My Name is Hiroshi Nohara, Star of Neon Film and Television! Chapter 210: Capital's Intervention! Nohara Hiroshi's Compos

Nohara Hiroshi's acceptance speech — about "the wonders and truths hidden in urban corners" — landed like a stone dropped into deep water, sending concentric ripples across the Television Drama Academy Awards venue. When stillness finally returned, what remained was the audience's thoughtful silence and an enduring ovation.

He gave a slight bow, fingers steady as bedrock upon the crystal trophy — symbol of Japan's highest screenwriting honor. His face was still as an ancient well, as though the man who'd just stood beneath glory's halo had been soone else entirely.

Back in TV Tokyo's reserved section, the atmosphere of vindication grew richer. Everyone knew: that had been rely tonight's appetizer.

What followed turned the annual Japanese television gala into what felt like a coronation ceremony staged exclusively for TV Tokyo and the Nohara Production Departnt behind it.

The dazzling spotlight converged again and again. Crystal trophies glinted with increasing frequency from TV Tokyo's seats.

"The Best Drama of the Year Award—"

With the presenter's ceremonial announcent, highlight clips from the nominated dramas flashed across the screen, ultimately freezing on a hauntingly beautiful image: a farewell beneath cherry blossom trees.

"The winning work is — produced by TV Tokyo, a tiless masterpiece from Director Matsumoto Keiko: Yesterday's Cherry Blossoms!"

"Clap!"

The spotlight found Matsumoto Keiko precisely.

This industry titan — past fifty, her throne as "Goddess of Romance" built on countless classic love stories — rose with elegance. Her silk gown flowed with warm luminescence under the lights.

Her stride was graceful. Passing Nohara Hiroshi, her steps hesitated almost imperceptibly. Their eyes t. At her lips: a thin but genuine smile of approval — as though saying "Your turn next" — before she swept majestically onto the stage.

Accepting the trophy, her voice rang clear and powerful: "Thank you to the selection committee for their generous regard for Yesterday's Cherry Blossoms. This honors not just the work, but serves as a tender tribute to a lost age of innocence. The beauty of cherry blossoms lies in the fact that even a single mont can be eternal."

Her speech brimd with an artist's soul, earning a full house of applause.

Imdiately after—

The "Best Animation of the Year" award was a foregone conclusion. "The winning work — Yamishibai! From TV Tokyo's Nohara Independent Production Departnt, led by Section Chief Hashishita Ichiro!"

When the host read the na, Yamamoto Takeshi and Tanaka Kei in the back rows let out excited whispered cheers of "Yes!" and clapped furiously.

Hashishita Ichiro's honest face instantly flushed crimson. The enormous surprise made his legs unsteady as he stood — Tanaka Kei, quick on the draw, steadied him.

He drew a deep breath, practically jogging to the stage. When he accepted the heavy trophy, his trembling fingers betrayed the storm within.

"Th-thank you, TV Tokyo! Thank you, Bureau Chief Sakata, Executive Director Takada, Deputy Director Asumi..." He fought to steady his breathing, eyes urgently searching the audience for one particular figure. "And my deepest, deepest gratitude to Departnt Manager Nohara! Without your original vision and unconditional trust, there would be no Yamishibai today! This trophy belongs to the entire team — and is also a testant to Departnt Manager Nohara Hiroshi's genius!"

When he saw Nohara Hiroshi's characteristic steady nod, it was like finding solid ground. He bowed — a full ninety degrees — his gratitude and loyalty overflowing.

The "Best Creative Work of the Year" followed imdiately — and once again landed in TV Tokyo's hands.

"The winning work: from TV Tokyo's Nohara Independent Production Departnt, created under the leadership of Departnt Manager Nohara Hiroshi — Tales of the Unusual!"

The audience responded with knowing laughter and genuine admiration.

This convention-shattering, imagination-rich, humanity-and-society-dissecting anthology had long since achieved phenonon status.

