Chapter 37: Oni-bō Samurai Release
Monday, lunchtime.
Suzuki’s Classroom was filled with a unique scent belonging to urban white-collar workers, a mix of convenience store bento boxes, cup noodles, and canned coffee.
“Have you all seen today’s newspaper?” Hoshi Minamimura poked at the rice in his bowl, his voice laced with unconcealed envy: “Over in Iwata’s Classroom, it’s everywhere!《Nitto News》, 《Yomiuri Shimbun》……the entertainment sections of several major papers are all hyping their《Oni-bō Samurai》!”
“It’s not just the newspapers.” Roji Hase set down his chopsticks, picked up a newspaper, and pointed to it: “Look, their script consultant is none other than Mr. Matsumoto, who wrote《Kyoto Hundred Demons Night Parade》! The animation production is by the top-tier ‘Fūsha Studio’ in the industry! I hear the production budget for a single episode is dozens of times ours! This……this isn’t even a fight on the same level.”
His words instantly silenced the office, which had just been filled with a relaxed atmosphere.
This was a bit of a hurtful truth.
If they could be called a hastily assembled squad of ashigaru, they had only won a brilliant comeback through genius-like tactical surprise attacks.
While the opponent was a fully equipped regular army, complete with samurai swords, teppo, bow samurai, and everything else.
How could they compare?
Yō Kitagawa was nibbling on a fish floss onigiri nearby and looked at Kiyoto Suzuki with some worry: “Section Chief, I heard from people in other classrooms that for April’s animation ‘Ichiban,’ Iwata’s Classroom is already set to win. They also said……our《An Shizhi》 was just lucky, picking up a gap.”
“Cough cough! Why worry so much!?”
A flash of embarrassment crossed Kiyoto Suzuki’s face. He coughed dryly twice, picked up his tea cup for a sip, and then said in a deliberately casual tone: “Don’t listen to their nonsense! Ratings are the hard truth! What we need to do now is focus on our own work. In the future……in the future, we’ll have those kinds of resources too, everything will be fine.”
His words were more like consoling himself than his subordinates.
Everyone fell silent, each eating their bento box, the food suddenly tasting a bit bland.
Only Hiroshi Nohara in the corner seemed oblivious to it all.
He didn’t join the discussion, didn’t even look up.
His world was confined to a small manuscript, sunlight falling on his focused profile, outlining a soft yet resolute contour.
His pen tip glided across the paper, fluid and confident.
《Oni-bō Samurai》?
Mr. Matsumoto?
Fūsha Studio?
To him, these were just irrelevant nouns.
In his mind, there was only that Dark Martial Arts Tournament about to unleash massive waves in《Shonen JUMP》.
The despair-inducing oppressive presence of the Toguro brothers, Yusuke Urameshi’s spirit guns pushing beyond limits time and again, and those shining souls fighting for their beliefs……
In this world, no one understood better than him what true “Shonen” meant, what true “hot-blooded” meant.
《An Shizhi》 was a cold arrow he shot at the world, precise and lethal, enough to incite panic and awe.
While《Yu Yu Hakusho》 would be his upright punch, using the purest power to crush all flashiness and doubt.
Friday, the first chapter would hit the main serialization page, and he had no time to be distracted by those illusory opponents.
……
Monday night, the celebration banquet for Suzuki’s Classroom was held at a well-regarded izakaya not far from the television station.
The budget personally approved by Deputy Director Asumi gave the celebration banquet solid backing.
Top-tier sashimi platters, steaming sukiyaki, and premium sake they wouldn’t normally splurge on filled the table.
Everyone gathered joyfully!
And before leaving, they agreed to be in front of the television at eleven that night to properly “study” Iwata’s Classroom’s big production.
Hiroshi Nohara didn’t drink much and left early, returning to his small apartment in Kasukabe.
Pushing open the door, a warm light and the aroma of food gently enveloped him.
