Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C96

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Chapter 96: The General Production Meeting

The logistics of the meeting, naturally, were handled by Murakami Iori. The venue was a spacious conference room with a long table that could comfortably seat thirty people on either side. Along the walls, additional scattered seats provided space for observers and support staff.

arrived right on time, his usual punctuality intact. Without much thought, he took the seat at the head of the table’s right wing—a spot typically reserved for lead screenwriters or prominent directors. But no sooner had he settled in than he looked up to find Murakami Iori standing before him, arms crossed.

Iori stared at him for a moment, then pointed toward the very end of the table. Her expression was one of exasperation as she said, “Chihara, you’re in my seat. Yours is over there.”

She had briefly gone to greet some of the main actors, only to return and find her place occupied. With just two programs under their belt so far, this guy already couldn’t remember who sat where? And he wasn’t exactly a rookie either—couldn’t he show a little more awareness?

Chihara blinked, realization dawning. In this production, he was the overall supervisor, unlike during the general meeting for . That role belonged to someone else back then, but not now.

He quickly stood, straightened his jacket, and moved to the designated seat at the far end of the table. From this vantage point, he could see nearly everyone in the room, while others would need to crane their necks slightly to meet his gaze.

On the right side of the table sat the core creative and production team, arranged by rank. Murakami Iori led the group, followed by , the newly appointed executive director, who, despite being older, ranked second. Below them were , also an executive director, along with assistant directors like Tsumura Yuki and heads of various departments such as cinematography, props, and set design.

To Chihara’s left were the principal actors, seated according to a mix of seniority and importance within the drama. held the first position, followed by , who portrayed the president of the Tokyo headquarters branch. Next came , the male lead, alongside female lead and supporting actor .

Around the edges of the room, occupying the peripheral seats, were members of the crew. should have been among them, though he was momentarily absent. Meanwhile, Konoe Hitomi, a low-level assistant, didn’t even merit an invitation to the meeting.

As Chihara settled into his chair, he surveyed the room silently. The casual chatter and polite exchanges gradually faded as all eyes turned toward the young man sitting at the helm. It was rare for any of the major networks to entrust such a high-profile project to someone so youthful, yet none could deny the aura of authority radiating from him. His face, devoid of a smile, carried a quiet gravitas that seemed inherently suited to leadership. Unconsciously, those present found themselves accepting his presence as natural.

This guy… might be something special.

The room fell silent. Chihara lowered his gaze to glance at the folder in front of him but didn’t open it. Instead, he lifted his head and began setting the tone for the entire production. “Everyone has read the script thoroughly,” he began. “I won’t waste time rehashing specifics—I trust your professionalism. So let’s summarize: what exactly are we making here?”

He scanned the room, pausing briefly when no one responded. Then, without waiting, he answered his own question. “This is a workplace drama. A superior oppresses a subordinate, trying to shift blame for mistakes onto them. The subordinate resists, striking a nerve with their boss. This is a story of conflict and struggle within a large bank—a pure professional drama. But I believe it shouldn’t stop there. It must also be a passionate, thrilling drama!”

“In this series,” he continued, his voice rising with conviction, “ faces mountains of challenges, and only Hanzawa Naoki can overcome them. He works tirelessly through the night with his team to complete paperwork for a . On-site debt collection turns into action scenes where he uses an umbrella like a wooden sword to subdue fraudsters. During intense internal audits, he counters harassment with logic, precision, and composure. He retaliates against his superiors with undeniable justification. Hanzawa Naoki is a hero in the workplace—a relentless fighter who confronts enemies head-on and triumphs over them. Therefore, I demand this show be fast-paced, brimming with energy, and filled with constant tension. Keep viewers on edge, giving them a continuous sense of pressure—and release!”

Chihara gestured sharply with his hands, mimicking the act of choking someone. “The script can adapt slightly based on actual filming conditions, but the pacing cannot change. We must grip the audience by the throat, leaving them breathless, unable to look away from the screen. They will live vicariously through our protagonist, feeling every ounce of his stress until it explodes in moments of catharsis. Pressure, release, pressure, release—repeat this cycle until the final frame is shot!”

Even the seasoned executive directors, including the recently hired Miyawaki Haruhito, felt a chill run down their spines as Chihara’s piercing gaze locked onto them. Yoshizaki Shingo nodded instinctively, imagining for a fleeting moment that Chihara might actually strangle him.

This boss means business, they thought. Better tread carefully from now on.

Turning his attention to the actors, Chihara spared no pleasantries, not even for industry veterans. “When it comes to performance,” he stated bluntly, “I want everyone to go all out. Push hard!”

