Chapter 103 is in!

Late January.

Tokyo, Imperial Hotel.

Following a decades-old tradition in the Japanese publishing industry, on the night of each Akutagawa Prize and Naoki Prize selection, the publishing houses of the shortlisted authors would book suites in luxury hotels for the authors and editors to wait together for the final results.

This tradition has a less flattering nickname – "the waiting room for execution".

For the vast majority of finalists, this long night of waiting was no different from sitting in court awaiting sentencing.

Tonight, Shincho Society has booked an entire large banquet room on the seventh floor of the Imperial Hotel, which can accommodate dozens of people.

The room was extremely spacious and well-heated. The long table was laden with exquisite tea snacks, sushi platters, and several unopened bottles of sake.

A row of sofas is placed along one side of the wall for people to sit down and rest.

The other candidates and their respective editors were also present, sitting in small groups throughout the room.

Some people were talking quietly with wine glasses in hand, some were sitting alone in a corner flipping through paperbacks, and some were standing by the window smoking, the cigarette butt between their fingers glowing intermittently.

But anyone who spends five minutes in this room will notice something very obvious: everyone's center of gravity unconsciously shifts to the same direction in the room.

At the end of that direction was a set of sofas near the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Kitahara Iwa was sitting there.

In the seat closest to him, Kenichi Sato sat on the sofa closest to the landline phone, his entire body tense like a string about to snap.

His tie was already loosened, the top button of his shirt was undone, and a thin layer of cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

The glass of water that was poured for him on the coffee table hasn't been touched for almost two hours since he entered the room.

His gaze was fixed on the ivory-white landline phone, as if he were staring at a bomb that could explode at any moment.

Every few minutes, he would subconsciously pick up the receiver to check if there was still a dial tone. After confirming, he would gently put it back, afraid that his movements would be too large and break the phone.

The other shortlisted writers in the same room occasionally glanced at him, and seeing the editor-in-chief Sato's tense expression, they all wore a wry smile of empathy.

After all, they and their editors weren't in much better shape at the moment.

In this tense atmosphere that permeated the entire venue, only one person seemed out of place.

On the small table in front of Kitahara Iwa was a late-night snack delivered by the hotel: miso soup, tempura, and a few pieces of pickled food.

Kitahara Iwa picked up a piece of tempura and took a slow, deliberate bite.

The crispy batter made a soft, crisp sound in the extremely quiet room.

Kitahara Iwa chewed slowly for a few moments, then picked up the miso soup beside him and took a small, satisfying sip.

The whole movement was very relaxed, just like having an ordinary dinner at home.

Meanwhile, the editor sitting opposite, Kenichi Sato, watched Kitahara Iwa's actions and couldn't help but take out a handkerchief and wipe the cold sweat from his forehead.

Then he swallowed hard, thinking to himself: What is Kitahara-sensei's nerve made of?!

Surprisingly, I'm not nervous at all!

It's important to know that this is a rare occurrence in the Japanese literary world, with two awards being given out simultaneously, a feat that has only happened once in nearly forty years!

Not to mention, Kitahara Iwa is very likely to make history tonight in front of all the Japanese media, achieving the unprecedented and likely unparalleled feat of "winning both the top prizes"!

Under such immense pressure—enough to stop any normal writer's heart from stopping...—Kitahara-sensei was still intently chewing tempura?!

In a corner of the room, the other shortlisted writers, who were also waiting for their verdicts, noticed this scene as well.

They exchanged a subtle glance, their eyes filled with both awe and a deep sense of powerlessness.

While everyone else was waiting for the final verdict, we were so nervous that we couldn't even swallow a sip of hot tea, our stomachs were churning. But the other guy not only remained calm, but he could even leisurely eat tempura!

After all, it's right now.

Just a few blocks away, at the Tsukiji Shinkiraku Ryotei, the two most prestigious groups of judges in the Japanese literary world are engaged in a fierce, almost physical, debate behind closed doors for tonight's grand prize.

Every word that comes from that room tonight will directly determine what kind of mark Kitahara Iwa will leave on the history of Japanese literature.

It's an unprecedented double jackpot miracle...

Unfortunately, I was not selected...

Everything happens tonight.

