Chapter 9: The Daughter of the Sea
The next morning, Chihara Rinto rose early. After washing his face and brushing his teeth, he tidied himself up neatly, donned his only suit, and stepped out with a spring in his step. However, the moment he stepped outside, a chilly breeze sent a shiver down his spine.
The past two days of continuous rain had brought a sharp drop in temperature, finally giving Tokyo a taste of winter. He tightened his tie for psychological warmth, musing that once he had some money, a trench coat would be his first purchase. With that thought, he headed toward the station.
It was just past seven—ahead of schedule—but Tokyo's morning traffic was notoriously chaotic. Better to err on the side of caution. Punctuality was a cornerstone of trust, and trust was built through small, consistent actions over time. It wasn't something to take lightly.
From the narrow lane where his apartment lay, he turned onto the sole commercial street of this aging neighborhood. His footsteps echoed softly on the damp, slippery cobblestones as he made his way to the station.
Ahead, three girls in deep blue sailor uniforms chattered animatedly, their laughter filling the crisp air. They were likely heading to school, carefree and lively. Watching them, Chihara Rinto's lips curled into an involuntary smile.
Their outfits—long white ribbons streaming behind them, sailor collars, skirts reaching mid-calf, thick bubble socks, and black leather shoes—left little skin exposed, exuding modesty.
What a shame, he thought wistfully. In 1994, short-skirted JK (high school girl) fashion hadn't yet emerged. Japanese school uniforms seemed to evolve cyclically. At the end of the 1980s, there had been a retro trend favoring longer skirts, with girls deliberately lengthening their hems almost to their ankles. This gave way to shorter styles year by year until the early 2000s, when the pendulum swung back again. By then, the aesthetic would lean toward shorter skirts paired with knee-high socks, creating the coveted "absolute territory."
To see short skirts, he'd have to wait another seven or eight years. Different eras indeed had different aesthetics. A lesson to remember: viewing 1994-95 through the lens of 2019 could lead to costly mistakes.
For instance, airing a hit film from 2019 unchanged in 1995 might result in a box office flop. Thankfully, Tales of the Unusual originated in the 1990s, making it a safer choice for his debut project.
Lost in these musings, Chihara Rinto suddenly heard a shrill cry pierce the air: "Help! Someone, help! Keita fell into the river! Please, save him!"
The three high school girls ahead froze mid-laughter before bolting toward a nearby alley. Without hesitation, Chihara Rinto followed. Human nature compelled action at the sound of distress, especially when it came from a child. Even the cruelest hearts harbored a sliver of innate compassion.
Tokyo's geography was dotted with rivers and canals, forming a dense network of waterways. Not far from this commercial street flowed a tributary of the Meguro River. Though narrow, its swift current posed grave danger to anyone who fell in.
Chihara Rinto trailed the girls through the short alleyway, emerging onto a smaller path that led to a pebble-strewn bank and the river itself. It was early morning, and the seldom-used path along the shallow bank stood deserted save for two elderly women fretting on the shore and a young boy clutching two backpacks, sobbing hysterically: "Keita said he could jump to the biggest rock…!"
As Chihara Rinto ran, he took stock of the situation. Several rocks jutted above the water's surface. Keita, the mischievous child, appeared to have attempted hopping across them to reach the largest one—a display of bravado gone awry. Now, he clung precariously to a rock, buffeted by the relentless current. His face was pale with terror, too frightened even to cry.
The three high school girls sprinted ahead. One with shoulder-length hair tossed her bag to a companion, shouting, "Seiko, Sagiri, I'll save him!"
Chihara Rinto paused, his hand halfway through removing his suit jacket. As a northerner, his swimming skills were mediocre at best, and he lacked confidence in rescuing someone from such treacherous waters. Fortunately, the girl had volunteered, sparing him the ordeal.
Just then, a piercing whir cut through the air. A round-faced girl in workwear, her ponytail bouncing, raced past on a bicycle, fishy odors trailing behind her. She zipped past the high schoolers, crashed through the bushes, and skidded onto the bank. Abandoning her bike, she leapt into a running dive, entering the water with lightning speed and minimal splash.
By the time she resurfaced, she'd already swum halfway across the river. Reaching Keita from behind, she looped an arm around his neck, yelling, "Don't move! I'll drag you ashore! Stop struggling! I am the daughter of the sea. I swear on the Dragon God, you won't drown!"
