Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C67

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Chapter 67: Please Join !

had assumed that his growing reputation would make his second job hunt a breeze. But as it turned out, life has a way of humbling even the most confident among us.

showed interest—sort of. They weren’t offering him prime-time slots or anything near the golden hour. Instead, they wanted him to stick to late-night dramas and submit a script for one. If it was good enough, they’d throw some budget and manpower behind it. His idea of bringing his “team” along didn’t seem to bother them much either, though their enthusiasm hinged entirely on the quality of the script.

wasn’t far off in its expectations. They too hoped he’d deliver another high-quality late-night drama—something sharp enough to outshine the other big four networks. But like Fuji TV, they hesitated about letting him bring his crew aboard. Still, they kept the door open, waiting to see what kind of script he could whip up.

It seemed both networks were eager to invest more energy into late-night programming after Season 1 aired. Chihara tried pitching some targeted project proposals, but neither network bit. Their daytime schedules were already packed, and aside from late-night slots, they weren’t looking to shake things up anytime soon.

Over at , someone took an interest—but not in quite the way Chihara expected. A senior writer-producer admired his work and hinted at taking him under his wing as a protégé. When Chihara cautiously asked about producing shows, the older man chuckled and told him not to rush. “I’m retiring soon,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “All this—the programs, the connections—it’ll be yours someday.”

Chihara nearly rolled his eyes. He politely excused himself and bolted before the guy could finish waxing poetic about passing down his “throne.” Something felt off. The old fox probably ran out of creative juice and saw Chihara as fresh meat to exploit—siphoning off his ideas and scripts while dangling empty promises. Oh, sure, people love to romanticize the literary world, but let’s not kid ourselves; the screenwriting industry is just as cutthroat. Chihara had heard plenty of horror stories about veteran writers luring naive newcomers into traps with vague assurances.

After spending a day and a half testing the waters with three production bureaus, Chihara crossed Nippon TV off the list—they clearly just wanted to take advantage of the situation he was in without putting in any real effort. Fuji TV and Asahi, however, showed glimmers of sincerity, leaving Chihara torn.

Was he really going back to late-night dramas? It wasn’t impossible, but TEB’s standard contract came with restrictions. For instance, if he left TEB, he couldn’t produce anything similar to Tales of the Unusual for five years. Changing the title to Earth’s Wonders wouldn’t fly. After decades of legal battles over copyright disputes, these contracts were ironclad. There were no loopholes to exploit.

That said, he wasn’t barred from making other late-night dramas. Take , for example—a heartwarming series centered around food. Its tone and style were worlds apart from Tales of the Unusual. Legally speaking, nothing stopped him from pursuing something like that, and he believed it could succeed.

So why hadn’t he pitched it earlier? Simple: casting headaches. While not as extreme as , where one actor could make or break the entire show, Midnight Diner still demanded strong performances. High-caliber actors meant higher budgets, which might scare off the programming committee.

Still… going back to late-night slots felt like crawling back into a pit he’d barely escaped. Shooting those shows was brutal—twice the work for half the reward. And forget about hitting that elusive 40% viewership mark. Late-night TV wasn’t exactly the place to skyrocket to fame.

Sitting alone in his apartment, Chihara sighed deeply. Maybe his name just wasn’t big enough yet. To the major networks, he was still just a promising newbie who might churn out decent late-night content—not someone capable of handling any time slot with ease. After all, he only had one hit under his belt. In the entertainment world, countless meteoric rises ended just as quickly, fizzling into obscurity. Their lack of faith made sense.

If only he had two blockbuster hits with 40% ratings. Then, he imagined, things would be different. He’d barely step out of TEB’s doors before rival networks sent limos to whisk him away. Any time slot he wanted would be his for the taking. None of this hemming and hawing.

