry’s creative ecosystem and credibility.
The more academic 《Film Report》 special issue featured a commentary penned by renowned critic Heavy Yan Lian, titled 《The Violence of “Cuteness”—Deconstructing the Performative Nihilism in 》. From Lacan’s mirror theory to Debord’s society of the spectacle, it dissected Shunsuke Kamiki’s performance mercilessly, calling it “a meticulously packaged commercial symbol for selling desire, utterly unrelated to the art of ‘performance’ itself.”
These authoritative media’s collective voices hammered like blows at last night’s glittering trophy.
Yet in another public opinion field, the scene was entirely different.
Entertainment gossip and sensational headlines specialists like 《Shukan Bunshun》, 《FRIDAY》, and some emerging urban papers biased toward youth launched a massive “deification campaign.”
《Weekly Star》’s cover was a huge close-up of Shunsuke Kamiki holding the trophy with teary eyes, the headline emotive and eye-catching—《Tears of Coronation! New Generation King Shunsuke Kamiki’s Glory and Solitude! Fan Power Creates Miracle!》
The 《Tokyo Urban Entertainment News》 under Tokyo City Television relentlessly promoted positively, headlined 《Audience’s Choice, Tide of the Era! Japan Drama Academy Awards Follows Public Will, Rewards New Generation Power!》, hyping the “overwhelming data” from the “audience text voting” segment, paired with touching “stories” of Shunsuke Kamiki’s fan club calling all night to vote, shaping it as a “victory of public will.”
《POP IDOL》 monthly’s emergency extra boldly shouted the slogan: “Our Jun-kun is world number one! Doubters are all jealous relics of the old era!”
Two diametrically opposed voices clashed fiercely in newspapers, television, radio, and people’s mouths, tearing the entire neon society into two massive camps.
An unprecedented great debate erupted in every corner of Tokyo.
On the morning commuter train, the atmosphere was eerily tense.
“What nonsense!” An older office worker in a suit, hair graying, clutched his 《Asahi Shimbun》, fingers trembling with rage. “I watched 《Late-night Diner》, and was forced by my daughter to watch two episodes of that ‘Cherry Blossom Boy.’ How can they compare? One’s a real actor, the other’s a walking poster! Are the judges blind?”
“Exactly,” a bespectacled middle-aged staffer nearby chimed in: “Isn’t this just buying an award with money? Disgusting! Who’ll watch these ceremonies anymore?”
But several uniformed high school girls behind them pursed their lips dismissively.
“What do you uncles know?” one girl muttered, holding a 《Weekly Star》 with Shunsuke Kamiki on the cover: “Jun-kun acted so hard! Did you see that broken look in the rain? It broke my heart!”
“Yeah yeah!” her friend jumped in excitedly: “That uncle Hiroshi Nohara’s shows are so preachy, tiring to watch! Us young people like Jun-kun—handsome and gentle, so healing!”
“It’s not about acting skill, it’s aesthetics, okay? Jun-kun’s existence itself is artwork!”
“Right! Those critics are just jealous he’s handsome and popular!”
In the university campus coffee shop, the debate rose to theoretical levels.
“This is the cultural industry’s assembly-line product crushing serious art,” a literature student adjusted his glasses righteously: “Capital manufactures idol symbols to numb the masses’ aesthetic nerves, achieving total control of culture—just as the Frankfurt School predicted…”
“Hey, senpai, don’t make it so serious,” a stylish girl across rolled her eyes: “TV’s for fun, right? Classes tire me out daily; at home I want something light and eye-candy. Shunsuke Kamiki’s face guarantees ratings! Market chose him—what’s wrong?”
“Market? A fake one manipulated by capital! Real audience choice was stripped long ago!”
“So you mean our millions of fans who voted for Jun-kun aren’t ‘real audience’? That’s elitist arrogance!”
From office pantries to housewives’ afternoon teas, from drunk men in izakayas to shopkeepers chatting on shopping streets, all were swept into the huge vortex over “does Shunsuke Kamiki deserve it.”
Supporters saw it as new era victory, embodiment of fan economy and audience choice, suppression of new idols by stale old powers.
Opponents lamented it as industry decay, art’s death, capital’s ruthless trampling of credibility.
The entire neon country became a massive debate arena, noisy, opposed, torn.
And at the storm’s center, Hiroshi Nohara sat in his office, quietly flipping through a table full of spread newspapers, his expression calm as the blue sky outside.
But in the Special Production Department’s public office, it was like boiling water, noisy voices and celebratory champagne bubbles rising together, nearly vibrating the ceiling.
The air carried a complex scent, sweet victory mingled with a scalding, near-angry spiciness.
“Our 《An Shizhi》! Best Animation!”
“And 《Super Change Change Change》! Best Variety Show! Our department swept the awards this time!”
“Most crucially, our boss! Mr. Nohara! Best Screenwriter! Truly well-deserved!”
A young screenwriter assistant flushed red, his excited voice booming.
“Right! Minister Nohara’s scripts are polished word by word! Unlike some who win with just a face!”
“Shh, quieter, Sato.” A senior planner patted his shoulder nearby, but his face mirrored the same sarcasm: “Though it’s fact, don’t say it too loud.”
