It wasn't terrible—but it was miles away from the "ratings miracle" they'd expected. It was even worse than Kitahara Osamu's so-called "mediocre work" from five years ago.
"How could it be this low?" Kitahara's face turned ashen.
What was even more terrifying was the real-time ratings curve.
Starting thirty minutes after broadcast, the line plunged off a cliff. By the end of the first episode, it had crashed to an unbearable 7.3%.
"You've got to be kidding me!!"
The network chairman felt his vision go dark, nearly fainting. "A disaster! An unprecedented, catastrophic failure!"
…
…
Genesis Company once again became a sea of celebration.
The head of the film and television department stared at the numbers on the screen, so excited he could barely speak.
"Thirty-five point one percent!!! An average premiere rating of thirty-five point one percent!!! We—we've broken history again!!!"
The entire company erupted into an even wilder celebration than after their last variety show victory.
Employees lifted Seiji Fujiwara high into the air, shouting in fervor.
Megumi stood outside the crowd, watching the man at the center of it all. In her eyes, beyond admiration, something new took root—something called belonging.
For the first time, she felt that she truly belonged to this man who created miracles. A sense of security and trembling excitement surged through her.
…
…
"And what about Seiji Fujiwara's ratings?" Kitahara Osamu asked in a low voice.
The board members instantly turned toward the secretary.
The secretary's face went even paler as he answered shakily, "Thirty-five point one percent…"
Kitahara's expression froze.
"Thirty-five point one?" he repeated softly, a trace of absurd disbelief flickering in his eyes. "That number… is it real?"
The chairman looked horrified.
He slowly raised his head and asked hoarsely, "Say it again. What are the ratings for the two dramas?"
The secretary trembled as he replied, "We have eight point three percent. They have thirty-five point one percent."
The villa fell into deathly silence.
…
…
When the terrifying 35.1% rating for Hanzawa Naoki spread, the night in Japan split into two worlds.
One was filled with wailing and funerals for the old powers.
The other celebrated the birth of a new king.
In Ginza, Tokyo, inside an exclusive high-end cigar bar closed to the public—
Kazuya Tsutsumi, Tatsuya Mori, and Kenji Ootori, the three giants of online streaming, had long since shed their usual executive gravitas.
Ties loosened, bottles in hand, their faces glowed with unrestrained joy.
"Cheers!" Tsutsumi raised his glass excitedly, the ice clinking sharply. "To the new era! No—toast to Fujiwara-sama!"
"To Fujiwara-sama!" Mori and Ootori echoed without hesitation, downing the amber liquid in one gulp.
"Hahahaha…!!"
Tsutsumi's phone screen lit up with a live report from the business department, the text trembling with excitement:
"Our paid subscriber count in just two hours tonight surpassed the total growth of the past six months! We've expanded server capacity three times already and still nearly crashed! Advertisers' calls—this isn't price inquiries anymore, they're bidding! Begging us, crying, just to get three ad slots at launch!"
Mori adjusted his glasses, his eyes behind the lenses blazing. "Fujiwara-sensei completely crushed the TV networks. They didn't even get a chance to fight back."
The oldest of the three, Ootori, leaned into the plush sofa, emotion thick in his voice. "Our decision back then… it was the most correct decision we've ever made. From now on, we're the leaders of this industry."
They raised their glasses again in silence. This time, alongside joy, their eyes held deep reverence for that young figure.
…
…
Genesis Entertainment's headquarters had turned into pure celebration.
The company rented out an entire floor for a grand victory party. Expensive champagne flowed like tap water, and top-tier cuisine piled high.
Seiji maintained a faint smile throughout.
When the cheers finally subsided, the head of the film and television department—face flushed—stepped onto the stage, microphone in hand, his voice trembling with excitement.
"Everyone! Please allow me one minute!"
"Just half a year ago, we were still nothing more than an outsourcing company in the animation industry!"
"And today, standing here, with the TV networks beneath our feet, we've told all of Japan—with two undeniable victories—who truly rules this era!"
"All of this comes from one person! Our boss—Mr. Seiji Fujiwara!"
He turned to Seiji and bowed deeply.
"Boss! On behalf of all employees, please accept our highest respect! We swear to follow you to the end and create an even greater future!"
