novelraw Chapter 209: The Awards Begin! Best Screenwriter! Nohara Hiroshi! A Deserved Honor!
Chapter 209: The Awards Begin! Best Screenwriter! Nohara Hiroshi! A Deserved Honor!
Three days flickered past in a blink, and Japanese television's most anticipated annual event — the Television Drama Academy Awards ceremony — was about to begin.
As one of the four major networks, TV Tokyo naturally dispatched its finest representatives.
This time, the delegation was led by Executive Deputy Director of Production Takada Toshihide, accompanied by the celebrated Level 1 Director and "Goddess of Romance" Matsumoto Keiko.
Seeing Nohara Hiroshi arrive punctually, Takada Toshihide squeezed a rare smile onto his usually stern face. Matsumoto Keiko gave a slight nod — the measured acknowledgment of a senior appraising a junior and finding him worthy.
Neither spoke, but their attitude — treating Nohara Hiroshi as a core "insider" of the station — was unmistakable.
Standing beside Nohara Hiroshi were his three capable section chiefs: Yamamoto Takeshi, responsible for Tales of the Unusual;
Tanaka Kei, heading Kasou Taishou;
and Hashishita Ichiro, in charge of the Yamishibai animation.
These three, plus Nohara Hiroshi himself, formed essentially the complete roster of TV Tokyo's most dazzling recent achievements —
The anime Yamishibai had become a phenomenon at 15% ratings;
the anthology series Tales of the Unusual reached a staggering 21%, igniting the "urban legends" trend;
and the variety show Kasou Taishou achieved a terrifying 40% — national-level numbers.
Just then, a somewhat unexpected figure edged hesitantly toward the group's periphery.
It was Iwata Masao.This Level 3 director — once the station's undisputed rising star, a rival even to Nohara Hiroshi's mentor Suzuki Kiyoto — now wore an ingratiating smile as he greeted Nohara Hiroshi with humble deference: "Department Manager Nohara, good to see you."
"Oh? Director Iwata is here too." Nohara Hiroshi's response was calm, his tone betraying nothing.
"Yes," Iwata hastily nodded, "thanks to Executive Deputy Director Takada, the station submitted my Onibo Samurai for consideration."
"Mm." Takada Toshihide acknowledged with a simple sound of confirmation.
Nohara Hiroshi observed Iwata's posture — respectful, tinged with anxiety — and felt nothing stir within. In such a short time, the gap between himself and this "senior" he once had to look up to — who might even have posed a serious threat — had grown immeasurably wide.
No longer was he the one who feared Iwata Masao. Now it was the once-arrogant Iwata who had to watch Nohara Hiroshi's expression and choose his words with care.
After all, in Japan's rigid hierarchy, "ability" played a decisive role that could not be ignored.
Nohara Hiroshi understood this well.
He maintained his courtesy, offering Iwata a brief nod: "Best of luck."
Takada Toshihide caught this, and a flicker of satisfaction crossed his eyes. Iwata was his wife's cousin — seeing the two get along smoothly was naturally preferable.
"If everyone's here, let's move out." Takada gave the word. Three other TV Tokyo Level 2 directors, all in their forties, along with several assistants, had been waiting nearby. The group boarded the station's dedicated minibus and set off for the ceremony venue.
Seating arrangements inside the bus silently mapped rank.
Takada Toshihide and Matsumoto Keiko occupied the front row naturally.
Nohara Hiroshi sat directly behind them.
Behind him were the three section chiefs and Iwata Masao.
The three Level 2 directors sat further back.
Shortly after departure, one of the rear-seated Level 2 directors — Noguchi Hideya, a stern-faced period-drama specialist — leaned forward respectfully: "Executive Director Takada, Director Matsumoto — with you two and Department Manager Nohara together, TV Tokyo's presence will completely dominate the other stations."
He turned to Nohara Hiroshi: "Department Manager Nohara, your works are the heavy favorites for awards this time. The rest of us old-timers are just here to fill seats and enjoy the show."