Nohara Hiroshi remained seated. The trophy was accepted by Yamamoto Takeshi as the creative team's representative.

Standing on stage, Yamamoto similarly expressed his gratitude to Nohara Hiroshi: "The 'unusual' journey continues. Thank you to every viewer who discovers the extraordinary within the cracks of urban life. This is an extension of Departnt Manager Nohara's talent — and I hope I will never betray the trust he has placed in us!"

His speech was brief and powerful — true to his nature.

The technical awards beca TV Tokyo's stage as well.

When "Best Animation Visuals" went to Iwata Masao's Onibo Samurai, the man seated mid-row in TV Tokyo's section — once Nohara Hiroshi's fierce rival — rose with a complicated expression.

Excitent was there, certainly — this was the highest validation of his team's top-tier craftsmanship. But when his eyes touched upon the gleaming "Best Animation" trophy in Nohara Hiroshi's hands ahead of him, then fell to his own certificate — primarily certifying visual splendor — that once-towering pride was washed through with a hundred conflicting emotions.

Onibo Samurai's dazzlingly gorgeous, hyper-detailed imagery — every fra so rich it seed to ooze pignt — had been his proudest badge of honor.

Yet before Yamishibai — a work that planted bone-deep terror through minimalist lines, masterful negative space, and sheer sonic tension — and before the industry's highest achievent award, he was forced to confront a brutal reality: Onibo Samurai possessed the most magnificent wedding dress, but lacked a soul powerful enough to make the heart tremble.

Technique collided with art. The verdict was clear.

Of course — it was now his turn on stage. He accepted the certificate with deep emotion, delivered the customary speech, and returned to his seat.

As the award segnt paused, TV Tokyo's section basked in the warm glow of a bountiful harvest.

Iwata Masao sat back down, his gaze oscillating between the gold-stamped "Best Animation Visuals" on his certificate and Nohara Hiroshi's tall, steady silhouette ahead. Finally, it all resolved into a single audible sigh.

That sigh held a clear-eyed recognition of his own creative shortcomings, and the bittersweet acknowledgnt of facing a true superior — thoroughly and willingly convinced.

In the front row, Takada Toshihide — who had been silently monitoring the internal dynamics — slowly turned his naturally stern face, his gaze settling on Iwata.

This forr Tokyo Faction pillar tapped his knee arrhythmically twice, then spoke in a low, clear voice that cut through the ceremony's ambient sounds: "Iwata."

Iwata's heart jolted. He instantly straightened, responding with deference: "Yes! Executive Director Takada."

"The visuals of Onibo Samurai..." Takada's tone carried rare affirmation. "...are the pinnacle. Your team represents the absolute highest standard of Japanese animation craftsmanship. On that point, there is no dispute."

To receive such public praise from the notoriously exacting Takada was nearly unheard of.

A complex surge of gratitude welled inside Iwata Masao: "Yes! Thank you for the recognition, Executive Director! We will continue pursuing the utmost in visual expression!"

Takada's gaze didn't linger on him long. It slid past his shoulder toward the front — toward that figure of unwavering calm. Nohara Hiroshi was quietly exchanging words with the just-seated Matsumoto Keiko.

"However," Takada's cadence was unchanged, but the weight suddenly multiplied, carrying decisive authority. "The core value of cinematic art — tiless and unchanging — lies in the story's soul. No matter how brilliant the visuals, they are ultimately the vessel carrying the narrative soul. Iwata-san."

He paused, sharp eyes returning to Iwata: "Going forward — in creative planning, screenplay refinent, excavating narrative depth — you must learn more from Departnt Manager Nohara. His mastery of dramatic structure, psychological insight, and the precision with which he captures society's pressure points..."

Sothing complex flashed through Takada's eyes. "At his age, such abilities are rare as phoenix feathers and unicorn horns. You must study earnestly."

This was no re technical guidance.