After mulling it over for an afternoon, Chihara reluctantly accepted reality. For now, late-night dramas seemed to be his best bet. The program ideas he’d prepared for Fuji TV and Asahi were solid, but scripts are tricky beasts. Even the best-written ones don’t guarantee success until they’re filmed. And given how skeptical the networks were, they preferred sticking to what they knew he could do: late-night magic.

This was the crux of the problem. Success had pigeonholed him. To break free, he needed to build his reputation further. Taking a step back to focus on smaller victories might be the smart play.

He decided to draft a treatment and the first two episodes of Midnight Diner. At this stage in his career, securing a budget and casting shouldn’t pose insurmountable challenges. This show had proven its worth across Asia in another world, adapted by Japan, South Korea, and China alike. If executed well, it could significantly boost his standing.

With renewed determination, Chihara locked himself in his apartment for three days straight. By the end of it, he had a rough outline and drafts for the first two episodes. Details could wait until filming began. Armed with his new material, he approached Fuji TV and Asahi again—but once more, reality blindsided him. Neither network liked the concept.

Midnight Diner was indeed based on a manga, but in this world, the source material didn’t exist. Without it, the premise seemed bland. The story revolved around a tiny diner serving only pork miso soup, focusing on human connections rather than flashy plots. Yet despite its quiet charm, it held immense potential. Both networks rejecting it outright felt unfair.

Chihara argued passionately, trying to convince at least one of them to take a chance. But both insisted on spicing things up—literally. Not smut, mind you; public broadcasters drew the line there. Fuji TV leaned toward suspenseful mysteries to diversifiy their lineup, while Asahi favored quirky horror elements to match their brand.

These executives weren’t villains; they simply operated within their limited worldview. Arguing with them was pointless. After a full day of fruitless persuasion, Chihara threw in the towel. Their polite rejections stung less than outright hostility, but time was running out. Spring season premieres were looming, and delays risked missing the next cycle entirely. Wasting three months would hurt.

Back in his apartment, Chihara resolved to burn the midnight oil crafting a winning script. He aimed to secure funding and join the spring battle royale. Bonus points if he managed to stick it to along the way. But just as he reached his door, key in hand, he noticed a middle-aged man standing nearby.

“Excuse me,” Chihara asked, puzzled. “Who are you looking for?”

The man lowered his newspaper and studied Chihara carefully. A warm smile spread across his face. “Are you Chihara Rinto-sensei?”

Chihara scrutinized the stranger. With his yellowed buck teeth, protruding jaw, and stout frame, the man resembled a comic relief character more than a serious professional. Standing barely 165cm and dressed in an expensive suit with a gaudy gold watch, he radiated wealth but little elegance.

Chihara didn’t recognize him. “And you are?”

Before answering, the man pulled out a business card and bowed respectfully. “My name is , head of the Production Bureau at Kanto United TV. I’ve long admired your work, Chihara-sensei. Please forgive my intrusion.”

Chihara blinked in surprise. Kanto United TV may have been the perpetual punching bag of the top five networks, mocked relentlessly in newspapers and struggling to stay afloat. But ranked sixth nationwide and serving as the core of the sixth-largest broadcasting network, it was no small operation. And the head of its Production Bureau? That title carried weight. Typically filled by trusted allies of the station director, it marked Shiga as a key player—a future contender for leadership.

Even critics who trashed Kanto United TV in print would clam up in front of someone like Shiga Ayumu.

Aware of the stakes, Chihara responded with polite deference, accepting the card with both hands and handing over his own. “Nice to meet you, Director Shiga. But may I ask what brings you here today?”

A personal visit from someone of Shiga’s stature? Unheard of. Other networks sent mid-level reps to deal with talent like him. Clearly, Kanto United TV meant business.

Shiga mirrored Chihara’s courtesy, gripping his hand firmly. “What else could bring me to your doorstep, Chihara-sensei? We at Kanto United TV are desperate for your talents!”

He leaned in slightly, his voice earnest. “Please, join us at Kanto United TV!”

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