Another Level 2 director — the slightly portly, perpetually genial Amuro Koichi — picked up the thread with genuine sincerity: "Absolutely! Department Manager Nohara's productions are truly stunning! Especially the 'urban legends' genre you pioneered — it's nothing short of revolutionary! Director Ashikaga and I were just discussing: why is it that perfectly ordinary urban corners, through your lens and stories, become so immersive and terrifying?"
The third, quieter Level 2 director couldn't resist adding: "Especially the 'Hopscotch Girl' episode of Tales of the Unusual — the midnight phone booth scene. Thinking about it now still gives me chills. Department Manager Nohara, when you create that atmosphere — simultaneously everyday and skin-crawling — is there a specific philosophy behind it?"
Nohara Hiroshi showed no trace of arrogance before these senior directors' inquiries. His response was measured and composed: "You're too kind. Regarding 'urban legends,' the core lies in 'defamiliarizing familiar spaces.' Audiences have fixed perceptions of urban environments and rules. Break those — introduce unknowable elements into the safety of home, hide terror around the most mundane street corner, give ordinary objects eerie properties — this subversion of 'assumed safety' is the root of fear. In filming, restrain the display of the 'monster.' Focus instead on depicting environmental and character 'wrongness,' letting viewers complete the most terrifying image themselves. Sound and pacing are the keys to amplifying this effect."
Matsumoto Keiko turned in her seat, joining the discussion with a veteran director's authority and a note of appreciation: "Director Hiroshi is right. Horror's core is the projection of the human psyche. The brilliance of your 'urban legends' is that those seemingly bizarre scenarios, upon reflection, all find shadows in real-world anxieties — like that episode where an office phone rings endlessly with no one there. It's practically an allegory for overwork culture. Wrapping social insight in the candy coating of 'ghost stories' — that's what makes them resonate broadly instead of devolving into cheap thrills." She glanced toward the rear directors. "Ashikaga, Asano — you should study how the younger generation thinks. Genre films need depth too."
Nohara Hiroshi nodded: "Director Matsumoto hits the nail on the head. Fear is the externalized vessel of social pressure and the anxiety of isolation. Find the 'pain point' that resonates with urban dwellers, then express it in a way that follows genre conventions yet bears the creator's personal stamp — that's the core creative logic of 'urban legends.'"
Iwata Masao sat slightly behind, listening with rapt attention, his inner state a churning mix of awe and shame.
He had once been so proud of his Onibo Samurai's supposedly "exquisite" costumes and action choreography. Only now did he grasp the chasm between himself and Nohara Hiroshi in creative philosophy and analytical insight.
Finally, unable to hold back, he set aside his pride and leaned forward like a student earnestly seeking guidance: "Department Manager Nohara, what about the design of episode endings? Many viewers say your urban-legend episodes often end openly — even abruptly, with deliberate blank space — yet this resonates and frightens people far more than a clear explanation ever could. How do you calibrate that? Is it intentional, or is there a pattern?"
All eyes focused on Nohara Hiroshi. He considered briefly, then answered with clarity: "Open endings emphasize that 'the unknown itself' is the greatest fear. When something uncanny occurs, whether the protagonist escapes or not, the 'rule-breaking' world they experienced already exists — and may continue lurking in any corner of the city. Rather than providing the false comfort of 'the monster is destroyed' or 'the curse is lifted,' we let the sense of abnormality persist, reminding audiences how fragile the surface of everyday life truly is. This isn't mystification for its own sake — it uses the ending's 'irresolvability' to reinforce the theme: that our 'modern rules' are, before certain forces, utterly defenseless. Blank space doesn't mean there's no answer — the answer is embedded in prior hints and the audience's own imaginative logic. The key is sufficient setup and internal consistency, so the possibilities viewers deduce for themselves are more terrifying than anything you could tell them directly."
These words were lucid and penetrating, carrying an insight that transcended his age.
