Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C53

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Chapter 53: The Absolute Top Spot

What considered an utterly mindless typing game kept Michiko, the precocious young girl, engrossed for nearly two hours. When she finally left, it was with visible reluctance—this crude program seemed more captivating to her than manga itself. Early the next morning, the ratings report for the ninth episode of arrived.

The data was promising. The average time-slot rating hit 14.42%, with a peak of 18.51%. However, the audience share saw only modest growth, suggesting that these new viewers still didn’t belong to the traditional late-night drama demographic. Still, their ranking on the national popularity charts climbed, displacing a variety show from and pushing it down to eleventh place while securing tenth for themselves.

The newspapers played along, heaping praise as if they’d seen this success coming all along. They marveled at how a low-budget midnight drama managed what typically required blockbuster funding—cracking the top ten nationwide. “A true dark horse!” they declared, adding a jab at Kanto United TV: “Their flagship program couldn’t even outperform Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting’s (TEB) late-night offering. Dreams of becoming the sixth major network? Forget it. Better stick to your lane.”

Meanwhile, TEB’s heavily promoted new series had flopped spectacularly—a public embarrassment. But in an unexpected twist, this scrappy underdog team surged into the spotlight, delivering not just solid ratings but glowing reviews. Morale soared, and Murakami Iori emerged from the producers’ meeting beaming, practically giddy with delight.

As usual, she corralled her two key creative collaborators—Chihara Rinto and —into a small conference room. First order of business? Delivering good news.

First, the production bureau, pleased with their efforts, awarded bonuses to everyone on the creative team— per person.

Second, whispers suggested Tales of the Unusual might soon move out of its cursed midnight slot!

Murakami shared the updates with uncharacteristic glee, her radiant smile revealing a rare glimpse of feminine charm. Both Chihara and Fujii leaned forward simultaneously. “You’re serious about the time-slot change?”

Neither cared much about the bonus, but escaping the graveyard shift? That was worth celebrating.

Murakami nodded emphatically. “No official announcement yet—it’ll likely happen next season. We’re looking at prime evening slots, like 8 or 9 PM on regular weekdays. Keep it quiet for now; I heard this through unofficial channels.”

In Japan, Monday nights reigned supreme for television programming—specifically the 8 and 9 PM slots. Perhaps it was because people spent weekends partying and returned home Monday evenings ready to unwind in front of the TV. Next came Friday, Saturday, and Sunday afternoons, catering to kids who were loyal viewers before the internet age. Finally, weekday primetime followed closely behind, often referred to as due to naturally higher viewership compared to midnight broadcasts.

Previously, Happiness in the Fields occupied the coveted 8 PM weekday slot—an indicator of high expectations from the production bureau. Its failure must have been crushing, leaving the reserved timeslot vacant. Now, thanks to Tales of the Unusual’s unexpected success, the slot seemed destined for them—a promotion to the main battlefield of ratings wars.

Though disappointed they couldn’t switch immediately, Chihara and Fujii understood the delay. Changing mid-season risked alienating loyal viewers who tuned in without prior notice. A misplaced broadcast could feel like betrayal, something no station dared provoke lightly. Even minor scheduling errors warranted apologies.

Still, the prospect of moving up—even by next season—was thrilling. For fifteen minutes, the trio basked in euphoria. Chihara felt vindicated; his unconventional strategies hadn’t gone to waste. This leap shaved months, possibly years, off his career trajectory. Without such tangible proof of audience potential, the programming committee wouldn’t consider shifting their timeslot—they might have funded another pilot instead.

Eventually, they turned to the ratings report. Analyzing the numbers felt almost redundant amidst such stellar growth. Yet professional discipline prevailed—or tried to. Watching those figures climb was intoxicating, akin to witnessing a snowball gather momentum down a mountainside.

Fujii Arima stared at the 14.42% average, marveling at how close they were to breaking the late-night record of 17.1%. He recalled when Chihara insisted on targeting the top spot despite languishing at 2.23%. Back then, Chihara’s determination bordered on delusional—but here they were, proving attitude truly shaped destiny. Ambition created opportunities for miracles, and right now, one seemed imminent.