"Follow to the end! Create the future!"
The entire staff roared in unison, the sound nearly lifting the ceiling.
Megumi stood at the edge of the crowd. She didn't join the frenzy—she simply watched the figure revered by tens of thousands.
Her heart raced as a strange emotion—pride mixed with belonging—wrapped around her completely.
As the party ended and the noise faded—
Seiji summoned the film and television department head and the legal director, Sakaguchi Ken, to his office.
"Boss, what are your instructions?" the department head asked, still riding the high.
Seiji didn't answer immediately. He walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at Tokyo's glittering nightscape.
"Do you think Japan's entertainment industry… ends here?" he asked calmly.
Both men froze, unsure what he meant.
"For ordinary people, this city might be the entire world," Seiji said, his gaze as deep as the night sky. "But for those standing on the mountain—this is only the beginning."
He turned back, a faint smile curving his lips.
"The celebration is over. Starting tomorrow, prepare yourselves. We're drafting a much larger expansion plan. Entertainment is just the first step for Genesis."
The department head and Sakaguchi Ken felt their scalps tingle.
Looking into their boss's eyes—eyes that seemed ready to swallow the entire world—they felt both fear and an even fiercer passion ignite within them.
…
…
Inside the TV alliance's headquarters conference room, the atmosphere was as dead as a grave.
The long table that once seated executives from every major network now felt eerily empty.
The chairman—the old man who had once raged about teaching Seiji Fujiwara a lesson—now sat slumped at the head seat, all vitality drained, his face gray.
On the screen before him, headlines from major news sites scrolled endlessly:
"Historic Rout! Traditional TV Alliance Completely Defeated by Genesis!"
"35.1% vs 8.3%! Hanzawa Naoki Judges the Old Era with Godlike Authority!"
"A New King Is Born! Seiji Fujiwara Reshapes Japan's Entertainment Landscape Overnight!"
…
"Everyone…" the chairman finally spoke, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping. "We lost. Completely."
No one responded. Only heavy breathing filled the room.
He let out a self-mocking laugh, harsher than crying. "The times have changed. Old men like us can't keep up anymore."
Taking a deep breath, he said heavily:
"I propose dissolving the 'Anti-Genesis Strategic Alliance.' Effective immediately, all hostile actions against Genesis are canceled."
No one objected.
Because everyone knew—it wasn't a proposal. It was an unavoidable conclusion.
…
That afternoon, three announcements detonated public opinion.
The TV alliance's official account released a brief statement announcing the immediate dissolution of the opposing alliance "due to strategic adjustments."
Next, the chairman of the Producers Association—a highly respected industry elder—held a press conference. Facing countless cameras, he said solemnly:
"We must admit that the success of Human Observation and Hanzawa Naoki is no coincidence. They represent the future of entertainment. We older producers must put aside our arrogance and learn from the new era."
Most shocking of all was legendary director Kitahara Osamu.
On his personal blog, he published a long post titled **"I Lost—to the Times."
In it, he publicly admitted that his "artistic pursuit" had drifted away from audiences and expressed sincere—if begrudging—admiration for Seiji Fujiwara's talent, stating that "a new era requires new creative philosophies."
These three statements were like nails sealing the coffin of the old era shut.
After the surrender, an even more dramatic scene unfolded in Genesis Entertainment's lobby.
It had become the "Jerusalem" of Japan's entertainment industry.
Tanaka Takeshi—once a "star producer" who'd scoffed at Seiji Fujiwara—now sat nervously in the waiting area like a graduate awaiting an interview, clutching his resume tightly.
He'd been there for three hours. The receptionist hadn't spared him a glance, yet he didn't dare show any impatience.
When he saw the head of the film and television department step out of the elevator, he sprang up instantly, bowing at ninety degrees.
"Department Head! I'm Tanaka Takeshi! I—I hope to have a chance to work for Genesis! Any position is fine! I'm willing to start from zero!"
The department head merely glanced at him and said: "Wait."
Then he walked away.
Tanaka didn't get angry. He felt relieved instead—because "wait" meant there was still Hope.
Not far away, former national comedy star Wakaba Takafumi paced anxiously with his manager, wearing sunglasses and a mask.
He hadn't called ahead. He'd come in person—only this could show sincerity.
