Chapter 86: Ichiro Hashishita’s Despair! The Truth Of Taking The Blame!
Asumi’s voice held a true, deep desire.
And he also explained the situation to Hiroshi Nohara; he planned to produce a variety show proposal for the Saturday afternoon slot.
That “Super Change Change Change” we talked about last time is really interesting.
So Asumi took notice.
“Hmm, ‘Super Change Change Change’?” Hiroshi Nohara nodded slightly. “If that’s the case, I do have a casual idea.”
“A casual idea?!” In the meeting room, Asumi, Kenji Sato, and Tsuyoshi Yamamoto, these three veteran members of the Kanto Faction, all turned their gazes sharply towards Hiroshi Nohara.
Their eyes were filled with an unbelievable, almost absurd shock.
Animation, manga, live-action drama…
This young man had already stirred up a maelstrom in three completely different fields with his divine talent.
And now, he was going to dabble in… the variety show realm, something that their entire Kanto Faction was helpless against, something they could only let the Tokyo Faction control?!
And he called it a casual idea?!
This wasn’t simply crossing boundaries; it was a quixotic charge against the entire power structure of the television station!
However, facing these four scorching gazes that could melt a person, Hiroshi Nohara simply pulled out a white piece of paper from his briefcase and quickly began writing.
About half an hour.
“Finished.”
Hiroshi Nohara wrote down the essence of “Super Change Change Change” from his previous life, including how to invite guests, how to host, how to invite national performers, and how to stir up emotions.
Then he pushed the completed temporary document in front of Asumi.
His demeanor was extremely nonchalant.
“…”
In the meeting room, there was a deathly silence.
Asumi, Kenji Sato, and Tsuyoshi Yamamoto, three people, three mouths, all unconsciously opened into “O” shapes.
They looked at the surprisingly thick proposal on the table, then at the young man with an expression that said, “What’s the big deal?”, feeling as if their worldview had been completely crushed into dust at that moment.
A casual idea.
And it actually became a proposal.
You call this casual?!
Many veteran figures, wanting to design a brand new variety show proposal, would lose huge clumps of hair out of worry.
They wouldn’t even have a good starting point.
Otherwise, would they, who came from Kanto Television Station, be so unfamiliar with variety show proposals?
After all, variety show proposals are very special.
They create idols.
They create segments.
They have absolutely nothing to do with true strength like acting skills or vocal talent!
But now, Hiroshi Nohara had completed a variety show proposal, so how could they not be shocked?
“Let me take a look first.” Asumi quickly picked up the proposal and began to read.
As he turned to the first page and saw the outrageously detailed program flow, the precise timing control for every segment, the ingeniously crafted scoring criteria, and… attached at the back, a full fifty “Change Change Change” creative examples that would make any variety show producer slap their thigh in admiration.
He felt his breathing stop.
“Monster… you… you’re truly a monster…”
After a long while, Asumi finally squeezed these heartfelt words from his throat.
And he understood what a monster of genius level meant.
The other two had already leaned over, looking at the proposal that could be called the ‘Variety Show Bible’, with only unadulterated shock on their faces.
And the occasional sibilant gasp of drawing in a breath!
Because they truly realized that this thin, temporarily written proposal was so rich and detailed… it could almost be used directly by the station to produce a variety show!
Truly, it was… the ‘Variety Show Bible’!
…
Iwata’s classroom was currently shrouded in a dense, unmoving dark cloud.
The air was so oppressive it felt like it could wring out water.
Everyone had a dejected expression, as if they had lost a loved one, sitting slumped at their desks like frostbitten eggplants.
The television set, on which they had once pinned their hopes to broadcast the sample film of “An Shizhi” season three, was now completely black, like a coffin tailor-made for their farce.
Just a moment ago, a notice from the senior management of the Production Bureau, like a cold death sentence, had been ruthlessly delivered here.
“— ‘An Shizhi’ Season Three, due to severely subpar ratings and extremely negative audience response.”
“Effective immediately, broadcast will cease!”
These short two lines were like the sharpest knives, completely shattering their meager hopes.
An ace IP that had created a ratings myth, in their hands, after only one week and seven episodes, was shamefully and forcibly cut short.