Success wasn’t merely about crafting great scripts anymore. Whatever Chihara lacked in experience, he compensated for with vision. Impulsively, Fujii smacked Chihara’s back in admiration, though he kept his thoughts to himself—it felt oddly embarrassing.

At nearly forty, being inspired by someone half his age stung a little. Had he ever exerted every ounce of brainpower to escape dire straits? Probably not. No wonder his failures seemed inevitable.

Chihara glanced quizzically at Fujii, who simply grinned and changed the subject. “Murakami-san, looks like we’ve got a shot at breaking records. Should we tell the crew?”

Announcing it now wouldn’t pressure them—it would galvanize confidence. Let’s aim for that final push toward a 17.1% average!

Murakami nodded thoughtfully. “I think so. How about making a banner for the studio? Something visible daily to remind everyone of our goal.”

“Great idea,” Fujii agreed. “But what should it say?”

“Simple and direct: ‘.’” Murakami turned to Chihara. “What do you think?”

Chihara was lost in thought, eyeing the current chart-topper. Despite their hard work over three months, coaxing viewers into watching, they barely matched the natural audience base of shows premiering in other slots. Ousting the reigning champion—with a staggering 30.5% average—seemed impossible. Even among winter dramas nearing their finale, the top five boasted averages above 22%. Sixth place hovered just above 20%, tantalizingly within reach.

With the late-night record virtually secured, Chihara’s ambitions shifted. His sights set on primetime glory—imagine starting a season with a built-in 15% audience, bolstered by accumulated goodwill. With effort, claiming the top spot suddenly felt achievable. And once crowned the undisputed number one drama of the season, opportunities abounded—perhaps even blockbuster projects awaited.

Lost in reverie, he shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m fine either way. You decide.”

Plans proceeded smoothly. A late-night number one no longer impressed him—he aimed higher. Meanwhile, Murakami eagerly fetched the “Four Treasures of the Study”—a dish, inkpot, stack of paper, and brush. In Japan, banners declaring aspirations like “World Domination” or “Caution: Fire Hazard” were commonplace, always ready for inspirational displays.

Among the trio, Fujii, the eldest, deferred penmanship duties. “Murakami-san, as producer, you should write it!”

“No, no,” she protested. “You’re senior—you take the honor.”

“What about Chihara? Without him, we wouldn’t be writing this banner.”

“I’ll pass,” Chihara interjected politely. “This is a shared achievement. Anyone can write it.” Given their ages—one nearly double his own—and workplace hierarchy, claiming the task felt inappropriate. Besides, he cared little for formalities; breaking records mattered more.

After some playful back-and-forth, Fujii relented. Taking a deep breath, he assumed a martial arts stance, preparing to wield the brush. Chihara and Murakami watched expectantly, impressed by his apparent steadiness. After thirty seconds of dramatic posturing, however, Fujii sighed. “To be honest, I can’t write calligraphy. I studied German growing up; Chinese characters aren’t my forte.”

Silence ensued. Really? All that posing for nothing? Fujii looked sheepish. In Japan, proficiency in signified cultural refinement. Admitting ignorance, especially for a director, carried a hint of shame.

Handing the brush to Chihara, he pleaded, “You’re the writer—surely you excel in Kanji studies. Your turn!”

Chihara accepted gracefully, confident in his elementary school training. Though rusty, he believed basic skills remained intact. Standing firm at the desk, he steadied his breath, smoothed the paper, dipped the brush, and unleashed bold strokes. The characters “Absolute Number One” flowed across the page in dynamic cursive. Pausing to critique his work, he frowned slightly. “Not quite right. Maybe Murakami-san should try?”

Fujii examined the script closely. While not flawless, the words exuded upward momentum—a reflection of Chihara’s personality. “Perfect!” he declared enthusiastically.

Murakami concurred. Her own calligraphy tended toward elegance rather than grandeur. She admired Chihara’s boldness. “Let’s use this. I’ll get it mounted professionally.”

Studying the characters again, she grew increasingly fond of them. Softly, she murmured, “Tomorrow, we’ll hang this in the studio. Everyone will know our resolve. From now on, this is our mission—to be the absolute number one and claim the top spot!”

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