Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C45

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Chapter 45: How Did This Show Even Get Here?

For the first time since arriving in this world, heard a knock at his door in the middle of the night. He glanced out the window and saw only darkness—pitch-black, not even a hint of dawn. For a moment, he froze, disoriented.

Truth be told, he didn’t feel particularly safe here. Anyone thrust into an unfamiliar country would naturally feel uneasy, though someone like him wouldn’t let it show on his face. It would take more time, perhaps achieving some level of social standing or financial stability, before he could truly settle into a sense of security. Maybe that was why, deep down, he felt such urgency to succeed.

He sat on his , staring blankly for a few seconds as the knocking paused, then resumed with renewed insistence. Finally snapping out of it, he hurried to the door and peered through the peephole. Seeing the apartment manager outside eased his tension slightly—but only slightly.

Even with that half-baked system of his, he knew better than to let his guard down. That so-called “helpful” system had zero combat capability. If something unexpected happened, he’d be just as vulnerable as any ordinary person—probably reduced to screaming for help.

Cracking the door open just wide enough to speak, he asked politely, “What’s the matter? It’s late.”

The manager’s wrinkled face scowled back at him. “Chihara-san, there’s a call for you,” he grumbled.

Technically, part of his job included taking messages for tenants, but being woken up in the middle of the night for this? That felt excessive. Still, when the woman on the other end of the line had pleaded with him, what choice did he have? He couldn’t very well refuse.

“Who’s calling?” Chihara asked.

“A lady called Murakami.”

Hearing her name brought both relief and concern. A call in the dead of night usually meant trouble—and trouble rarely came bearing good news. Had the set caught fire? Been robbed? Or worse, had one of their key actors been in an accident? Surely the director hadn’t fallen into a ditch and gotten injured?

Throwing on a coat, Chihara followed the manager downstairs, apologizing along the way. The manager muttered something about getting a cellphone—or at least a pager—and not dragging him out of bed again. After all, he’d taken this job hoping for a quiet retirement, not to deal with these kinds of headaches.

Chihara apologized once more before picking up the phone in the management office. His voice carried a note of apprehension as he asked, “Murakami-san? Is everything okay on set? Hello? Hello?”

Silence greeted him from the other end. His anxiety spiked. Don’t tell me something happened to you, you broad-shouldered skeleton. If anything went wrong with her, his entire plan would collapse.

He gripped the receiver tightly and called out, “Murakami-san, are you there? What’s going on? Hello…?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” came Murakami Iori’s voice, finally breaking the silence. “I just went to get some water…” In truth, she’d gone to use the restroom—it was the middle of the night, after all—but that wasn’t exactly something you admitted over the phone. She quickly added, “Sorry, I realized after making the call that it might’ve been inappropriate. There’s no real emergency; I just wanted to share some good news with you right away.”

“What good news?” Chihara asked, his worry easing but his irritation flaring. What kind of stunt are you pulling, calling me in the middle of the night? You nearly scared me out of my skin!

“A college from the stats department called me earlier,” Murakami explained, her excitement growing as she spoke. “The ratings for episode three are out, and they’re unbelievable!”

Chihara’s heart began to race. Something told him the numbers weren’t terrible, but he still swallowed hard before asking, “What are they?”

“An average of 7.23% per timeslot, with a peak rating of 10.12%!” Murakami blurted out. She’d been having a nightmare when the phone woke her, and upon answering, she found herself congratulated by her colleague from the stats department. After thanking them somewhat dazedly, she suddenly remembered who deserved the credit most and dialed Chihara without hesitation.

Once the call connected, however, doubt crept in. Calling so impulsively made her seem unprofessional, but hanging up now would only invite another call back—which would be even ruder. So she waited… and waited… until nature called, forcing her to dash to the bathroom.

By the time she finished talking, she noticed the line had gone silent. Panicking, she asked, “Chihara, are you still there?”

“I’m here,” he replied, finally regaining his composure. A chuckle escaped him. “These results are finally respectable.”

“Respectable? They’re incredible!” Murakami exclaimed. “We doubled our audience size! Our peak rating broke 10%! I never imagined…”

“Well, we started with such a low baseline,” Chihara said, trying to temper her enthusiasm. “Don’t expect miracles like this every time.” But despite his words, he couldn’t deny the thrill coursing through him. Success was intoxicating, and he chuckled as he asked, “Have you told Fujii-kun yet?”

“Not yet. You deserved to know first.” Murakami’s tone softened as she reflected on how much Chihara’s persistence had contributed to their success. Without his stubborn determination, who knows how long they’d have had to wait for results like these—or if they’d ever achieve them at all. Time was precious in the industry, and even a year’s head start could make all the difference ten years down the road.

Chihara acknowledged her praise graciously. Humble as she was, she was still the boss, and you didn’t dismiss someone simply because they seemed approachable. Once the pleasantries were exchanged, he glanced at the clock—4:50 AM—and chuckled again. “Well, go ahead and call him. No reason for us to hog the joy.”

They were teammates, after all. Sharing triumphs—and tribulations—was part of the deal. If he’d been dragged out of bed, Fujii wasn’t getting off easy either.