Meanwhile, the three high schoolers cheered her on from the bank. Chihara Rinto slowed his pace, realizing his presence was unnecessary. Instead, he picked up the fallen bicycle, noticing the chain had slipped off. Squatting down, he reattached it and spun the pedals to ensure it worked. Tied to the rear rack were two large, scaled-and-beheaded fish—evidence of the ponytailed girl's delivery job.
No wonder she smelled of fish, but clearly, she was a good person.
More people arrived, including a patrolling officer on a bicycle. Chaos erupted on the bank as Keita was hauled ashore, likely destined for a stern scolding. Chihara Rinto lingered briefly before turning back toward the station.
Well, disaster averted. Children's logic truly baffled him. Why jump into a river on the way to school? What a nuisance. Such behavior deserved punishment—until they learned better.
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Chihara Rinto dismissed the incident as a minor detour, arriving at Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB) headquarters by 8:12 a.m. He waited near the entrance for Murakami Iori, taking the opportunity to observe his future workplace.
TEB headquarters was a cluster of buildings, their age showing despite their modest height of nineteen stories. The rooftop bristled with antennas—some dish-shaped, others spire-like—lending the structure an imposing grandeur.
In front of the main building sprawled a spacious courtyard, guarded by security personnel rather than gates, wide enough to accommodate heavy cargo vehicles. Two nine-story annexes flanked the main building, their rooftops similarly adorned with antennas. Together, the three structures enclosed the courtyard.
Beyond them lay additional facilities—likely studios, parking lots, and more—but from the entrance, visibility ended here.
This was one of Japan's four major private broadcasters in this parallel world!
Yet, Chihara Rinto, a traveler from another timeline, struggled to map this TEB onto any single counterpart from his original world. In his native reality, industry insiders joked that "Japan only has five TV stations." While hyperbolic, the quip held some truth. Indeed, Japan's broadcasting landscape was dominated by just five networks.
First, there was Nippon Hoso Kyokai (NHK), modeled after the BBC, claiming political neutrality while operating under congressional oversight. Funded primarily by viewer fees—a legal obligation for anyone receiving its signal—it remained largely independent of government or corporate influence. Moreover, NHK held the exclusive right to broadcast nationwide, airing programs like Japan's equivalent of the evening news.
The remaining four were commercial broadcasters, collectively referred to as private stations: Nippon Television Network System (NNS), Asahi Television (ANN), Japan News Network (JNN), and Fuji News Network (FNN). Technically restricted to regional signals, they achieved near-national coverage through affiliate networks. For example, regional stations like Chukyo TV, Tokai TV, Nagoya TV, and Chubu-Nippon Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) joined forces with one of the four major networks, forming part of their respective broadcast grids.
Independent or self-formed regional networks existed but remained small-scale operations, often prioritizing infomercials over content creation. TV Tokyo, for instance, formed a modest grid confined to the Kanto region, never achieving nationwide reach.
What set Japan apart was the unique relationship between these broadcasters and newspapers. Each major private station was either owned or heavily funded by a newspaper conglomerate—an arrangement rare worldwide.
Nippon Television aligned with Yomiuri Shimbun, JNN with Mainichi Shimbun, Fuji TV with the Fujisankei Communications Group, and Asahi Television with Asahi Shimbun. Even TV Tokyo, a minor player in the 1990s, was tied to Nikkei.
Consequently, Japanese TV stations rarely competed for breaking news. Stories typically appeared in print first, allowing broadcasters to delve deeper without cannibalizing newspaper sales. Once boasting the world's highest newspaper subscription rates, Japan relied heavily on papers for timely updates—a peculiar throwback to earlier times.
Thus, commercial TV leaned heavily into entertainment programming, giving rise to the production bureau system. Limited news slots left ample room for variety shows, dramas, and documentaries. To minimize costs while maintaining quality amid fierce competition, networks honed their craft meticulously.
As Chihara Rinto pondered which real-world counterpart TEB most resembled—leaning toward either JNN or Nippon Television—Murakami Iori arrived, calling out from afar: "Sorry to keep you waiting, Chihara-san."
Chihara Rinto greeted her warmly, replying, "Not at all, Murakami-san. I arrived early."
The moment of signing had arrived!