“Urgent questioning, slamming tables—any scene involving conflict must convey the same level of intensity and pressure as a courtroom trial. Performances should lean toward exaggeration, closer to stage acting than realism. Whether it’s body language or vocal delivery, feel free to exceed normal bounds. Make everything powerful and impactful. Maintain nonstop tension. Directors will coordinate the finer details during filming, but make no mistake: anyone performing too ‘naturally’ will stick out like a sore thumb—and ruin the scene.”

The actors responded in unison, though reactions varied. Sugano Makoto appeared contemplative, while Kuno Teruyuki nodded slowly. Most were intrigued; this meeting felt different. Here was a producer who doubled as writer and director, taking charge in ways uncommon in other productions. Fresh indeed.

Chihara paid no mind to their thoughts. If anything, he embraced his reputation for being singularly focused. To him, this wasn’t arrogance—it was efficiency. He saw flashes of the future, however vague, and believed delegating tasks himself ensured maximum effectiveness. When success came, he wouldn’t hoard credit—all would receive their due, though he’d claim the lion’s share.

His gaze shifted back to the production staff. “Regarding sets and props…” he continued, laying out detailed instructions.

Chihara had poured countless hours into preparing for Hanzawa Naoki, from the literary script to the storyboard, casting decisions to shooting schedules. Every aspect was etched into his memory, and he articulated his expectations with crystal clarity. The massive undertaking—a shoot spanning hundreds of kilometers, seventy-plus locations, nearly eighty actors, and over two hundred crew members—was broken down meticulously, ensuring everyone knew their roles.

Such organizational prowess could easily translate to military command. At the very least, he’d excel as an officer overseeing battalion-level operations.

No one voiced objections. Despite his youth and relative inexperience compared to others in the room, his lucidity as the chief supervisor reassured everyone. A clear-headed leader was preferable to a confused one, after all.

The meeting stretched on for four or five grueling hours, covering nearly a hundred days of planned filming. Chihara spoke, the team listened, and smaller groups broke off for further discussion. Actors bonded, and department heads solidified communication protocols.

Finally, emulating the example set by “senior” Murakami Iori, Chihara bowed deeply from his seat at the head of the table. “For high ratings, for the audience—for everything, I leave the filming in your capable hands!” he said earnestly.

Murakami Iori drew a soft breath, turning slightly to match his posture. Bowing alongside him, she echoed, “Please, everyone—we’re counting on you.”

---

With the general meeting concluded, preparations were officially underway. The next day, the cast and crew gathered for the ceremonial start of filming.

Just like during , a three-tiered altar stood ready. Taema-hime, the ceremonial doll, lounged lazily atop the highest tier. This time, however, the production budget had swelled. The number of shrine maidens on the second tier doubled, fresh fruits replaced stale offerings, and the variety expanded significantly. One key difference remained: this time, it was Chihara Rinto tasked with burning Taema-hime.

Actors scheduled for today’s shoot, along with the creative and technical teams, formed a triangular formation according to seniority and status. Instinctively, they positioned Chihara at the forefront. As he gazed at Taema-hime, then turned to survey the sea of faces behind him, silence enveloped the room. Hundreds of heads, dark and solemn, stretched before him. For the first time, he understood why Murakami Iori would revere the ritualistic figure despite her education…

Responsibility weighed heavily upon him—not as a badge of honor, but as an insurmountable mountain. Facing these eyes—some ablaze with determination, others trembling with anxiety, still others calm and collected—how could anyone not feel fear?

Fear that someday soon, those same eyes might fill with disappointment. Fear of being despised, whispered about behind closed doors. Fear of bearing sole responsibility for the team’s failure. And if failure came, how could he defend himself against accusations?

Could he lead them to victory? Would the shoot proceed smoothly? Had they prepared enough to achieve stellar results? Would the audience embrace the work?

No one knew. The future was unpredictable, and uncertainty bred fear—a truth especially true in television production.

Chihara turned back to the altar, striking the ceremonial gong lightly. Its resonant chime echoed through the studio. Behind him, the crowd bowed in unison, praying for a successful shoot and blockbuster success. Meanwhile, Chihara stared at Taema-hime, lost in thought. Still poorly made, he mused. About as impressive as the thousand cheap dolls bought by TEB. Not exactly the visage of a legendary savior.

Soon, the brazier was brought forward, fire extinguishers stood ready, and the absurdity of the moment lingered. Chihara lifted Taema-hime gently, placing her into the flames. As fire licked at her jet-black hair and charred paint peeled from her face, he murmured softly, “My apologies.”

But Chihara placed his faith not in dolls, but in himself. Filming would succeed. If it didn’t, he’d twist reality itself until it did.

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