“I’m just not convinced!” The young screenwriter assistant’s neck stiffened like a bull: “Best Actor to someone like Shunsuke Kamiki? Can he act? Just a blank face the whole time—fans call it ‘cool detachment’? Pfft! That’s no acting skill!”
“Exactly, sings off-key, dances like radio calisthenics, now acts and wins Best Actor? It’s rubbing the faces of us diligent content creators on the ground!” Another female colleague couldn’t hold back her complaint.
“These so-called ‘idols’ are monsters bred by capital. Not artists, commodities. Singers don’t train vocals, actors don’t study roles, just flaunt faces on camera, and ignorant boys and girls go crazy for them.” Someone’s eyes showed undisguised contempt: “This crooked trend is derailing the entire entertainment world.”
“No kidding, old singers were artists, voices like heavenly music. Now idols? Lip-sync, auto-tune till unrecognizable. Actors too—predecessors lived roles for months; now idols bring seven assistants to set, count ‘one two three four’ for lines, dubbed in post. They dare call themselves actors?”
“A bunch of clowns, packaged puppets.”
“And such clowns took glory that belonged to real actors. The world’s gone upside down.”
The office mood shifted from initial ecstasy to a shared, indignant clarity.
They took pride in their victories, sorrow in the industry’s decline.
A complex emotion shared by creators.
Just then, the office door opened gently, a graceful figure entering.
It was Yō Kitagawa, in a proper professional suit, formulaic smile on her face, but a hint of worry deep in her eyes.
Her gaze pinpointed the center surrounded by the crowd amid the noise.
“Minister.” Yō Kitagawa bowed slightly, voice clear and soft: “Deputy Director Asumi asks you to come to his office.”
The office noise dropped several decibels instantly, all eyes converging.
Hiroshi Nohara’s smile faded slightly; he nodded: “Got it.”
Hiroshi Nohara left the boiling space.
The corridor was so quiet he could hear his heartbeat, like another world from the bustle behind. Yō Kitagawa walked ahead, her high heels clicking crisply and rhythmically.
“What’s wrong, Kitagawa-chan.” Hiroshi Nohara said: “You seem… not in a good mood?”
“Minister, I feel the awards you got this time are too few.” Yō Kitagawa paused, turning her face, muffled: “You got Best Screenwriter, but I think it’s not enough!”
“And… about the Best Actor thing, I think there’s a big problem too!”
Hiroshi Nohara’s eyebrows rose, then calmed, a playful smile even on his lips: “What, even Miss Kitagawa thinks that award’s fishy?”
“Exactly! That guy Shunsuke Kamiki! Totally unqualified!” Yō Kitagawa vented, seeing the deputy director’s office ahead, stopped, and watched Hiroshi Nohara enter.
She had no right to enter the deputy director’s office.
Hiroshi Nohara smiled and bid her farewell.
Then he pushed open the heavy wooden door, a thick cigar scent hitting him.
No main lights in the office, only a dim yellow floor lamp casting an ambiguous, old-photo tone over everything.
Asumi sat on the sofa, a thick cigar between his fingers, smoke swirling, obscuring his face.
Opposite him sat a sturdy man with eagle-sharp eyes.
It was Eiji Kurosawa.
Neon country’s undisputed first-class director in television dramas, half-teacher to Hiroshi Nohara, a mentor-friend figure.
Seeing Hiroshi Nohara enter, Eiji Kurosawa’s usually stern face squeezed into a complex expression; he grunted heavily, as if expelling chest’s turbid air.
“Hiroshi, come in.” Asumi’s voice was hoarse; he pointed to the single sofa nearby: “Sit.”
Hiroshi Nohara sat as told, gaze sweeping their faces.
“Still mad about that crap award?” Eiji Kurosawa spoke first, voice like rough stone with sandpaper texture: “Not worth it.”
“I’m not mad.” Hiroshi Nohara smiled back.
“Not mad?” Eiji Kurosawa glared: “Not mad and your face is tight like heading to war? I know you— that fire in you could burn this station’s ceiling!”
Asumi slowly exhaled a smoke ring, which gathered and dispersed before him.
“Hiroshi, this time, you were wronged.” He comforted: “Your 《An Shizhi》, 《World of the Strange》, and 《Super Change Change Change》 are all history-book worthy. Not getting more awards isn’t your fault.”
“It’s this era’s fault.” Eiji Kurosawa took over, slamming the sofa arm with a thud: “Capital’s fault! These bastards stuck their dirty hands everywhere! Do they know performance? Art? They only know money! Traffic!”
His emotions far more agitated than Hiroshi Nohara’s, veins bulging on his forehead.
“【Japan Drama Academy Awards】, such prestige, such legacy! Now? No shame! To prop up capital’s toy, they trod all peers’ faces underfoot! Telling everyone effort’s useless, talent’s useless, only backers’ capital matters! Shameless! Vile!”
The office air seemed ignited by his rage, turning scorching.
Compared to Eiji Kurosawa’s rage, Asumi was calmer—or rather, wearily resigned from storms weathered.
