Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C70

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Chapter 70: Observations of Humanity

Yamagami, Nishino, and Futazeno were just passing by when they spotted and Murakami Iori in a café, their hands clasped tightly together as if sealing a lifelong vow. Murakami Iori looked delicate and pretty, the kind of girl who might easily fall prey to a smooth-talking charmer—though, of course, the trio didn’t actually know her. They weren’t involved, so after exchanging a few surprised glances and murmured comments, they moved on. “Wow,” one of them said with a laugh, “is this what the adult world is like? The jungle of steel and concrete, where everyone’s hunting or being hunted, scheming against each other—it’s so thrilling!”

“Let’s keep our eyes peeled, girls,” another chimed in. “We can’t let some shady guy take us for fools. Especially you, big butt over there—your taste in men is atrocious.”

Chihara Rinto, meanwhile, hadn’t noticed the three women at all. His attention was entirely focused on Murakami Iori. After a brief moment of holding hands—a sort of makeshift “initiation ceremony” for their little team—he immediately turned to practical matters. “I’ll call right now,” he said decisively. “Let’s lock this down and aim for the spring drama slot.”

Murakami Iori blinked in surprise. “You want to air it in April? Isn’t that rushing things?”

“It’s tight, I admit,” Chihara replied frankly. “But wasting three whole months feels excessive. There are only four seasons in a year, and losing a quarter of it would be a shame—I don’t want to squander that time.”

Murakami fell silent, considering. hadn’t aired yet, which meant there were still a few days until April. Even if they aimed for a weekend slot in the first week of April, they’d barely have ten days to prepare. Producing a nighttime drama within such a short timeframe, especially in an unfamiliar production bureau, seemed daunting. And a high-budget project? Forget about it. The better the actors, the harder it was to coordinate schedules; the bigger the production, the more delays piled up.

After mulling it over, she shook her head slightly. This felt too rushed, too driven by ambition. She suspected Chihara’s youthful impulsiveness was clouding his judgment—that maybe he was trying to get back at . Without mincing words, she said, “Chihara, making a good show should be our priority. We shouldn’t care about Ishii. This is a rare chance for us to work on something substantial. To put it bluntly, we can’t afford to fail. Why not take a month or two to polish the script thoroughly? I’ll handle the necessary preparations, and we’ll aim for a strong showing during the . What do you think?”

Chihara nodded thoughtfully. Television production wasn’t child’s play. Even with meticulous planning, shoots could go awry—and here they were, stepping into an entirely new environment. It would take weeks just to familiarize themselves with the staff. Jumping straight into a major production carried significant risks. If anything went wrong—if the final product bombed—it wouldn’t matter how accommodating seemed now. All his humility and eagerness would vanish in an instant, leaving no room for second chances.

Practicality was Chihara’s guiding principle, and Murakami’s reasoning made sense. “You’re right,” he admitted. “It’s too hasty. Losing a critical week earlier already put us behind schedule. Forcing a spring release could seriously compromise quality, especially when it comes to casting—we wouldn’t be able to pick from the best talent. But sitting idle for three months…”

Idleness wasn’t an option. He paused, deep in thought, then smiled. “Here’s an idea: Let’s use these three months to acclimate ourselves and train the team. How about that?”

“You mean start with a smaller project?” Murakami asked.

“Exactly. Why not prepare a simple variety show?” Chihara weighed the options between a nighttime drama and a variety program. Variety shows seemed less demanding, freeing him up to focus elsewhere.

Murakami wasn’t unfamiliar with variety shows. Production bureaus had their own methods for grooming elite teams, and she’d worked across various formats throughout her career, including stints as a second producer on variety programs. After a moment’s reflection, she asked, “So, your plan is to build a competent team through this process? It’s feasible, but variety shows need creative ideas. Do you have any concepts in mind?”

“Yes ,I do,” Chihara said, grabbing a piece of paper and beginning to sketch out his ideas as he explained. “Take a look at this.”

He was proposing , or Ningen Kansatsu Variety Monitoring. The concept relied entirely on creative brainstorming rather than big-name celebrities—in fact, casting famous actors might actually detract from the show’s appeal. The premise was simple: place an ordinary person in an unusual situation and observe their reactions. It would lean heavily into humor, offering light-hearted, easygoing entertainment.

He outlined a few potential segments for Murakami.

For instance, : Participants are lured into a fortune-teller’s shop where they receive detailed predictions about their “fated lover”—likes rice balls, drinks sweet soup, wears a beige trench coat, etc. Skeptical at first, they laugh it off. But later, while dining out, a beautiful woman walks in matching the description perfectly. As more women fitting the profile appear, the participant becomes overwhelmed by indecision: who should they choose?

Another concept, : A prop-filled bus travels along a remote route, picking up couples or friends. Staff members board briefly to chat ominously about recent hauntings before disembarking, leaving the unsuspecting observer alone. Lights flicker, eerie sounds echo, and eventually, ghostly figures emerge. The goal? To capture genuine human reactions under pressure—tears, screams, trembling fear—all perfect fodder for entertainment.

