Chapter 99 The Japanese literary world was permanently rewritten because of Kitahara Iwa.

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Just as the Akutagawa Prize judges' discussion was drawing to a close, a completely different scene unfolded in another tatami room on the first floor of Shin-Kiraku Ryotei.

If the Akutagawa Prize judging panel on the second floor was filled with a restrained solemnity, then the Naoki Prize judging panel on the first floor could almost be described as frenzied at this moment.

The judges present were all seasoned veterans who had spent most of their lives working in the field of popular Japanese literature.

They have written mystery novels, period novels, stories about human relationships, and stories about everyday life.

They knew better than anyone that the lifeblood of popular literature was never in the ivory tower, but in the joys and sorrows of ordinary people on the streets.

In January, when the bubble had just burst and all of Japan was trembling in agony, this work, titled "Screaming," burst into their field of vision in an almost brutal way.

Hiroyuki Itsuki was the first to stand up.

This social commentator, known for his composure, made an extremely unusual move today, in the eyes of everyone present.

He placed his hands on the table, leaned slightly forward, and his voice carried the excitement of finally finding an outlet after suppressing his emotions for a long time.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I may be being a bit harsh, but I believe this work transcends the realm of detective novels."

Hiroyuki Itsuki's gaze swept across every face present. He spoke slowly, but every word he uttered was firm and resounding.

"In the midst of this bubble bursting, what are our peers still writing about? Locked-room murders, alibis, and the endless combinations of classic mystery plots..."

He shook his head and continued, "Only Kitahara Iwao picked up the scalpel and cut open the festering sore of this era."

"Yoko Suzuki is not a fictional character."

At this moment, Hiroyuki Itsuki's voice was lowered slightly, but its weight was even greater: "She is every Japanese citizen who is currently sitting on the verge of bankruptcy."

"She is the housewife being chased by loan sharks, the husband who is afraid to go home after being laid off from his company, and the marginalized people who die alone in their rented rooms and are ignored by everyone."

"Kitahara Iwao wrote down their voices. That cry—it was the most authentic sound in all of Japan this winter."

After he finished speaking, the room fell silent for a moment.

Everyone present felt as if they had been struck in the chest by something, and it took them a few seconds to process the shock.

Junichi Watanabe leaned back on the seat cushion, his arms crossed over his chest, a very complex expression on his lips.

I was impressed, moved, and felt a subtle sense of resentment that only exists among peers.

"Mr. Itsuki is right, 'The Cry' is indeed a work that leaves all its peers speechless."

After a long while, Junichi Watanabe slowly spoke, his tone tinged with self-mockery: "But what infuriates me the most is not 'The Scream' itself."

He paused for a moment, as if he were carefully choosing his words.

"What's most infuriating is that this guy, who can write about the darkest corners of society in a suffocating way, also wrote a work like 'Love Letter'!"

Junichi Watanabe shook his head, his wry smile deepening as he asked, "What is 'Love Letter'?"

"It is a story of spiritual redemption written in the dirtiest, most murky place in Shinjuku, a story so pure it is almost sacred."

"To be honest, even though I, Junichi Watanabe, have spent my whole life writing about the emotional entanglements between people, I wouldn't dare say that I could write about the vitality of life that blooms in the mud to that extent."

"And then you tell me that the person who wrote this kind of thing can turn around and write a socially dark drama like 'The Scream' that's chilling to the bone?"

At this point, Junichi Watanabe spread his hands, his tone almost surrendering with helplessness, and said, "This ability to swing back and forth between two extremes can no longer be explained by genius."

Compared to him, what we've written in our lives is like a primary school student's exercise book.

After he finished speaking, a series of bitter laughs echoed throughout the room.

The laughter wasn't loud, but everyone who laughed wore the same expression: self-mockery after being completely defeated.

At this moment, Seiko Tanabe put down her teacup, gently wiped her mouth with a handkerchief, and continued the conversation, saying, "Mr. Watanabe has hit the nail on the head."

Her voice was calm and measured, with the composure unique to older women: "What makes Kitahara Iwa the most terrifying is not what he writes, but his control over the reader's emotions."

"When he wrote 'Love Letter,' he could make you squat in the mud at the very bottom of Shinjuku, yet still believe that a person crushed by fate still has a last glimmer of light in their soul that is worth redeeming."

"But when he wrote 'The Cry,' he could instantly push you into the ice cellar of the Heisei era, making you watch as a woman was devoured inch by inch by this era."

Listening to the comments from the judges, Fujisawa Shuhei sat silently in the corner, not uttering a single word from the start of the discussion.

By this time, there were already three cigarette butts in the ashtray in front of him, and the tea on the table had gone cold.

Only then did he finally speak slowly. Although his voice was very soft, everyone in the room unconsciously fell silent.

