Chapter 65: 《shiji》’s Impact On Asumi
Soon, Hiroshi Nohara arrived at Asumi’s office.
Led in by the secretary.
But he didn’t expect that in this office symbolizing power and the future, another guest was also sitting there.
It was an old man, around sixty-something, with hair already graying, but combed meticulously.
Wearing a dark gray suit of fine material, though somewhat loose due to the wash of years, the decorum and integrity belonging to the elite of the old era were still clearly visible.
He was just sitting quietly on the sofa, his slightly cloudy eyes staring blankly at the sky outside the window.
Like a loser who had been struck down.
“This is…” In Hiroshi Nohara’s mind, information about this old man flashed by like a movie on fast-forward.
Eiji Kurosawa.
Kanto Television Station’s former pillar, a true first-class director.
What he excelled at was the ancient war dramas of this era, the most mainstream and the ones that best embodied production strength and sentiment.
Whether taiga dramas or movies, he had produced classic works worthy of entering the history books.
The samurai under his lens were tragic and heroic, resolute, filled with classical romanticism and melancholy, once the spiritual totem of a generation of Neon men.
Unfortunately, the hero was growing old.
In recent years, with the shift in audience tastes, his narrative style full of sense of ritual and weightiness had gradually become outdated.
Several consecutive movies bombed at the box office, and the TV dramas he directed also received mediocre responses.
All lukewarm.
But after all, this was a king of the previous era, so Hiroshi Nohara still planned to express his respect.
“Director Kurosawa, good morning.”
So Hiroshi Nohara walked forward without hesitation, giving a standard ninety-degree bow to this senior in the industry, his posture humble, without any arrogance from his current success.
“Oh?” Eiji Kurosawa seemed to snap back from his own world.
He slowly turned his head, and in those cloudy eyes, when he clearly saw Hiroshi Nohara’s young and handsome face, a trace of imperceptible surprise flashed, then turned into a mild smile.
“You’re… that Nohara-kun, right?”
His voice carried the hoarseness unique to the elderly, yet still full of vigor: “The young are truly formidable. An Shizhi, I watched it, very interesting. The things young people think about nowadays are indeed different from us old guys.”
In his words, there was no jealousy, only a melancholic sentiment belonging to an experienced person.
“You’re too kind, Director Kurosawa.” Hiroshi Nohara straightened up, a mild smile on his face: “Your works, I’ve watched from childhood to adulthood, those are the true timeless pieces representing our Neon Spirit. This junior has much to learn from you.”
These words were watertight, expressing respect while positioning himself properly.
The smile on Eiji Kurosawa’s face grew warmer, he nodded in satisfaction, stood up, and said to Asumi beside him: “Asumi, I just came to say hello. I know the prime time slot issue, the station has its difficulties, no need to trouble yourself. I’ll go back and polish the script some more.”
After speaking, he left the office with steady steps.
That back was still upright.
Yet exuding an unconcealable desolation.
The office quieted down.
Asumi didn’t speak immediately, waiting for the secretary to close the office door again, then walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the endless flow of the city below, and after a long time, let out a long sigh.
That breath carried fatigue and helplessness.
“Did you see? Nohara-kun.” He rubbed his brow, his voice hoarse: “Teacher Kurosawa is the senior I respect most. The Samurai he filmed, Samurai, are still classics in my heart that I can’t surpass even now. But…”
He turned around, and on that always elegant and steady face, bitterness appeared for the first time.
“The era has changed. Audience tastes have become faster and pickier. They no longer need grand narratives, no longer need heavy thinking. What they need is stimulation, resonance, topics they can discuss eagerly with colleagues on the train to work the next day.”
“Teacher Kurosawa still wants to make samurai films, still wants to tell those old stories about loyalty and glory. It’s not bad, just… outdated. Unless he can bring something new. But that’s too difficult.”
Asumi’s words were more like talking to himself than to Hiroshi Nohara, like an elegy offered silently for a hero’s twilight.
Hiroshi Nohara listened quietly without interrupting.
He knew this wasn’t seeking his opinion, just a superior’s rare emotional outpouring to a junior he admired and who might understand his heart.
Sure enough, after a brief lament, Asumi quickly regained the steadiness befitting a deputy director.
He walked back to his desk and sat down, gesturing for Hiroshi Nohara to sit as well.
“So, how was the meeting?” His tone became relaxed, like chatting about trivial family matters.
Hiroshi Nohara then recounted in detail the conditions for the copyright transfer from yesterday’s meeting.
From the ten million yen fortune, to a house in Minato Ward or Setagaya, to that Tokyo household registration that countless young people from out of town would break their heads for.
Asumi listened quietly, a mild smile always on his face.
When Hiroshi Nohara finished, he nodded in satisfaction: “Good, very good conditions. House, household registration, and ten million in cash, that old fox Takada really went all out this time. Looks like he really wants the An Shizhi reputation.”
“Section Chief Iwata probably wants it even more.” Hiroshi Nohara added calmly.
“Haha, you kid see through things clearly.” Hearing this, Asumi burst into laughter, the laugh full of admiration for Hiroshi Nohara’s sharpness.
“But don’t get cocky.”
