Chapter 29: 324!
On Thursday morning, the air in the Tokyo Television Production Bureau Headquarters Building seemed thinner and crisper than usual.
Sunlight streamed through the massive glass curtain wall, illuminating the corridor brightly, with dust motes dancing quietly in the air like some silent tribute.
‘Bang—!’
The door to Suzuki’s Classroom was flung open.
Ichiro Hashishita rushed in, clutching a thin sheet of paper that trembled violently in his hand, as if it were not paper but a bird about to take flight.
His face, usually dulled by life and work, was now flushed bright red, an unreal crimson mixed with madness and extreme joy.
“Rat… ratings…” His mouth gaped open, something stuck in his throat, rendering him unable to utter a single word; he simply slammed the paper down heavily on the desk piled high with manuscripts in the center of the office.
A crisp “slap.”
All eyes converged instantly, like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
“Late-night Animation《An Shizhi》, fourth episode ratings: 3.24%!”
“Ratings level—extremely excellent!”
Ichiro Hashishita’s voice trembled with excitement.
3.24%.
This number was like a drop of boiling oil falling into the pot of cold water named “Suzuki’s Classroom.”
Boom!
The office erupted in an instant.
It was a nearly feral explosion after being suppressed for far too long.
“Ooooh—!” Hoshi Minamimura and Roji Hase, like two boys who had won first prize at a festival, grabbed each other, shouting and jumping wildly, knocking over the bento boxes on the desk; sauce and rice spilled everywhere, but they were oblivious, venting the ecstasy exploding in their chests with the most primal roars.
Yō Kitagawa’s tears could no longer be held back, rolling down like a string of pearls.
She didn’t wipe them away, letting the warm, salty liquid trace her cheeks—the sweetest rain washing away all the grievances and anxieties of recent days.
Kiyoto Suzuki stood there, motionless.
He looked at the report, walked over to pick it up, stared at the glowing number on it, feeling his heart gripped tightly by a warm, powerful hand, then slowly released, a surge of unprecedented warmth flooding from his heart to his limbs.
He turned slowly, walking toward the young man who had quietly leaned on the sofa from start to finish, a faint smile on his face.
He extended his slightly trembling hands from agitation, gripping Hiroshi Nohara’s shoulders tightly; his weathered face, etched with countless furrows by the years, was streaked with old tears, his voice hoarse beyond recognition.
“Nohara-kun… we… we did it! We really did it!”
“Of course, Mr. Suzuki!” Hiroshi Nohara’s face finally broke into a genuine, relaxed smile.
He knew this was no longer just a snowball.
It had become an avalanche he had personally unleashed.
3.24% ratings in the death slot at 12:20 a.m., a “trash time” slot all television professionals considered worthless—this was no longer a miracle; it was a myth.
It not only crushed all programs on competing stations in the same time slot but had even surpassed some of Tokyo Television Station’s own highly anticipated proposals aired in the 11 p.m. late-night slot.
It had become a myth!
And this myth, as if sprouting wings, flew to every corner of the Tokyo Television Production Bureau in just one morning.
“Did you hear? That intern in Suzuki’s Classroom, Hiroshi Nohara, his《An Shizhi》 broke 3% ratings!”
“No way? Overnight slot? You’re joking, right?”
“Absolutely true! The report’s out! They say it’s that genius manga artist drawing《Yu Yu Hakusho》 on《JUMP》!”
“My god… An intern, a manga artist, achieving this? This… this is a counterattack?!”
Whispers spread quietly in the pantry, in the corridors, in the elevators.
The name Hiroshi Nohara was etched into the minds of these industry elites for the first time, in a way brimming with impact.
The way they looked at Suzuki’s Classroom shifted from past sympathy and pity to current astonishment, curiosity, even… a trace of barely perceptible awe.
Amid this uproar, the telephone on Kiyoto Suzuki’s desk rang.
He picked it up, his agitated, somewhat uncontrolled emotions instantly turning respectful and solemn upon hearing the voice on the other end.
It was Section Chief Takeshita from the Audit Department.
“Yes, I am. Okay, this is truly an honor!”
“I will! I’ll go early! Yes! Yes!”
“Thank you very much! Please convey my respect!”
After hanging up, a more complex and profound agitation appeared on Kiyoto Suzuki’s face.
He walked to Hiroshi Nohara’s side, his voice carrying a tremor he himself hadn’t noticed.
“Nohara-kun, Deputy Director Asumi… he wants to have dinner with me.”
The name Asumi meant too much to Kiyoto Suzuki.
He was his former direct superior at Kanto Television Station, his mentor, the benefactor who had promoted him from an obscure little director step by step.
Later, after Kanto Stage was acquired, he followed Asumi to the Tokyo Television Station headquarters, thinking he could finally shine, only to be suppressed for years due to factional struggles.
