Chapter 43: Fury
The door to Iwata’s Classroom, which was always tightly closed on ordinary days, was now gripped by an invisible hand, letting in no light and leaking no sound.
The air was thick like solidified asphalt, dragging every person inside as if toward a bottomless abyss.
Finally, that deathly silence was torn apart by a violent crash.
“Bang—!”
The solid wood desk was flipped over by a tremendous force, and the documents, coffee cup, and crystal ashtray on it scattered like fallen leaves caught in a sudden storm, flying in all directions without dignity.
The coffee stain spread on the carpet, like a pool of dried brown blood.
Masao Iwata stood in the center of the wreckage, his chest heaving violently.
That face, always wearing shrewd scheming, was now twisted in extreme anger and humiliation, like a crumpled and then unsuccessfully smoothed piece of waste paper.
In those triangular eyes that always gleamed with scheming light, there was now only beast-like madness.
He lost.
In a way he could not understand, nor accept.
“Useless! You’re all useless!” he roared, his voice hoarse like a trapped beast driven to desperation, pouring all his unwillingness and malice onto the subordinates cowering in the corner, trembling.
However, he knew better than anyone that the real useless one was himself.
He spun around abruptly and rushed out of that office which had become a witness to his disgrace, ignoring the shocked gazes in the corridor, heading straight for the elevator.
He was going to see Deputy Director Takada; he was going to explain.
He was going to… beg for mercy.
The elevator rose steadily, the polished metal walls reflecting his twisted and pale face; he looked at himself in the mirror and felt utterly unfamiliar for the first time.
‘Ding-dong!’
Top floor arrived.
That corridor leading to the pinnacle of power was carpeted with soft wool that absorbed all sounds, with abstract paintings by unknown artists on the walls, and the air filled with a scent mixing high-end fragrance and sandalwood, belonging to a superior.
This was paradise, and also hell.
However, when he reached that familiar door, as if leading to the court of destiny’s judgment, he was blocked by a figure.
It was Deputy Director Takada’s secretary.
She wore a well-tailored professional suit, her face bearing a formulaic smile, but beneath that smile was an icy cold alienation without any warmth.
“Section Chief Iwata.” Her voice was flat like reporting the weather, “The deputy director doesn’t want to see anyone right now.”
This sentence was like a key tempered with ice; with a gentle turn, it locked away the last shred of hope in Masao Iwata’s heart.
His body swayed violently; the rage and unwillingness that had propelled him here drained away entirely in that moment, leaving only boundless panic that had been drained of all strength.
He looked at the secretary’s face, as if wearing a mask, opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Then, he did something that shocked even himself and caused a faint ripple in the eyes of that seasoned secretary, who had seen all kinds of storms.
His knees buckled, and with a “thud,” he knelt heavily on the mirror-like marble floor.
The sound was dull.
He buried his head deeply down; that expensive suit hand-stitched by an Italian master craftsman was now wrinkled like a rag.
His forehead pressed tightly against the icy cold floor, his buttocks raised high, as if only this could draw in a bit of chill to keep him from completely collapsing.
“Please… please tell the deputy director…” His voice squeezed out word by word from between his teeth, from the cracks in his soul, trembling: “I… I was wrong… beg him… give me one more chance…”
The secretary looked at this near performance-art-like dogeza; a crack appeared for the first time on that face always wearing a professional smile.
She pursed her lips, a complex emotion mixing pity, disdain, and a touch of helplessness.
She was silent for a moment.
Finally, she turned and gently knocked on that door.
After a long time, an icy cold voice came from inside.
“Tell him to get in here.”
Masao Iwata felt as if granted amnesty; he scrambled to his feet and pushed open that door which felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
In the office, Toshihide Takada did not look at him, just stood with his back to him in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the exquisite Tokyo City view below like a model.
“I heard you put on quite a spectacular ‘samurai apology’ for me?” Toshihide Takada’s voice was calm, so calm it made Masao Iwata’s heart palpitate.
“Deputy Director, I…”
“Shut up.”
Toshihide Takada slowly turned around; that face always wearing a warm smile was now a bottomless gloom. He walked up to Masao Iwata, did not rage, but merely looked him up and down with a nearly dissecting icy gaze.
“I told you to fight a must-win battle, and you brought back a huge joke.” He paused, his mouth curling into an extremely sarcastic arc: “But, that’s fine too—at least you gave that guy Asumi a perfect, happy weekend.”
“No no no!” Masao Iwata’s body trembled violently, and he knelt on the ground again because of the other’s words.
Still a dogeza.
“However, this game isn’t over yet.”
Toshihide Takada’s gaze turned cold; ignoring Masao Iwata’s dogeza, he walked back behind the desk, sat down slowly, and said in a vicious tone: “I will continue to operate to keep your Oni-bō Samurai airing. But I have one condition.”
He stared deathly at Masao Iwata, his gaze like a gambler who had lost red-eyed, betting his last chip.
“From today on, your ratings must absolutely not drop below 5%! Otherwise, jump off this building yourself.”
The blood drained from Masao Iwata’s raised face.
“As for the ‘ichiban’ title…” Toshihide Takada’s mouth curled into an even colder smile: “Don’t worry, I’ll arrange for the Statistics Department to use the daily average ratings of your two animations for the final evaluation. The 11 p.m. slot’s ‘ichiban’ I’ll give you. As for that An Shizhi…”
He chuckled lightly, as if saying something trivial: “Just give them the ‘ichiban’ in the early morning slot. Consider it… a small reward for their meager efforts.”
“Then… Suzuki’s second-class director…” Masao Iwata asked tremulously.
“His promotion to second-class director is already a done deal.” A flash of ruthlessness in Toshihide Takada’s eyes: “But once he’s promoted, I’ll immediately use my connections to transfer him, along with that so-called classroom of his, to the Hokkaido branch. Let him study his ‘urban legends’ with the bears and snow.”
“Cut off Asumi’s left and right arms in headquarters, and we’ll settle the remaining accounts slowly.”
Masao Iwata listened to these words, and his heart, already sunk to the bottom, reignited a spark of hope. Looking at this all-powerful backer before him, he gratefully pressed his head directly to the floor.
“Wish you victory from the start!” Masao Iwata said.
However, upon hearing this, Toshihide Takada abruptly stood up, walked around the desk, and kicked him viciously in the chest.
This kick was fast and ruthless, without any mercy.
“Ah!”
Masao Iwata cried out in agony, his whole body falling backward and crashing heavily onto the carpet, a sharp pain in his chest making it hard to breathe.
“If not because you’re my wife’s incompetent cousin.”
Toshihide Takada looked down at him from above; all pretense torn from that face, leaving only the raw rage belonging to a superior: “For this performance of yours, I would absolutely make you atone with the most traditional method—seppuku!”