This was Takada Toshihide — representing the Tokyo Faction's old guard — publicly, unequivocally endorsing Nohara Hiroshi's unassailable status and professional authority within the Production Bureau. It was also a blazing signal flare in the faction consolidation process.

Set aside your prejudices. Rally around the true core!

Iwata Masao felt his throat tighten, a wave of pressure and determination crashing through his chest.

He nodded hard, his voice carrying unprecedented honesty and resolve: "Yes! Executive Director Takada! I understand completely! I will approach him with twelve parts sincerity! I will not slack off!"

Then, feeling his words still insufficient, he drew a deep breath. Taking the plunge, he turned fully around, raised his voice slightly, and called directly toward the back ahead of him: "Departnt Manager Hiroshi!"

This ti, every trace of the long-accumulated resistance and resentnt in that address had vanished completely. Only clear-eyed respect remained.

Nohara Hiroshi, hearing his na, turned partway with calm neutrality. His gaze fell on Iwata's face.

Those deep eyes held no condescending scrutiny, no superfluous warmth — only the pure, quiet attention of one professional regarding another.

Iwata Masao's face broke into a smile mingling self-deprecation with relief. His voice was sincere, laden with feeling: "Departnt Manager... to be honest, tonight — especially after watching Yamishibai take ho the top award and then looking back at our Onibo Samurai... I'm full of emotion. The way Yamishibai captures that subtle tremor in the deepest recesses of the human psyche, that suffocating atmosphere built through the most minimal ans... it's like an impossibly precise surgical scalpel, cutting open not just the plot, but the audience's very nerves and bones..."

He shook his head emphatically, delivering a profound self-dissection: "In the past, I was just too obsessed with piling on layers and showing off color technique. Drunk on the perfection of 'form,' I neglected the crystallization of 'spirit.' This visuals award —"

He held up the certificate, the self-mockery deepening: "— is like a glaring mirror, reflecting back a truth I cannot deny. I'm outclassed. And I accept it wholeheartedly."

The resignation and total deference in his words were unmistakable.

Nohara Hiroshi listened quietly to Iwata's soul-baring confession. Not a flicker of smugness crossed his face. Instead, he showed genuine respect for the value of honest professional exchange.

Because Nohara Hiroshi had already reached a certain height.

His hands resting on his knees, fingertips lightly tracing the cool, solid edges of the Best Screenwriter trophy, he responded with earnest eyes: "You sell yourself short, Iwata-san. Your team's relentless pursuit of perfection in visual expression and technical precision is a recognized monunt in the industry. It has brought all of us — myself included — entirely new revelations and inspiration in visual storytelling. The 'beauty' Onibo Samurai presents is itself an artistic achievent of the highest order."

He deftly elevated Iwata's strengths to an artistic plane, then naturally pivoted: "As Director Matsumoto just noted —" He glanced toward the quietly listening, elegantly poised Matsumoto Keiko beside him, as though stating an indisputable industry consensus — "No matter how technology evolves, its ultimate mission is to serve content. Exquisite visuals give a story's wings greater fullness and lift;

while solid, profound narrative cores bestow upon visuals an immortal life force."

His gaze returned to Iwata Masao: "Though our areas of deep focus differ, we can complent each other at the craft level. Learning from one another, advancing together — that is the true path."

Matsumoto Keiko, who had been quietly listening to this junior exchange, saw how naturally Nohara Hiroshi redirected the conversation toward her and elevated the discussion to the level of industry philosophy. On her face — marked by years yet still refined, carrying a slight air of detachnt — a warm smile blood.

She nodded gently, picking up the thread: "Hiroshi-kun's words resonate deeply with . Iwata-kun, your technique has reached the pinnacle — a fusion of material and spirit. And Hiroshi-kun's stories are like a keen blade, piercing straight to the heart's subtlest reaches, evoking profound resonance. The two are like opposite ends of art's balance — complentary, each indispensable."