This dinner was not just a meal.
It was a trumpet call, proclaiming that these “outsiders” would replant their flag on this mountain of power!
At least, that’s how it felt to Kiyoto Suzuki, who had been suppressed for so long.
“Nohara-kun, you must come with me!” Flames burned in Kiyoto Suzuki’s eyes like never before. “This is all your achievement! I must, I have to introduce you to Deputy Director Asumi! You’re our greatest contributor!”
However, contrary to his expectations, faced with this invitation that could change a newcomer’s destiny, Hiroshi Nohara just gave an apologetic smile and glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Section Chief, thank you so much for thinking so highly of me, and please convey my thanks to Deputy Director Asumi.” His voice was gentle but firm: “But I probably can’t go. It’s been… a long time since I went home.”
He paused, a soft expression of ordinary young man’s helplessness and sweetness crossing his face.
“Misae… called twice last night. I’m afraid if I don’t go back, she’ll come to the station to drag me home.”
Kiyoto Suzuki was stunned.
He looked at the young man before him, at his clear eyes unclouded by victory, and the hot-blooded excitement surging in his heart slowly settled.
What he saw was no longer a genius who created a myth, but a flesh-and-blood man with attachments and responsibility.
He suddenly understood something.
This young man’s strength lay not just in his shocking talent, but in the composure and clarity that allowed him to stay true to himself amid overwhelming fortune.
“Good… good!” Kiyoto Suzuki clapped Hiroshi Nohara heavily on the shoulder, his eyes full of admiration and gratification: “Go on home! Give my regards to Misae! I’ll handle things here!”
As they spoke, a group of figures hurried past the corridor at the classroom doorway, as if deliberately quickening their pace.
Leading them was Masao Iwata.
He no longer had the arrogance and haughtiness of the past few days; his face, usually wearing a mocking smile, was now as gloomy as the sky before a storm.
The lackeys behind him were all dejected, like a flock of defeated roosters; even passing Suzuki’s Classroom, they subconsciously quickened their steps, as if the laughter and joy emanating from inside were scorching flames.
Masao Iwata didn’t stop; he stared straight ahead, heading straight to the end of the corridor, pressing the elevator button and parting ways with these subordinates.
Because these subordinates needed to handle various chores for《Oni-bō Samurai》.
While he went upstairs to Deputy Director Toshihide Takada’s office.
“Section Chief Iwata, the Deputy Director is waiting for you.” The secretary at the door saw Masao Iwata and stood up, gesturing him in.
“Hi.” Masao Iwata politely nodded to the thirty-something female secretary, swallowed, and pushed the door open.
In the office, the sandalwood scent lingered, but the atmosphere was icy cold as winter.
Toshihide Takada didn’t rage; he simply sat calmly behind the desk, looking at his trusted general, whose face, usually full of shrewdness and scheming, now showed only fear and unease.
“What’s done is done; scolding you now is pointless.” Toshihide Takada’s voice was flat, flatly making Masao Iwata’s heart palpitate.
He knew this was the true precursor to the Deputy Director’s anger.
“How’s the promotion for your《Oni-bō Samurai》 going?” Toshihide Takada asked indifferently.
“It’s… all been arranged. The station’s promotional resources have been allocated the best; all the hype will be complete by next Monday.” Masao Iwata answered cautiously.
“Not enough.” Toshihide Takada shook his head: “Station promotion alone isn’t enough.”
He took a business card from the drawer and placed it gently on the desk.
“Kato Shin, chief film critic at《Nitto News》. I arranged for someone to talk to him last night; he’ll publish a substantial review article before your animation airs. The ‘writing fee’ I gave him is enough to make him praise your《Oni-bō Samurai》 to perfection.”
Masao Iwata’s eyes lit up.
Kato Shin!
The acknowledged pen master of the industry, whose articles were always box office and ratings weathervanes!
“Thank you, Deputy Director! Thank you!” He bowed repeatedly in excitement.
“Don’t celebrate too soon.” Toshihide Takada’s gaze turned cold as he stared hard at Masao Iwata, enunciating: “I’ve done all I can for you. Next Monday, your《Oni-bō Samurai》 must not only win but win decisively! I want you to use the highest ratings to tell everyone that so-called miracles are just a joke in the face of absolute strength and resources.”
He paused, his voice lowering like a whisper yet heavy as a mountain.
“Also, that S-level live-action horror proposal for the second half of the year—the station has preliminarily decided the director selection will prioritize programs’ ratings from the first half. You get my meaning?”
Masao Iwata’s body jolted.
He looked up into Toshihide Takada’s bottomless eyes and finally understood.
This was no longer a simple ratings battle; it was a war for his future prospects.
“Hi!” Masao Iwata immediately bowed his head again with a solemn expression, responding earnestly: “I’ll give it my all!”