Or : A husband encounters a beautiful woman at an ice rink who invites him to teach her skating. Will he resist her charm? If he does, it’s heartwarming; if not, the wife’s reaction steals the spotlight.

And : A mysterious figure claiming to be the man’s future spouse appears, urging him to prevent an impending event or express regrets. Does he comply? Observing his response adds depth to the scenario.

Most scenarios would involve hired comedians or amateur actors, with minimal reliance on real-life footage. The aim was pure entertainment, nothing profound. This was a variety show concept that Chihara had personally enjoyed in the past—a lighthearted way to pass the time when boredom struck. It was the epitome of low-budget, low-effort production, requiring minimal prep work upfront. As long as they had enough financial backing—which, given Murakami Iori’s capabilities, wouldn’t be an issue—filming would be a breeze. With a solid creative idea in hand, they could shoot an episode in just three or four days, easily keeping pace with a weekly broadcast schedule.

Chihara chuckled at the thought. “This program doesn’t mean much to us in the grand scheme of things—it’s just a stepping stone for our bigger projects. But while we’re at it, let’s air it Friday nights at nine o’clock. Ishii Jiro caused us some trouble, so why not return the favor? Revenge is best served immediately. If his stolen show gets overshadowed by our little low-cost program, it’ll sting even more. Imagine the look on his face!”

He wasn’t naive enough to think this variety show alone would bring down Tales of the Unusual Season Two’s ratings—but it was a jab nonetheless, a reminder that Ishii wasn’t untouchable.

Murakami listened with growing excitement, her heart racing at the potential of the idea. It sounded genuinely fun and engaging. To be honest, using such a concept solely for training the team felt like a waste—it had the makings of a long-term project. More importantly, once the initial creative framework was laid out, the writers could focus on other tasks while the producer took full control. This would allow them to juggle responsibilities efficiently: locking Chihara away to write the big-budget script while she handled casting negotiations and managed this lighter show simultaneously. The plan was entirely feasible.

Especially for someone like Chihara, who clearly had his sights set on fame and prestige, working on a variety show like this might feel beneath him. There was even a chance he’d abandon it later once their larger projects gained traction. If that happened, keeping the program under her purview wouldn’t be a bad outcome at all.

As for Chihara’s talk of targeting Ishii Jiro, Murakami didn’t take it too seriously. While she still harbored some resentment toward Ishii—she’d been furious enough just days ago to fantasize about slapping him twice—she’d since calmed down. Her priority now was creating quality content. Realistically, how much viewership could a simple variety show siphon away from Tales of the Unusual Season Two? Kanto United TV’s baseline ratings were already lackluster; worrying about undercutting Ishii seemed overly optimistic.

She concluded that Chihara’s primary goal here wasn’t revenge but rather team-building and establishing a foothold in the new production bureau. It made sense to her, so she nodded in agreement. “Then we’ll present this to Kanto United TV as two projects: one small-scale variety show and one major drama, with flexible time slots?”

“Exactly,” Chihara replied. “For budget and personal compensation, leave the negotiations to you. Push hard, prioritize securing a high budget, and make concessions on individual terms only if necessary.”

“No problem,” Murakami responded confidently. “Consider it done.”

With that settled, Chihara stood up to call Shiga Ayumu, starting an informal timer to gauge the man’s sincerity. And true to form, Shiga arrived within fifteen minutes. Despite his bulky frame, he moved with surprising agility, hopping out of his car before it came to a complete stop—no need for the driver to open the door for him. His down-to-earth demeanor and lack of pretension suggested his humility wasn’t just for show.

Chihara respected sincerity and knew better than to appear aloof when someone extended genuine effort. Standing by the café entrance, he greeted Shiga warmly, shaking his hand firmly as the latter exclaimed, “Chihara-sensei, this is wonderful news! You’ve made a wise decision. Rest assured, Kanto United TV will treat you well!”

Chihara returned the handshake with equal vigor, smiling. “I’ll do my utmost not to disappoint Kanto United TV.”

Polite exchanges like these were par for the course, but both men understood that results mattered most in this industry. Chihara didn’t dwell on the pleasantries, instead guiding Shiga over to Murakami Iori. With a respectful tone, he introduced her: “This is Producer Murakami Iori-san.”

Murakami bowed deeply, greeting him politely. “Nice to meet you, Director Shiga.”

To her, Shiga represented the upper echelon of power. Back at , the head of the production bureau hadn’t even spared her a glance. She couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous.

But Shiga responded with courteous respect, careful not to give any impression of disregarding women. His voice carried sincerity as he said, “Murakami-san, I hope you find fulfillment and success here at Kanto United TV. Believe me, we’re nothing like TEB—you’ll have every opportunity to shine and showcase your talents fully.”

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