Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C40

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Chapter 40: A Facade of Kindness

, though young, had a mind far older than her years. had been casually joking, but she momentarily misinterpreted his words. After a brief silence, she softly asked, "Master, are you still upset about what happened before? I really was rude back then. If you're still bothered, I can offer a sincere apology."

"Hmm? No, it's just a joke. Don't overthink it," Chihara replied, surprised by the sudden shift in the conversation. He genuinely didn’t hold any grudges about her attitude after the audition. Adults sometimes lost their composure—let alone children. He wasn’t someone who harbored resentment for minor offenses. Moreover, Michiko had proven herself quite perceptive since then. After regaining her emotional balance, especially after seeking help, she’d been consistently polite, quickly reigning in occasional outbursts. What had happened was water under the bridge.

Michiko studied him closely, as if doubting his sincerity, and whispered, "Regardless, it was my fault. I lost control of my emotions. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet I lashed out at you. Later, I realized I was mostly to blame."

"Why do you say that?" Chihara spread out his manuscript paper but continued chatting. Keeping this unfortunate child around had its benefits—it greatly alleviated his loneliness in a foreign land.

"Over a year ago, Mom took me to film an advertisement. I didn’t want to go and threw a tantrum, but she forced me there anyway. When we arrived, I got angry on set and refused to cooperate. We didn’t finish shooting that day, and the director scolded Mom severely…"

"What happened next?"

Michiko’s face grew somber as she murmured, "That night, when we got home, Mom beat me with a small bamboo stick. It hurt so much I cried nonstop, but she kept hitting me. In the end, she locked me in the closet."

"This… nothing serious happened afterward, right?" Chihara paused, unsure how to respond. While some children might need tough love, something about the story felt off.

Michiko lowered her head, letting her bangs cast shadows over her large eyes. Calmly, she said, "Master, don’t worry. Nothing serious happened. She let me out after half an hour, then hugged me and cried, apologizing. She said opportunities were rare and that enduring hardship was necessary to succeed. Then she blamed herself for being useless, saying this was her only dream and asking me to help her… I didn’t understand why at the time, but I ended up crying with her and promised to try harder."

She paused, her head bowing even lower, her voice barely audible. "The next day, we reshot the ad, but it didn’t get much attention. Mom was disappointed and started desperately looking for more acting gigs. Sometimes, we waited outside studios for hours, enduring insults, and she managed to book me some minor roles here and there."

"Then came the audition?"

"Yes. I panicked because I didn’t want to move forward anymore. I thought I faked my performance well during the audition and assumed I’d failed. I figured I’d continue taking sporadic modeling jobs onwards until Mom eventually gave up her celebrity dreams. But then…" Michiko’s face disappeared entirely into shadow as she whispered, "I don’t know how I slipped up, but you noticed. That’s why I got so angry. Later, I realized I was actually mad at myself—for not sticking to my resolve earlier and now feeling powerless to change anything… I’m sorry."

"I told you, it’s fine. Forget about it," Chihara sighed. Even if he had been upset, hearing all this erased any lingering resentment. Gently, he reassured her, "Don’t think your master is so petty. Stop worrying—I truly don’t mind. Just stay here and relax."

"Thank you, Master." Michiko bowed deeply, then added softly, "As for the upcoming auditions, pretending to be clueless won’t work anymore. If I fail, Mom will definitely investigate why. There’s no point wasting effort."

"You’re right. All I can say is good luck," Chihara sighed. He had no better advice to offer. Failing the audition was her only chance to escape acting. Without luck, once she entered a set, poor performance would anger the director, and the entire crew’s disapproval could crush her spirit.

Just like when she played Miho—under glaring lights, cameras rolling, director scrutinizing, and staff surrounding her, who could slack off under such intense observation? Any delay would sour the atmosphere, terrifying the actor.

Moreover, her mother wasn’t one to relent. Likely, she’d hover over Michiko, ensuring diligent performance while dragging her around to ingratiate themselves with the crew by handing out drinks and snacks.

"Yes, Master. Hopefully, I’ll have good luck," Michiko murmured before pulling out a comic book to make the most of her final moments of leisure that week.

With that, their conversation ended. Chihara returned to writing his script, though his thoughts lingered.

Her sudden confession stemmed from fear of being sent away—or unable to return after leaving for auditions. Clearly, she cherished these two hours of freedom.

Her youth was both her greatest asset and liability. She likely dreamed of escaping her mother’s grasp temporarily, perhaps even running away. But did she even have a bank account? How long could she survive on her own? Would she break down within days or be escorted home by police within hours?