Her gaze settled on Nohara Hiroshi with appreciation: "Especially in you, Hiroshi-kun — I see a creative breadth and depth that truly astonishes. Whether it's Yamishibai's spine-chilling eeriness, the kaleidoscopic and satirically brilliant insights of Tales of the Unusual, or the joyous wave Kasou Taishou ignited — breaking through an entire nation's walls of cold indifference to embrace pure, unfiltered joy..."

Matsumoto Keiko's tone grew wistful: "Yet what surprised most — what still stirs my heart to this day — was Hachiko Monogatari."

At the ntion of that work, this "Goddess of Romance" — celebrated for her delicate emotional portraits — showed a rare, genuinely moved expression, her voice carrying a barely perceptible tremor: "That loyalty that transcends species barriers — near-stubborn in its devotion and watchfulness... that emotional bond which, far from fading under ti's relentless wash, only grows purer and more intense... that force that pierces the screen, unhurried yet unerringly precise, striking the softest corner of the soul..."

She paused, as though steadying herself: "The impact it delivers is so quietly overwhelming that even now, the warmth of being filled by pure, devoted guardianship can be clearly reawakened."

She fixed her gaze on his impossibly young face, her tone carrying unprecedented gravity: "At your age, to grasp and present humanity's most authentic, most complex, most profoundly moving dinsions with such precision — within the scope of Japanese film history, this is exceedingly rare. 'The younger generation inspires awe' feels inadequate for you. It should be: 'The younger generation commands respect, with a future beyond all limits.'"

This evaluation — from the mouth of Matsumoto Keiko, a figure representing the pinnacle of Japanese television's golden age — carried weight like a boulder dropped into a still lake. Silent shockwaves rippled through TV Tokyo's entire seating block and the rows beyond.

Even the steadfast Yamamoto Takeshi and Tanaka Kei unconsciously held their breath, enveloped by an indescribable aura of glory.

To receive such unreserved, effusive praise from the "Goddess of Romance" — in the Japanese entertainnt world, this was worth no less than lifting another trophy.

Facing this avalanche of accolades, Nohara Hiroshi's expression remained deep and still as an abyss. Only the gaze he turned toward Matsumoto Keiko grew more profound, his respect more concentrated.

He inclined his head, his bearing simultaneously humble and sincere: "You are far too kind, Director Matsumoto. What Hachiko strove to express was rely the most unadorned emotional bond between lives — an imperishable mark that even ti's torrent cannot erode. The works you have created across decades of artistic life — steeped in the textures of their eras, with their enduring depth and profound humanity — are the lighthouse that creators of my generation look up to and will forever study. To receive even a single word of mutual encouragent from you is already an enormous honor for . On the path of creation, only through mutual refinent and drawing from every source of wisdom can we live up to the expectations of millions of viewers — and can our works strike the pulse of the era and the deepest places of the human heart. This is a creator's original purpose and fundantal duty."

His response carried trendous weight lightly — attributing personal achievent to the preservation of "original purpose" while elevating Matsumoto Keiko and her legacy to an even higher pedestal. His words were sincere, absolutely watertight, displaying a political wisdom beyond his years.

This was indeed political wisdom.

The tallest tree in the forest is the first the wind breaks.

Now, Nohara Hiroshi had reached the peak of his current life — earning countless people's recognition and astonishnt in an impossibly short ti.

Including their jealousy.

If he grew arrogant, he would inevitably attract more underhanded attacks from the shadows.

To avoid trouble, to secure a brighter future —

Nohara Hiroshi chose the path of humility.

Besides, at this mont, TV Tokyo's entire camp was not rely basking in an unprecedented harmony and glory — this also marked Nohara Hiroshi's ascent to yet another level.

Iwata Masao's complete capitulation. Matsumoto Keiko's powerful endorsent. Plus Bureau Chief Sakata, Executive Director Takada, Deputy Director Asumi, and Kurosawa Eiji's unwavering support.

All of it had pushed Nohara Hiroshi's internal standing at the station to an even more unshakable summit.