The bus fell quiet. Every director was chewing over what he'd said.
Even Takada Toshihide nodded subtly. In Matsumoto Keiko's eyes, unconcealed admiration flashed.
Amuro Koichi was the first to react, slapping his thigh: "Brilliant! A genuine revelation, Department Manager Nohara! One conversation with you is worth ten years of study!"
Noguchi Hideya marveled: "So that's why! No wonder those episodes haunt you for days — the lingering impact is immense!"
Amid this professional, fervent discussion, the minibus rolled steadily onward — toward the hallowed hall of Japanese television honors: the Television Drama Academy Awards ceremony.
Outside the windows, Tokyo's 1991 streetscapes streaked past. Inside, the conversation grew ever more animated.
Everyone's wonder at Nohara Hiroshi's talent only deepened.
...
The air inside the Grand Prince Hotel's International Convention Center Pamir in Tokyo was thick — saturated with expensive perfume, taut anticipation, and the faint papery scent of lives about to be turned by fate.
Tokyo's nights always drew their usual noise and exhaustion behind a curtain on occasions like this, leaving only the dazzling mirage where dreams and money intertwined.
Countless camera flashes fell like stars, each burst tearing the night's fabric to freeze meticulously sculpted faces in eternity.
Nohara Hiroshi's group moved with the crowd into this galaxy of light.
They were TV Tokyo's delegation. Every face bore a calm at odds with the surrounding glamour — or perhaps the quiet edge of blades still sheathed.
Executive Deputy Director Takada walked at the front. Not physically imposing, he nonetheless projected an aura — the impervious composure of a man long steeped in these waters of fame and fortune.
Following the ushers, they arrived at TV Tokyo's designated seating area. The placard reading "TV Tokyo" gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, proclaiming the storied institution's legacy.
Yet as Takada was about to sit, his gaze swept casually to the adjacent section.
There stood an identical placard: "Tokyo City TV."
Takada's brow creased — barely perceptibly. The faintest tremor before deep-sea currents collide.
"Seems fate keeps putting us on a collision course, Executive Director." Yamamoto Takeshi's voice was low, carrying a whisper of concern. He adjusted his glasses, sharp eyes darting toward the neighboring section.
Hashishita Ichiro sidled closer, his usually frank face now overlaid with gravity: "Tokyo City TV came to play. Their Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog was launched specifically to counter our Midnight Diner, and now they're right on top of us."
"It's not just proximity," Tanaka Kei added, wariness flickering in his eyes. "That old fox Takahashi Kazuo never does anything without ulterior motive. Coming personally to this ceremony — his real aim isn't the awards."
"They're here for trouble." Yamamoto Takeshi summed it up, his tone full of anticipation for the clash ahead.
Nohara Hiroshi stood behind them, listening quietly, his expression utterly still. Those eyes — usually carrying a certain languid air — were now as deep and unreadable as Tokyo Bay at night: surface calm masking unfathomable depths.
"Nothing to fear." He spoke softly, and his words swept across their nerves like a cool breeze.
Takada's lips curved involuntarily at the remark, approval glinting in his eyes.
He was right. Nothing to fear.
When had TV Tokyo ever been cowed by a challenge?
Besides — Minamijima Afu had already been defeated by their Midnight Diner. Why give it more thought?
At that moment, Noguchi Hideya's voice cut in, his gaze fixed on the entrance with a look of complex emotion:
"They're here."
Everyone turned to follow his line of sight. At the venue entrance, a large entourage swept in.
Leading them was Tokyo City TV's Executive Deputy Station Chief Takahashi Kazuo.
His slightly puffy face wore its trademark false smile, yet his eyes — cold and serpentine — swept the entire hall.
Behind him trailed several directors with respectable industry reputations, plus Tokyo City TV's aggressively promoted new star: Kamiki Shunsuke.
Kamiki Shunsuke was handsome, his bearing radiating high-spirited confidence — lips curved in a smile that could melt glaciers — though laced with unmistakable arrogance.
