Chapter 100 Izumi Sakai's Never Give Up

Prefer urban fantasy novels? Discover more exciting content here!

The atmosphere on the streets of Tokyo completely changed the morning the nominees for both awards were officially announced in the newspapers.

In the morning rush hour carriages of the Central Line, commuters who usually spend their days catching up on sleep or glued to the stock market pages are unusually huddled together whispering to each other.

"Did you read today's culture section?"

"Both the Akutagawa Prize and the Naoki Prize were nominated at the same time... Has this ever happened before?"

"There have been a few in history, but no one has ever won the jackpot at the same time."

"Then this Kitahara Iwa..."

"The one who wrote 'The Last Cry'."

Upon hearing the words "The Scream," the expressions of several people in the carriage instantly changed.

At this critical juncture, just two weeks after the bubble burst, "The Cry" already carries a weight far exceeding that of a novel.

It has become synonymous with this era of excruciating pain.

The person who opened this wound is now standing on the steps of the highest peak in the Japanese literary world.

The news spread much faster than anyone expected.

Before noon, the name Beiyuanyan had become a part of everyday conversations among the general public.

In the break room of a high-end office building, two female office workers, each holding a paper cup of coffee, whispered, "I heard he's only in his twenties, and he's already gotten this far after publishing just four books?"

At the long table in the university cafeteria, students from the Department of Literature occupied an entire row of seats.

They spread all the newspapers that published related reports on the table, munching on rice balls while comparing the wording of each commentary.

Even in a small izakaya in Shinjuku's Kabukicho district, several middle-aged men, slightly tipsy, gathered around a table to discuss this matter.

One of them slammed his beer mug down and shouted in a slurred voice, "What Akutagawa Prize or Naoki Prize? I don't know anything about them!"

"All I know is that the ridiculous things described in 'The Cry' are exactly the same as my bankruptcy last month! Why shouldn't someone who writes a book like this win an award!"

"If I don't win the award, I'll make those judges pay!"

At the same time, opinion pieces in newspapers and magazines proliferated.

Almost every long review revolves around the same core question: what kind of mind is it to write two works with completely opposite styles within the same time period?

In a headline commentary in the culture section of the Asahi Shimbun, a veteran literary journalist used the following words to describe this sense of disconnect.

"Kitahara Iwao wrote 'Love Letter' with his left hand. It was an extremely restrained style, full of the lingering warmth of the Showa era."

"In the muddy depths of Shinjuku, he wrote a pure and heartbreaking tale of spiritual redemption. After reading it, you'll feel that no matter how broken the world may be, the most genuine bonds between people are still worth protecting."

"And his right hand wrote 'The Last Cry.' It was a scalpel stained with the blood of the Heisei era."

"He used it to cut open the glamorous surface of the economy, letting everyone see the festering sores beneath. After reading it, you'll feel that the indifference of this society is enough to kill, and after the murder, no one will even come to collect the body."

"One hand gives you hope, the other crushes it. This ability to switch freely between two extremes goes beyond the word 'talent'."

The culture section of the Yomiuri Shimbun used a more direct approach: "If Love Letter proved that Kitahara Iwao understood the softest part of the human heart, then Scream proved that he also understood the darkest corners of the human heart."

"It's not unusual for a writer to see the light. It's not unusual for a writer to see the darkness. But a writer who can stand on the boundary between light and darkness at the same time, be adept at both, and write about both to the fullest extent—that kind of person only appears once every fifty years."

In the evening, NHK's evening news program made an exception and dedicated a full three minutes of its culture segment to reporting this news.

After finishing the broadcast, the host added a rare personal remark: "Perhaps many years later, when we look back, what will be remembered about January 1990 will not only be the bursting of the bubble, but also a young man named Kitahara Iwao, who stood at the entrance to two mountain peaks at the same time."

into the night.

Today, the area in front of the apartment building in Kitahara is filled with interview vehicles from various media outlets.

The white spotlight from the flash projected a flickering pattern of light and shadow onto the floor through the glass doors of the lobby.

Several photojournalists squatted by the roadside smoking, their lenses always pointed towards the apartment entrance, ready to capture the moment Kitahara Iwa appeared.

But Kitahara Iwa did not appear in anyone's sight.

He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, the curtains were drawn tightly, and only the lamp on the coffee table was casting a dim yellow light.

On the table was a glass of freshly poured hot water, next to which were all the newspapers that had published related reports that day, neatly stacked together, but they did not appear to have been touched.