Yet beneath this harmonious surface, the undercurrent finally broke loose — surging into a tidal wave that crashed, in the most absurd fashion, directly onto the ceremony's center stage.

"Next," the host's voice climbed sharply, dripping with suspenseful buildup that seized every ear, "we are about to reveal the most anticipated award of the evening — Best Actor of the Year!"

In an instant, every whisper in the hall died.

Accompanied by suddenly intense, oppressive background music, highlight clips flashed across the screen — the nominated actors' finest monts from their signature roles:

A middle-aged man sitting alone in the last train after the midnight crowds had dispersed, eyes numb and hollow, his entire being crushed beneath the weight of life's inescapable pressure (from a realist masterwork);

A samurai at the turbulent end of the shogunate, shouldering a grave mission, his eyes — in the instant a blade flashed — weaving fierce defiance of fate with deep mourning for a vanishing era (the protagonist of the year's most talked-about taiga drama);

A man in bone-chilling torrential rain — from the devastating scream upon learning of a beloved's betrayal, ultimately dissolving into a silent, void-eyed despair that spreads like ink through water (the tour-de-force of an ethical drama)...

Every fra crystallized consummate artistry. Every gaze, every muscular twitch spoke volus of painstaking craft.

The air was taut as a bowstring. Everyone held their breath, silently guessing who would claim this pearl — the crown jewel of Japanese acting excellence.

TV Tokyo's section was equally riveted.

Yamamoto Takeshi couldn't help leaning over to whisper to Tanaka Kei: "That senior's performance in the 'Mountain Ghost' episode of Tales — absolute textbook material... And the Kikuchiyo performance in Seven Samurai — that charisma alone deserves the prize..."

Tanaka Kei nodded vigorously, eyes similarly locked on the screen.

Then—

Without warning, the screen froze.

The face that filled every eye was not any of the favored veteran powerhouses or established character actors.

It was a face absurdly young, handso beyond mortal ken — like a hand-carved work of art — yet at this mont, slightly stiff and even distorted with extre excitent and triumph: Kamiki Shunsuke.

The screen clearly displayed his nominated work: Lovely Cherry Blossom Boy (Tokyo City TV production)!

"...And the Best Actor of the Year is — Kamiki Shunsuke!"

The host's professionally trained, rhythmically emphatic voice erupted into the petrified silence — sounding jarring and absurd:

"In Tokyo City TV's ambitious youth inspirational drama Lovely Cherry Blossom Boy, Kamiki Shunsuke delivered a touchingly pure, sunny, and vibrantly youthful portrayal — perfectly capturing the innocent stirrings, confusion, and indomitable courage of life's coming-of-age journey!

"He demonstrated overwhelming popularity in both the audience online voting and postal voting segnts! With unmatched personal charisma and boyish appeal, he has successfully elevated the artistic power of Japanese youth idol dramas to an unprecedented new dinsion! Let us give the most thunderous applause to this radiant new idol star! Congratulations, Kamiki Shunsuke!"

After a brief, cosmos-collapsing instant of absolute, suffocating silence — what erupted across the ceremony hall was NOT applause. It was a tsunami of noise: a churning mixture of shock, disbelief, the fury of being mocked, the absurdity of it all, and enormous, derisive laughter.

"Pfft—"

"WHAT?!"

"What the HELL?!"

"NANI?!"

The massive wall of sound drowned the entire hall.

Nearly every face froze in that instant — stunned, dumbfounded, disbelieving — as though witnessing the most incompetent, most shaless satirical farce perford live.

The white-haired industry patriarchs, decorated actors, and veteran producers wore shock, confusion, and the deep flush of insulted dignity. The likewise-nominated thod actors radiated undisguised astonishnt, skepticism, and naked contempt.

Accusations boiled like cold water thrown into a pot of searing oil.

Several venerable, white-haired titans in the front rows — faces mapping decades of weathering — widened their eyes in horror, then twisted with unconcealed revulsion.