The two groups' gazes met in midair. Invisible sparks seemed to crackle.
Takahashi Kazuo stepped forward first, striding directly toward TV Tokyo's section, that impossibly fake smile plastered across his face.
"Well, well — if it isn't Executive Deputy Director Takada! Long time no see — as distinguished as ever!" Takahashi's enthusiasm was absurdly overdone, every word hiding a blade.
Takada subtly retreated half a step, maintaining proper distance, his own smile perfectly courteous: "You flatter me, Vice Station Chief Takahashi. You're the one who seems to grow younger with each meeting."
This exchange of pleasantries sounded, to any eavesdropper, exactly like two sharpened swords nudging each other within their scabbards — no sparks visible, but the chill unmistakable.
Takahashi's gaze shifted to Nohara Hiroshi.
A flicker of poorly concealed disdain crossed his eyes, yet he adopted an effusively friendly tone: "And this must be Nohara-kun? Your reputation precedes you — riding quite the wave lately. The younger generation truly is something to fear!"
"Your Midnight Diner has decent word of mouth, I hear — ratings aren't bad either. Although..." Takahashi paused, his tone turning passive-aggressive. "Over at Tokyo City TV, we've been planning to assemble quite a roster of renowned screenwriters and directors to explore new creative horizons. Nohara-kun should keep working hard — young people need to push themselves if they want to catch up to their elders."
The faces of TV Tokyo's directors and producers darkened visibly.
This was naked provocation — and delivered publicly, no less, openly diminishing Nohara Hiroshi while puffing up his own station's content.
Yet Nohara Hiroshi didn't anger. He simply offered a mild smile, one radiating composure.
"Thank you for the guidance, Vice Station Chief Takahashi. This junior will take it to heart." His tone was flat as still water, yet carried not the faintest trace of weakness. "Though perhaps, when judging a work's merit, beyond ratings there are deeper qualities to consider. For instance... whether it can move the heart. Whether it leaves ripples in the viewer's soul. Whether, years from now, it will still be remembered."
His words were gentle, yet precise as a needle finding the soft center of Takahashi's vanity.
Takahashi's smile froze. His eyebrow twitched.
Takada seized the moment to interject: "Hiroshi makes a good point. Art always has its unique value. Of course, ratings are hard currency too. But I hear you've been spending quite generously on Minamijima Afu's wrap party, Vice Station Chief Takahashi? The results must be bountiful indeed — worthy of grand celebration?"
This remark was exquisitely calibrated.
On the surface: a compliment. Beneath: a pointed suggestion that Tokyo City TV had poured excessive resources into chasing short-term ratings — perhaps even resorting to sensationalism.
The implication: their success might be fleeting, lacking substance.
Takahashi's expression soured further. He drew a sharp breath, about to retort, when Kamiki Shunsuke cut in from beside him.
"You're too modest, Executive Director Takada. Our Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog won audiences' hearts through a solid screenplay and outstanding performances. That can't be measured by any wrap party." Kamiki's tone carried the sharp edge of youth, though it also betrayed impatience.
Nohara Hiroshi's gaze shifted to Kamiki Shunsuke. Deep in his eyes, an amused glimmer surfaced.
He asked lightly: "Kamiki-kun's acting is certainly impressive — the role in Minamijima Afu was quite memorable. Though I hear you've been taking on quite a few commercial endorsements lately?"
At this, a gleam of pride flashed across Kamiki's face. He straightened his posture: "Naturally. When audiences appreciate your craft, brands recognize your commercial value."
Nohara Hiroshi nodded slightly, his tone serene: "That's wonderful. An actor finding both artistic fulfillment and financial reward — a genuine win-win. Just remember, while pursuing commercial value, not to forget the original purpose of performing. After all — buzz is temporary. Works are eternal."
The moment the words left his mouth, Kamiki Shunsuke's composure cracked.
Nohara Hiroshi's observation, though seemingly well-intentioned, struck at Kamiki's most tender nerve — that he was merely a pretty-faced idol, not a respected actor.
