Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C57

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Chapter 57: Master, Please Have Some Tea

Chihara Rinto underestimated how seriously Murakami Iori took the celebratory banquet. As soon as he stepped out of the car, he spotted two long white lanterns inscribed with the words "" and was left speechless.

This was no trivial detail. In , were revered colors—black for solemnity, white for nobility. As a result, weddings often resembled . For restaurants and , however, hanging white lanterns was a hallmark of prestige. Only high-end establishments dared to display them; mid-tier places used orange lanterns, while cheaper venues had none at all. Take ’s restaurant, for example—no lanterns in sight, signaling its affordability and catering to the common folk.

As for exaggerated claims on the lanterns? That was par for the course, mere puffery. Chihara didn’t believe this place employed an “imperial chef,” though they might have copied recipes from state banquets.

Judging by those striking white lanterns, Chihara estimated that even with contributions from talent agencies, given the venue’s price range and the crew's size, Murakami would likely spend over 500,000 yen—essentially pouring her entire bonus from into the event. She might even dip into her monthly salary. To win hearts, she was sparing no expense.

Murakami, however, appeared unfazed. Leading the group inside, she ushered them toward their destination. The restaurant's culinary quality aside—subjective and debatable—the ambiance was undeniably elegant, and service impeccable. A bevy of young, beautiful waitresses greeted them warmly, helping with coats, guiding them through corridors, and escorting them to the back garden. There, Murakami had reserved an entire (traditional row house).

was visibly surprised by the extravagance. “Isn’t this too much, Murakami-san?”

Murakami smiled gently. “Not at all. Everyone worked hard. They deserve proper thanks. Besides, didn’t I promise we’d go to ? This costs about the same.”

Yoshizaki Shingo, thrilled, chimed in jokingly, “Murakami-san is incredibly generous. Working ourselves to death next season feels worth it now.”

His excitement stemmed not from the lavish meal but from hints he’d received: in Season 2, he wouldn’t serve as assistant director anymore. Instead, he’d become an executive director, overseeing specific scenes.

Tsumura Haruki and Nishijima Jun, the assistant directors, quickly echoed their loyalty, volunteering for similar sacrifices. They too had been tipped off—they’d advance to assistant directors next season, marking a small career leap. Their vacated roles would be filled internally.

In short, the ratings boom heralded the crew’s expansion. Everyone stood to gain—even Chihara Rinto. Soon, a team comprising two episodic writers, three writing assistants, and one general assistant would fall directly under his command. He could finally experience leadership.

He planned to promote to writing assistant—a nod to his diligence, if not brilliance. Spotting the two assistant directors pledging allegiance reminded him of his lone subordinate. Glancing around, he asked curiously, “Where’s Shiraki-kun? Did he not come along?”

Murakami paused, scanning the area. “Didn’t he get in the car?” After a moment’s thought, she sighed. “I’ll call headquarters later. I probably forgot him.”

Chihara exhaled guiltily. It was his fault. When Murakami called him, he’d simply gotten up and left, completely forgetting Shiraki. His oversight made him feel like a subpar supervisor—it highlighted the stark contrast between Murakami’s attentiveness and his own neglect.

They strolled through the corridor, arriving at the rear garden. The setting was exquisite: ponds, bamboo water features, rocks, and flowering trees, styled in (dry landscape) tradition. The courtyard was encircled by three nagayas, each facing inward with sliding doors that opened onto the view. Guests could enjoy drinks and scenery while maintaining privacy due to strategically placed stones and trees.

Murakami had booked an entire nagaya, originally divided into eight private rooms. To accommodate the large gathering—over fifty people—the paper sliding doors had been removed, creating one elongated space. A row of low tables ran down the center, surrounded by cushions embroidered with silk backs. The tatami flooring was top-tier, springy underfoot and warm.

Chihara entered to find many crew members already present, sipping tea and chatting casually. Spotting the creative team, they rose politely to greet them, though the tension typical of the studio was absent here. Chihara, naturally approachable, returned their greetings warmly. No sooner had he settled into the seat of honor than a steaming cup of tea was placed before him. A sweet voice said, “Master, please have some tea.”