Asumi’s laughter stopped, his gaze turning serious: “Takada grabbing An Shizhi isn’t to add flowers to brocade. He wants to use a ‘glorious failure’ to prove your success is just an epiphyllum. Then, the media’s saliva and the audience’s doubts will wash over you like a tide, completely submerging this myth of yours that’s just rising.”
“I understand.” Hiroshi Nohara nodded, his face still calm and unruffled.
That composure made Asumi secretly praise him again in his heart.
“Very good.” He took another document from the drawer, the cover boldly printed with a large “S” in black bold font.
“Since you understand, I won’t beat around the bush.” Asumi pushed the document in front of Hiroshi Nohara, his voice solemn: “This is that S-grade live-action horror proposal I mentioned to you last time. Airing in July of the second half of the year, 9 PM, sub-golden slot.”
“I recommended you to the board of directors as the chief director and chief planner for this project. They passed unanimously.”
“I have only one request.” Asumi’s gaze, like a sharp knife, stared straight at Hiroshi Nohara: “I hope you can use this work to create a brand-new ‘urban legends’ universe truly belonging to you, Hiroshi Nohara.”
Hiroshi Nohara didn’t answer immediately.
He just took out the already prepared proposal, also emanating the fragrance of ink, from his briefcase, and gently placed it in front of Asumi.
That action was like a skilled chess player, after the opponent moved, unhesitatingly responding with the step he had long planned.
Asumi was slightly stunned, then a brighter smile bloomed on his face.
He picked up the proposal, the cover featuring several fonts designed in a unique artistic style, carrying a touch of mystery and eeriness.
—World of the Strange.
That font looked like it was bleeding, or like it was crying.
Giving a very eerie feeling.
This piqued Asumi’s curiosity.
So he turned to the first page, but his brows furrowed imperceptibly.
The proposal’s opening was a scene setting of a man in a black suit and sunglasses narrating the opening in an emotionless tone.
“Host?” Disappointment crept into Asumi’s tone, barely noticeable.
He recalled a few months ago, that late-night horror reality show also led by their Kanto Faction, which also used the ‘host linking segments’ mode.
That program was a painful Waterloo for their Kanto Faction at this television station.
Story clichéd, production shoddy, and that host from a third-rate actor background was so greasy it was unbearable to watch.
The program aired for only three weeks before being mercilessly axed due to ratings dropping below 1%.
That third-class director he had high hopes for was completely sidelined because of it, eventually leaving disheartened and kicked back to a local branch of Kanto Television Station, never to rise again.
That incident was still a thorn in his heart.
And now, Hiroshi Nohara, this young man he saw as the ‘Kanto Faction’s star of tomorrow’, was also going to repeat the same mistake?
“Nohara-kun, this mode… we’ve tried it before, and it failed.” His voice carried a trace of regret even he himself hadn’t noticed.
Hiroshi Nohara just smiled calmly and gestured for him to continue.
Asumi sighed and continued reading patiently.
Then as he read on.
His expression… began to change.
That disappointment gradually turned to astonishment. That astonishment slowly became shock.
When he saw the story outline for the first episode Terrifying Touch, in those always calm eyes, finally, an unprecedented light burst forth.
A woman with the superpower of ‘touching objects to sense their owner’s inner thoughts’.
A male lead who, in her eyes, is a serial killer but whose actions are all righteous.
A handsome male second lead who seems like a savior but is somewhat eerie.
And, in the last second of the story, that earth-shattering, spine-chilling twist that upends everything—
The male lead she killed was the detective investigating the serial murders. And the handsome man who saved her was the real, lawless perverted killer.
Because her superpower touched a key suspect’s item.
Leading to her misjudgment.
The real serial killer, at the moment when everyone thought the plot ended and the leads would have a happy ending, tore off his true face and began to strike at the female lead!
Plot twist!
“Pa!”
Asumi abruptly closed the proposal, the sound crisp and loud.
He stood up suddenly, that always elegant and steady face now full of undisguised ecstasy and excitement.
“This… this is the true ‘urban legends’!”
He looked at Hiroshi Nohara, his gaze like looking at a national treasure capable of changing history: “This is no longer simple terror, it’s humanity, suspense, the most profound satire and analysis of our seemingly peaceful modern society!”
He paced back and forth, the producer’s fanaticism fully ignited.
“Sample! I need a sample!”
Asumi stopped, staring fixedly at Hiroshi Nohara, his gaze like a geologist who spotted a world-class vein: “Can your production team shoot this episode for me in the shortest time possible?!”
“Yes.” Hiroshi Nohara nodded calmly.
The memory had ready-made lenses and scripts.
Find similar actors.
Copying according to the World of the Strange in memory, how could he not be calm?
“Good!” Asumi slammed down his decision, his voice carrying an unquestionable resolve: “I’ll give you five million yen per episode production budget! Personnel, equipment, pick whatever you want! I have only one request: I want that old fox Takada, the entire board of directors, to see with their own eyes what a true S-grade proposal is!”
Five million yen!
Five million yen in 1990!
This was no longer generosity, it was an all-in gamble!
Hiroshi Nohara looked at Asumi’s face slightly flushed with excitement and slowly stood up.
On his face finally appeared a genuine, uplifting smile belonging to a general about to head to the battlefield.
“Hai!”
“I will not fail your trust!”
Hiroshi Nohara bowed.
This was the new challenge he craved!