Within the industry, this was a topic many discussed privately.
"You—!" Kamiki gritted his teeth, but found no words. He truly had no rebuttal.
Takahashi, watching his protégé rendered speechless by three sentences, smoldered with fury.
He glared at Nohara Hiroshi, then at Takada's perfectly composed expression, and realized this verbal skirmish had gone to the other side.
"Hmph!" Takahashi channeled all his displeasure into a heavy snort. "Executive Director Takada, Nohara-kun — we'll see about this!"
With that, he herded Kamiki and the others away, storming back to Tokyo City TV's section.
The entire exchange had been like two alpha lions testing each other at a territory boundary — no outright attack, but the air thick with gunpowder.
Takada watched Takahashi's retreating figure and let out a dismissive scoff. His smile carried a victor's ease and utter contempt for the opponent's petty tricks.
"Child's play." Takada offered his laconic assessment, then turned to the group. "Everyone sit down. No need to spare a thought for those clowns. Our stage exists in our work, and in the hearts of our audiences."
He waved them to their seats. Then he produced a mobile phone — in 1991 Japan, an exceedingly rare luxury possessed only by the elite few.
He dialed a number: "This is Takada. Alert the cast — I want them at the venue. Now. All of them."
A crisp acknowledgment came through. Takada hung up, his expression unchanged. He knew the real contest was far from over.
Before long, another small commotion rippled through the entrance.
TV Tokyo's lead actors began filing in — stars of the hit dramas Yesterday's Cherry Blossoms, Tales of the Unusual, Kasou Taishou, Midnight Detective, and Tokyo's Number One Expert. They'd arrived in a separate vehicle and had been waiting in a lounge;
summoned now, they appeared together.
Each was impeccably dressed, wearing just the right smile, instantly drawing the room's attention. As TV Tokyo's public faces, every one commanded a massive fan base and sky-high national recognition.
Yet as they entered and moved toward TV Tokyo's section, even more industry titans and celebrity guests poured in behind them.
This wave was larger, and the names weightier.
Numerous vice presidents and executive directors from other major networks, legendary film directors, and veteran actors of towering national stature all appeared.
Each represented a force not to be underestimated — the true backbone of Japan's film and television industry.
Then came the unexpected scene.
As these luminaries entered one after another, their gazes collectively gravitated toward TV Tokyo's section.
Many exchanged brief pleasantries with Takada — swapped a few lines of courtesy — then, remarkably, redirected their attention to the young man standing at Takada's side: Nohara Hiroshi.
"Nohara-kun! Hello!"
"Director Nohara! So good to meet you!"
One resonant greeting after another shattered the venue's social protocols.
Industry heavyweights who normally stood untouchably above — they approached Nohara Hiroshi as though greeting a long-lost friend, warmth radiating from every pore.
They extended hands, eagerly initiating handshakes, their voices carrying undisguised admiration and recognition.
"I've been following your Midnight Diner, Nohara-kun! Brilliantly made — that everyday human warmth is simply perfect!" A celebrated film director clapped Nohara Hiroshi's shoulder firmly, his eyes alight with the mutual respect of kindred talents.
"Director Nohara, such extraordinary achievement at your age! I've got a project that's been missing something — and meeting you today, I suddenly feel I've found the inspiration! If there's ever an opportunity, I'd love to collaborate!" An executive from a regional network didn't bother with subtlety, pressing his business card forward with eagerness.
"Nohara-kun, your command of urban subjects is absolutely masterful! I've watched Tales of the Unusual from the start! Whenever you have time, let's sit down and discuss future collaborations." A veteran actor stepped forward, presenting his card with both hands — humble and sincere.
One gold-embossed business card after another drifted toward Nohara Hiroshi's hands like snowflakes.
Every name printed upon them thundered through the Japanese entertainment industry.
Their attitude toward Nohara Hiroshi went beyond courtesy — it was genuine, heartfelt respect and recognition.