Kitahara Iwa sank into the sofa, his eyes slightly closed.

A few streaks of white light from the downstairs flashlight shone through the gaps in the curtains, casting flickering spots of light on the ceiling.

At this moment, deep within Kitahara Iwa's mind, the vast memory library of his past life was rapidly turning over.

The sales of the standalone edition of "The Cry" are destined to be a huge success, and the popularity of the double award nominations has pushed his personal reputation to a height that is difficult for an ordinary writer to reach.

But Kitahara Iwao wasn't thinking about those things.

He was thinking about what to write next.

Should we continue bombarding the publishing industry with social realism mystery, or go straight into the heart of pure literature?

Several heavyweight works flashed through my mind one after another.

Is it "The Devotion of Suspect X", the film that takes intrigue and human nature to the extreme and won the Naoki Prize unanimously in another time and space?

Is it still "Spark," the novel that sold three million copies, truly breaking the sales ceiling for pure literature, vividly portraying the struggles and perseverance of ordinary urban people, and winning the Akutagawa Prize?

These masterpieces, which have left an indelible mark on literary history, now lie quietly in Kitahara Iwa's memory, waiting to be selected by him.

For Kitahara Iwao at this moment, the question he faced was never whether he could write a masterpiece.

The real question is what to write in the next book.

Just then, the landline phone on the coffee table rang.

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa reached out and picked up the receiver.

"...Teacher Kitahara."

On the other end of the phone was Izumi Sakai's voice, clear and slightly tense with excitement.

"I...I saw it on the news."

Sakai Izumi's voice held a barely suppressed yet undeniable joy, and she spoke faster than usual, as if afraid that she would lose the courage to speak if she didn't finish quickly.

"Nominated for both the Akutagawa Prize and the Naoki Prize... Kitahara-sensei, that's really amazing."

Congratulations.

She said the last two words very solemnly and forcefully, as if she were bowing to an insurmountable mountain.

But it was precisely this solemnity that allowed Kitahara Iwa to hear the extremely subtle and imperceptible changes in her voice.

This is a sense of distance.

It's an instinctive feeling of shrinking back when someone around you suddenly reaches a height far beyond your own aspirations.

Izumi Sakai herself may not have realized that when she said "Congratulations," her tone was unconsciously tinged with reverence compared to the casual and natural way she walked alongside Kitahara Iwa during her New Year's visit to the shrine.

"Quanshui-san."

Kitahara Iwa's voice was flat, just like always, without any extra fluctuations due to the noise from the outside world.

"It's just being shortlisted, not winning an award. You're reacting even more excitedly than I am."

His tone even carried a hint of teasing.

On the other end of the phone, Izumi Sakai paused for a moment, then couldn't help but chuckle softly.

The laugh was short and soft, but the thin shell that had unconsciously risen due to the difference in their status was shattered silently by Kitahara Iwa's extremely natural words.

"But...the newspapers say this is the first time in almost forty years that someone has come to this point."

Izumi Sakai's voice softened a bit. Konas's restraint hadn't completely subsided, but at least she wasn't as tense as before: "Teacher Kitahara is now standing at a height that all of Japan looks up to."

"A height that all of Japan looks up to..."

Kitahara Iwa repeated the sentence, then said with a smile, "That sounds tiring."

Then he picked up the water glass on the table, took a sip, and very naturally changed the subject.

"I'm more curious about how things are going on your end than what's going on here."

"You mentioned last time that preparations for your debut were already underway. Does President Nagato have a specific schedule?"

The topic shifts were extremely casual, as casual as two old friends chatting on the phone.

But it was precisely this casualness that allowed Izumi Sakai to completely relax.

"Well, actually..."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

When she spoke again, Izumi Sakai's voice carried a touch of her characteristic shyness, but even more so, an undisguised anticipation.

"President Nagato has been intensively arranging various projects lately, and even the recording studio's schedule is fully booked."

"He hasn't officially told me the specific debut date yet. But judging from this pace..."

She took a light breath, her tone becoming lighter: "It should be almost done."

She paused for a moment, then added with a hint of uncertainty, "It was probably around February of this year."

1990 October.

Upon hearing this timeframe...

Kitahara Iwa's fingers, which were holding the water glass, paused slightly in mid-air.

Then, he remained calm, his breathing rhythm not disrupted at all, and even took a sip of warm water from the cup.

But in that brief pause, a whole segment of memories from his past life surged through Kitahara Iwa's mind.

According to the historical trajectory he knows, Izumi Sakai debuted on February 10, 1991.

