Absolute Number One C64

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Chapter 64: Don’t Ruin My Reputation

Chihara Rinto bid farewell to Murakami Iori after lunch, and she promised to seriously consider whether to resign directly from Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB). This wasn’t mere coyness—it was the lingering trauma of being bitten by a snake, leaving her wary of wells for years to come. She truly didn’t want to burden anyone else, especially since the programming committee’s dismissal of her abilities had inflicted psychological wounds. Chihara suspected she might be grappling with self-doubt, making it difficult for her to decide quickly.

He understood and was willing to wait a few days. After all, while soldiers were easy to find, capable generals were rare. Murakami may have been mediocre as a leader, but she possessed undeniable potential to shoulder responsibilities independently.

They had eaten lunch at Blue Dot Bar—a peculiar yet versatile establishment. The bartender doubled as a mixologist, psychologist, chef, and tea master. The omelet rice he prepared was surprisingly delicious, and afterward, he played a soothing saxophone tune, followed by brewing an afternoon detox tea. His multifaceted talents left Chihara slightly paranoid on his way home—this guy could easily moonlight as a gigolo, informant, assassin, or retired spy without raising eyebrows. 

Could he be the protagonist of some urban novel? The kind who pretends to loaf around despite having extraordinary skills…

Lost in thought, Chihara returned home and immediately began studying a list to determine which television network he should target next. TEB was out of the question; he needed a new benefactor for his projects. Each station had its unique characteristics, so identifying the right employer would dictate what kind of work he should prepare. Regardless of whether Murakami joined him, finding a new platform was urgent—to catch the spring season lineup.

Excluding TEB, only four major networks and one ambitious upstart, Kanto United TV, remained viable options. Chihara started eliminating them one by one.

First to go was Kanto United TV—not because it lacked national broadcasting rights. It wasn’t weak either, managing to air programs across Japan’s key regions, just shy of ascending to the top tier. However, it faced fierce resistance from the Big Five, akin to scoring against five goalkeepers simultaneously.

The primary reason for exclusion stemmed from Chihara’s growing familiarity with the industry. He suspected Kanto United corresponded to the infamous TV Tokyo—a station notorious for airing anime nonstop, even during apocalyptic events like meteor showers threatening Tokyo. By the 21st century, it had become an industry joke.

This wasn’t always the case. In its early days, it harbored grand ambitions to become Japan’s sixth major network, particularly during television’s golden age. But late entry into the market, coupled with a lack of talent and heritage in its production bureau, left it trailing far behind the Big Five in rankings, reputation, awards, and affiliate recruitment.

When the internet boom hit, it tried leveraging ties with Japan’s leading portal site instead of traditional media conglomerates. Flush with foreign venture capital, it poached talent aggressively, producing several successful shows that briefly elevated its status. However, the Big Five swiftly retaliated, accusing it of colluding with overseas funds to amplify certain voices. Amid rising anti-American sentiment due to frequent misconduct by U.S. military personnel stationed in Japan, public backlash intensified. Boycotts ensued, culminating in legal battles forcing the withdrawal of foreign investment.

Devastated, the station entered a vicious cycle: tarnished reputation led to poor ratings, low ad revenue, insufficient budgets, declining program quality, and further plummeting viewership. With its production bureau nearly deserted, it resorted to filling airtime by purchasing anime broadcasting rights—not full licenses—from neighboring animation studios. Surprisingly, this catered to Japan’s burgeoning otaku culture, stabilizing ratings somewhat. Other genres faltered against the Big Five, so it abandoned them entirely, doubling down on anime.

If Kanto United mirrored TV Tokyo’s trajectory—even remotely—Chihara wanted no part of it unless absolutely necessary.

Next, he ruled out Nippon Hoso Kyokai (NHK).

Joining NHK, funded primarily by mandatory viewer fees, came with pros and cons.

