Chapter 33: Anger
Sandalwood smoke wafted up in the excessively bright office, yet it failed to bring even a trace of Zen tranquility or peace to this space occupied by icy cold and anger.
It seemed frozen, hovering rigidly before dispersing powerlessly, as if even the aroma itself feared the thunderous rage of the master of this place.
Masao Iwata stood before that gleaming ebony desk, head bowed, his peripheral vision catching only his own pair of polished Italian handmade leather shoes and a small patch of carpet adorned with intricate Persian patterns.
He felt his neck as if filled with lead, too heavy to lift or turn.
‘Thump thump thump! Thump thump thump!’
He could clearly hear his heart’s dull and frantic pounding in his chest, each impact like a death knell for his own ridiculous arrogance and stupidity.
Toshihide Takada was not sitting; like a caged, restless lion, he paced back and forth before Masao Iwata.
His well-tailored suit traced sharp yet elegant arcs with his movements, but beneath those arcs was wrapped a ferocity capable of incinerating everything.
Finally, he stopped, turned around, his face—which usually bore a warm smile capable of embracing all—now shrouded in dark clouds. He did not roar; his voice was even calm, but this calm terrified Masao Iwata more than any roar.
“Iwata-kun.”
Toshihide Takada spoke slowly, each word squeezed out from a glacier’s crevice: “Can you explain to me what this is about?”
He pointed at the open Nitto News on the desk《》.
There, Kato Shin’s name and the title An Shizhi: A Gentle Terror Ritual Offered to the Modern City《》 burned like two glaring brands into Masao Iwata’s retinas.
“Why?”
“Why did the space meant to hype Oni-bō Samurai turn into a stage for singing hymns to that old man Kiyoto Suzuki?”
“Why did the pen we paid top dollar for turn the gun on us to praise a garbage slideshow with an investment under 100,000?”
“Didn’t you tell me everything was arranged?!”
His voice finally failed to stay down, suddenly rising sharply like an ice-quenched dagger stabbing fiercely into Masao Iwata’s heart.
Masao Iwata’s body trembled violently; he looked up in shock, his face etched with even deeper shock and bewilderment than his boss.
“I… I don’t know, Deputy Director!”
His voice carried a sobbing tone, full of the grievance of being wronged: “The promotion I arranged was set for this Saturday and Sunday! Using the weekend newspaper circulation for a final sprint ahead of Monday’s broadcast! Friday… I didn’t arrange any promotion for Friday at all!”
Toshihide Takada stared at him intently, his deep eyes flickering with scrutiny and doubt.
He sought even the slightest trace of lying on Masao Iwata’s face.
Yet he saw only pure, unmasked confusion and panic.
The office fell into dead silence.
Only the sandalwood smoke persisted in hovering stubbornly.
The two stared at each other, one burning with fury, the other at a loss. A fear named loss of control began to quietly spread between them.
“Telephone.” Toshihide Takada finally broke the silence, his voice terribly hoarse.
Masao Iwata snapped awake, hurriedly pulling out his mobile phone and tremblingly dialing the number of the Nitto News entertainment section deputy editor《》.
It was a connection he had paid a heavy price to establish.
The call connected quickly; Masao Iwata didn’t even exchange pleasantries before demanding, “Mr. Yamamoto! What’s with that An Shizhi《》 film review in today’s paper?! Didn’t we agree the space was for Oni-bō Samurai《》?!”
The deputy editor Yamamoto on the other end was clearly surprised too; he paused before replying in an quite innocent tone, “Section Chief Iwata, calm down first. This article wasn’t arranged by us; Kato Shin himself… insisted on writing it.”
“He insisted on writing it himself?” Masao Iwata felt his brain short-circuiting.
“Yeah.” The deputy editor Yamamoto’s tone carried a hint of helplessness: “You know Kato Shin holds a transcendent status in our paper; even the editor-in-chief can’t easily command him. Yesterday afternoon, he suddenly came to me, saying he wanted to swap articles last-minute, taking the space prepared for someone else for that An Shizhi《》. He said he’d discovered a work ‘truly worth writing about,’ and… if we didn’t let him, he’d take it to another paper.”
“We had no choice, Section Chief Iwata. Kato Shin’s column is the golden signboard of our paper. And…” The deputy editor Yamamoto paused, lowering his voice further: “And Kato Shin said this was to support Tokyo Television Station, to support you all for unearthing such a promising work. He said it counts as an extra human relation favor to your station…”
Human relations…
Masao Iwata gripped the phone, then slowly hung up, his whole body stiffening in place.
He slowly turned his head to look at Toshihide Takada, his expression more anguished than crying.
Toshihide Takada’s face had also shifted from anger to gloom.
They both understood.
This was no betrayal, no defection, not even a scheme by that guy Asumi.
This was a thorough accident triggered purely by the work’s own quality.
An opponent they despised the most had won the heartfelt praise of the ally they most wanted to win over, in a way they least understood and could not control.
This humiliated them more than any political failure.
“Trash…” Toshihide Takada slumped powerlessly back into his genuine leather boss chair, gazing at the prosperous cityscape outside the window, feeling for the first time that this city he once thought fully in his grasp had become so alien, so incomprehensible.
He was silent for a long time before slowly speaking, his voice carrying an unprecedented fatigue and resolve.
“Iwata, now we have no retreat.”
He turned his head, staring fixedly at his trusted general, his eyes burning with the last, mad flames.
“Next Monday, your Oni-bō Samurai《》 must win. At any cost, understand? At any… cost!”
Masao Iwata looked at the deputy director’s contorted face and nodded heavily. He knew this was no longer just a ratings battle; it was a war gambling their futures and dignity.