The suffocating wait dragged on incredibly slowly in the room.

The other writers from the Shincho-sha group in the private room couldn't sit still during this agonizing silence and gradually came over to Kitahara Iwa with their wine glasses in hand.

The first to arrive was an old-school social realist writer in his fifties, who also had a short story shortlisted for the Akutagawa Prize that evening.

But at this moment he had clearly put his own affairs out of his mind, and sat down opposite Kitahara Iwa with a big smile, raising his glass.

"Teacher Kitahara, no matter what the outcome is tonight, I must first raise a toast to you. To be nominated for two awards simultaneously is a first in decades."

"You're too kind."

Kitahara Iwa bowed slightly and gently touched his teacup to the ground.

"No matter what the outcome."

Another, younger writer walked over and chimed in, his tone undisguisedly confident: "In my opinion, Kitahara-sensei winning the award is a sure thing. As for us nominees, we're just here tonight to share in the good fortune."

This remark drew a burst of good-natured laughter from those around him.

Several editors also gathered around, and the atmosphere quickly became lively.

Kitahara Iwa responded with a perfect balance of neither too warm nor too cold.

Every time someone came over to offer a toast or strike up a conversation, Kitahara Iwa would rise slightly in return, saying a few words of thanks in a way that was neither too distant nor overly affectionate.

Among these enthusiastic faces, one person's arrival made Kitahara Iwa's gaze linger for a moment longer.

Then, Yoshio Takahashi walked over silently, carrying a bottle of extremely fine Junmai Daiginjo sake.

As a close friend of Kitahara Iwa, he naturally didn't need to come up to him with a big smile and make small talk like the others in the room.

Yoshio Takahashi plopped down directly opposite Kitahara Iwa, unscrewed the bottle cap, and expertly took two sake cups, filling each of them to the brim.

The whole set of movements was fluid and natural, showing that she didn't consider herself an outsider at all.

"Takahashi-sensei, aren't you nervous tonight?"

Kitahara Iwa glanced at the bottle of fine wine in his hand, which was clearly brought on purpose, and said with a hint of teasing.

Yoshio Takahashi picked up his glass, took a sip, and smacked his lips.

"What's there to be nervous about? I wasn't even shortlisted."

He spoke these words with extreme composure, even a touch of self-deprecating nonchalance.

Then he raised his glass and tilted it slightly towards Kitahara Iwa.

"I came here especially tonight to wait for your good news."

The two cups touched lightly.

Yoshio Takahashi didn't stay long; he stood up after finishing his drink.

As he was leaving, he reached out and patted Kitahara Iwa's shoulder. The pat wasn't heavy, but it was firm.

Without saying anything more, he turned around and walked back to his own table.

Kitahara Iwa watched Takahashi Yoshio's departing figure, his hand holding the wine glass paused slightly.

Another image appeared very clearly in my mind.

Last August.

It was the same hotel, and the same night of waiting for the results.

This same private room was also filled with writers and editors from Shinchosha.

At that time, Kitahara Iwao only had one novel, "The Ring," and "Confessions," and his name was not yet a well-known name in the literary world.

He was brought here by Kenichi Sato and stood in the corner of the private room. Almost no one came up to talk to him all night.

Other writers and editors would occasionally pass by him, their eyes would briefly sweep over him, and then they would look away very naturally without pausing.

The feeling of being ignored wasn't exactly embarrassing, but it was certainly desolate.

The only person who took the initiative to approach him that night was Yoshio Takahashi.

That time, however, he wasn't there to offer a toast.

Kitahara Iwa still remembers the tense standoff between the two in the corridor, and the undisguised hostility and scrutiny in Takahashi Yoshio's eyes.

And there were words written in his eyes—you don't deserve to be here.

Just now, the same person sat across from me, and with genuine openness and relief, said, "Looking forward to your good news," and then patted me on the shoulder.

Thinking of this, Kitahara Iwa drank the wine in his glass in one gulp and put the glass down.

What was ignored six months ago has now become the focal point of the entire private room.

Six months ago, he saw me as a thorn in his side, but now he's become a friend with whom I can sit down and have a drink.

Meanwhile, those colleagues who used to glance at you and then look away without pausing are now lining up, holding their wine glasses and walking over.