Nearby nominees — real actors of substance — saw their smiles freeze, replaced by rigid disbelief and a simring sense of humiliation.

They exchanged glances. No words needed. The naked sarcasm was written plainly: "HIM? That drama propped up on lodrama and saccharine sentintality? That wooden mannequin who can only flip his hair and widen his eyes on cara?"

Whispered comntary slithered between seats like cold snakes, every barb aid at Kamiki Shunsuke and the forces behind him.

"See that? Kirin Group's money magic is working!"

"I heard Tokyo City TV poured a fortune into this promotional push, including 'audience SMS voting hotline' expenses..."

A slightly portly, gold-rimd-glasses-wearing producer whispered to the director beside him, a knowing smirk frozen on his lips: "Look at that — even 'Best Actor' can be bought now. Sato Tokugawa, that nouveau riche, has so real nerve."

The director beside him — his face still carrying traces of the admiration he'd shown while applauding Nohara Hiroshi — now wore only storm clouds. "Nerve? This is unbridled arrogance! 'Audience SMS voting'? Ha — who knows if those 'audiences' are even real people? Probably their own staff wearing out phone keypads! This is a desecration of industry standards!"

His indignation bled through his deliberately hushed voice, which trembled with agitation: "One single award — and capital has turned it into sothing reeking of sewage, contaminating the entire stage! Have the selection committee elders had their spines crushed by gold bars?"

"Shh... keep it down." A more cautious magazine editor interjected from the side, eyes flicking aningfully toward Tokyo City TV's section. "Careful of eavesdroppers. But... yes. It's too much. Even if we grant every benefit of the doubt — Lovely Cherry Blossom Boy? That's supposed to be 'acting'? Bluntly: I could tie a dog to a post outside my house and it would deliver more nuanced performances! Capital truly can do ANYTHING."

These unhidden discussions stung like a field of needle points, aid directly at Tokyo City TV's zone.

Yet the expected outburst of panic never materialized.

Takahashi Kazuo — forr publicity departnt elite of the Tokyo City governnt, now Executive Deputy Station Chief of Tokyo City TV — sat there, face like stone.

That face — usually wearing a professional politician's smile, skilled at reading superiors — now resembled polished marble: smooth, hard, utterly expressionless.

As the tide of criticism and contemptuous stares surged toward him, he rely adjusted his tie knot, gazed forward at Kamiki Shunsuke delivering his speech on stage, and appeared deaf and blind to everything else.

But internally, he was anything but calm.

That heart — forged by factional warfare into a precision gear chanism — was calculating gains and risks at maximum speed.

Mayor Tanaka Mikami's directive had been crystal clear: use the Academy Awards platform — a national-level awards stage — to gild Kamiki Shunsuke, Tokyo City TV, and most importantly, the Mayor himself!

Best Actor? Now THAT was weight!

What Mayor Tanaka needed was exactly this kind of gleaming "prestige project" — to show citizens and higher power circles that the "Tokyo culture" initiative under his leadership was bearing fruit!

Takahashi understood perfectly: in the Mayor's eyes, the propaganda value and public opinion steering power of an idol star's award far exceeded ten Nohara Hiroshis — those content-obsessed artists of genuine talent.

But he wasn't without concerns.

Such blatant industry-wide questioning and revulsion — could it backfire? Could the narrative spiral out of control?

Would the "Kamiki Shunsuke Best Actor" topic be not a stone dropped in water, but one thrown into a cesspit — launching not just splashes, but a sky-high stench that would tarnish even the Mayor's image?

His gaze, seemingly casual, swept across the incensed and contemptuous faces behind him — especially the knowing, faintly amused profile of Takada Toshihide in TV Tokyo's section, and his colleagues' unconcealed sneers.

A shadow crept across Takahashi's mind.

These people had considerable influence.

He needed to ensure that the "face" delivered by this hollow-inside, gold-plated-outside award wouldn't be peeled back to reveal the rotten stuffing within.