More directors, screenwriters, and top-tier actors who once dominated television quietly appeared around the building.
Some waited in cafés. Others watched from their cars.
All of them waited—for even the slightest chance to be seen.
…
…
With deep integration into Genesis, online platforms officially surpassed traditional TV, becoming the center of content distribution.
The era of "the internet reigns supreme" had arrived.
Genesis Entertainment became the undisputed hegemon of the industry.
No longer just a company, it became a standard. A totem.
The entire industry began obsessively studying and copying the "Genesis model"—from script development to casting standards to marketing strategy.
Seiji Fujiwara's status rose to something imperial.
A single sentence from him could decide the life or death of a project—or an artist's future.
…
The "Hanzawa Naoki phenomenon" even crossed the Pacific.
In the United States, at the boardroom of Phoenix Pictures, one of the six major studios, clips from Hanzawa Naoki played on repeat.
"Incredible," a veteran producer marveled. "A workplace drama with no gunfights, no special effects—and it causes this kind of explosion in Asia. Its structure is textbook-level."
The CEO made an immediate decision. "Form a dedicated research team. Study Seiji Fujiwara and all his works in detail. And send our best people to Japan to approach Genesis and negotiate the English remake rights for Hanzawa Naoki. We must get it!"
…
…
At the same time—
Inside the highest-level boardrooms of the three major streaming platforms.
NikoNikoStream, Hulu Japan, and AbemaTV's CEOs—Kazuya Tsutsumi, Tatsuya Mori, and Kenji Ootori—each convened shareholder meetings.
"I object!" A shareholder representing a major investment firm stood up first, frowning deeply. "I absolutely oppose giving five percent of the company's shares to Genesis!"
"Exactly! We can buy his content, even offer sky-high revenue splits—but equity? That's absurd!" another veteran shareholder echoed.
Opposition filled the room.
Facing the uproar, Tsutsumi remained unusually calm.
He stepped forward and scanned the room. "Everyone, I know what you're thinking. But understand this—today we're not discussing 'cost.' We're discussing 'qualification.'"
"Qualification?"
"Yes. Whether we're qualified to stay at the table for the next ten years!" Tsutsumi's voice rose sharply. "Seiji Fujiwara isn't an ordinary person. He is content itself! And content is the core of any platform!"
Mori followed, his tone cold and razor-sharp. "Let me give you a more terrifying scenario. If we're stingy with this five percent today, what will Seiji Fujiwara do? He'll go to our competitors—or use his terrifying capital to build an entirely new platform himself. When that happens, your shares will truly become worthless. Because every user and every advertiser will swarm to him like moths to a flame."
Ootori delivered the final blow. "That's why giving up shares today is a wise strategic investment. Five percent and a board seat to bind him to our chariot. From now on, all his works premiere on our platforms first. That's a moat money can't buy."
The three CEOs' words doused the shareholders' anger with cold clarity.
The proposal passed by an overwhelming majority.
Three days later, a formal equity transfer agreement and a board seat invitation were delivered to Genesis's legal director, Sakaguchi Ken.
Genesis Entertainment officially became a shareholder behind all three streaming giants.
Not cross-holdings—fully independent equity.
…
…
As Seiji enjoyed the spoils of victory, a storm closely tied to Megumi Kato quietly began to brew.
The Prime Minister's residence. A confidential conference room.
The Foreign Minister, the Minister of Defense, the Chief Cabinet Secretary, and several other core officials sat in a tense Secret meeting.
The topic: recovery of wreckage and remains from an ANA passenger plane that had crashed in a disputed region of Southeast Asia.
"The situation is extremely difficult," the Foreign Minister reported first. "The crash site is in territory controlled by anti-government armed groups. Armed conflict is ongoing. We've sent multiple diplomatic teams—every negotiation failed. Their demands are outrageous, and they refuse to budge."
The Minister of Defense added, "Forcible retrieval risks direct conflict with local forces. It could trigger a major diplomatic incident—and casualties on our side. The risk is enormous."
The Chief Cabinet Secretary weighed in politically. "And it's been two months. Public attention has already dropped sharply. Spending huge sums and taking massive political risks for this now… the cost is simply too high."
The room fell into heavy silence.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=
You can read up to chapter 185 on patreon.com/NiaXD.