“Got it. I’ll call him right away,” Murakami said cheerfully. In her current state of elation, she’d agree to just about anything—even meeting up for drinks at that hour without washing her face. Her voice brimmed with energy as she added, “Once we have the detailed charts, let’s discuss further.”

“No problem.” Chihara hung up and discovered the manager had already retired to his chair, snoring softly. Smiling, he turned off the lights, locked up, and headed back upstairs, buzzing with excitement.

Finally, things were starting to look promising. The 3% average rating before? To anyone who didn’t know better, it looked like he was just some struggling screenwriter in the era when the internet ruled everything. Now, with averages at 7% and peaks hitting 10%, they were finally playing in the big leagues.

At last, the light at the end of the tunnel was visible.

---

When the workday began, Murakami returned from the producer’s meeting armed with detailed graphs. The trio, all groggy from lack of sleep, huddled together to analyze the data.

Unlike the previous episode’s steady trendline, this one showed a sharp spike during the idol’s performance segment, reaching the record-breaking peak of 10.12%. However, viewership plummeted to 6.52% during the third short drama before stabilizing and holding steady until the episode’s conclusion.

Chihara nodded approvingly. Sure, many viewers tuned out after their favorite idol appeared, but enough stayed behind to form a loyal core audience. With solid retention rates and positive momentum, the plan was clearly working. There was little left to debate—they agreed to press forward confidently and returned to their respective tasks.

Chihara accompanied Fujii Arima to the set, where he now commanded noticeably more authority. Whenever Fujii hesitated on a decision, he sought Chihara’s input, engaging him in discussions about filming techniques and no longer treating him merely as a screenwriter.

In turn, Chihara offered suggestions while humbly seeking advice on the unique conventions of . Balancing scriptwriting with hands-on experience on set, he spent the day immersed in the creative process. By evening, he headed to headquarters to grab a newspaper, intending to review it at home. But stepping inside, he spotted still seated, glued to the TV.

“Getting interested in the show?” Chihara teased.

Shiraki jumped up, embarrassed. “Kind of… I wanted to figure out why the ratings dropped…” He hesitated before continuing, “I read in the paper that ’ third episode saw another decline.”

Chihara shrugged, gesturing for him to continue watching. Audience behavior was always a mystery and not something that could be figured out easily. Personally, he suspected the abundance of talented actors had inadvertently transformed the series into an ensemble drama rather than a hero-centric narrative, which likely contributed to the drop. But differing opinions were inevitable—after all, perspectives varied.

Agreeing to disagree was the mature approach. The days of witch hunts and public shaming were long gone; dismissing others outright wasn’t productive. Free thought was valuable, and he admired Shiraki’s dedication to uncovering answers. Leaving him to his research, Chihara picked up the newspaper, deciding to stick around a bit longer.

Flipping through, he skimmed coverage of Happiness in the Fields. His former girlfriend, , had met a swift demise—a clear attempt by the writers to win back disgruntled viewers. Unfortunately, the execution felt rushed, almost careless. An arrow to the forehead, no dramatic farewell, and she was written off entirely.

It was a blow to the script, rendering earlier setups pointless, and devastating for Kondo herself. As a newcomer, landing a role in a major production was a rare opportunity. Even if her performance faltered, a successful show would’ve boosted her career significantly. Instead, the abrupt dismissal suggested the creators blamed her for the ratings slump.

Effectively abandoned by the production team, her future prospects looked grim.

Shaking his head, Chihara scanned the newspaper further. True to form, championed Happiness in the Fields, offering glowing reviews alongside generous praise for . Yet despite the favorable write-up, the latter failed to crack the trending charts—a testament to its modest reach.

Curious, Chihara flipped through other publications, searching for critical takes on the idols’ performances. Surprisingly, none surfaced. Most critics either failed to recognize the idols or dismissed them outright. Late-night dramas were notorious for their shoestring budgets, so expectations remained low. Mediocre acting from newcomers barely warranted mention—this show lived or died by its script, which wasn’t up for debate.

He suspected critics harbored similar sentiments, nodding to himself as he confirmed his suspicions.

Reassured that their show remained untarnished, he indulged in observing the chaos surrounding Happiness in the Fields. Patience among reviewers appeared to be wearing thin, leading to increasingly harsh critiques. Some even fantasized about rewriting episodes themselves.

Chihara finished reading with a shrug. This was the entertainment industry: winners took all, losers bore the brunt of criticism. Nothing unusual there.

Gathering his belongings, he prepared to leave, forgetting to bid farewell to Shiraki, who remained engrossed in rewatching episodes one through three, determined to uncover the perfect explanation.

The following week passed quietly, save for his senior disciple dropping by briefly to announce passing an audition and joining a new project. Episode four aired smoothly, delivering steadily climbing ratings—though not quite matching episode three’s surge. The average hit 8.42%, with a peak of 12.8%, miraculously securing the final spot on the trending list.

Yet public reaction felt strangely muted, as if everyone were in shock.

When was the last time a late-night drama had cracked those rankings? Five years ago? Six?

How had this show climbed so high?

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