"Vice Station Chief Takahashi." A deliberately lowered, fawning voice sounded at his ear — Kamiki Shunsuke's manager, a slick-haired man whose face was a pile of obsequious smiles, like a hyena that had caught the scent of gold. "Rest assured — the process is absolutely clean! For the audience SMS voting phase, we provided full coordination. The fan club mobilized thousands of people voting through the night! The data is all 'genuine' — it can withstand scrutiny! This is the will of the audience!"

He deliberately stressed the words "genuine" and "will of the audience."

"That's right!" A young, glamorous actress from Tokyo City TV's idol division imdiately chid in, her voice saccharine: "Shunsuke-san has massive popularity among young viewers, especially female audiences! He represents the new generation's aesthetic and choices! The station and Kirin Group supporting him — isn't that simply following the trend?"

She batted thick mascara-laden lashes, trying to wrap capital's stench in the flag of "the new generation."

Takahashi listened to these eager self-justifications, eyes flickering.

The manager's "genuine will of the audience" was as thin as wet tissue paper. The actress's "trend" argunt was hollow sloganeering.

Yet even these leaking argunts gave him sothing to lean on psychologically.

The "audience voting" fig leaf — no matter how thin — was still a fig leaf.

As long as the surface held up, even with undercurrents raging beneath, the narrative space remained operable. After all — controlling dia spin was his original profession.

His ntal scales finally tipped toward "benefits outweigh the risks."

As long as the Mayor needed it, as long as the data could be made to work, as long as follow-up PR could suppress the negative noise... Takahashi's knitted brow loosened slightly. The marble mask regained a trace of warmth.

He gave a subtle nod and squeezed an almost inaudible "Mm" from his nostrils. Tacit approval.

The hanging tension eased slightly.

This performance could continue.

On stage, Kamiki Shunsuke was imrsed in his grand, illusory halo of glory — entirely oblivious to the undercurrents below. Or rather, he simply didn't care.

He bead radiantly, holding the trophy aloft, mimicking senior actors' gestures. His tone was exaggerated and dripping with manufactured "emotion":

"Arigato! Arigato gozaimasu!"

"Thank you to my parents — your support brought here today!" "Thank you to my fans! I love you!"

"And most importantly of all! I must thank Kirin Group's Chairman Sato Tokugawa! Without your keen eye for talent and wholehearted cultivation, there would be no Kamiki Shunsuke today!"

He gave a slight bow — deeply submissive — his face radiating near-sycophantic gratitude.

"And of course — thank you to Tokyo City TV! His Excellency Mayor Tanaka Mikami! And Station Chief Takahashi Kazuo! Your platform and trust gave the chance to showcase myself!"

He straightened, eyes gleaming with near-manic self-assurance: "Please stay tuned, everyone! I will star in even more stories of youth chasing dreams and igniting passionate ambition! This very year! Please support !"

Amid scattered, thin applause and far more silence, Kamiki Shunsuke descended the stage in full self-satisfaction.

His gaze swept the audience like a searchlight — landing with surgical precision on the group that had just been cheering for Nohara Hiroshi: TV Tokyo's section.

Clutching his trophy, chest puffed like a victorious rooster, he deliberately slowed his pace as he passed TV Tokyo's seats.

Chin raised high, his carefully grood eyes angled downward — sweeping across Matsumoto Keiko's furious, contemptuous face, across the subtly twitching lips of Yamamoto Takeshi, Tanaka Kei, and Hashishita Ichiro — twisted with humiliation and rage.

Finally, his gaze found the core: Nohara Hiroshi.

Nohara Hiroshi was still seated. His posture was as calm as if he were attending an ordinary eting rather than sitting at ground zero of a farcical awards storm.

He had slightly tilted his head, apparently listening to Matsumoto Keiko's whispered words. His eyes now t Kamiki Shunsuke's provocative stare with tranquility.

