Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C47

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Chapter 47: Made the Headlines

Overnight, woke up to find his social capital inexplicably skyrocketing.

Before, aside from the production crew, he barely knew ten people across the entire Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB) building—and half of them were security guards like Maegawa Kenichiro. But the moment he stepped into the office the next morning, it was as if the entire Production Bureau had suddenly remembered: Oh right, we have a new guy.

People started greeting him. Not just polite nods—actual, enthusiastic hellos. What used to be an eight-minute walk to his desk turned into a twenty-five-minute gauntlet of handshakes, small talk, and business card exchanges. He met sixteen new people before even reaching his office—more than he’d met in the previous two months combined. Everyone had something nice to say about his scripts, everyone wanted to “keep in touch,” and everyone made sure he knew they were “just a call away.”

Chihara was baffled. Nothing had changed overnight—or had it? Sure, the show had barely scraped onto the trending charts, but that couldn’t explain this sudden wave of goodwill. Still, he stuck to his plan: head to headquarters, check if the extra funds had cleared, and—if they had—finally buy that computer he’d been eyeing.

The second he stepped into the conference room, practically sprinted over, eyes gleaming. “Chihara-sensei! made the headlines!”

Ah. That explains it.

No wonder everyone was suddenly so friendly. and were probably getting the same treatment. Chihara sighed inwardly. People sure know how to cozy up to a hot stove. Let it go cold, and you’re invisible. Light it up, and suddenly everyone’s throwing logs on—never mind if the damn thing collapses under the weight.

He took the newspaper Shiraki handed him and skimmed the article.

Technically, it wasn’t the front page—no TV drama, no matter how good, was stealing space from national crises. But this was the lead story in the Lifestyle & Entertainment section, and the outlet? The —one of TEB’s own shareholders. Of course.

> “This show possesses a strange, magnetic charm—each episode delivers a fresh surprise. The writing is nothing short of brilliant, as if the screenwriter has cast a spell over the screen, leaving viewers equal parts enchanted and anxious—afraid there won’t be more. Let me say this plainly: this is the best late-night drama in years. Why TEB insists on burying it in the graveyard slot is beyond me, but trust me—it’s worth losing two hours of sleep over.”

The blurb alone was dripping with praise. Chihara skimmed faster, impressed despite himself. Whoever wrote this was a PR genius—even he, the actual writer, felt the urge to rewatch. The critic had clearly done their homework, too, singling out standout episodes with detailed mini-reviews:

“,” “,” “The Mangaka’s Assistant,” “,” “,” “The Detective Taxi,” “,” “,” and “.”

Basically, they’d listed nearly everything—except the idol-starring episodes. Apparently, the critic had no patience for goofy, lighthearted fare. Give them a twist or a mind-bending premise, and they were all in.

Chihara set the paper down, thoughtful. Was this just TEB flexing its media muscle? Or did the critic genuinely love the show? Either way, it was a win. Mainstream press attention meant word-of-mouth would spread faster. All that grinding hadn’t been for nothing.

Sometimes, in work or in life, you just need to push a little harder—and suddenly, something gives. The dam breaks. The tide turns.

He shook out the newspaper to hand it back to Shiraki—but then his eyes caught the article beneath the headline. . He glanced at it idly, then frowned. This wasn’t the usual spin about “ratings are down but the artistry!” No—this piece was throwing shade. Not outright, but the subtext was clear: The director messed up.

Chihara, veteran of internet flame wars and master of spotting passive-aggressive rhetoric, read between the lines—and smelled a rat. To the average viewer? Sure, blame the director. But anyone in the industry knew the truth: casting, editing, final creative control—all of that sat with the producer. The director had responsibility, sure, but not primary responsibility.

Power comes with accountability. The producer could greenlight or veto anything on set. If the show flopped, who else was taking the fall?

This article was misleading. And if Chihara had to guess? After killing off Kondo Airi in Episode 3 and watching ratings nosedive further in Episode 4, was already maneuvering—shifting blame, softening the blow for whatever punishment was coming.

But did Ishii really have the pull to get The Eastern Union Economic News to run damage control right under the main headline? His dad was a managing director in the Production Bureau, but that wasn’t exactly the CEO’s chair. There were at least ten guys with that title. Unless the Ishii family had generational industry clout Chihara didn’t know about…

He scowled, turning it over in his head. Hard to say. He didn’t know Ishii well enough to be sure.

Meanwhile, Shiraki Keima was staring at him with undisguised awe. To be praised so extravagantly by a major paper—and remain completely unfazed? Only a true master could pull that off.

Unable to contain himself, Shiraki blurted: “No wonder you write such incredible stories!”

