Chapter 47: Recruitment
When Masao Iwata returned home and bathed again under the light of his favorite desk lamp, that resolve that had just been forcibly injected into him deflated silently like a punctured balloon.
He didn’t know how to handle this matter.
Nor did he.
Know in what capacity to handle this matter.
A defeated subordinate who had just exhausted every despicable means on the ratings battlefield, yet was still thoroughly crushed mentally by the opponent in a way bordering on humiliation?
He could almost already see the mocking expression that would ripple across the face of that young man named Hiroshi Nohara when he heard his purpose.
Especially since he had mocked the other before.
This was hard to handle.
…
The air at Tokyo Television Station became somewhat delicate in the following days.
That farce over the “Ichiban” ownership was like a stone thrown into a deep pool; though the surface quickly returned to calm, the ripples that spread quietly altered the direction of the undercurrents.
Iwata’s Classroom remained high-profile, with a deluge of promotional offensives like worthless snowflakes plastering the name 《Oni-bō Samurai》 across every corner of Tokyo.
Their ratings, carried along by a massive flood of capital, did indeed hold steady at a quite respectable figure.
Yet any discerning eye could see it was the last gasp of a dying bow.
In contrast.
Was the unusually calm atmosphere in Suzuki’s Classroom.
They neither refuted nor argued, not even responding to those veiled attacks from the outside world.
They were like a pod of giant whales cruising deep in the ocean, utterly disdainful of the chatter from the bored seagulls on the surface.
They just quietly went about their own business.
Because they knew that when 《An Shizhi》 Season 2 landed in the 11 p.m. late-night slot, with the proposal plan sitting on the desk in the Production Bureau’s Audit Department, who the true victor was had long been self-evident.
On Wednesday afternoon, Masao Iwata finally came.
He chose not to meet in the crowded office, but through Ichiro Hashishita, arranged to see Hiroshi Nohara at the coffee shop downstairs.
He had changed into his most subdued gray suit, reining in all the arrogance on his face, replacing it with a deliberate air of gentle composure befitting a senior.
He even arrived a quarter hour early and personally ordered a pricey cup of Blue Mountain Coffee for Hiroshi Nohara.
When Hiroshi Nohara walked in unhurriedly and sat across from him, he even stood up proactively, bowing slightly to observe all courtesies.
“Nohara-kun, we meet again.”
A smile that Masao Iwata thought was his most sincere hung on his face: “Forgive my presumptuous invitation.”
“Section Chief Iwata, it is indeed a bit presumptuous. After all, our relationship wasn’t exactly pleasant before.” Hiroshi Nohara just looked at him calmly without speaking, his gaze like watching a drama whose ending he already knew, without the slightest ripple.
Because he could guess Masao Iwata’s intention.
“I’ll get straight to the point.” Seeing this, Masao Iwata dropped the pointless politeness. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice, speaking in a tone he thought was sincere: “Nohara-kun, you’re a smart person, and a true genius. I’ve seen your 《An Shizhi》—it’s fantastic. To be honest, I even think it’s far superior in creativity to my 《Oni-bō Samurai》.”
He first gave unstinting praise without hesitation—this was the first step in winning the heart.
“But you should also know that in this place, talent alone is far from enough.”
His tone shifted, carrying a hint of an experienced person’s guidance and pity: “Section Chief Suzuki is a good man, and a producer with vision. Unfortunately, he backed the wrong horse. Deputy Director Asumi means well, but in Tokyo Television Station, he’s ultimately too isolated and powerless. Section Chief Suzuki’s future is already doomed.”
He paused, carefully observing Hiroshi Nohara’s expression. Seeing the other still utterly unflappable, he frowned slightly.
This wasn’t what he had expected.
But at this point, he still extended his olive branch.
“I’m here today representing Deputy Director Takada to formally invite you. Deputy Director Takada greatly admires your talent. He believes a genius like you shouldn’t go down with a ship doomed to sink into the icy cold depths.”
“If you’re willing to come over, the Deputy Section Chief position in Iwata’s Classroom is yours. All resources, all promotion, will tilt toward you. We can work together on that S-class live-action terror proposal, create a truly great work that will enter the history books.”
“Plus, we’ll promote you to Fourth-Class Director as soon as possible, to Third-Class Director within five years, and give you an independent production team.”
“Nohara-kun, a smart person knows how to choose.”
After speaking, he picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, posture elegant, as if victory was already in hand.
Because these were truly generous conditions.
He himself felt they were overly lavish.
After all, he, Masao Iwata, had no more than these conditions himself. And how old was Hiroshi Nohara?
Just a fresh college graduate!
Thus, Masao Iwata sipped his coffee while waiting for the shock, hesitation, and ultimate desire for power and the future that he expected to appear on the young man’s face.
Yet he waited for nothing.
Hiroshi Nohara just listened quietly until he finished, then picked up the still-steaming cup of Blue Mountain Coffee in front of him, but didn’t drink; he just gently sniffed it near his nose.
“Section Chief Iwata.” He spoke slowly, his voice as calm as discussing the weather: “Do you know what the difference is between this coffee and the instant coffee from the vending machine in our classroom?”
Masao Iwata was stunned, unsure why he asked this.
“This one smells aromatic, and surely tastes rich and full-bodied. It comes from prestige, carefully roasted and ground, just like your 《Oni-bō Samurai》—it does look quite noble.”
Hiroshi Nohara set down the coffee cup, his clear eyes finally, truly, earnestly looking at Masao Iwata for the first time.
“But it has no warmth.”
“It’s just a soulless liquid brewed from hot water. Drinking it might perk you up, but it won’t warm the heart.”
The corners of his mouth curved into a faint arc laced with endless sarcasm.
“While that one-yen instant coffee in our classroom is cheap and bitter, it’s hand-brewed every morning by Kitagawa-chan for each of us. It carries the taste of the nights we’ve pulled together, the bento boxes we’ve shared, the desperate efforts we’ve made for a common goal.”
He leaned back against the chair back, posture relaxed.
His gaze like a sharp scalpel, peeling away layer by layer the hypocritical disguise on Masao Iwata.
“Section Chief Iwata, the ship you speak of is big, gorgeous, its deck no doubt paved with gold. But I’m prone to seasickness, especially on ships that smell only of copper yet lack the scent of wood.”
“I still prefer my own little skiff—it’s battered, but the wind is mine to command, and where to sail is up to me.”
He stood up and gently pushed the untouched cup of Blue Mountain Coffee back toward Masao Iwata.
“You keep this coffee for yourself.”
“After all, on the road ahead, you might… need it to perk up.”
With that, he turned and left without a backward glance.
“You!!!” Leaving Masao Iwata alone there, his face twisted in utter distortion.
Of course, what happened to Masao Iwata was of no concern to Hiroshi Nohara.
He wasn’t a child.
After the baptism of future entertainment industry news, would Hiroshi Nohara really naively believe such generous conditions came without strings attached?
He was already deeply bound to Kiyoto Suzuki.
Of course, with his abilities and the works in his mind, even jumping ship wouldn’t be a problem—he’d still thrive.
But so what?
“He’d probably get eaten clean.” Back at the Production Bureau Headquarters Building of Tokyo Television Station, Hiroshi Nohara sneered: “Really took me for a fresh college grad?”
