Chapter 39: Fury
Hiroshi Nohara chuckled lightly.
He was very confident.
In Suzuki’s Classroom, the atmosphere immediately returned to the joy of awakening from before, with smiles appearing on everyone’s faces.
But at the other end of the corridor, Iwata’s Classroom.
The atmosphere here was extremely oppressive.
It was as if a massive iron hammer, heavy enough to crush everyone’s spine, was placed here!
Silence was the only main melody in this office at the moment.
A viscous, suffocating silence, like the stagnant, earthy humid heat in the air before an afternoon thunderstorm.
Even the originally gentle sunlight, now cutting through the blinds to cast alternating light and shadow on the floor, resembled the cage bars in a repressive prison cell, casting everyone’s faces in dim obscurity.
5.03%.
This number sat in the center of the conference table, like a gleaming trophy, yet no one dared to touch it.
Because right beside it, placed side by side, was another ratings report with 4.97% written on it, like a ghost.
A ghost grinning silently and mocking them.
They won.
Yes, on the numbers, they had won.
But in everyone’s heart, it felt like a heavy lead block soaked in ice water had been stuffed in, leaving them unable to speak.
Nor did they dare to speak.
That confidant named Anren, who was usually the best at using flowery rhetoric to sing hymns to his lord’s victory, now just kept his head down, staring intently at his polished leather shoes, as if trying to divine his future destiny from their glossy surface.
That planner wearing glasses unconsciously tapped his fingers on the keyboard, yet couldn’t type a single word.
In his mind, what echoed repeatedly was not their side’s exquisite animation, not the majestic soundtrack, but last night when he secretly peeked at An Shizhi《 through the elevator door crack, that hellish dark red glow seeping out.
Masao Iwata was now standing by the window with his back to everyone.
He gazed at the icy cold urban jungle below built of steel bars and cement, feeling like he had become a trapped beast in this jungle, targeted by an invisible hunter.
The face that usually wore sarcasm and shrewd scheming was now like a piece of wind-dried orange peel, tightly taut.
Every wrinkle filled with gloom.
Because this was disgrace.
His disgrace.
His unprecedented disgrace!
He had mobilized the station’s top resources, brought in the most renowned production team in the industry, and in the prime late night slot that everyone dreamed of, used a massive cannon costing a fortune—enough to level a small hill—to blast a straw man rigged up with bamboo poles and hemp ropes by a few paupers.
But the cannon shell missed the mark.
It only singed off a negligible bit of thatch from the straw man with the explosion’s aftermath.
And that straw man, under everyone’s gaze, danced a bizarre, spine-chilling dance on its own, winning the audience’s cheers!
This was no longer a matter of winning or losing.
This was a thorough public execution in terms of intellect, realm, and even… ability!
“Ding ling ling—”
In this desolate silence, the public telephone on the desk rang abruptly without warning.
The sound was sharp and piercing, like a scalpel tempered in ice, mercilessly slicing through the thin membrane called decorum in this office.
The office assistant shuddered all over, like a sleepwalker jolted awake, and hurriedly picked up the receiver.
“…Hello, this is Iwata’s Classroom.”
She had only heard half a sentence when her already pale face turned whiter than the wall.
She covered the receiver and, with a fearful, trembling whisper, looked toward the figure with his back to them, her voice quivering as she said: “Se… Section Chief… it’s… it’s Deputy Director Takada’s secretary… asking you to come over…”
Masao Iwata’s body visibly stiffened.
He slowly turned around, and all the gloom and unwillingness on his face vanished in that instant.
“I understand.” Masao Iwata pursed his lips, his face now showing only a deathly ashen dejection.
He said no more, just waved weakly at the assistant, then dragged his leaden legs step by step toward the door leading to hell.
In Toshihide Takada’s Office, the sandalwood incense lingered, and the sunlight remained.
But today’s sunlight seemed especially icy cold.
When Masao Iwata pushed the door open and entered, Toshihide Takada was sitting behind the desk, holding the two ratings reports placed side by side, reading them with intense focus.
He didn’t look up, not even glancing at Masao Iwata, and merely asked in a calm, heart-chilling tone: “Iwata-kun, you’ve arrived.”
“De… Deputy Director…” Masao Iwata’s voice was hoarse, as if sandpapered.
“I heard you won.” Toshihide Takada slowly raised his head, his eyes that usually held warm smiles now a bottomless, icy cold like a frozen pool: “Leading by 0.06 percentage points—a truly remarkable victory.”
He lightly brushed the two reports toward Masao Iwata, as if dusting off insignificant specks.
The thin sheets of paper floated like withered leaves, landing on Masao Iwata’s face before sliding powerless to the floor.
The gesture was supremely contemptuous and insulting.
Masao Iwata’s body trembled violently; he kept his head bowed low, not daring to utter a word.
Because he knew any explanation at this moment would seem pale and laughable.
What could he say?
Say the opponent was too strong? That would admit his own incompetence.
Say luck was bad? That would insult his boss’s intelligence.
He could say nothing, only endure it all silently like a drowned dog whipped by its master.
“I gave you the best resources, the best time slot, even used my connections to bring in a wordsmith like Kato Shin for you.”
Toshihide Takada’s voice remained calm, but each word stabbed like a red-hot steel needle into Masao Iwata’s ears.
“And this is how you repay me—with a ‘victory’ of 0.06%?”
“Are you telling me that my, Toshihide Takada’s, judgment is only worth this 0.06%?”
“Are you telling the entire television station that the trusted general I promoted is a useless waste who can’t even beat an intern?!”
Bang!
He finally couldn’t suppress his rage, slamming the desk and standing up abruptly. The pent-up fury of a superior erupted like a volcano!
Masao Iwata flinched all over, dropping into dogeza on his knees before Toshihide Takada.
His head pressed tightly to the ground.
Humble as a crawling insect.
And Masao Iwata endured this scolding that could crush any workplace person’s dignity to dust, remaining utterly silent.
Only after a long while.
Did Toshihide Takada sit back down, gasping heavily, his chest heaving dramatically.
He knew cursing more would be pointless.
Looking at this confidant whose courage was completely broken, a flash of extreme disappointment and a final trace of unwilling resolve crossed his eyes.
“Promotion.” He squeezed two words through gritted teeth.
“…Yes?” Masao Iwata looked up blankly.
“I said, ramp up the promotion!” Toshihide Takada’s voice carried a manic edge: “Throw all the money we can use into it! Newspapers, magazines, radio, roadside billboards! Within this week, I want every corner of Tokyo to see the name《Oni-bō Samurai》!”
He stared intently at Masao Iwata, his eyes like those of a gambler who had lost everything.
“I don’t care what methods you use; I don’t want to see any more so-called accidents! I want crushing victory! Absolute, indisputable victory! Use your results to tell everyone who the true master of this television station is! Do you hear me?!”
“By the end of this month, the station will tally the ichiban for each time slot! To see who’s number one! I want you to be not just number one in the 11 PM late-night slot!”
“But number one in animated films too! Do you understand!?”
“Yes!”
Masao Iwata, like grasping his last lifeline, nodded vigorously, his voice hoarse with the aftermath of disaster and a do-or-die determination.