This respect even subtly exceeded the social deference they'd shown Takada.
Everyone present could see plainly: these people were genuinely paying Nohara Hiroshi face.
There was no perfunctory glaze in their eyes — only admiration for talent and anticipation for the future.
In this brief span, work after work had elevated Nohara Hiroshi to the industry's unquestioned "star of tomorrow" — and in some respects, he had already surpassed many veteran predecessors.
Takada stood to the side watching his protégé surrounded and courted by one powerful figure after another. His face wore a complex expression — part pride, part the faintest twinge of jealousy.
He stepped forward quickly, gently tugging Nohara Hiroshi back toward himself, his tone carrying a protectively possessive quality that nonetheless rang with sincerity:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Hiroshi here is TV Tokyo's priceless treasure — absolutely NOT for sale!"
Half joke. Half declaration.
Everyone understood the subtext: Nohara Hiroshi was TV Tokyo's core asset. Anyone dreaming of poaching should think twice.
The remark simultaneously elevated Nohara Hiroshi's market value, making him the coveted rare gem in everyone's eye.
And this entire scene, naturally, played out in full view of Tokyo City TV's section nearby.
Takahashi Kazuo had been hoping to watch TV Tokyo's embarrassment — instead he witnessed this spectacle.
He stared fixedly at Nohara Hiroshi, encircled like the moon by attending stars, then at those same industry powerhouses who normally couldn't be bothered with him — now fawning over Nohara Hiroshi with such fervor. His face darkened terribly, teeth grinding audibly.
Kamiki Shunsuke alternated between green and white. He'd believed himself Tokyo City TV's future star, a name of some standing in the industry.
Yet the treatment Nohara Hiroshi was receiving surpassed anything he'd ever witnessed in his life. The way those titans looked at Nohara Hiroshi — with admiration, respect, longing.
And the way they looked at him, Kamiki Shunsuke? Perfunctory politeness at best. Most hadn't even paused.
The crushing disparity inflicted a humiliation he'd never felt before.
Jealousy blazed in the eyes of the entire Tokyo City TV contingent.
They felt publicly stripped bare — all their glossy surfaces rendered dim and irrelevant before Nohara Hiroshi's radiance.
Takahashi and Kamiki — their emotions at this moment were a shattered spice rack: bitter, angry, defiant — everything tangled together, making them want to tear apart this facade of harmony on the spot.
The ceremony's prelude had begun — amid this silent contest and surging undercurrent.
...
Dazzling crystal light fell like wordless prophecy upon the marble floor, refracting into endless illusory facets.
Center stage, two hosts in formal wear stepped into the spotlight with professional yet approachable smiles.
Their voices, amplified by calibrated microphones, carried an irresistible gravity as they declared this annual gala officially open.
Whispers across the venue subsided. Every eye turned to the light at center stage.
Yet Nohara Hiroshi's gaze drifted — past the sea of heads — toward the VIP section.
Several figures who normally appeared only in newspaper headlines sat there now, ramrod straight, faces stern yet restrained.
Their presence added weighty gravitas to an already stellar ceremony.
"Hiroshi, do you see those two over there?" Takada's voice, barely above a whisper, sounded in his ear.
Nohara Hiroshi followed Takada's line of sight.
"Mm. President Shimazu and Mayor Tanaka Mikami. Both here." His tone was tranquil.
The two elder figures sat on opposite sides — not far apart, yet like two invisible mountain peaks, each projecting an undeniable presence.
President Shimazu — TV Tokyo's supreme leader — was smiling softly, speaking in low tones with his neighbor. His smile concealed wisdom and composure forged by decades.
Mayor Tanaka Mikami, on the other side, sat rigid as a pine, his razor-sharp gaze scanning the entire hall as though hunting for invisible cracks.
"Don't underestimate them." Takada angled his body to block potential prying glances, voice dropping further. "This is more than a simple awards ceremony."
