Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C37

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Chapter 37: If We Really Could Secure the Top Spot...

’s reputation within the production team was stellar. He always carried a gentle smile, and despite being one of the three key figures in the creative group, he rarely refused requests for help. During his downtime, he enjoyed chatting with others, listening to industry gossip and anecdotes. Even Fujii Arima, who had occasionally bumped into Chihara’s subtle resistance when overstepping boundaries, found him remarkably pleasant to work with after some time. As long as you didn’t meddle in his craft, Chihara was easygoing and approachable—his intense dedication to his work notwithstanding, which everyone respected as a virtue.

But now, though still polite and speaking softly, Chihara displayed an uncharacteristic firmness, insisting that everyone follow his vision. His tone bordered on accusatory: "Is this where your ambition ends? Where has your professionalism gone?"

In high-pressure workplaces like theirs, such accusations carried significant weight. and Fujii Arima exchanged bewildered glances, unsure what had triggered this sudden outburst from their usually composed screenwriter. Every drama followed the same trajectory: stabilize ratings, gradually build word-of-mouth. Did Chihara expect overnight success?

Why was he in such a hurry?

Murakami shook her head in confusion. "Being proactive is great, and your points make sense. But how do we tap into potential viewers? Our budget can’t support large-scale promotions."

She sighed inwardly. This idea wasn’t new; anyone could think of it. Yet without funds, all talk was futile. Had she the resources, she’d have plastered posters across every street corner long ago—no need for Chihara’s reminders. She prided herself on her dedication; hadn’t she worked herself to exhaustion, her face visibly swollen?

"Budget constraints are indeed a challenge," Chihara acknowledged, his voice calm but resolute. "But there are ways around it. For instance, we could leverage external forces for promotion... What if we invited idols to appear in our show?"

"Idols?" Fujii straightened up, intrigued yet skeptical. "You want us to cast idols?"

had seen two distinct waves. The first emerged in the 1970s and ’80s during the global music boom. Unlike singers, whose artistry lay in interpreting songs, idols used songs as vehicles for self-expression. Initially dismissed as “charlatans of the music world,” they were often young and deferential, standing quietly aside when encountering established musicians backstage. However, fueled by the popularity of televised music programs, idols flourished, with top-tier stars earning titles like “” or “National Little Sister.” Groups like the "," "," and "" dominated the scene for years.

But the tide turned as the music craze waned. Music shows were axed due to plummeting ratings, and idols—once celebrated for their perfection—became repetitive and uninspiring, leading to audience fatigue. Abandoned by networks, many faded into obscurity, while a lucky few transitioned into singing or acting careers.

Then came the second wave of idols, born out of Japan’s collapse. These idols embraced imperfection, showcasing quirks and vulnerabilities that allowed fans to witness their growth. By 1992–93, as Japan’s economic decline began, so too did this resurgence. Though not yet widely recognized, Chihara believed these idols still held value. While their influence paled compared to future decades, their fanbases were substantial enough to accelerate a ’s momentum.

In essence, Chihara sought to harness these fanbases, encouraging them to promote the show organically. Fans would watch out of loyalty—and coerce friends to join them—even staying up until midnight. Once hooked, they’d stick around, bolstering ratings.

Moreover, idols benefited from increased exposure, elevating their status and attracting more followers. It was a win-win proposition.

Chihara laid out his plan transparently to his partners. "We’ve proven audiences can embrace this type of late-night drama. Now, I propose inviting to participate, converting their fans into our viewers. They’re unlikely to refuse—it’s mutually beneficial. What do you think?"

Even if results faltered, he wanted to try. Every additional viewer mattered. Once he set a goal, he refused to sit idle.

Murakami sank into contemplation, while Fujii rubbed his temples hesitantly. "Is this feasible? Their acting skills..."

Though logical, the idea unsettled him. In Japan, writers were revered as educators shaping national intellect, and television dramas, though less prestigious, still carried cultural cachet as “soul-soothing” content. Regardless of genre, “inspiration” was paramount. Even villains needed redeeming qualities—tenacity, resilience. Heroes must embody unwavering determination, inspiring belief that perseverance led to happiness. That was the hallmark of 1990s TV.

already pushed boundaries as a late-night drama. Adding idols might lower its prestige further. Besides, weren’t idols primarily singers and dancers? Could they act at all? Inviting untrained performers seemed reckless—risking their hard-earned progress.

Murakami shared similar doubts. Idols typically appeared on variety shows as comedic fodder. Few ventured into scripted roles due to limited acting abilities. Such collaborations were rare, making outcomes unpredictable.

Silence fell between them—not outright rejection, but no endorsement either. Chihara felt exasperated. Traditional mindsets were stubborn to shift. In later eras, even mediocre idols landed film roles, prioritizing entertainment over substance. Yet here, people clung to notions of dignity and educational merit.

Entertainment products shouldn’t concern themselves with lofty ideals, he thought. Why cling to pretense?

Undeterred, Chihara pressed on. "They may lack acting skills, but they’ll expedite our momentum. Only through bold moves can we achieve miracles this season."

He paused, exhaling softly. "Perhaps you’d settle for 4–5% average ratings and peaks of 8–10%. But why stop there? Why not strive for greatness? I’ve researched the highest-rated late-night drama—it reached 17.1%. We have a real chance to break that record."

Murakami’s eyes widened. "Break the record? You mean... secure ?"

Fujii echoed faintly, "The throne of supremacy? Is that possible?"

"Anything is possible if we act. I’m a rookie screenwriter, Murakami-san a novice producer, and Fujii-kun, despite past setbacks, essentially a newcomer director. If we claim the top spot in our debut season, nothing could better validate our worth!"

"We can push harder. Opportunities like this don’t come often. Time is precious—I won’t waste it. I aim for , for the top spot, and I want it this season. Whether you share my ambition is something only you can decide."

"I’ve said my piece. Please forgive any offense caused."

Chihara fell silent, awaiting their verdict. His resolve alone wasn’t enough; both Murakami and Fujii needed to back him. Fujii, lost in thought, pulled out a cigarette but remembered they were in the studio and began absentmindedly rolling the tobacco between his fingers.

A mere 2.27% average rating, and already talk of seizing the top spot? Wasn’t this madness? Yet... enticing madness. Was such a feat truly within reach?

Idols relied on fanbases for survival, true, but could those fans really wield such power?

Murakami deliberated, weighing options. Finally, she looked at Chihara’s serene expression, recalling the moment they first met. Suddenly, clarity struck—this man had always been relentlessly goal-oriented. He’d made up his mind to carve out a place in the industry, driven by immense ambition that brooked no delay.

His message was clear: he championed aggressive action, rejecting complacency. To oppose him was to stand in the way of his ambitions—a role she realized she couldn’t fill. If she chose stagnation, she’d become an obstacle he’d discard without hesitation.

Ten days ago, she’d called him soft-hearted. Now, she saw the truth—he was ruthlessly determined. Hindering his goals meant instant dismissal.

Yet, striving for the sweetest fruit through maximum effort... Could they achieve more? Secure the top spot this season? Was casting idols viable?

The top spot... If they really secured it...

And if they failed, what losses would follow?

Her thoughts churned for several seconds before she abruptly turned to Fujii. "Fujii-kun, I want the top spot. What about you?"

She’d decided—together, they’d embark on this ambitious journey!

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