Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C69

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Chapter 69: Another Victim of the Weasel?

After seeing off , who was as round and earnest as a well-fed Buddha, Chihara Rinto sat down to seriously consider the offer—big production opportunities didn’t come knocking every day.

wasn't swimming in cash as Japan’s sixth-largest broadcaster, but funding one or two major projects annually wouldn’t strain their budget. Their weakness lay in talent—or rather, the lack of seasoned producers, scriptwriters, and directors. They had money, sure, but throwing it around without results was a recurring problem. If he joined them, they could complement each other in meaningful ways, achieving something akin to mutual salvation. But their future… now that was the sticking point.

The looming upheaval wasn’t easy to sidestep; beneath its surface lurked layers of complexity. On the surface, it seemed like smaller networks challenging the Big Five for a share of the pie. In truth, it was a clash between internet upstarts and Japan’s traditional conglomerates. ? It was just collateral damage, a spark igniting the powder keg. The rise of the internet had dealt a heavy blow to traditional media—not only by eroding the carefully maintained "" where major corporations stayed out of public discourse but also by disrupting the “factory-bank-trading company” triad strategy that clung to. , , —all were threats to these entrenched interests, particularly the banks at the core of this system.

This was no mere squabble; it was an existential battle. Traditional forces sought to snuff out internet-based economies before they could grow roots. Meanwhile, tech-savvy entrepreneurs turned to platforms like TV Tokyo for visibility, offering money in exchange for airtime. Predictably, one side ended up obliterated—the dream of widespread e-commerce died quietly, leaving Japan firmly under the thumb of the old guard. As for TV Tokyo, it limped along on life support, reduced to airing anime reruns and peddling rights to survive.

Anime fans might revere TV Tokyo as sacred ground, but trust me, the network itself wanted nothing to do with that reputation. If they still had the muscle to produce original content, they’d have kicked all those robot shows back into children’s programming slots faster than you could say “.” What good did fame do when none of the profits trickled down?

In short, the situation was messy—a tangled web of conflicting agendas, unstoppable trends, and hidden battles. Chihara Rinto wrestled with his thoughts, torn between seizing this rare opportunity for big-budget productions and fearing the complications it might bring. Warning Kanto United TV against diving headfirst into this mess sounded noble in theory, but how exactly would he explain it to senior management? Who knew what strings had been pulled behind closed doors, what shady deals brokered?

No industry shake-up ever looked simple on the surface.

But oh, the allure of big-budget projects…

First-priority budgets, unlimited time slots—these were perks the Big Five wouldn’t dream of granting. Could he turn down such an offer?

He pondered awhile longer, his eyes growing brighter with each passing thought. Was there anything in life entirely free of risk? Hoping for grand opportunities while refusing to take any risks was pure delusion. Playing it safe carried its own dangers.

The internet economy was still in its infancy, e-commerce far from mainstream adoption. That gave him time—time to reap the benefits, prepare for the storm, and position himself strategically. Why hesitate?

“Let’s do it,” he muttered under his breath. A chance at big-budget glory, backed by the personal endorsement of the production bureau director? Rare indeed. Miss this opportunity, and it might never come again.

With his mind made up, Chihara wasted no time. He called Murakami Iori immediately, arranging a meeting to discuss her resignation—and, naturally, to gauge whether she’d join him at Kanto United TV. She accepted without hesitation, even suggesting a nearby café for convenience. Hanging up, Chihara set out, though his mind wandered as he walked.

Now that he was given the chance, what should he film?

, perhaps? An undisputed classic of Japanese drama, beloved across Asia—but success hinged heavily on ’s star power. Besides, the series glorified excess during , a stark contrast to today’s economic gloom. Would viewers tune in, nostalgic for better times, only to switch off midway through tears?

This was a risk that he must consider…

Then there was . Decent ratings, yes, but the morally ambiguous protagonist might not sit well with audiences in the conservative '90s. Criticism could drown them out.

Or maybe ? A timeless tale remade countless times, inspiring waves of fandom worldwide. broke records, Korea’s adaptation earned critical acclaim, and Japan’s version elevated to mainstream status. With its universal appeal—from teenagers dreaming of princes to middle-aged women nursing fantasies—it ticked all the boxes.

As these ideas swirled through his head, visions of hit dramas danced before his eyes. Any director worth their salt craved the chance to helm such ambitious projects. ? Sure, it had cult appeal—but compared to blockbusters? Not even close.

First, chase ratings. Once armed with stellar numbers, he could afford to tackle meaningful stories. For now, ambition demanded spectacle.

Lost in thought, he entered the café, ordered coffee and maple syrup cake almost mechanically, and waited. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours until Murakami finally arrived, apologizing profusely as she slid into the seat opposite him. Gone was her usual armor of thick-shouldered business suits; instead, she wore casual attire, radiating ease. Brushing cherry blossom petals from her hair, she smiled softly.

“I already handed in my resignation letter,” she announced, preempting his spiel. She’d decided days ago, waiting silently lest Chihara reconsider. His call clarified everything, prompting her swift action—a symbolic gesture of solidarity. Together, they’d face whatever came next.

Chihara blinked, momentarily stunned by her decisiveness. Here was someone who’d clawed her way through elite schools, grueling exams, and cutthroat interviews to land a coveted spot among broadcasting elites. Quitting wasn’t trivial—it rivaled walking away from a prestigious post in a renown TV station. Yet here she was, calm and resolute.

“You’re incredible,” he teased lightly. “Though I’ll miss receiving lavender oil.”

She laughed, visibly lighter since shedding ’s toxic environment. Bantering briefly, she eventually steered the conversation toward work, curiosity piqued. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you? Tell me about this new job.”

Nodding, Chihara recounted recent developments: , , Kanto United TV. He shared drafts of Midnight Diner, watching intently as Murakami flipped through pages. Closing the notebook, she paused thoughtfully. While heartwarming, the script leaned heavily on niche appeal. From a producer’s perspective, Fuji and Asahi’s caution wasn’t unfounded.

Two options remained: revise the script or leap into Kanto United TV’s uncertain waters. Though hesitant about joining a lesser-known network, Murakami understood Chihara’s ambitions. Placing Kanto alongside Fuji and Asahi spoke volumes.

“So you want to go to Kanto?” she asked directly.

“Yes,” he replied. “Big productions over small ventures. I’m leaning that way. What do you think?”

Murakami grinned. “Still the same ambitious Chihara-kun I know. Count me in.”

For a career woman hungry for success, big-budget projects held undeniable allure. Better to lead a modest team than trail behind giants.

Her agreement, however, sobered Chihara further. Leaning forward, he warned gravely, “The future might be tough, so you should be mentally prepared — I have a feeling that the Big Five will target Kanto United TV. And not just at the current level — it could get to the point where Kanto United TV’s entire production bureau collapses. If that happens, we probably won’t come out of it unscathed either.”

Murakami tilted her head quizzically but extended a hand nonetheless. “We’ll face challenges together. I’m your partner, not your burden. Don’t worry about me.”

Relieved, Chihara clasped her hand firmly, smiling. “Worst-case scenario aside, we might just succeed spectacularly.”

Adding her other hand atop theirs, Murakami declared earnestly, “Big productions, big successes!”

Together, hands intertwined, they resolved to chase greatness despite uncertainty. Through the café window, passersby—including , Nishino Sagiri, and Futazeno Seiko—stopped dead in their tracks.

“Oh no,” they whispered collectively. “Has another fallen prey to the weasel?”

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