Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C82

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Chapter 82: Who Dug Up This Ancient Grave?

, Nishino Sagiri, and Futazeno Seiko spent over an hour combing through every major newspaper they could find but still couldn’t figure out where had disappeared to. The reason for this was a bit complicated. His temporary contract with wasn’t set to expire until April 5th, but even though he’d already left, the formalities of termination still needed to be completed. Even if it was just ten days remaining on the contract, failing to properly terminate would risk future copyright disputes—issues like ownership rights carrying over, for example. That’s why ’s promotional campaign hadn’t mentioned him at all; the termination process hadn’t been finalized yet.

Besides, in the entertainment world, a screenwriter leaving a TV station—even if they slammed the door on their way out—was hardly front-page news. No journalist was clamoring to dig up such gossip. At the time, no one cared, and afterward, even less so. It was the kind of small talk reserved for industry insiders, not something that made headlines. By the time the paperwork was finally done, Chihara Rinto officially signed a new deal with , securing the rights to Human Observation. But by then, the window for new-season promotions had long passed, and the matter was quietly shelved—for now, at least. In truth, it didn’t make much difference. He wasn’t exactly a household name. People like Futazeno Seiko were rare exceptions; most viewers paid zero attention to who directed or wrote what.

Of course, cutting ties early came at a cost. TEB docked nearly all of his March salary, withheld any bonuses, and only began paying out royalties as regional broadcasts wrapped up. Still, when it came to royalty splits from tapes sold or rented, TEB didn’t dare stiff him— were notoriously strict, and nobody wanted to cross that line.

After hours of fruitless searching, the three high school girls sighed in frustration. They started to wonder if there even was a new show. Despite teasingly calling him “Weasel,” they secretly missed his work. The more elusive the information became, the more curious they grew. But as mere students, they lacked access to insider knowledge. There was nothing they could do about it.

The next morning, however, fate intervened. As soon as the trio walked into class together, a junior member of Futazeno Seiko’s club handed her a newspaper clipping containing news about her favorite screenwriter. The girls practically pounced on it, huddling together to read.

The article itself barely touched on Chihara Rinto—it was primarily a critique of . Written by a veteran drama critic, the piece lamented the sharp decline in quality compared to the first season. Gone were the episodes that once sparkled with brilliance; two episodes in, and there hadn’t been a single standout moment. Disappointed, the critic analyzed the reasons behind the drop-off. Chief among them? The replacement of the original lead writer.

might have struggled to gather intel, but this seasoned critic clearly had reliable sources within the industry. He revealed how had replaced as producer, casually mentioning Chihara Rinto’s loyalty in following his mentor out the door.

That was all the article said about Chihara Rinto, but the critic’s underlying stance against TEB Productions was clear. His main argument boiled down to this: “What a bunch of idiots.” If you’re going to reshuffle programming, fine—but swapping producers? And without offering proper compensation? Did they think everyone was made of clay, incapable of standing up for themselves?

Now, thanks to their stubborn refusal to compensate, not only did the original producer leave, but she took the lead writer with him. What could have been a national hit turned into a mediocre mess. If that wasn’t stupidity, what was?

The critic’s boldness stemmed from having obtained the ratings statistics for Tales of the Unusual Season 2 before publishing. Strange numbers, indeed: while average viewership plummeted, peak viewership slightly increased, with overall market share remaining stable—similar to the first episode.

The critic offered his analysis. The stellar reputation of Season 1 gave audiences enough faith to give Episode 1 a chance despite its lackluster performance. Returning fans contributed to a slight bump in peak viewership. However, Episode 2 failed to deliver anything memorable, leading impatient viewers to switch channels. This gradual loss of audience explained the drop in average ratings.

Wrapping up his scathing critique, the critic added a smug reminder: “If doesn’t improve, it’s game over. Good luck, morons.”

Aiko, Sagiri, and Seiko exchanged glances after finishing the article. Was this really happening? Their favorite show had become a soap opera off-screen, almost more entertaining than the series itself!