"I'll only say one thing."

Shuhei Fujisawa said calmly, "If the Naoki Prize doesn't go to 'The Scream' this year, then from today onwards, the name 'Naoki Prize' will no longer need to be taken seriously by anyone."

There was only one cold, almost judgmental conclusion.

But it is precisely this kind of expression, devoid of any emotional coloring, that carries more weight than any words of praise.

Because everyone here knows that in this January winter when the bubble bursts and the whole nation is gripped by panic, only this book in all of Japan truly heard the people's "screams of despair".

It is no longer just a mystery novel.

It accurately captures the social blind spots of dying alone, the systemic oppression of the lower class by the financial system, and the complete collapse of individual fate under class solidification.

It is truly the bible of despair for this era.

If the Naoki Prize ignores this, it is not Kitahara Iwa who will be let down, but the very meaning of the award itself.

late at night.

The lights on the first and second floors of Shin-kiri Restaurant went out at almost the same time.

The judges from the two judging rooms walked out one after the other and passed each other in the corridor.

No one exchanges review results; that's the rule.

But when their eyes briefly met in the dimly lit corridor, an extremely subtle understanding flashed between them.

This tacit understanding needs no words to confirm it.

Because they both saw the enormous shadow cast by the same name in each other's eyes.

That night, the two preliminary lists were officially finalized in their respective review processes.

The news was strictly sealed in the Japan Literature Promotion Association's confidential system and, as is customary, would not be released to the public until the official announcement date.

But in the Japanese literary world, there are never any truly impenetrable walls.

The next morning.

The first to sense the impending trouble were several long-established publishing houses with close ties to the Literary Promotion Association.

The message spread in an extremely secretive manner. First, a judge inadvertently revealed it to an old friend in a late-night izakaya. Then, the old friend made a phone call to the publishing house he worked for the next morning. The contents of the call were then relayed to the editor-in-chief of another publishing house during lunch break.

Less than 24 hours.

The news that Kitahara Iwao's two works were shortlisted for two awards, and the latest plot update: [link to follow]. Like a drop of ink falling into clear water, it spread irreversibly throughout the literary world.

Love Letter was shortlisted for the Akutagawa Prize.

"The Scream" was shortlisted for the Naoki Prize.

Two works by the same author, published in the same competition, but with completely opposite styles.

They have both made it onto the shortlist for the highest awards in both fine literature and popular literature.

Within an hour of the news being fully confirmed, telephone lines throughout the Japanese literary world were almost paralyzed.

The editorial departments of major publishing houses were the first to be thrown into chaos.

In the corridor of Kodansha's Literature Bureau, a young editor carrying a newly arrived internal briefing ran from his office to the editor-in-chief's office. When he pushed open the door, he accidentally knocked over the file rack by the door, but he didn't bother to pick up the manuscripts scattered on the floor. He quickly slammed the briefing onto the editor-in-chief's desk.

The editor-in-chief glanced down and dropped his pen onto the table with a clatter.

"That's impossible!"

When the editor-in-chief uttered those four words, his voice was filled with disbelief.

At the same time, Shueisha, Bungei Shunju, Kadokawa Shoten... almost all publishing houses experienced the same scenario.

A young man who has only published four works has simultaneously made it onto the shortlist of two of the highest halls of Japanese literature within a year.

The impact of this event has gone beyond the scope of news reporting.

The reaction from literary critics was faster and more frenzied.

That evening, Tanaka, a senior commentator for Bungei Shunju, glanced at the clock on the wall after receiving the news; it was 7:40 p.m.

He put down his half-eaten dinner, hurriedly went into his study, turned on the desk lamp, and spread out his manuscript paper.

It wasn't until six o'clock the next morning that his wife got up and found the study light still on. When she pushed the door open, she saw that Tanaka was asleep on the table.

The manuscript paper was covered with dense writing, and the ashtray next to it was stuffed with eleven cigarette butts.

The title is only one line: "The Conqueror of Two Mountains: Kitahara Iwa and the End of the Literary Order".

Meanwhile, the chief writer of the magazine "Group Portrait" made a phone call to his deputy at three in the morning.

The deputy was woken from his sleep and groggily answered the receiver. He heard the other party say in an extremely excited voice, "Take down all the special features from the day after tomorrow and make room for eight pages."

The deputy paused for two seconds, then asked, "Eight? Who should we write down?"

What do you think?

Before his deputy could react, the call was disconnected.

In academia, several professors from the Faculty of Letters at the University of Tokyo unusually gathered at the same table in the faculty cafeteria during lunchtime on the second day.

They usually belong to different research areas and don't have much overlap.

But today, everyone who enters the cafeteria carries the same thing in their hand: a copy of the day's culture newspaper.