It wasn't 1990, but 1991.

It was a whole year late.

In the original timeline, she officially debuted as the lead singer of the band ZARD, and her first single was "Good-bye My Loneliness," which would later be regarded as a classic by countless people.

The song debuted at number 28 on the Ori chart in its first week of release, and then climbed steadily week by week thanks to its exceptional quality and reputation, breaking into the top ten four weeks later.

That single laid a rock-solid foundation for her legendary career, which dominated the Japanese music scene for more than a decade afterward.

Now, because of her own intervention, Izumi Sakai's debut date has been moved up by a whole year.

Kitahara Iwa slowly placed the water glass back on the coffee table, his mind quickly processing a logical chain.

Since her debut was brought forward by a year, in the original timeline, the debut song "Good-bye My Loneliness," which was truly tailor-made for Izumi Sakai, most likely had not even been created yet.

In other words, the only debut song options that Daiko Nagato could offer Izumi Sakai were likely the existing stock from the company's internal songwriting team.

Kitahara Iwa knew all too well what level those inventories were at.

In the early 1990s, the Japanese record industry showed extremely strong signs of assembly line production.

A large number of pop idol songs were mass-produced to cater to market trends, with similar melodies, empty lyrics, and monotonous saccharine arrangements.

These songs could probably be used by any mass-produced idol.

But in the case of Izumi Sakai, a singer whose voice simultaneously blends the power of rock with the clarity of a spring.

That would have been a disaster.

For any new singer, their debut song is the first shot that sets the tone.

If the first shot goes astray, it's almost impossible to get back on track.

"Quanshui-san."

Kitahara Iwa's voice remained calm, but his speech was a beat slower than before.

"Since you're debuting in February, which song has President Nagato chosen for your debut?"

At this point, Izumi Sakai's cheerful voice suddenly stopped on the other end of the phone.

The pause lasted for two or three seconds, not long, but it was particularly noticeable in the silence of the telephone line.

"The company president gave me several songs written by the company's in-house lyricists and composers..."

At this moment, Izumi Sakai's tone became somewhat hesitant, as if she was carefully choosing her words.

"The melodies are all pretty good, and the production is excellent. In normal circumstances, any one of them would be quite good."

She paused for a moment, as if gathering her courage.

"But, Kitahara-sensei... don't you feel that the atmosphere in Japan right now is particularly heavy?"

At this moment, Izumi Sakai's voice revealed a sharpness that seemed out of place for her age: "No one was talking on the train, the people queuing at the convenience store all looked sallow, and even the variety shows on TV were laughing harder than before."

"At a time like this, let me stand on the stage and sing a mournful love song about heartbreak, tears, and despair..."

Izumi Sakai paused for a moment before continuing, "I always feel that something is particularly off."

Kitahara Iwa could tell that this wasn't a new singer's casual complaint about business decisions.

This is someone with an instinctive intuition about the stage she is about to step onto, issuing warnings in her own way.

She said she couldn't figure out where the problem lay, and she couldn't provide any professional market analysis to support her judgment.

She just felt something was wrong.

This intuition of "something's not right" is often more accurate than any data.

"The whole of Japan is almost suffocating."

At this moment, Izumi Sakai's voice carried a hint of bitterness as she said, "To stand up and sing a sad love song at this time is like... like performing how to shed tears elegantly in front of a group of people who are drowning."

"I feel like no one in Japan needs any more tears now."

After he said that, the other end of the phone went silent.

Izumi Sakai seemed to realize she had said too much, and her tone became slightly uncertain: "I'm sorry, Kitahara-sensei, I don't know much about the record industry... Maybe I'm overthinking it."

Kitahara Iwa did not respond immediately.

He leaned back on the sofa, his gaze fixed on the flickering light on the ceiling. His fingers unconsciously tapped the sofa armrest twice before he spoke, "You didn't think too much about it."

Her tone was calm, but it was enough to give Izumi Sakai a sense of reassurance.

"Your intuition is right. Debuting with melancholic love songs at this critical juncture is fundamentally wrong."

A very faint breath came from the other end of the phone; clearly, Izumi Sakai was listening intently.

"but……"

Kitahara Iwa's tone shifted slightly: "Do you remember the handwritten lyrics you showed me before?"

"……lyrics?"

Izumi Sakai paused for a moment, repeatedly recalling the events in her mind.

After a moment, a hint of realization crossed her voice: "You mean... 'Never Give Up'?"

"Yes. That's the one!"