This was no longer a simple failure.
This was a scandal!
This was a disgrace that would be enough to nail the entire Iwata classroom to the pillar of shame in Tokyo Television Station’s history!
In the corner, Ichiro Hashishita’s face was as pale as paper, his bloodshot eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, his lips moving unconsciously, repeatedly murmuring those pale and powerless words.
“Impossible… this is impossible…”
“I’ve learned it all… I’ve mastered it all… I clearly figured out all his tricks…”
“Why is this happening… why…”
He was like a gambler who had lost all his chips, trapped in a state of frenzied self-doubt.
He couldn’t understand why, with the exact same recipe and the exact same taste, it turned into a pot of spoiled rice that everyone wanted to beat to death when it was in his hands.
In the office, those colleagues who had once treated him as an honored guest, calling him “Deputy Section Chief Hashishita” with affection sweeter than their own fathers, now avoided him like a plague.
The gazes cast upon him were no longer fawning or filled with awe, only icy, undisguised contempt and malice.
As if looking at a nauseating piece of garbage that had exploded the entire cesspool.
“Creak—”
The door to Masao Iwata’s office was pushed open.
He walked out, utterly dejected, his face, which always held a hint of arrogance, now showing only a deathly gray pallor.
Just like the group of people outside.
He had just received a call from Deputy Director Toshihide Takada, and in the call, the man he had always considered his pillar of support had spoken with a voice so cold it lacked any warmth, saying only one sentence.
“Iwata-kun, come to my office.”
Masao Iwata knew that the time for judgment had arrived.
His gaze swept over the lifeless office, finally landing on Ichiro Hashishita, who was still in the corner, acting crazy and muttering to himself.
An unnamed anger, mixed with the malice of being scapegoated, instantly surged from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head!
“Ichiro Hashishita!”
He lunged forward, grabbing Ichiro Hashishita by the collar, his ashen face contorting into a ferocious look of a cornered beast.
“Didn’t you say you learned it all?! Didn’t you say you figured out all his tricks?! Then tell me now! What the hell is going on?!”
“I… I…” Ichiro Hashishita trembled all over at his ferocious appearance, his chaotic thoughts finally pulled back to reality.
He looked at Masao Iwata’s contorted face, and his survival instinct made him instinctively start to defend himself: “No… it’s not my problem! It’s… it’s the illustrator! That illustrator’s skill is too poor! He simply can’t draw Hiroshi Nohara’s unique style!”
“And… and it was you! You insisted on adding that ill-fitting Onmyoji to the script! I felt something was wrong back then! You insisted on doing it! This has nothing to do with me!”
“Shut up!”
The ferocity on Masao Iwata’s face instantly turned into pure rage. He raised his hand and delivered a loud, resounding slap to Ichiro Hashishita’s face!
“Slap!”
The crisp sound was exceptionally jarring in the dead silent office.
“Waste!”
Masao Iwata pointed at his nose and cursed vehemently: “At this point, you still want to shift the blame to someone else?! I’m telling you, Ichiro Hashishita, it’s because of you, you waste! It’s because I believed your nonsense, this waste, that our entire section has been dragged down by you!”
His words were like lifting the lid of a sewer.
In the office, those opportunists who had long been holding in their anger suddenly found an outlet.
“That’s right! It’s all your fault!”
“We followed you back then because you sounded so confident! And what was the result? You’ve ruined us all!”
“Traitor! Waste! How dare you still be here? Get out!”
Curses and accusations rained down like a sudden storm, overwhelmingly engulfing the man who was already dejected.
Ichiro Hashishita, covering his burning cheek, stared blankly at his colleagues who just last week had been fawning over him and today wanted to devour him alive. The last flicker of light in his empty eyes completely extinguished.
He was like a stray dog abandoned by its owner, driven into a corner by everyone with the most contemptuous gaze.
Masao Iwata no longer paid attention to this waste with no remaining value. He tidied his slightly disheveled collar due to anger, took a deep breath, and with heavy steps, walked towards the corridor leading to hell.
He knew he had to face the judgment that would determine his ultimate fate.