One of the professors, specializing in modern literature, put his chopsticks on the edge of his plate and said something to his tablemate that would later be repeatedly quoted by many literary historians.

"Dazai Osamu existed in the Showa era, and the literary world debated his talent and madness for half a century."

He adjusted his glasses, his tone carrying the caution characteristic of a scholar, but the shock in his eyes was undeniable: "And at the very beginning of the Heisei era, Kitahara Iwao has already presented us with a problem even more difficult to solve than Dazai Osamu's."

Can a person stand on two mutually exclusive mountaintops at the same time?

The news reached the general public during the morning rush hour on the third day.

Major sports newspapers and gossip magazines rushed to publish the news with the largest headlines, demonstrating their superior ability to capture public attention compared to serious literary magazines.

"A first in history! Kitahara Iwa defeats both the Akutagawa Prize and the Naoki Prize!"

"Literary world explodes: One person occupies two temples!"

In the morning rush hour carriages of the JR Yamanote Line, these headlines were scanned by countless eyes simultaneously.

Some people frowned as they carefully read the article, while others held up the newspaper and turned to their colleagues, asking, "Has this ever happened before, with both the Akutagawa Prize and the Naoki Prize being nominated at the same time?"

Upon hearing this, the colleague nodded and replied, "It has happened before, but no one has ever won two top trophies at the same time."

This sentiment is merely a small microcosm of the current upheaval and frenzy sweeping across Japan.

The bombshell news of Kitahara Iwa being nominated for two awards simultaneously swept through the streets of Tokyo like a storm.

The owner of a newsstand at Shinjuku Station, speaking into a weekly magazine reporter's microphone, couldn't hide his astonishment: "This morning, the sales of the culture section of the newspaper tripled. The last time I saw such a buying frenzy was back when the Tokyo stock market crashed."

The newspaper layout caused a nationwide sensation, which quickly translated into a frenzy of purchasing power in the physical book market.

On the afternoon the news broke, bookstores across Tokyo experienced a frenzy of panic buying.

Those who published earlier standalone volumes of "The Ring" and "Confessions" were the first to be affected.

The manager of Kinokuniya Bookstore's Shinjuku main store recalled with lingering fear, "Starting at 2 p.m., the stock of 'Confessions' disappeared at an alarming rate."

"By 6 p.m., all of Kitahara Iwa's works in the literature section on the first floor were sold out. We called Shinchosha overnight to request an emergency restock, but they only replied that the warehouse was in dire need of supplies and the earliest we could get them was tomorrow afternoon."

As for the book "The Cry," which has not yet been officially released, the number of pre-orders for the single volume exceeded the sales system's upper limit within 48 hours of the news breaking.

The editorial assistant in charge of pre-order registration said in a later interview: "In all my years in the industry, I have never seen a book that hasn't even been printed yet have a pre-order queue that stretches for three months."

Faced with this chain of events that has swept across the literary world, academia, and the general public, the reactions of the pure literature camp and the popular literature camp have shown a striking difference.

The attitude of those in the pure literature camp always carries a thin layer of distance.

They acknowledged that the literary quality of "Love Letters" was impeccable.

However, these guardians of pure literature always harbor an instinctive wariness towards an author who is simultaneously writing popular mystery novels appearing on the shortlist for the Akutagawa Prize.

Several veteran literary writers who were not involved in the judging met in a private members-only bar in Ginza.

After a few rounds of drinks, an elderly writer known for his short stories, in an extremely roundabout way, said what everyone present was thinking but no one was willing to say first.

"If the Akutagawa Prize is ultimately awarded to Kitahara Iwao... won't people think that our stronghold of pure literature has proactively opened its doors to popular literature?"

After he finished speaking, no one responded.

Silence itself is the clearest answer.

The attitude of popular literature, however, is completely different.

It was almost unanimously enthusiastic support.

Faced with the immense social trauma of the bursting bubble, "The Cry" has transcended the boundaries of the influence a novel should have.

It turned into a flag.

One is a banner proving that literature has the ability to respond to the times.

Writers and critics in the popular literature camp have almost reached the same consensus in various public and private occasions.

If the Naoki Prize is not awarded to "The Scream" this winter, it means that at this time when literature needs to speak out the most, it has chosen silence.

That would be a disgrace to Naoki Shō himself.

Two completely different voices clashed fiercely within the literary world.

The focus of the clashes has always been the same name.

Northern original rock.

Today, the weight this name carries far exceeds that of any ordinary writer.

Because everyone had a vague feeling that once the final result was settled...

Whether he wins two awards, takes only one of them, or goes home empty-handed, the structure and order of the Japanese literary world, which has lasted for more than half a century, will be permanently rewritten because of the appearance of the name Kitahara Iwa.