Chihara nearly jumped out of his skin. Since when were you even here?! He recovered quickly, smiling. “It’s nothing. Here—take the paper back.”

Don’t sneak up on people like that. You’ll give me a heart attack.

He handed it over, not dwelling on the compliment. Of course people loved the show—if he couldn’t pick a dozen standout episodes out of seven hundred, Tales of the Unusual wouldn’t have run for twenty-six years in his original world. That wasn’t luck. That was craftsmanship.

What really interested him now was the trainwreck that was Happiness in the Fields. Watching a big-budget, star-studded flop in real time? That was rare. And delicious.

(Also, his computer. That was important too. Even if the internet was prehistoric, he needed to see what he could work with. Was it true they didn’t even dare upload back then?)

He headed straight to Accounting. The extra funds? Still not cleared. But the accountant assured him Murakami Iori had left instructions—if Chihara needed cash urgently, they could pull from another budget and square it later.

No objections here. Chihara filled out the forms, collected the cash from the safe, and—dragging Shiraki along—went to buy the computer. He didn’t trust anyone else with this. Besides, thanks to his recent burst of productivity (Dual Focus was a gift), he’d stockpiled enough high-quality scripts to keep filming for weeks. Even Murakami had stopped locking him in the writing room.

Money smoothed all paths. Within hours, Chihara had his machine, signed up for internet service, filed reimbursement paperwork, and navigated enough bureaucracy to officially classify the computer as “issued office equipment”—right up there with a company pen.

Then came assembly. No technician needed—he saved 3,000 yen doing it himself. The hardware was primitive, but the manual made it simple. Soon, the beast was humming on his desk, phone line plugged in, modem whirring. Theoretical speed? 33.6 Kbps. Reality? Maybe 3 Kbps—if he was lucky.

And the price tag? 620,000 yen. Mostly thanks to the software licenses. To his surprise, this world’s tech seemed ahead of his original timeline. They already had a polished graphical OS—comparable to , released last August. (He hadn’t even been struck by lightning back then, and the tech was already here? A full year ahead?)

So much for getting rich off this world’s “Microsoft” stock…

No matter. Opportunities would come. For now, he was still borrowing resources from the production. Real financial freedom? That would have to wait until Tales of the Unusual started paying royalties.

He booted up, mouse in hand, and dove into this world’s internet. It was the era of portals. The biggest? “”—complete with a rudimentary search engine, email, and interest-based forums. Still in its infancy, light-years behind what he knew. According to RakuGo, Japan had about 3 million netizens and 1,500 websites. They were the go-to hub for average users.

Feels like early back in China…

After poking around, Chihara realized his other “brilliant” idea was half-dead already. But hey—every little bit helped. No immediate reward? Take the shot anyway. If it makes an impact without breaking any ethical rules, why not?

He officially became this world’s first (self-appointed) internet shill. Typing was a pain—the keyboard layout was wrong—but he powered through. He rewrote Mountain Ghost and AIR Doctor as bite-sized blurbs, then plastered them across every forum and interest group he could find, posing as an excited fan:

> “Stay up late. Watch one episode. You won’t regret it.”

The glacial internet speed made his scalp itch. After an hour, he was ready to throw the machine out the window. Going from broadband to dial-up was like trading a racehorse for a snail.

He turned to Shiraki. “Shiraki-kun. You know how to use a computer, right?”

“A little. Used one in school.”

“Perfect.” Chihara surrendered the keyboard with relief. “Here’s what you do. Find forums in the directory. Register accounts. Then—”

Primitive internet. Primitive shilling. All manual labor. But in 1995, anyone online was someone—an early adopter, an influencer in their circle. If he could hook them, they’d spread the word. Maybe even nudge the ratings up.

If it didn’t work? No loss. Shiraki spent half his time twiddling his thumbs anyway.

Shiraki, thrilled to be entrusted with his first real task, studied the shilling playbook with solemn focus. Then he hesitated, looking at Chihara’s hastily written blurbs. “Chihara-sensei… should these be polished a bit?”

“Do they need to be?”

“They’re a little… dry. Not bad! Just—”

Chihara got it. He wasn’t a prose stylist. If he were, he’d be a novelist, not a screenwriter. “They’re fine as-is. But if you want to tweak them, go ahead.”

“I’ll… I’ll give it a try!”

“Knock yourself out. I’m trusting you with this.”

“Leave it to me, Chihara-sensei!” Shiraki nodded with the solemnity of an honor student entrusted with a sacred mission. He had failed the test last time, but this time, he vowed he would succeed.

Fingers poised (two-finger typing style), he leaned into the screen, ready to wage war for Tales of the Unusual’s online dominance.

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