Given her maturity, she wouldn’t attempt such childish folly. Perhaps it was precisely because she wasn’t childlike that she yearned for change, yet lacked the means to achieve it. This impotence made her frustration and anger all the more acute.

As for legal action, she probably deemed it futile. ’s feudal remnants persisted strongly in ; gender equality remained unresolved, let alone protections for children’s mental health. ’s relentless drive might earn applause from judges, possibly even a “Best Mother” award.

After all, the 1990s weren’t 2019. Countless students succumbed to parental pressure, depression, and suicide while pursuing elite schools. By the 21st century, such tragedies became rarer. Michiko’s situation echoed those struggles.

Chihara began appreciating modern progress. Living through it felt unremarkable, but stepping back decades highlighted stark differences.

Lost in thought, he continued crafting a new short episode. Time flew, and by six o’clock, Michiko stood up as her watch alarm sounded. Carefully stowing her comic book in a drawer, she turned to Chihara and said, "Master, thank you for having me. I should go."

Chihara waved dismissively, replying warmly, "Go ahead." Pausing briefly, he added, "If you ever feel too tired or overwhelmed and need some time alone, tell your mom I assigned you to rewrite Sonata for the Upside-Down Girl. Scribble something random—it’ll buy you an hour or two of rest. If she objects, have her call me."

Michiko nodded shallowly, bowed again, and left with her little bag.

Watching her retreating figure, Chihara shook his head inwardly. This unfortunate child didn’t aspire to be a shut-in—"dry fish" in slang—but merely craved a normal childhood. Yet circumstances denied her that luxury. Tragic, but his ability to help was limited.

He’d already intervened enough. Deeper involvement risked complications jeopardizing his current plans. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t a genuinely kind person—only extending convenient aid. Sacrificing himself for others’ troubles wasn’t his style. At best, he wore a mask of kindness.

Somewhat shameless, indeed.

Refocusing on work, he recalled a high school classmate and close friend. That person, having endured immense suffering, possessed extraordinary empathy. Quiet and reserved, they embodied true goodness. Spotting Michiko’s plight, they’d likely intervene wholeheartedly.

Unfortunately, academic aptitude and fortune eluded them—they’d barely scraped into a second-tier university. Who knew where life had taken them now?

Chihara dismissed the thought. Reunion was improbable; dwelling on it served no purpose.

---

For five full days, Chihara didn’t see Michiko. Meanwhile, the broadcast of Tales of the Unusual's second episode approached; Chihara could sense swelling again.

Before the premiere, her anxiety over potential low ratings caused facial swelling. The decent debut numbers brought relief, but anticipation for the second episode reignited stress, causing her face to bloat anew.

Thus, her three months oscillated between swelling and subsiding.

Still, she remained industrious. Supporting filming efforts while negotiating fervently with idol agencies yielded promising results. For idols, TV appearances—even late-night slots—were coveted. Fresh from a harsh winter, their primary income stemmed from merchandise sales in tiny theaters and performances at bars and malls. Expanding influence was crucial.

According to Murakami’s updates at production meetings, idol agencies expressed high interest, viewing participation as a prestige boost. However, skepticism lingered—they feared it was a prank disguised as a variety show segment, humiliating idols on camera.

Repeated probing led them to declare willingness to participate regardless, provided pranks remained moderate and preserved idols’ core images—their livelihood. Activities like suspension bondage, wax dousing, or dressing-room ambushes were unacceptable.

"If such designs exist, we can provide comedians instead," they stated firmly.

Ultimately, Murakami expended considerable effort proving sincerity, leading to bargaining. She demanded idols organize at least two large fan support events weekly and required trainees to conduct three full-day street promotions in . In return, Tales of the Unusual guaranteed starring roles preserving idols’ dignity.

Agencies acquiesced readily, accustomed to frequent events for revenue and talent cultivation. Murakami assured sending participants to the studio the following week, selecting one female and one male group. Filming aimed to incorporate them into episodes three and four promptly.

Director Fujii Arima frowned but refrained from opposition. He’d wait for data from episodes three and four before protesting. Meanwhile, he shared concerns about the second episode’s ratings.

Television production faced a unique challenge: unpredictability. Diligence ensured quality in manufacturing, but TV success relied heavily on intangibles. Even flawless execution risked failure.

It wasn’t uncommon for a widely acclaimed first episode to trigger mass abandonment by the second. Human psychology baffled industry professionals daily.

Amid their hustle and worry, Tales of the Unusual's second episode aired...

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