"Oh?" Nohara Hiroshi's eyebrow lifted imperceptibly.
"President Shimazu belongs to the 'Regulation Faction' within the Liberal Democratic bloc." Takada spoke slowly, each word drawing clear outlines in the air.
"Regulation Faction?" Nohara Hiroshi repeated. His grasp of politics was far less refined than his command of visual language.
"They advocate macroeconomic regulation — especially cooling down the overheated real estate market." Takada's eyes glinted with depth.
"And Tanaka Mikami?"
"He's the 'Real Estate Faction's' standard-bearer." Takada chuckled softly — the laugh of someone who's seen through the world.
"The name says it all." Nohara Hiroshi's lips curved.
"Precisely. He pushes for continued real estate expansion — considers it the symbol of economic prosperity." Takada's voice grew complex. "Right now, Japan's economy is like a massive ship at full speed. Whether to accelerate further or slow down and reassess — every side has its argument."
"So they're mortal enemies." Nohara Hiroshi's gaze shuttled between the two titans.
"Diametrically opposed." Takada's tone was certain. "With the second-half elections approaching, they're not here just for awards. They're courting support and votes from industry elite. This stage is also an invisible battlefield."
"Politics..." Nohara Hiroshi sighed softly, a note of detachment in his eyes. "I'd rather not get involved."
"Ha ha — not getting involved IS the best involvement." Takada laughed at this, the laugh of someone who'd seen it all. "Just focus on developing your career at TV Tokyo. Keep making excellent work."
"In the future, politics will come seeking your help on its own." Takada added meaningfully, his expectant gaze fixed on Nohara Hiroshi.
"But I already seem to be Shimazu's man," Nohara Hiroshi shrugged. After all, hadn't he been advising President Shimazu extensively — including the "Information Cocoon" strategy that even Bureau Chief Sakata was personally overseeing?
"You'll understand when the time comes." Takada patted his shoulder without elaboration, leaving behind a single laden remark.
While TV Tokyo's side conducted this hushed exchange, the atmosphere at Tokyo City TV's section had frozen solid.
Takahashi Kazuo's face was ashen. He stared fixedly at Nohara Hiroshi — still surrounded by industry luminaries — jealousy burning in his eyes.
"Hmph. That old fool Shimazu is here too. Playing pretend." Takahashi hissed, his voice barely above a serpent's whisper.
Kamiki Shunsuke's face was a mottled canvas of green and white, jaw clenched, fists white-knuckled.
"It doesn't matter that he came. It won't help them." Kamiki fought to contain his resentment, voice shaking slightly.
"Obviously not." Takahashi's eyes flashed with venom. "Our backer, Tanaka Mikami, will definitely be re-elected."
"Then let's see TV Tokyo try to strut." Kamiki's voice dripped with venom.
"Takada Toshihide, that old fox — and Nohara Hiroshi, that punk — just you wait!" Takahashi snarled under his breath, as if ready to lunge and tear them apart.
"I'll show them what real strength looks like." In Kamiki's heart, jealousy toward Nohara Hiroshi had reached its absolute peak.
All those connections — people who wouldn't even acknowledge him, who dismissed him with contempt — had gone out of their way to approach Nohara Hiroshi. He'd never imagined it. And the envy was excruciating.
"Tokyo City TV will grow — rapidly!" Takahashi's eyes blazed with manic intensity, as though he could already see the glorious future.
"TV Tokyo — just wait to be surpassed!" Kamiki added viciously, as if he'd already foreseen TV Tokyo's decline.
The two exchanged a glance, reading in each other's eyes the same blazing ambition and hatred.
They raised their glasses, clinked them gently. The crisp sound cut through the venue's din — jarringly sharp — like an oath, or perhaps a curse on the future.
On stage, lights shifted again. The hosts had concluded their opening remarks. Now the big screen began playing the nomination reel for the first major award.
All eyes were drawn forward. The atmosphere transformed from undercurrent warfare to a tense weave of anticipation and anxiety.