Finally breaking the silence, Yamagami Aiko exclaimed, “I never expected that weasel to have a heart! I underestimated him.” She felt a pang of sympathy for the ousted producer, who had worked tirelessly only to lose everything without fair compensation. Chihara Rinto sticking by her side seemed admirable—a true man’s move. Had he not been such a lecher, she might’ve developed some respect for him.

Futazeno Seiko chimed in, “Absolutely! Chihara-sensei is talented and principled. No wonder he creates such masterpieces. It’s a shame those dirty networks can’t appreciate integrity. I wonder how he’s doing now…”

Meanwhile, Nishino Sagiri chewed her nails, scanning the article again. “But we still don’t know where he went—or if he’s working on something new.” Learning the backstory only deepened her curiosity. Would Chihara Rinto bounce back, or fade into obscurity?

Yamagami Aiko snatched the paper and reread it quickly. Frustrated, she muttered, “These critics are useless! They never get to the point!”

Where the hell was this guy?

---

Unbeknownst to the three girls, Chihara Rinto was far from missing. In fact, he was enjoying a meeting with a beautiful female producer, coffee served by an assistant, spirits high. Not just his—everyone’s. continued to climb steadily, with an average of 10.95% and peaks reaching 12%. Impressive growth.

After wrapping up the usual post-ratings analysis meeting, they skimmed through newspapers discussing the controversy surrounding the program takeover. Murakami Iori’s expression flickered momentarily but quickly shifted focus to reviews mentioning Human Observation. She pointed out two pieces she’d commissioned as soft advertisements, then reviewed reactions from mainstream media. Overall, feedback was positive. Variety shows weren’t meant to educate, so unless they blew up spectacularly, serious outlets rarely paid much attention. Still, the consensus was favorable: creative, hilarious, yet tasteful—a rare gem.

Satisfied, Murakami discussed upcoming promotional strategies with Chihara before departing with Konoe Hitomi, leaving him alone to write. Chihara picked up the paper, spun his chair around, and scanned the article again.

Over at Tales of the Unusual, the new writing team was struggling. Two episodes, five shorts—and still no classics. Would Episode 3 produce a savior capable of crafting something on par with “” or “”? If not, waiting until after collapse would be too late. Reputation was fragile—easy to build, easier to destroy. Could they hold on?

For now, Tales of the Unusual Season 2 held roughly 38% of its timeslot’s share. Chihara envied those numbers. Selfishly, he hoped the show would tank, giving Human Observation room to thrive. Yet watching its slow decline filled him with mixed emotions. All his hard work, undone by Ishii Jiro. Should he root for Ishii to succeed or fail?

Why had Ishii taken Murakami’s show in the first place? Greed alone didn’t explain it. Whatever the deeper motive, Chihara couldn’t uncover it. Shrugging it off, he tossed the paper aside and turned to his computer, checking online for feedback on Human Observation. Adjustments might be necessary before continuing his scriptwriting.

Perhaps due to growing up in the hyper-connected 21st century, Chihara valued internet feedback more than most. It felt like the best way to gauge raw audience reactions. Unfortunately, no review sites existed yet, forcing him to scour forums and portals instead. After finding nothing useful, his mind wandered. Maybe hiring a third-generation troll army to spam praise for Human Observation would generate feedback. But whom to trust with such a task?

Just then, he stumbled upon an ancient thread—one he himself had posted under a pseudonym to promote . Long buried, someone had resurrected it.

Curious, he clicked. Sure enough, one of his old accounts was chatting away. Someone claimed the current season’s writers had run out of ideas, churning out forced nonsense. Meanwhile, “himself” argued that Chihara-sensei hadn’t written these scripts—the writers had changed—and explained why.

Scrolling through, Chihara opened a private message window and typed, “Shiraki-kun, is that you? It’s Chihara.”

The reply came instantly: “Chihara-sensei! It’s me. Are you well? I miss you so much!”

Startled, Chihara stared at the pop-up. Miss him? Since when were they close? Back in the day, he sometimes couldn’t even find Shiraki during office hours.

Ah, workplace pleasantries. Still, maturity suited the kid. Loyalty to a former boss spoke volumes about character.

TLN: Finally the volume 3 is completely translated

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