Startled, he turned to see his hapless apprentice, . Smiling, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Michiko wore a formal —pale yellow with delicate patterns—and her jet-black hair was tied into an elegant bun. Her doll-like face exuded a peculiar classical beauty, reminiscent of a princess from the transported to modern times. She knelt gracefully beside her nominal master, arranging fruit plates as she spoke. “My mom congratulated Murakami-san on breaking records, and she invited us along.”

Chihara nodded, finding it unsurprising. Murakami clearly favored Michiko, likely planning to cast her again in Season 2—or perhaps inviting her was a gesture of respect toward him. Either way, Murakami’s subtlety and shrewdness ensured everything flowed seamlessly.

Shaking off the thought, he dismissed its importance. Watching Michiko arrange tea and snacks, he chuckled. “That’s enough. You don’t need to fuss over me. Go enjoy yourself!”

Michiko shook her head lightly, smiling sweetly. “No, I’ll stay and serve you. It’s my duty as your disciple.” Lowering her voice after surveying the room, she added candidly, “If I leave, Mom will make me serve others. Master, please let me stay?”

Her implication was clear: serving others was worse than serving Chihara—at least here, she could claim the title of disciple.

Proud yet trusting of Chihara, Michiko sought refuge in his protection. He, always willing to do good deeds when they didn’t interfere with his goals, saw no harm in shielding her. Chuckling, he replied, “Stay then, but don’t fuss too much.”

Michiko promptly lifted the teacup, bowing respectfully. “Thank you, Master. Please have some tea.”

Chihara smiled faintly, taking a sip. Not bad. Having an apprentice attend to him did elevate the atmosphere.

As the room filled with more guests, unfamiliar pretty girls began arriving—new actresses brought by brokers eager to showcase them. These gatherings provided networking opportunities, and climbing the ladder was crucial. Murakami’s willingness to include them balanced the gender ratio, enlivening the atmosphere. Morality aside, such practices were industry norms. Actresses faced fleeting prime years; without patrons, survival often meant compromise.

In this world, nothing came free. Choosing to be an actress without backing meant forfeiting dignity. Without Chihara’s protection, Michiko would be just another server, forced to endure humiliation in private. Such was the harsh reality.

These newcomers, briefed beforehand, eyed Chihara hungrily. Young, handsome, and unmarried, he was far more appealing than Fujii Arima’s bald head. Several approached boldly, vying for Michiko’s spot.

Unfazed outwardly but anxious inwardly, Michiko feared losing her position. She repeatedly offered tea, whispering, “Master, please have some tea.” Her silent plea: Master, remember our bond. Stay strong!

Chihara suddenly realized their dynamic: mutual protection. With Michiko by his side, he avoided unwanted advances. Feigning politeness, he drank copious amounts of tea, ensuring Michiko retained her spot. Mentally, he groaned. Three bowls already? Can’t you hand me a date or something?

Cooperating, Michiko grew bolder. Seeing Chihara reluctant to engage, she intercepted conversations, diplomatically shutting down flirtatious attempts. Defeated, the girls retreated, seeking other targets.

Peace restored, Chihara teased, “I didn’t know you had such sharp wit. Never noticed before.”

Their earlier exchange had been subtle yet effective. Under the guise of filial duty, Michiko deflected advances courteously, leaving interlopers with nothing to say and no reason to linger.

Michiko giggled softly behind her hand. “It’s similar in the advertising world, Master. Models fight fiercely for center stage. In dressing rooms, insults fly—sometimes veiled, sometimes explicit. Verbal sparring is mild compared to sabotage. Glass shards in dance shoes or laxatives in bottled water? I’ve endured plenty, so I learned fast.”

Chihara sobered, humor fading. “You never told your mother?”

“I did, but she couldn’t intervene. She said these trials were inevitable and advised caution.” Realizing the somber turn, Michiko quickly lifted the teacup, smiling brightly. “Enough of that. Today celebrates you, Master. Please have some tea!”

Accepting the cup, Chihara sighed inwardly. Workplace struggles spare no one—not even children. This poor girl, thrust into rivalry, truly deserved her misfortune.

From now on, he resolved silently, I’ll protect her more.

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