"Next — the award to be presented is: Best Screenwriter of the Year!" The host's voice rang with infectious fervor, each syllable striking a chord in every heart.
The screen scrolled highlight clips from the nominated works alongside brief profiles of each shortlisted screenwriter.
Nohara Hiroshi's name was prominently listed. His Tales of the Unusual — with its unique imagination and profound social allegory — had achieved phenomenal success this year, becoming the subject of countless conversations over dinner tables across the nation.
Takada's eyes brimmed with confidence. He knew this award was Nohara Hiroshi's to claim.
"Congratulations to all the outstanding nominated screenwriters!" The co-host continued. "Your talent has added immeasurable brilliance to Japanese television!"
"But the final winner can only be one!" The male host deliberately built suspense, whetting every appetite.
Below, TV Tokyo's delegation — Yamamoto Takeshi, Hashishita Ichiro, Tanaka Kei, Noguchi Hideya, and the recently arrived cast — held their breath, gazes locked on the screen. They knew: this was TV Tokyo's opening card tonight, this was the critical moment to demonstrate their power to the world.
At Tokyo City TV's section, Takahashi and Kamiki's faces grew darker still.
They stared at Nohara Hiroshi's close-up on the screen, eyes nearly spitting fire. They knew perfectly well how successful Tales of the Unusual had been — but the greater the success, the more it stung.
"And the winner of Best Screenwriter of the Year is—" The host's voice rang out again. This time, the pause stretched agonizingly, ratcheting the venue's tension to the breaking point.
The air seemed to solidify. Only heartbeats echoed.
Nohara Hiroshi's mind, in this moment, was perfectly still. He watched his own name on the big screen as though observing a stranger's story. He knew his worth wasn't something a single award could define.
"You'll win." Takada murmured to the man beside him, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.
"Obviously." Yamamoto Takeshi pushed up his glasses, eyes shining with acknowledgment.
"NOHARA HIROSHI!" The host's voice thundered through the venue like lightning, shattering every silence.
Before the echo faded, TV Tokyo's section erupted in thunderous applause and cheers.
Everyone leapt to their feet, turning congratulatory gazes upon Nohara Hiroshi.
He rose, offered a modest nod to those around him, then walked toward the stage with steady, unhurried steps.
The spotlight tracked his figure, projecting his solitary yet resolute silhouette onto the big screen — strikingly vivid.
Step by step, he ascended the podium and accepted the weighty trophy from the presenter.
Its polished surface gleamed under the lights, as though crystallizing countless nights of thought and labor.
When he took the microphone, every eye in the venue converged on him.
"Thank you, everyone." Nohara Hiroshi's voice, conveyed through the microphone across the entire hall, carried a distinctive magnetism and penetrating quality. "Thank you to the selection committee, to TV Tokyo, and to every viewer who supported Tales of the Unusual."
His gaze swept the audience, settling at last on TV Tokyo's section — on Takada and his colleagues.
"This award doesn't belong to me alone." His voice had grown slightly hoarse, yet only more sincere for it. "It belongs to everyone who contributed their effort to this work."
"What we tried to do was use the visual medium to depict the wonders and truths hidden in the city's corners." He paused, a note of emotion entering his tone. "To touch those forgotten tender places deep within people's hearts. Those unseen struggles."
"This world brims with the bizarre and fantastic — but if we feel it with our hearts, we can always find our own particular wonder." His gaze reached toward the distance, as though piercing the venue's ceiling to behold an ocean of stars. "Thank you all. Your recognition tells me that the stories we tell have meaning in their existence."
His speech contained no ornate rhetoric, no passionate battle cries — yet it touched every heartstring in the room with the subtlety of spring rain nourishing the earth. Applause erupted once more, louder and longer than before.
Amid the ovation, Nohara Hiroshi smiled and bowed, then walked from the stage, trophy in hand.
Each step was unhurried and sure — as though the path he tread was not merely an awards stage, but a road toward a far vaster future.