Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C54

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Chapter 54: If You Won’t Move, Then I’ll Take the Lead!

The next day, the banner written by was mounted and hung prominently in . The crew buzzed with curiosity, unsure of its meaning. Soon after, Murakami Iori stepped forward to deliver a speech—calm yet firm—that clarified everything. “We’re just one step away from breaking the record!” she declared.

This revelation electrified the team. Most of them had previously struggled to find their footing in the industry, relegated to working on low-priority late-night dramas. Now, they saw an opportunity to boost their credentials and perhaps turn their careers around. Breaking records wasn’t just about immediate benefits—it was about pride. Who wouldn’t want to boast about it?

Murakami hinted at the upcoming time-slot change, emphasizing a bright future ahead. The term “absolute number one” didn’t merely refer to surpassing late-night ratings but represented their collective ambition moving forward.

Inspired, the crew felt invigorated. While no one planned to work themselves to death, their enthusiasm noticeably surged. Complaints during overtime dwindled, and attention to detail sharpened. Requests for rework were met with less grumbling.

Two days later, Chihara completed his primary responsibilities for . Episodes aired up to the ninth, while filming progressed into the eleventh; he’d even submitted the twelfth script ahead of schedule.

With only production meetings, analysis sessions, and casting calls remaining, Chihara entered a rare lull. Murakami suggested giving him an extended break—to handle personal matters, recharge physically and mentally, and prepare for Season 2’s writing demands. But Chihara declined, citing good health and no pressing private affairs. “If I’m idle anyway, why not help out on set? Perhaps as an assistant director?”

His dedication moved Murakami deeply. Even , typically reserved, was impressed enough to grant Chihara hands-on experience. For the first time, Chihara directed scenes under Fujii’s meticulous guidance—a privilege denied to him when he shadowed mentors in the past.

A week flew by. Chihara thrived in his role as “assistant director,” learning rapidly and contributing significantly. He grew so absorbed that he forgot all about , leaving her free to tinker with the computer back at headquarters. Meanwhile, aired on schedule, garnering rave reviews. Ratings climbed further: average 16.22%, peak 19.59%. On the popularity charts, they ascended two spots to secure eighth place.

Breaking the late-night drama record seemed inevitable by . Confidence ran high, and Murakami prepared to fulfill her promise—a celebratory feast funded entirely by her, inviting the entire crew. It would cost at least two months’ salary, but she didn’t bat an eye.

By early , filming neared its end. Smooth progress meant they were slightly ahead of schedule, with less than a week of shooting left, plus another week or so for post-production. Given the special circumstances—back-to-back seasons followed by three months of continuous work—Murakami decided to squeeze in a well-deserved vacation for the crew. She treated them kindly, proving herself a producer with genuine empathy.

However, Chihara’s respite ended abruptly. Murakami ordered him back to headquarters to begin laying groundwork for Season 2. His presence on set was deemed unnecessary now, and Chihara complied without complaint, returning to his usual duties. All that remained was the wrap-up ceremony and banquet.

Computers still served limited purposes: typing practice and audience feedback. Back at his desk, Chihara resumed handwritten scripts using his trusty shorthand notebook. He meticulously revised short stories for Tales of the Unusual, addressing historical inaccuracies and plot holes discovered in hindsight. These edits aimed to elevate script quality further.

Simultaneously, he contemplated taking on apprentices. Some might argue that Murakami and Fujii benefited from his success, but without their collaboration, where would he be? He’d already claimed fame through Tales of the Unusual. Now, it was time to repay those who helped him by nurturing a mature writing team. Should he leave, the show mustn’t falter.

As Chihara outlined Season 2’s episodes—essentially drafting a master plan—he pondered potential disciples. That’s when his chief apprentice burst in unexpectedly.

Michiko sprinted behind the screen, startled to find Chihara there. “Master, what are you doing here?” Her tone betrayed surprise.

Chihara raised an eyebrow. “Is this how you greet your teacher?”

Realizing her faux pas, Michiko bowed hastily. “Master, you’ve worked hard these past days.”

“Enough. Go enjoy your computer,” Chihara teased, waving her off before returning to his tasks.

Michiko grinned, visibly more cheerful than usual. Hanging her bag and coat on the screen, she settled at the desk, powering up the computer with practiced ease. Her eager expression spoke volumes—two hours daily was precious indeed.

Soon, rapid keystrokes filled the room. Chihara paid little mind, immersing himself in work for over an hour. When he paused, the sound persisted. Curiosity piqued, he peeked over Michiko’s shoulder—and gasped.

“What on earth are you doing?” he blurted.

Without looking up, Michiko replied absently, “Collecting berries, Master!”

“No, I mean, what game is this?”

Recognition dawned. A text-based MUD (Multi-User Dungeon), a primitive online RPG! Incredible. How had she advanced so quickly? Was gaming really her forte?

Michiko typed commands with gusto. “It’s called . I found it on a forum—it’s amazing!”

“A forum? How did you learn to browse forums?”

“Shiraki-san taught me.” Michiko answered candidly, comfortable enough with Chihara to hold nothing back.

Chihara sighed inwardly. Online games could be dangerously addictive. Yet, given Michiko’s strict two-hour limit, intervention seemed unnecessary.

Peering at her radiant face—eyes sparkling with joy—he relented. MUDs weren’t the worst offenders among online games; they encouraged imagination. Perhaps indulgence wasn’t harmful.

Pointing at the screen, he advised, “Head east. The monster’s clearly there.”

Still circling westward, Michiko replied, “I know, Master, but it seems too strong. I’ll lose.”

“How do you know unless you try? Give it a shot.”

“No, I’ll die.”

“What’s stopping you? Are you planning to wander forever? Failure builds toward success!”

“But…” Michiko resisted stubbornly.

Frustrated, Chihara grabbed his notebook and lightly tapped her head. “East is the way forward. Staying here is inefficient!”

“You don’t understand, Master. Let me play my way, please?” Michiko pleaded, turning tearful eyes toward him—though her fingers never stopped typing commands accurately.

Chihara marveled. This girl could touch-type already? Likely due to her piano skills—her nimble fingers danced across keys effortlessly.

He shook his head, retreating to his seat. If a college roommate had defied him like this, he’d have taken over immediately. But disciplining a female apprentice somehow felt awkward.

Resuming work, he let half an hour pass before Michiko’s wristwatch beeped.

Reluctantly, she bade farewell—not to Chihara, but to the computer. Tomorrow awaited.

Her sorrowful departure lingered in his mind. Unable to resist, Chihara sat down at the computer, opening the MUD webpage. To his delight, it auto-logged in.

“This foolish disciple,” he muttered. “I told you to head east. Fine then—if you won’t move, I will!”

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