Chapter 41: Rewinding Time
All of this requires turning back the clock to Wednesday.
Tokyo, Marunouchi.
Kimura Takuya held a cup of hot coffee he had just gotten from the pantry, the bitterness and aroma of the coffee being his only weapon against the monotonous repetition of the week.
He sat back in his cubicle, his gaze habitually falling on the open Nitto News entertainment section.
There, in the largest font and most ornate rhetoric, it promoted an animation called Oni-bō Samurai. In the photo, the producer named Iwata stood shoulder to shoulder with a renowned writer, their smiles confident to the point of being nearly arrogant.
Kimura’s brows furrowed slightly.
He certainly knew Oni-bō Samurai and admitted that the animation’s production was indeed excellent, like a splendid suit of armor displayed in a museum, every scale gleaming with the light of money.
But his gaze was stung by a few lines of objective critique laced with contempt and pity, tucked between the lines of that paean of praise.
“…Rough art style, shoddy production, relying on cheap jump scares to grab attention, ultimately unfit for refined tastes.”
This was referring to An Shizhi.
Kimura set down his coffee cup, the rising steam seeming to carry a hint of indignation.
He had watched An Shizhi.
Starting from the first episode with Fu Nü, he was hooked like he had been poisoned, staying up every late night in front of the television for a date with terror.
He would never forget the paper episode, where a ghostly face suddenly appeared on the printer’s glass platen, making him so terrified during overtime that even glancing at the company’s copier gave him chills.
That was no cheap scare.
It was a terror that quietly grew from the most familiar and everyday aspects of life, cold and damp like moss.
The words in the newspaper were like those of people who had never been caught in the rain, condescendingly judging the iciness of a downpour.
“Kimura, have you seen this?” A colleague from the next cubicle leaned over, pointing at Iwata in the newspaper, face full of envy: “I hear this animation has huge investment; tonight’s ratings are sure to explode. Should we check it out too?”
Kimura shook his head. He turned around, looking at his colleague’s face filled with gossip and expectation, and said in an unprecedentedly serious tone: “Don’t believe the newspaper’s nonsense. If you want to watch a gorgeous period drama, go watch Oni-bō Samurai. But if you want to experience what real terror is—the kind that keeps you up all night—I advise you to watch An Shizhi.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but like a stone dropped into a pond, it sent ripples of “curiosity” through the small office.
……
Shinjuku, Late-night Diner.
The L-shaped bar counter was packed, and two new customers were holding an evening newspaper, discussing animatedly.
“Boss, we have to watch this Oni-bō Samurai tonight! The newspaper hypes it to the skies, calling it a revolutionary work in the animation world!”
Xiang Shuishang just silently wiped a white porcelain bowl. Hearing this, he didn’t even lift an eyelid, speaking in his usual flat tone: “Is that so? Then perhaps you could also watch An Shizhi.”
“An Shizhi?” One of the new customers sneered and shook the newspaper in his hand: “The newspaper says that animation has rough production and no artisan spirit—it’s just a gimmicky trifle.”
At these words, the previously quiet diner saw its atmosphere change instantly.
“Bang!”
Mr. Tanaka slammed his beer mug down on the table. His face, slightly flushed from alcohol, was now full of offended anger: “A trifle? You call something that scares people too afraid to go home a trifle? Let me tell you, ever since I watched that family precept episode, now whenever I close my eyes, I feel like there’s a pale old man grinning at me!”
“Exactly!” Akemi at the next seat set down her chopsticks, her pretty face full of indignation: “Oni-bō Samurai is good to watch, but that kind of good is like looking at a painting on the wall—you know it’s fake. But An Shizhi is different; it makes you feel like there might really be such a painting hanging on your wall!”
“Well said!” The college student at the other end of the bar pushed up his glasses and summed up in his characteristic academic tone: “One is an aesthetic spectacle, the other a psychological scalpel—the former makes you marvel, the latter… makes you shudder.”
The two new customers were stunned by this sudden rebuttal from all directions.
They looked at this group of strangers united in righteous indignation over an animation, and for the first time, doubt arose in their eyes toward the newspaper’s authority.
……
Shinagawa, Taxi Dispatch Center.
A group of drivers who had just finished their shifts were gathered around several newspapers, the air thick with smoke, the atmosphere somewhat oppressive.
“Damn these writers—how much did they get paid? Talking like this with a clear conscience?” Young Kenji grumbled as he stubbed out his cigarette butt in the ashtray.
Veteran driver Kitakishi took a sip of hot tea and said slowly: “Just capital’s game. Money makes the megaphone louder.”
He paused, a glint of wisdom in his eyes that had seen countless affairs of the world: “All this fanfare for Oni-bō Samurai must have cost a lot! I don’t know if Oni-bō Samurai is any good, but personally, I don’t think it’s that great—definitely not as good as An Shizhi.”
“Yeah! Exactly!” Echoes of agreement rose around him.
Just then, a white-collar worker who had just finished entertaining clients got into Kenji’s taxi and casually chatted: “Driver, to Meguro. Sigh, just watched that Oni-bō Samurai with a client—production quality is really top-notch.”
Kenji hurried over to prepare to drive.
Then, through the rearview mirror, he glanced at him and curved his lips into a mysterious smile: “Sir, want to try something more stimulating than Oni-bō Samurai?”
……
Friday, Setagaya, university library.
The latest issue of Weekly Shōnen JUMP was being passed around among the students, the air filled with the unique scent of ink and youth.
“Look! Yu Yu Hakusho! The Dark Martial Arts Tournament is starting! This Toguro brother has such overwhelming presence!”
“Urameshi and the others are done for this time, right? How could they possibly beat this?”
The students discussed heatedly, their blood boiling for the fateful battle about to unfold.
At that moment, a sharp-eyed boy suddenly pointed at the serialization page header of Yu Yu Hakusho and let out an earth-shattering yell.
“Holy crap! Look at this!”
The crowd gathered around and saw, next to the bolded author bio, a line of text that stopped their hearts.
“—Original work and planning for the super popular late-night animation An Shizhi, genius manga artist Hiroshi Nohara’s latest masterpiece!”
The library fell into dead silence.
Then, that silence was thoroughly shattered by waves of uncontrollable gasps, like the discovery of a new continent.
“No… no way?”
“The one who draws such hot-blooded battles and makes those eerie stories… is actually the same person?!”
“What kind of monster is this Hiroshi Nohara?!”
This revelation was like a depth charge dropped into a calm lake, instantly exploding across the entire reader community.
It turned out that the devil who gripped their souls with icy terror in the dead of night was, by day, the hero who ignited their youth with blazing friendship and battles.
This extreme contrast, this genius spanning light and dark, brought an unparalleled, almost divine charm.
“Hey! Tonight, the finale of An Shizhi! Let’s watch it together in the dorm?”
“Count me in!”
“Absolutely!”
A promise quietly formed between countless young souls.
They didn’t know that what they were about to witness was not just the end of an animation.
But a thorough, resounding… counterattack, launched by the people’s word-of-mouth and passion against capital’s arrogance and manipulation.
