Midori-yama Studio, Kanagawa Prefecture.
This was one of NHK’s primary production bases for its prestigious Taiga dramas.
Compared with the noisy, fashionable atmosphere of commercial broadcasters like TBS and Fuji TV, Midori-yama felt almost unnaturally quiet.
Solemn, disciplined, and oppressive enough to make a newcomer instinctively lower his voice.
Large signs hung along the corridors:
“RESPECT HISTORY.
REVERE TRADITION.”
Most of the crew members passing beneath them were older veterans dressed in dark gray work clothes.
Even their conversations were kept to low murmurs.
The actors waiting in the hallways behaved no differently.
No matter how famous they were outside these walls, they sat quietly with scripts in hand, memorizing their lines.
Nobody dared laugh too loudly or treat the set like a social club.
This was a different side of Japan’s entertainment industry.
A world where popularity might get you through the door, but only genuine ability allowed you to stay.
In a corner of Studio 3, Shin Kitahara knelt in full tosei-gusoku—a heavy suit of Sengoku-period armor.
This wasn’t some lightweight costume made from plastic and foam.
The armor was constructed from real iron plates and leather and weighed nearly fifteen kilograms.
Shin had already been kneeling for an hour.
His knees were numb.
His lower back ached.
Every muscle around his waist had begun protesting long ago.
Yet he remained perfectly still.
His back was straight, his posture immaculate, his body as motionless as a statue.
Today would be his first major scene since joining the production.
In the story, Masasada Inaba—played by Shin—had been sent back to Edo Castle by his father and would finally meet his biological mother, Kasuga no Tsubone, for the first time after she had risen to immense power within the Ōoku.
And the actress playing Kasuga no Tsubone was none other than one of Japan’s most celebrated veteran actresses—Reiko Ohara.
At the moment, the previous scene was still being filmed in the center of the studio.
A young newcomer playing a junior attendant knelt before Kasuga no Tsubone, attempting to deliver his report.
“Um…
Lady Kasuga, the Shogun…
he…”
His voice trembled.
His gaze kept wandering.
It was painfully obvious that Reiko Ohara’s presence had completely overwhelmed him.
She sat above him on a raised platform, dressed in an elaborate uchikake robe.
She said nothing.
She didn’t even look at the nervous young actor.
Her fingers merely moved slowly across a string of Buddhist prayer beads.
Yet the pressure coming from her was enormous.
She didn’t need to glare.
She didn’t need to raise her voice.
Her mere presence seemed to press down on the young actor like a mountain.
“Cut!”
The chief director tore off his headphones, his brows drawn tightly together.
“What’s wrong with you?
Can’t you even speak properly anymore?
We need a samurai serving in Edo Castle, not a frightened mouse trembling in front of a cat!”
“I-I’m sorry!”
The newcomer hurriedly bowed until his forehead nearly struck the floor.
Cold sweat covered his face.
“Again!”
They tried a second time.
He still stumbled over his words.
On the third take, his mind went completely blank.
“Get out.”
“Replace him.
We’re not wasting any more time on this scene.
Move directly to the next one.”
He turned toward the crew.
“Masasada Inaba, get ready!”
The unfortunate newcomer practically fled the studio in tears.
The atmosphere on set plunged below freezing.
Every crew member seemed to hold their breath, terrified of becoming the next target of the director’s temper.
Reiko Ohara remained seated on the raised platform, expressionless, as though the disaster that had just unfolded had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
She calmly lifted her tea and took a small sip.
There was no sympathy in those world-weary eyes.
Only indifference.
“Kitahara-kun, you’re up.”
The script supervisor quietly reminded him, concern visible in her eyes.
Having to follow that disaster, with the director already furious and the entire studio wound tight, would be hell for any newcomer.
Shin drew a slow breath and rose.
Clack…
The heavy plates of his armor shifted against one another.
And with that sound, his eyes changed.
The alertness and vitality of a modern young man vanished.
In their place appeared a deathly stillness, as though his soul had been buried beneath three centuries of dust.
Shin stepped onto the set.
His pace was heavy and measured.
He didn’t glance at the camera.