On the upside, NHK was wealthy, splurging on high-quality productions. It once spent 100 million yen on a 45-minute documentary—unthinkable for commercial stations where proposing such budgets could get producers fired instantly.

On the downside, NHK cared little about ratings, assured of steady income regardless of performance unless scandals struck. Internal factionalism ran rampant, with invisible proxies representing various political forces engaging in constant power struggles. Careers often ended abruptly due to office politics. Seniority reigned supreme, making life tough for newcomers regardless of talent—they’d start by running errands and showing deference.

Thus, Chihara dismissed NHK, leaving three contenders: Asahi TV, Nippon TV, and Fuji TV.

Each had distinct preferences. Asahi TV favored professional dramas featuring doctors, lawyers, teachers, or detectives, along with crime thrillers. Fuji TV specialized in romance series with little else noteworthy. Nippon TV, however, seemed destined to dominate variety shows in its heyday, emerging victorious over the other four giants for nearly a decade. At its peak, it achieved triple crowns annually—topping all-day, prime-time, and flagship slot ratings consecutively. Its dominance extended to sweeping charts, occupying nine out of ten spots in annual popularity lists with two national hits, three reality shows, and four variety programs.

Given this, Nippon TV appeared the best fit. If chosen, Chihara could afford to lower personal demands given its strong platform and future prospects. Next came Fuji TV and Asahi TV—if conditions aligned, hesitation wasn’t warranted. Kanto United and NHK required exorbitant offers to justify risks.

Confident in securing new employment, Chihara reflected that times had changed since his arrival. Now semi-famous, other networks wouldn’t overlook him. Even if he accomplished little, merely hiring him would irritate TEB enough for rival stations to offer favorable terms.

Perhaps tomorrow, rumors would spread, prompting unsolicited job offers.

With plans crystallizing, he spread paper to draft his second job-hunting strategy, tailoring works to each network’s specialties for better negotiation leverage. However, after jotting a few lines, he heard a knock.

Heart skipping, he mused how swiftly news traveled in broadcasting circles—barely hours post-resignation, here came headhunters?

Quickly buttoning his shirt and composing himself, he adopted a poised demeanor. He reminded himself—he held the upper hand now; attitudes mattered.

Opening the door revealed a ponytailed, round-faced girl in gray overalls. Concern etched her features as she asked earnestly, “Chihara-sensei, are you alright?”

Chihara stared blankly at this ambitious ama diver, feeling momentarily foolish for getting excited. Chuckling, he ushered her inside, thanking her genuinely. Regardless of intent, visiting upon hearing of his resignation reflected kindness.

Seating Konoe Hitomi comfortably, he fetched water, listening as she knelt formally, brows furrowed in indignation. “Chihara-sensei, I’ve heard everything! To treat you and Murakami-san so poorly after your contributions is unacceptable!”

Handing her the water, Chihara sat opposite, smiling gently. “It’s fine, quite ordinary. No need to be upset.” He felt warmth suffuse him, akin to Murakami’s likely reaction seeing him enter the dim bar earlier.

Glancing at the clock, noting work hours, he inquired, “Did you request leave to visit? Don’t let this affect your job.”

Hitomi’s round face hardened with resolve. “I didn’t ask for leave—I quit!”

“Huh?!” Chihara nearly spat out his water, startled. “Why did you resign?”

What madness was this? His departure stemmed from complex reasons, significant stakes—but what did she have to do with any of it?!

“I belong to you, Chihara-sensei. I must stand by your side!” Hitomi sat rigidly upright, knees pressed together, back straight, expression earnest. “Their treatment of you and Murakami-san is wrong. I can’t serve such an institution anymore. Resigning is the only way I can reconcile continuing my efforts.”

Chihara froze, leaning back instinctively, waving his hands frantically in denial. This small-town diver dared say such things publicly?! Their relationship was crystal clear—nothing untoward existed!

I plan to marry someday! Don’t ruin my reputation!


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