Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C119

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Chapter 119: The Trophy Cabinet

Most viewers were thoroughly satisfied with the perfect conclusion of Hanzawa Naoki, but mainstream media focused more on the ratings—after all, for a TV drama, ratings are the ultimate measure of success.

The next day, when the final ratings were tallied, Hanzawa Naoki did not disappoint. With an average time-slot rating of 43.9% and a peak of 49.2%, it shattered the previous record of 42.7% held by Mito Komon. Not only did it break the record, but it also raised the bar by a full 1.2%. For anyone hoping to surpass it in the future, this was enough to bring tears to their eyes.

The record had become almost untouchable. Public opinion fell silent, unsure how to react to such an astonishing achievement. While everyone expected the finale’s ratings to explode, seeing it actually happen was still somewhat unbelievable.

Chihara stared at the ratings report, his emotions a mix of joy and anxiety. On one hand, he was thrilled that all their hard work hadn’t been in vain. From now on, he could stand tall in the industry, speak with authority, and no production bureau would dare ignore the opinions of someone who held the record for the highest-rated drama. He wouldn’t have to worry about being undermined or living in fear of a single failure ruining his career.

But on the other hand…

This wasn’t the internet-driven world he’d come from. The ratings for Hanzawa Naoki were even higher than in his original timeline—nearly 2% higher. If the numbers made others want to cry, they made him want to cry too.

How was he supposed to top this in the future?

It was a question worth pondering deeply.

Murakami Iori, meanwhile, struggled to contain her excitement. She wore a faint smile, but her delicate hands trembled slightly. The program she had helped produce had set the highest ratings record in recent years—a dreamlike leap in her professional life. Just ten months ago, she had barely become a producer, and six months prior, she had nearly been exiled to northern Hokkaido to eat snow. Now, here she was, part of something extraordinary. But she reminded herself that she was a person of status now, and losing composure would be unbecoming of a top-tier producer. So, she maintained her poise, determined to appear strong and reliable.

If she were at home, she might have already been flipping cartwheels on the couch in celebration. But in the workplace, decorum was essential. She had to be as composed as any man—neither overly elated nor overly despondent.

Yoshizaki Shingo, however, had no such image concerns. He laughed heartily, exchanging high-fives with directors like Miyawaki Haruhito and Tsumura Haruki. They speculated about what the programming committee at TEB would think upon hearing the news. Would they regret driving away their team?

Miyawaki Haruhito didn’t care what TEB thought; he was a director nurtured by Kanto United TV, and TEB meant nothing to him. Still, he couldn’t stop grinning. Breaking a record like this was a massive intangible asset—one that would sustain him for life. When he joined the production, he never imagined such a stroke of luck.

Shiraki Keima was equally excited, though no one seemed to notice him. After raising his hand for a while and realizing no one intended to celebrate with him, he settled for clapping alone.

With the main series of Hanzawa Naoki having aired and the record broken, no one paid much attention to the post-mortem analysis meeting or the upcoming SP episode’s performance. The room quickly turned into an impromptu celebration led by Yoshizaki Shingo. Conversations soon veered toward food—what should they eat to celebrate? Chihara didn’t interrupt them. After all, wasn’t this the moment they had worked so hard for? He skimmed through the ratings report, tossed it aside, and joined the discussion with a smile. There was no need to deliberate further—it was clear there was nothing left to discuss.

“We’ve got plenty of good days ahead,” he said. “Let’s celebrate, but let’s avoid anything dangerous. If two people end up dying from eating fugu, this happy occasion will turn into a tragedy.”

Having spent so long at Kanto United TV, he knew how much the staff loved fugu, considering it the ultimate manly food. Better safe than sorry.

While the creative team celebrated in the small meeting room, the staff from both Hanzawa Naoki and Human Observation were also spontaneously rejoicing. The two productions often exchanged personnel, and now the usually quiet workspace resembled a bustling marketplace. Everyone was chatting and laughing in small groups, completely abandoning any pretense of work. Their collective excitement shook half the floor, but no one interfered. Other production teams looked on enviously—after all, they had just broken a record and achieved the best results in history. Who cared if they were noisy? Even organizing a tap-dance party with two or three hundred people wouldn’t have been out of place.

This industry was simple: deliver results, and you could do whatever you wanted.

---

While they celebrated, the morning’s ratings analysis meeting dragged on. The group hadn’t yet decided how to hold a grand victory celebration, but the outside world had caught on. Calls poured in from all directions, congratulating them on breaking the record.

Chihara was the primary recipient of these congratulations, as the overall head of the production. His contributions were undeniable, and soon his phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Colleagues from the station, actors who had appeared in the series, acquaintances, and strangers alike called one after another. As soon as he hung up, the phone rang again. He was submerged in a sea of praise, silently grateful that few people had his mobile number. Before long, Shiga Ayumu arrived with several mid-level executives from the production bureau. They showered the team with compliments, especially the head of the TV drama department, whose smile couldn’t have been wider. It seemed this year’s annual review wouldn’t be as painful as usual.

Of course, verbal praise wasn’t Shiga Ayumu’s style—he preferred tangible rewards. True to form, he announced hefty bonuses on the spot. Chihara alone received 12 million yen—a substantial sum, exceeding the annual income of a senior white-collar worker. Murakami Iori came second, essentially earning a year’s salary in one go. Other members of the creative team also received generous payouts.

