025. Utaha Kasumigaoka

After finishing dinner and washing the dishes, Jiang Yu glanced at the clock—almost half past five. He changed clothes, preparing to head out to his part-time job at the café.

After her own meal, Umaru Doma sprawled out on the floor, watching the late-night anime she’d recorded the night before.

This, too, was a unique feature of anime in this country. The shows broadcast during prime time were mostly uplifting children’s series, while most of the popular anime Jiang Yu had watched in his previous life were what the locals called late-night anime.

Late-night anime refers to television animation aired during the late hours, mainly on private and satellite channels between 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. Anything outside this time frame is considered all-day anime.

Moreover, after midnight, the hours are often written as 25:00 or 26:00, equivalent to 1 or 2 a.m. on the 24-hour clock.

Anime here is produced through a production committee system. Each project forms a committee from participating studios and sponsors, who then purchase airtime from the TV stations. Because late-night anime has a smaller audience and less funding, producers can only afford those late slots.

The main audience for late-night anime is anime enthusiasts and young people—middle and high school students, especially those living far from the city. Boosting DVD and related merchandise sales is the primary goal.

These DVDs and merchandise, commonly called BDs and goods, are the chief source of revenue for anime here. Many series only get a second season if the first generates enough profit to persuade investors to back another, hoping for greater returns.

The term “seasonal anime” also comes from this: TV stations typically run shows for one quarter—three months—so most anime seasons are twelve episodes long.

By extension, a “half-year anime” runs for six months, and a “yearlong anime” runs for a full year. But due to investment constraints and production cycles, most adaptations are made as seasonal shows.

Especially adaptations of popular light novels—these are usually seasonal, and if the BD sales are strong, fans can hope for another season.

Due to copyright issues, new anime can’t be watched on local streaming sites. This differs from Jiang Yu’s previous life in China.

Take, for example, Bilibili, where Jiang Yu used to watch anime. Most series—especially new ones—were available because Bilibili’s investors negotiated and purchased the streaming rights from Japan.

Because of certain indescribable circumstances, people in China could often watch all the anime for free. This led to considerable resentment among Japanese fans. After a show aired, if they wanted to watch it again, they had to buy the official BD or watch their own recordings.

Thus, most local otaku owned video recorders, recording the anime they wanted to watch each night and catching up the next day—just like Umaru Doma was doing now.

Of course, there were also people like Eriri Aki, who would stay up from eleven at night until four in the morning watching live... but Jiang Yu had nothing but polite admiration for that level of dedication.

After informing his sister that he was heading out for work, Jiang Yu grabbed his uniform and left the house.

He arrived at the café with about twenty minutes to spare and, relieved, knocked on Kyoko Kato’s office door.

Receiving permission, Jiang Yu entered. Kyoko Kato was smiling at him.

Jiang Yu returned the smile and asked, “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Kato, but for Saturday—should I go to the recording studio in the morning or the afternoon?”

Kyoko Kato tilted her head, curious. “Do you have plans, Jiang? The time is set for the morning.”

“Oh, it’s nothing major. A friend wants to meet, and I thought if I’d be in the studio all day, I’d just turn him down.” Jiang Yu scratched his head, a little embarrassed.

Kyoko Kato laughed gently. “Well, you only need to sing one song. Your performance of the Canon variations is already quite polished to my ears, so a morning session is plenty. Spend the afternoon with your friend—and don’t forget you’re working here in the evening.”

“Thank you, Ms. Kato!” Jiang Yu gave a grateful nod.

“Go on, get ready for your set,” Kyoko Kato waved him on with a smile.

“Yes!” Jiang Yu replied, his gratitude overflowing as he left the office.

—

On stage, after performing several piano classics, Jiang Yu took a brief break, grabbed a bottle of mineral water, and tried to soothe his parched throat—thanks to the hamburger steak at dinner.

But then, something caught his eye and startled him so much that he almost choked on his water. He managed to swallow, but coughed awkwardly into a napkin, attracting a few curious glances from the audience.

He stood and bowed to the guests in apology, then hurried off toward the restroom.

The culprit, it seemed, had realized she was the cause of Jiang Yu’s predicament and wore a mischievous smile.

Why is Senior Kasumigaoka here? Jiang Yu wondered as he made his way to the restroom, still flustered.

Once he’d calmed down, he straightened his clothes, ignored the girl’s amused gaze as he returned, and walked purposefully back to the stage.

Sitting down, Jiang Yu focused completely on his music once more. Utaha Kasumigaoka withdrew her gaze as well, turning her attention to her laptop.

Jiang Yu ended the set with a rendition of Canon, concluding his day’s work.

—

Takao was a typical member of the “go-home club”—the kind of student who didn’t participate in extracurriculars. Today, though, he’d come to the café on the strong recommendation of a friend, who had insisted the pianist here was “incredible.”

Takao still remembered the almost urban-legend tone his friend had used. Skeptical, he’d arrived with a critical eye.

But Jiang Yu’s playing won him over at once—especially the final Canon, which, to someone with Takao’s musical knowledge, was nothing short of astonishing.

Though he seemed an ordinary student, Takao was actually a well-known music uploader on NICONICO and an otaku as well.

Discreetly, he recorded Jiang Yu’s final Canon performance on his phone, planning to share it with his fans online.

Since it wasn’t for commercial use, this kind of personal upload was technically a copyright violation, but not enough to be considered a crime. Besides, Takao always added a disclaimer at the end, just as forum users in China would when quoting images—no one really pursued the matter.

He’d already thought of a title: something like “A Godlike Pianist Appears in a Café!” or “Hidden Masters Among Us: The Café’s Pianist!”

Pleased, Takao paid his bill, already planning to come back often.

—

After changing out of his uniform, Jiang Yu hesitated for a moment but then approached Utaha Kasumigaoka’s table, greeting her somewhat stiffly, “Senior Kasumigaoka, what brings you here?”

Utaha suddenly crossed her legs, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “I’m here every day, you know.”

“Ah, sorry—I just never noticed you before, Senior Kasumigaoka…” For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Jiang Yu found himself apologizing, bewildered that he’d offended her.

“Well, your mind is probably always full of impure thoughts, isn’t it? Like how to romance the pretty girls in your class or the beautiful, long-haired upperclassman?” Utaha’s tone was casual, but her words left Jiang Yu speechless.

“W—what are you talking about, Senior Kasumigaoka?” He looked pained, unable to meet her eyes.

Wait a second, isn’t she including herself in that accusation? I have absolutely no intention of pursuing any beautiful girls! Jiang Yu screamed inwardly.

“Oh? Am I wrong? You were sneaking glances at my legs just now, weren’t you?” Utaha toyed with a lock of her hair, her expression teasing.