As he passed by the entrance to the 【 Hiroshi Nohara – Special Production Team 】, the faint cheers of joy and pride coming from inside felt like red-hot steel needles piercing his heart.
He subconsciously quickened his pace, his retreating figure appearing panicked and disheveled.
…
In Toshihide Takada’s office, it was as quiet as usual.
The number two figure of the Tokyo Faction stood with his back to the door, in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the ceaseless steel forest below. His well-tailored suit made his figure appear somewhat desolate.
“Deputy Director… I…”
As soon as Masao Iwata entered, he could no longer maintain his pretense of composure. His legs buckled, and with a thud, he performed a perfect dogezza, his forehead pressed firmly against the cold floor.
“Deputy Director Takada, I was wrong! I deserve to die!”
Toshihide Takada did not turn around.
He simply let out a slow breath, a breath filled with a sense of heroic twilight, helplessness, and regret.
“Get up,” his voice was calm, betraying no emotion.
“Hiroshi Nohara… this young man is no longer someone anyone can challenge. He’s not a genius; he’s a monster. A… monster capable of changing the rules of the era.”
“You don’t have the strength to confront him, I already know that, after all, he is a terrifying… monster.”
Toshihide Takada turned around, his face ashen.
“Tell me, Iwata-kun.”
He walked to the sofa and sat down, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “Why did you lose… so miserably?”
Masao Iwata’s body trembled violently. He knew this was his last chance.
He raised his head. His face was already devoid of any color, replaced by a look of desperate resolve.
“It was Ichiro Hashishita! Deputy Director! It’s all that waste’s fault!”
He practically roared, pushing all the blame onto the pawn he had already discarded:
“He assured me that he had completely mastered the essence of ‘Urban Legends’! But in reality, he’s just a half-baked fool! It was his clumsy imitation, his foolish suggestions, that led to the complete failure of ‘An Shizhi’ Season Three! I… I was deceived by him! I easily believed the slanders of this incompetent person!”
Toshihide Takada listened quietly, not interrupting him.
His unfathomable eyes calmly watched the man who, to protect himself, was not hesitant to push all the blame onto his subordinate. A trace of imperceptible contempt flickered in the depths of his eyes.
Of course, he knew Masao Iwata was lying.
He knew his subordinate, who was also his relative, too well: arrogant, incompetent, yet ambitious.
Masao Iwata himself was responsible for at least eighty percent of the failure of “An Shizhi.”
But what did it matter?
He, Toshihide Takada, needed an explanation, a perfect scapegoat to present to the board of directors, to the entire television station, or rather, to the Kanto Faction.
And Ichiro Hashishita, this “traitor” who had defected from the Kanto Faction and had no foundation, was undoubtedly the best candidate.
“Is that so?” Toshihide Takada swirled the amber liquid in his glass and said faintly, “I will send someone to investigate.”
Hearing this, Masao Iwata’s heart, which had been hanging in his throat, finally settled back down.
He knew he had gambled correctly.
He also knew that the several heavy gold bars he had personally delivered to the Deputy Director Takada’s wife, his own cousin, last night had played their part.
“You may go,” Toshihide Takada waved his hand, his demeanor like he was shooing away a fly. “Iwata-kun, Hiroshi Nohara’s rise is unstoppable. Even I can’t do anything about him now. This time, it’s settled.”
He paused, his cold eyes like knives falling on Masao Iwata.
His breath was like a blade:
“But, that one called Ichiro Hashishita… you know what to do.”
“Yes! I understand! I understand everything!”
Masao Iwata felt as if he had been granted a great pardon. He kowtowed heavily again and then retreated from the suffocating office on all fours, in a disheveled state.
‘Phew!’
As the office door closed again, Toshihide Takada downed the whiskey in his glass.
The spicy liquid burned his throat but could not dispel the chill in his heart.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked at the Tokyo Tower, still shining brilliantly. A look of a defeated person’s helplessness appeared on his perpetually gloomy face.
“Asumi…” he muttered to himself, “You, this time, have truly… found a treasure.” Toshihide Takada’s eyes grew even darker.
He intended to use his treasured ‘treasure.’
