Chapter 40: Breaking 6!
Wednesday, Nitto News, Yomiuri Shimbun……
Those papers scrutinized by countless pairs of eyes on the commuter train were now like declarations of war splashed with ink. On the entertainment pages, in the largest font and with the most lavish rhetoric, they sang a deafening anthem for the animation named Oni-bō Samurai.
In the photo, Masao Iwata stood shoulder to shoulder with the renowned Mr. Matsumoto, their smiles brimming with confidence as if they had already claimed all of April.
Even more glaring were the occasional “objective evaluations” of An Shizhi, laced with contempt and pity, tucked between these effusive praises.
“…Rough art style, shoddy production, relying on cheap jump scares to grab attention, ultimately unfit for refined tastes.”
“…A fleeting bloom in the late-night slot, ultimately revealing its petty nature before a true epic masterpiece.”
“Damn it!”
In Suzuki’s Classroom, Hoshi Minamimura slammed his fist on the table, his young face flushed red with the anger of public humiliation: “What is this? Stepping on us to climb up? Too despicable!”
“This isn’t promotion anymore; it’s a personal attack!” Roji Hase was trembling with rage too.
Kiyoto Suzuki’s face was as gloomy as the sky before a storm.
He stared deathly at Masao Iwata’s smug face in the newspaper, the dignity of an old-school producer thoroughly ignited by this blatant slander. He shot to his feet and said gravely, “I’ll go find him! Such lowbrow tactics are a disgrace to us television professionals!”
“Section Chief.”
A calm voice, like a cup of green tea, extinguished the raging fire about to sweep through the office.
Hiroshi Nohara had risen from the corner at some point. He walked to Kiyoto Suzuki, gently pressed his shoulder, and shook his head.
“No need to go.”
He picked up the newspaper, his gaze sweeping over the caustic words, yet a playful curve tugged at his lips: “Look, the harsher they criticize, the more they tie us to Oni-bō Samurai. Tokyo audiences are the most curious; they’ll wonder what kind of ‘trash’ deserves newspapers putting in this much effort to trash.”
“So they’ll come watch An Shizhi too, to see how bad it is. But once they’re here, can they really escape? If they realize they’ve been fooled, they’ll counterattack in anger!”
He paused, a demonic gleam of insight into humanity flickering in his clear eyes.
“Negative traffic is still traffic. Haters are fans too. Sometimes, curses spread faster than praise.”
He gently placed the newspaper back on the table, returned to his seat, and pulled out another thick stack of manuscripts from his bag—the just-completed opening of the Dark Martial Arts Tournament in Yu Yu Hakusho.
He carefully packed the manuscript into a special envelope, preparing to send it to Editor Tasoro at Shueisha.
Watching his unflappable composure, his detached calm, everyone’s anger miraculously subsided quite a bit.
Sure enough, Hiroshi Nohara’s prediction was verified with eerie precision in the following days.
Wednesday, An Shizhi episode nine Possession aired, with ratings surging past the 5% mark to 5.02%.
However, the brief cheers in the office were soon overshadowed by another report—Oni-bō Samurai episode two, 5.68%.
Thursday, An Shizhi episode ten Moon, 5.22%. Oni-bō Samurai, 5.89%.
Friday, An Shizhi episode eleven Video Tape, 5.35%. Oni-bō Samurai, 6.07%!
Masao Iwata’s no-holds-barred promotional blitz, like a flood of beasts backed by massive capital power, brutally pushed Oni-bō Samurai’s ratings to a new peak.
Inside Tokyo Television Station, the winds shifted quietly; praise for Oni-bō Samurai echoed endlessly, while An Shizhi’s miracle was gradually painted as mere “good luck.”
In Suzuki’s Classroom, the spark of hope that had just ignited was crushed by this icy cold data, leaving only a faint flicker.
The air grew oppressive again.
Everyone held their breath like they were underwater, working in silence.
They knew An Shizhi’s first season had only two episodes left. And the end of the month was fast approaching.
The glorious “ichiban” title, and the proposal approval deciding if An Shizhi would get a second season, hung like a sharp sword over their heads.
Only Hiroshi Nohara remained as calm as ever.
He seemed utterly unconcerned with the external clamor, merely occasionally lifting his head from his manuscripts to glance at the sky fragmented by steel bars and cement outside the window, his gaze profoundly inscrutable.
Saturday morning arrived quieter than usual.
The office was steeped in a fateful silence; everyone arrived early but sat mutely at their desks, awaiting the final judgment.
‘Bang—!’
The classroom door was suddenly flung open with tremendous force.
Ichiro Hashishita burst in.
Kiyoto Suzuki, sitting outside, frowned at Ichiro Hashishita’s rude entrance: “Hashishita, that’s too rude!”
“Section Chief! Section Chief!”
But Ichiro Hashishita ignored him, waving the thin report in his hand—not like waving a sheet of paper, but like brandishing a flag recaptured from enemy lines, soaked in blood and glory!
His usually steady face was now covered in ecstasy and frenzy; he tried to speak, but only hoarse, bellows-like gasps escaped his throat.
He slammed the report onto Kiyoto Suzuki’s desk with all his might.
Only then did he seem to catch his breath.
Panting heavily, he shouted, “Look at this! Look at these ratings!” Ichiro Hashishita’s voice was distorted!
“What happened?! Hashishita, any discoveries?!”
“Or some situation?!”
Everyone crowded around, but seeing the data, all their hearts seemed to stop beating.
“Late-night Animation An Shizhi, twelfth episode ratings…” Ichiro Hashishita finally caught his breath, reading the game-changing number in a near-sobbing voice:
“6.01%!”
Boom!
6.01%!
From 5.35% to 6.01%! An overnight, miracle-like surge!
The office fell into dead silence first, then the emotions pent up for days, nearly driving them mad, erupted like a volcano!
“We won! We won!” Hoshi Minamimura and Roji Hase murmured.
But Ichiro Hashishita shook his head, pointing with a more violently trembling hand to another name on the report.
“No… more than winning…”
His voice carried the unparalleled shock of witnessing deities descend.
“Oni-bō Samurai… their ratings dropped from 6.07% to… 5.87%!”
Counterattack!
At the final moment, in the most inconceivable way, counterattack!
That seemingly impregnable capital barrier, that overwhelming promotional flood, finally collapsed before An Shizhi’s bone-deep, heart-striking terror.
Kiyoto Suzuki stared at the number, feeling twenty years younger. He turned to the young person in the corner who had quietly watched it all from start to finish.
Hiroshi Nohara merely set down his pen and met everyone’s gazes with a faint smile.
He knew audiences’ patience was limited.
Flashy packaging couldn’t hide an empty core forever. Once the novelty from cultural barriers faded, only aesthetic fatigue’s boredom remained.
But fear—especially everyday, self-originating fear—was like aged wine, growing more intoxicating with each taste.
He had instead embraced the haters and negative traffic, drawing in a huge audience.
Then those viewers became word-of-mouth fans.
Turned from haters to fans.
Ultimately…
Achieving victory!
“But I’m curious too—how did the ratings spike so high?” Hiroshi Nohara was actually a bit puzzled himself.
After all, An Shizhi airing in the Saturday pre-dawn slot meant many had Saturday off, so time to curiously check it out.
And his Saturday An Shizhi Grand Finale Painful Body was the most climactic type in urban legends.
It was bound to attract many viewers.
But he hadn’t expected the ratings pull to be this terrifying.