He didn’t look toward the director.
He didn’t even raise his eyes toward the woman seated above him—his “mother.”
He reached his mark.
Then the armored warrior dropped to his knees with the weight of a collapsing mountain.
Both hands pressed against the floor.
His forehead lowered until it touched the tatami.
“Mother…
Masasada has returned.”
His voice was low, yet it carried effortlessly across the studio.
There was no joy in it.
No warmth of a son finally reuniting with his mother.
Instead, every word carried a heaviness that almost smelled of blood.
Reiko Ohara lowered her teacup.
For the first time, her gaze settled fully on the “son” prostrating himself before her.
“Raise your head.”
Her delivery remained cold.
It was not a mother speaking to her child, but a woman of authority inspecting someone beneath her.
Shin slowly raised his head.
The muscles across his back remained taut beneath the armor, trembling almost imperceptibly with each breath.
Their eyes met.
According to the script, Reiko Ohara’s next line was supposed to be a cold reprimand.
But the moment she looked into Shin’s eyes…
She froze.
Those eyes…
There was no fear in them.
No attempt to please her.
Not even expectation.
There was only a bottomless emptiness—and buried so deeply beneath it that it was almost painful to witness, the desperate longing of a child who had once wanted nothing more than his mother’s love.
For a single instant, Reiko Ohara forgot she was an actress sitting beneath studio lights.
She became Kasuga no Tsubone.
A mother who had abandoned her son in pursuit of power.
Something bitter and aching rose unexpectedly in her chest.
That line wasn’t in the script.
It simply slipped from Reiko Ohara’s lips.
The cold cruelty originally written for the scene disappeared.
In its place came something far more complicated—a restrained sigh filled with regret, frustration, affection, and the helpless bitterness of a mother who had long since forgotten how to love her son properly.
Behind the monitor, the director suddenly sat upright.
She changed the line?
But he didn’t call cut.
Because what was happening in front of the camera was better than what had been written on the page.
Shin didn’t panic at the unexpected line.
His Adam’s apple shifted.
The corner of one eye twitched ever so slightly.
For a moment, it looked as though countless words were struggling to escape his throat.
But in the end, his jaw tightened.
He swallowed every one of them.
“Your son…
would not dare complain of hardship.”
The response came naturally.
Seamlessly.
As though the line had always belonged there.
“Good!
Cut!”
The director’s voice rang across the studio, unable to hide his excitement.
“We’ve got it!
Perfect!”
The tension gripping the set broke instantly.
Several veteran lighting technicians exchanged looks.
Each saw the same surprise reflected in the others’ eyes.
This newcomer had not only held his own opposite Reiko Ohara…
He had drawn an improvised line out of one of Japan’s most respected veteran actresses.
Shin remained kneeling.
Only after Reiko Ohara rose from the platform did he finally push himself to his feet.
His legs had been folded beneath him for so long that his body swayed slightly when he stood.
“Are you all right?”
A nearby stagehand hurried forward to support him.
“I’m fine.
Thank you.”
Shin raised a hand politely, and the intense stillness in his expression gradually faded.
Reiko Ohara had already begun walking off the set when she passed beside him and suddenly stopped.
The legendary actress—well known throughout the industry for her strict standards—looked him over from head to toe.
Her gaze finally settled on his knees, which remained slightly bent even while standing, his posture unconsciously retaining the humility expected of his character.
“Your kneeling posture is good.”
Her tone was淡淡, almost casual.
“You practiced?”
“For this production, I practiced at home for a week,” Shin answered truthfully.
“Mm.”
Reiko Ohara gave a small nod.
She said nothing more and continued toward the lounge.
But after walking several steps, she spoke to the assistant beside her.
“Go get my lower-back massager and let him use it.
Kneeling that long in armor like that will ruin his back.”
Everyone nearby heard her.
And almost immediately, the way they looked at Shin changed.
On a Taiga drama set, receiving a compliment from the star could be dismissed as good fortune.
But for Reiko Ohara to personally offer him her own massager?
That was genuine recognition.
Shin watched the veteran actress walk away and bowed sincerely toward her back.
“Thank you, senpai.”