No anger. No contempt. Not even a ripple. Only an all-seeing... clarity. And a detached, almost pitying gaze — the way one might watch a mantis brandishing its arms against an oncoming wheel.

"Damn!"

Kamiki Shunsuke's pent-up provocation and pride slamd into cotton — or rather, his elaborate performance t a vacuum.

That seemingly calm gaze possessed more penetrating force than any curse. It caused Kamiki's carefully maintained swagger to stutter, and a naless chill — the sensation of being stripped bare in public — crawled up his spine.

The silent, sneering scoff he'd prepared was ramd back down his throat. The arrogance on his face froze unnaturally for an instant.

But a heartbeat later, prideful instinct made him throw his head back even more theatrically — masking the brief inner panic. A short, haughty snort escaped his nostrils. Then he quickened his pace, retreating sowhat clumsily — yet forcing composure — back to Tokyo City TV's "victory zone."

Only after Kamiki's figure rged into the cluster of Tokyo City TV personnel — all wearing their own complicated expressions — did TV Tokyo's section begin trembling like the earth before a volcanic eruption.

"Unforgivable!" A Level 2 director was the first to crack, his low voice squeezed through gritted teeth, knuckles cracking audibly. "An idol star dares to mock art like this! To desecrate this hall!"

His outrage targeted not just Kamiki's ignorant brazenness, but the deeper wound: an award twisted beyond recognition by capital.

"Hah... well, this is certainly eye-opening." Another Level 2 director's habitual genial smile had completely vanished. He removed his glasses, rubbing his temples with exhaustion. "President Sato's reach has gotten a bit too long. This trophy reeks not of gold dust, but of money."

"Small man drunk on success!" Yamamoto Takeshi spat the words through clenched teeth.

Tanaka Kei said nothing, only shaking his head with a grim face.

Hashishita Ichiro hung his head, eyes complex. Having experienced betrayal and return himself, he understood the filth of the fa ga all too well.

Even the seasoned Matsumoto Keiko — Level 1 Director, the "Goddess of Romance" — couldn't suppress a sigh that dripped with irony and sorrow, clearly reaching Nohara Hiroshi beside her: "The world decays, and hearts with it. Departnt Manager Nohara, do you see? This is what the Japanese entertainnt industry has beco. Television stations? Long since tainted ground. Art? Now a commodity with a listed price, waiting for the highest bidder. Capital's long arm truly leaves nothing untouched."

Her gaze crossed Kamiki Shunsuke, crossed Takahashi Kazuo, and finally settled on empty space ahead: "Even the last scrap of decency has been torn to shreds. The road ahead... will only get worse."

Nohara Hiroshi listened quietly to the discussions around him and Matsumoto Keiko's lant. His deep eyes were twin pools, absorbing every turbulent emotion.

Matsumoto's words laid bare the cruelty of reality — and prophesied the perils ahead.

Capital's power — in a Japan where the bubble was about to burst — would indeed whip up even wilder storms, just as President Shimazu had warned regarding Arica's imminent "thunderbolt asures."

He slowly turned the water glass in his hand.

And yet—

For him, this was an opportunity.

"Director Matsumoto speaks absolute truth." Nohara Hiroshi's voice was low and steady, solid as bedrock, quelling the agitation around him. His gaze settled calmly on Matsumoto Keiko. "Capital's flood is powerful indeed, but it can never truly replace the power of creation, nor erase the genuine resonance in audiences' hearts. Only..." He paused, his eyes lifting toward the hall's ornate ceiling — as though piercing through it to glimpse the gathering shadow of grimr tis ahead. "Only in the future, what we need may not be just the power of creation alone."

He said no more. He simply straightened his spine.

That Kamiki Shunsuke, hoisted onto an altar by capital, along with his Lovely Cherry Blossom Boy? Nothing more than a gaudy bubble destined to be smashed against the shore by the coming tidal wave.

Strength — true strength — is what matters most.