April 1989.
The season when cherry blossoms bloomed — and fell.
NHK Midoriyama Studio.
Studio 1.
Today’s set was unusually bare.
White cloth covered the tatami.
In the background garden, several artificial cherry trees were blowing petals through a fan.
This was the filming location for episode 16 of Kasuga no Tsubone.
It was also the death scene — seppuku — for Inaba Masasada, played by Shin.
In the makeup room.
Shin looked at himself in the mirror.
He wore pure white shinishōzoku — the death robes reserved for ritual suicide.
His hair hung loose over his shoulders.
The makeup artist had deliberately made his face deathly pale and applied a thin layer of concealer to his lips, leaving him with no color at all.
“Kitahara-kun, are you ready?” The script supervisor knocked on the door, her voice softer than usual.
“I’m ready.” Shin stood up.
He hadn’t brought the script.
This scene only had two lines.
… Inside the studio, the atmosphere was as solemn as a real funeral.
Ohara Reiko was already seated beside the monitor.
In this scene, she existed purely as a witness.
Although historically Kasuga no Tsubone may not have watched her son die, the director had arranged a final mother-and-son farewell separated by a paper door for dramatic tension.
“All departments, stand by.” The director’s voice came through the speaker.
Shin walked onto the set and knelt in the center of the white cloth.
In front of him lay a short sword (wakizashi), its blade wrapped in white paper.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
[Equip Activated: The Down-and-Out Historian’s Annotated Notebook] [Equip Activated: The Songstress’s Abandoned Silver Zippo] [Equip Activated: The Broken Practice Bokken] All three items activated at once.
A vast wave of desolation crashed over him.
It wasn’t fear of death.
It was something closer to… release.
He was Inaba Masasada.
The child abandoned by his mother.
The pawn used by his family.
The “tool” who had spent his entire life reading other people’s faces.
Now, this tool was finally breaking.
He would never have to kneel and take orders again.
“Action!” The camera slowly pushed in.
On screen, Shin slowly extended his hand and picked up the short sword.
His movements were slow, terrifyingly steady.
Not a single tremor.
As if he were simply picking up a wine cup.
He raised his head and looked toward the tightly closed paper door.
Beyond it was the silhouette of his all-powerful mother.
“Mother…” His voice was hoarse, carrying a kind of torn calm.
“Masasada… will now go apologize to Father.” He didn’t wait for a response from beyond the door.
Because he knew — in this lifetime, he had never once received a single gentle word from that woman.
He loosened his robes, exposing his thin chest.
The muscle memory from the [Broken Bokken] guided him.
He gripped the sword in reverse, blade tip aimed at his abdomen.
The motion was precise, like a cruel ritual offering.
He thrust it in.
Then came the most critical eye acting.
In the final moment of life, Shin didn’t play pain.
He didn’t play resentment.
Using the story sense from the [Zippo] and the empathy from the [Notebook], he created an extremely complex expression.
His brows relaxed.
In those previously dead eyes, a faint, relieved smile appeared.
Like a corporate slave who had worked three straight days and nights finally walking out of the office building on a Friday evening.
“Finally… free.” That line wasn’t in the script.
He only moved his lips.
No sound came out.
But that silent mouth shape was louder than any scream.
His body leaned forward and collapsed.
Like a dead tree returning to dust.
… “Cut!” The director’s voice was slightly hoarse when he called it.
No one immediately sprang into action.
Everyone seemed still immersed in the heavy oppression and sudden release they had just witnessed.
“Masasada…” A choked sob suddenly came from beside the monitor.
Everyone turned.
To their shock, Ohara Reiko hadn’t come out of character.
Ignoring the script supervisor’s attempts to stop her, she stumbled onto the set and dropped to her knees beside Shin’s “body.” Looking at the “son” who had just died with empty eyes and a faint smile on his lips, this iron-willed veteran who had fought her way through decades of the industry had tears streaming down her face like broken beads.
“You foolish child… How could you smile like that…” She reached out with a trembling hand, wanting to touch Shin’s face but not daring to.
“It was your mother who killed you… It was your mother who forced you to die…” She cried with raw, heartbreaking grief.
This wasn’t acting.
This was a genuine emotional breakdown triggered by her scene partner.
The “release” Shin had performed hurt her — the “mother” — more deeply than any resentment ever could.
Shin lay on the floor, listening to the crying beside him, and sighed inwardly.
He slowly opened his eyes and sat up with an embarrassed smile.
“Ohara-senpai… um, the director already called cut.” Ohara Reiko froze.
Looking at Shin who had just “resurrected,” she suddenly burst into laughter through her tears and gave his shoulder a hard slap.
“You little bastard!
You played it so ruthlessly — were you trying to squeeze every last tear out of me?!” Though she was scolding him, the appreciation and affection in her voice were obvious to everyone.
The entire crew broke into spontaneous applause.
Thunderous applause.
… Two weeks later.
Episode 16 of Kasuga no Tsubone aired.
The ratings for this episode hit a new series high — an astonishing 32.4%.
And the one minute of Shin’s seppuku became the highest-rated moment of the entire episode.
The next morning.
Shin went to buy daikon at a vegetable shop in Nakano’s shopping street, wearing casual clothes and his plain-lens glasses.
“Ma’am, two daikon, please.” The shop owner who was stocking shelves looked up.
When she saw Shin’s face, she froze.
The next second, the daikon in her hands hit the floor with a thud.
“Oh my goodness!
Isn’t that Lord Inaba?!” The shop owner shouted excitedly, loud enough to draw the fishmonger from next door.
“Good heavens!
You’re not dead?!
I cried my eyes out watching last night!
How could you be so foolish?!
That mother of yours was too cruel!” “Uh… that was just acting…” Shin said, caught between laughter and embarrassment.
“I know it was acting!
But it was too good!” The shop owner grabbed his hand, her eyes turning red again.
“Young man, you look so healthy and full of life — how could you play such a tragic fate?
Come, come, the daikon is free.
Take it!
And these apples too — take them!
You need to nourish yourself!” “Lord Inaba!
I’ve got fresh saury here!
Let me wrap two for you!” the fishmonger from next door called out, leaning over.
Shin stood in the middle of the bustling shopping street, arms full of free vegetables and fish.
The aunties buying groceries and the salarymen passing by all looked at him with warm, sympathetic eyes.
In idol dramas, you might earn screams from teenage girls.
But in taiga dramas, only when you could make the housewives — the ones who held the remote control — cry for you, had you truly entered the hearts of the nation.
He was still a supporting actor.
But from today onward, he was a supporting actor who possessed “national recognition.”