He stubbed out the cigar with a sizzle, then sighed deeply.
“Eiji, calm down. This isn’t just capital.”
Eiji Kurosawa’s anger paused; he frowned at Asumi: “What do you mean?”
Asumi’s gaze turned to Hiroshi Nohara, deep: “Hiroshi, do you think an entertainment company’s capital could make the Japan Drama Academy Awards panel collectively make such an absurd decision?”
Hiroshi Nohara was silent a moment, then slowly shook his head.
“Impossible. Many venerable seniors on the panel value their reputation above all.”
“Right.” Asumi nodded, voice lower: “Only one force could make them collectively silent, even vote against conscience.”
He didn’t finish, but the answer was obvious.
Eiji Kurosawa’s face turned ghastly; he seemed to realize something, lips moving silently.
“Government intervened.” Asumi said it for him, tone weary: “And I suspect it’s tied to Tokyo City Mayor Mikami Tanaka.”
“Mikami Tanaka?” Eiji Kurosawa’s pupils shrank: “That construction-climbing politician?”
“Can’t think of anyone else with that power or motive.” Asumi sipped cold tea from his cup: “Shunsuke Kamiki’s management company’s biggest backer is the conglomerate controlled by Mayor Tanaka’s family and Tokugawa Sato’s Kirin Group. He’s planting a flag for his faction in entertainment’s huge fame and fortune arena.”
Dead silence filled the office.
If capital’s infiltration was dirty deals, power’s intervention was irresistible crushing.
Asumi looked at the pondering Hiroshi Nohara and Eiji Kurosawa, explaining in flat, near-cold tone: “Don’t underestimate a Tokyo City mayor’s power. How power and wealth distribute in this country—you know?”
He gestured with fingers in the air.
“If the Kanto Region holds 60% of neon country’s wealth.”
“Then Tokyo Metropolis holds 60% of Kanto’s.”
“And Tokyo City, the core of the core, holds over 60% of Tokyo Metropolis’s wealth.”
“Wealth’s layers culminates in sky-high power. On Tokyo’s land, Mikami Tanaka is the true local emperor. Whoever he wants up, goes up. A drama award? Just a finger snap for him.”
His words like ice into their boiling hearts, extinguishing rage to cold ashes.
Reality was that icy and hard.
Hiroshi Nohara finally spoke, voice calm, emotionless.
“I understand.”
He looked up at Asumi: “So, the 【Mainichi Film Award】 in two days, and the 【Tokyo Drama Awards】 newly formed by Tokyo Metropolis in a week… also?”
He trailed off, meaning clear.
Asumi’s face showed a bitter smile; he didn’t answer directly, just sighed deeply again.
That sigh spoke louder than words.
“Very possible.”
“Bastards!” Eiji Kurosawa couldn’t hold back, leaping up like a caged lion pacing the small space, teeth grinding: “These vermin! Economy booms, and these shadowy bugs multiply! Will they hollow out the country bit by bit!”
His curses echoed powerless fury in the quiet office.
But unexpectedly, Hiroshi Nohara smirked, a contemptuous smile on his face.
He leaned back on the sofa, relaxing fully.
“In that case…” he drawled, voice soft but clear to the other two: “I have no interest in those next two awards.”
Asumi and Eiji Kurosawa froze, staring in surprise.
“Deputy Director Asumi, I’d like to take leave.” Hiroshi Nohara’s tone was casual as discussing weather: “Perfect timing—my girlfriend Misae wants to visit her Kumamoto hometown. I’ll go with her, relax.”
“Leave?” Asumi paused.
“Yes, leave.” Hiroshi Nohara nodded, smile carefree: “To a place with fresh air, no vermin, breathe easy for a few days.”
He looked at Asumi, eyes clear and firm: “Going would just be watching a scripted monkey show, maybe come back stinking. Might as well skip.”
Asumi stared steadily at Hiroshi Nohara for a full ten seconds.
In the young man’s eyes, no suppressed dejection, no venomous resentment—just transparent, near-indifferent pride.
As if saying, I won’t play your game.
Asumi’s tense face relaxed. Infected by Hiroshi Nohara’s attitude, his lips curved into a relieved smile.
“You kid…” He shook his head, tone approving yet self-mocking: “Right.”
“Going wouldn’t even be worth getting mad.”
He picked up the desk phone, dialed an extension.
“It’s me. Approve two weeks’ leave for Hiroshi Nohara, reason… paid vacation.”
Hanging up, he told Hiroshi Nohara: “Go. Keep your girlfriend company well. Kumamoto’s horse meat sashimi is good—eat extra for me.”
“Will do.” Hiroshi Nohara stood, bowed slightly to Asumi and Eiji Kurosawa.
“Then, I’ll take my leave.”
He turned and left the power-and-resignation-filled office without a backward glance.
As the door closed, Eiji Kurosawa exhaled long, sat back on the sofa, looking complexly at Asumi.
“This kid’s tougher than we were young.”
Asumi relit the extinguished cigar, inhaled deeply.
“Yeah.”
Smoke filled again; he squinted, as if seeing something distant called hope through it.
“Toughness doesn’t get crushed.”