Misae, wearing an apron, came over with a bowl of steaming hangover soup. Her plain little face showed a hint of reproach, but mostly unconcealed concern.
“Drinking again? Hiroshi-kun, your stomach isn’t good, drink less.”
She handed him the soup bowl, then like magic, brought out a small plate of her homemade, adorably shaped apple pie from the kitchen.
“Very cute apple pie, Misae.” Hiroshi Nohara took the apple pie but set it directly on the table beside him, staring straight at her. All the fatigue from recent days seemed to melt away in this moment, from the warmth of the soup and the sweet aroma of the apple pie.
“Oh, you won’t be thinking again……” Misae blushed instantly.
“Yes, of course I want to taste that sweet, apple pie!” Hiroshi Nohara pulled her to sit on the sofa.
No lights on, only the city’s neon outside filtering through the thin curtains, casting mottled light and shadow in the room.
An hour of tenderness, a quiet beauty beyond words, the most genuine embrace of two souls.
Until the clock hands quietly approached eleven.
“It’s starting.” Misae leaned in his arms, reminding him softly.
“Mm.” Hiroshi Nohara tiredly picked up the remote control, holding the exhausted yet languid and utterly satisfied Misae, and turned on the TV.
The opening of《Oni-bō Samurai》 arrived as scheduled.
It had to be admitted that Masao Iwata had indeed spent the money wisely; the opening scene was a visual feast fit for animation buffs’ revelry.
An ancient temple with cherry blossoms falling like snow, the eerie cold gleam of blades under moonlight, fluid swordsmanship duels like flowing clouds and water, and majestic, tragic music played by a renowned symphony orchestra……
Every frame exuded a no-expense-spared extravagance.
“Wow……so amazing!” Misae couldn’t help exclaiming: “This animation looks better than a movie!”
Hiroshi Nohara said nothing, just watched quietly.
His gaze was like that of an experienced old artisan scrutinizing an apprentice’s meticulously polished but flashy work.
The thirty-minute animation ended quickly.
Exquisite production, beautiful images, smooth animation.
Hiroshi Nohara’s inner evaluation was quite good.
But.
That was it.
The story’s core was still that clichéd revenge tale he saw through at a glance: a wrongfully killed samurai turns into a vengeful ghost, slaughters innocents, and is finally enlightened by a master, letting go of hatred to attain Buddhahood.
All the twists, all the setups, were within his expectations, without a shred of surprise.
“Hiroshi-kun, don’t you think it’s good?” Misae asked curiously, seeing his silence.
Hiroshi Nohara shook his head, picked up a piece of apple pie from the table, held it to her mouth, and slowly said: “Misae, this story might seem novel and fun to people unfamiliar with Neon culture. Kendo, samurai, onmyoji, ghosts and monsters……these elements are eye-catching enough.”
He paused, looking at the rolling production staff list on the TV screen, a faint sarcasm in his eyes.
“Ah?” Misae tilted her little head in confusion; how could a cute girl understand these things.
But Hiroshi Nohara said nothing more.
Because the fact was clear: Masao Iwata’s《Oni-bō Samurai》 was like having a Huaxia person watch a superbly produced《Romance of the Three Kingdoms》 animated film.
Guan Yu is still that Guan Yu, Zhang Fei is still that Zhang Fei, the story is still that story.
No matter how beautifully the images are shot or how flashy the effects, its core has been chewed over thousands of times, tasting of nothing new.
This kind of appeal built on cultural barriers is just a castle in the air.
Seemingly gorgeous.
Actually crumbling at a touch!
“Of course, without An Shizhi, Masao Iwata’s Oni-bō Samurai might have succeeded.”
Hiroshi Nohara chuckled lightly, raised the remote control, and turned off the TV.
No need to keep watching.
He now clearly saw that Masao Iwata’s big gamble was doomed from the start.
Because his opponent wasn’t ordinary.
But a ghost from the future, from a parallel world where entertainment was even more advanced, one that absorbed Neon’s essence and could deliver a dimensional reduction strike!