This was an extraordinary reward, rare even in the history of the five major production bureaus. But given that they had achieved the best results in history, significantly boosting Kanto United TV’s reputation and visibility, the executives behind Shiga Ayumu had no objections. They smiled approvingly, finding it entirely justified.

In the past, they had spent money without producing quality programs. Now that they had a hit, they didn’t mind spending a little more. In fact, they planned to host a lavish celebration banquet under Kanto United TV’s name, inviting guests to make a grand spectacle of it.

For the entire morning, Chihara did nothing but handle these matters. By noon, he finally found a moment to slip back into his office and hang the “Do Not Disturb” sign, delegating the chaos to Murakami Iori. Normally, she handled external affairs, and this was a perfect opportunity for her to expand her network.

Once the door closed and Shiraki Keima stood guard, peace finally returned. Chihara leaned back in his chair, savoring the pleasure that belonged solely to him. Normally, he sat upright, but now he truly felt relaxed.

The plan had gone smoothly, albeit with minor hiccups, but the outcome was ultimately positive. He had taken another step toward his goal.

Success was always intoxicating!

He rested for a moment, chuckling to himself like a fool, then picked up a newspaper. Critics’ opinions no longer mattered—it was purely entertainment.

The breaking of the historical ratings record was naturally the top story in the home entertainment section. Due to the widespread social impact of Hanzawa Naoki, some newspapers mentioned it in both the society and front-page sections. A new term had even emerged: the “Hanzawa Naoki Phenomenon.” It referred to newly popular phrases like “double payback,” “tenfold revenge,” and “hundredfold retribution,” which reflected the latent desires of Japan’s white-collar workers.

Depending on the section, the focus of discussion varied.

The news section was still busy criticizing the prime minister—a favorite pastime in Japan. Regardless of the issue, dragging the prime minister into the conversation was always safe. If the problem persisted, they simply kept criticizing until a new prime minister took office, then moved on to the next one.

Beyond political criticism, people were asking another question: Was the “screw spirit”—working without breaks, pulling all-nighters, prioritizing collective interests over personal ones—still valid?

Chihara glanced at these discussions with indifference, flipping past them. He paused briefly at the analysis of the phrase “tenfold revenge,” noting concerns that it might signal the beginning of a “workplace revenge culture.” Managers and seniors would now have to worry about whether subordinates or juniors might turn into “Hanzawa Naokis.”

After reading for a bit, he couldn’t help but laugh. People were overthinking things. While the show resonated strongly with some viewers, it wasn’t as though society would change overnight. These overworked employees were merely venting their frustrations through the drama. Once reality set in, they’d return to their usual lives. Nothing fundamental would change.

Japan’s national character was fascinating. During the Warring States period, peasants endured taxes as high as 70-90% without sparking nationwide rebellions—a global marvel. Modern times hadn’t changed much.

He flipped to the home entertainment section, where critics analyzed why Hanzawa Naoki had succeeded, offering plenty of hindsight wisdom.

Some argued the drama’s success stemmed from addressing workplace woes.

Others believed it was due to meticulous market research, choosing the niche banking setting to pique viewers’ curiosity.

Still others credited the show’s innovative approach to TV storytelling. Traditionally, Japanese dramas emphasized tragedy, portraying characters struggling against societal forces to evoke reflection on life, society, and humanity.

Hanzawa Naoki, however, took the opposite route. Plot logic was basic at best, and realism was irrelevant. The priority was making the boss more despicable and the protagonist smarter. The ideal scenario? Enemies standing face-to-face, tension crackling, hurling insults until one forced the other to kneel. This was the formula that struck a chord with audiences, immersing them in absurd fiction while temporarily forgetting their own struggles.

After reading, Chihara agreed with the last perspective but knew understanding the principle was one thing—execution was another.

Further along, there were glowing reviews praising him as a “genius screenwriter” capable of miracles. Several critics claimed they had seen his potential all along and expressed satisfaction at his sudden rise to fame. Chihara studied these comments for a moment before realizing he didn’t recognize a single one of these so-called admirers…

Meanwhile, TEB bore the brunt of ridicule once again. Someone dug up old news about their ambitious plans to reclaim their honor this season with two big-budget productions: a mystery drama and a workplace drama. While both performed decently, they paled in comparison to Hanzawa Naoki.

Take Doctor’s Heart, for example. In any other season, it might have been considered a quality production. But compared to Hanzawa Naoki, it was utterly overshadowed—from scriptwriting to cinematography to acting, it was outclassed in every way. Instead of being a triumph, it became an expensive footnote.

The rumor that Awata Isao had refused the role of Hanzawa Naoki resurfaced, though its veracity was uncertain. This didn’t stop people from speculating, comparing him unfavorably to Sugano Makoto. Some said the two were evenly matched, both excellent actors and a blessing to the industry. Others were harsher, claiming Awata Isao’s absence allowed Sugano Makoto’s superior talent to shine, making the series even more perfect.

After skimming through the newspaper, Chihara felt even better. Flattery was always gratifying. He tossed the paper aside, indulging in a bad habit, and leaned back to admire the new furniture in his office—the trophy cabinet.

Below was a cabinet, above it three glass-doored shelves, freshly customized by Murakami Iori. The lacquered surface gleamed, but the interior was empty, waiting to be filled with medals and trophies.

From now on, it would be his mission to fill it, starting with the Star Awards.

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