At the same time, the door to the private room was knocked on several times from the outside.

If you could only read one urban novel in your lifetime, it would probably be "Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s".

Now arriving are the shortlisted authors and editors from other publishing houses who were waiting for news on other floors of the Imperial Hotel tonight.

They made a special trip to the Shincho-sha's private room, offering their congratulations to Kitahara Iwa with all sorts of smiles, speaking even more warmly than the Shincho-sha's own members.

Kitahara Iwa returned the greetings one by one, then picked up the last piece of tempura on the table and continued eating his late-night snack.

His expression remained completely unchanged.

Time quickly came to 8:07 PM.

The suite had been quiet for nearly twenty minutes, during which time no new visitors had arrived.

Now the back of his shirt is soaked with cold sweat, leaving a dark stain that clings damply to his back.

Meanwhile, Kitahara Iwa, sitting opposite him, had just swallowed the last bite of his late-night snack and was pulling out a clean white tissue to wipe his lips.

Just then...

"Ring ring ring ring!!!"

In the previously silent suite, the white landline suddenly erupted with a sharp, furious roar!

The ringing of the bell rang out in the room where you could hear a pin drop, like a cold steel awl piercing through Kenichi Sato's eardrum!

Kenichi Sato shuddered violently, as if struck by lightning.

Then, like a drowning man, he lunged at the telephone on the table, but his fingers froze just five centimeters from the receiver.

In that split second, a powerful thought flashed through his extremely tense nerves—

Cannot accept.

This is a double award miracle that has not been seen for nearly forty years, and it is a final verdict that is destined to be recorded in the annals of Japanese literary history for the past century!

With such an overwhelmingly historically significant first-hand announcement, what right does he, as a mere supporting editor, have to overstep his bounds?

This call must be answered by the super monster who created all of this!

Thinking of this, Kenichi Sato abruptly withdrew his hand as if he had been electrocuted.

He took a deep breath of trembling air, his eyes red-rimmed, and stiffly turned his neck to look at Kitahara Iwa.

Feeling the gazes of everyone, Kitahara Iwa stood up, walked to the landline that was screaming wildly, and steadily picked up the receiver.

"Hello, I am Kitahara Iwao."

On the other end of the receiver came a series of heavy and rapid breathing sounds.

This is a voice that is trying hard to restrain itself, yet is still being overwhelmed by an immense sense of historical fervor, almost breaking down.

"Tai, Kitahara-sensei... I'm so sorry to bother you so late."

The other person paused for a moment, seemingly swallowing hard, trying to calm themselves down.

"I am a staff member of the Secretariat of the Japan Literature Promotion Association. Just one minute ago, the final judging committees for the Akutagawa Prize and the Naoki Prize officially concluded their closed-door decision-making process—"

At this point, the voice on the other end of the phone trembled noticeably.

It wasn't because I was nervous.

Rather, this well-informed staff member knew better than anyone else what profound significance the words he was about to utter would have, breaking decades of tradition, etched in the history of Japanese literature.

"—The two juries have made their final decision: the Akutagawa Prize is officially awarded to your work, 'Love Letter'!"

"At the same time, we officially award this year's Naoki Prize to your work 'Scream'!"

"Teacher Kitahara..."

The man's voice, though maintaining an official tone, still betrayed an undisguised awe: "May I ask—do you accept this honor?!"

The moment the words fell.

The spacious suite was shrouded in an absolute stillness, as if even the air itself had stopped moving.

Kenichi Sato stood two meters away, his hands clenched into fists and hanging at his sides, his knuckles pale from the excessive force.

At this moment, his breathing had completely stopped, and he stood frozen in place like a stone statue.

Kitahara Iwa held the receiver, remained silent for about two seconds, then took a deep breath and said, "I accept."

"Thanks for your hard work."

The staff member on the other end of the phone was clearly not expected by Kitahara Iwa's nonchalant reply, and their breathing noticeably paused for a beat.

After a brief moment of surprise, the staff member regained official etiquette, solemnly congratulating the caller repeatedly in a voice that was still dry despite trying to control their tone, before respectfully hanging up the phone.

Then the handset was gently placed back into the phone.

Click.

The moment that extremely faint sound landed, Kenichi Sato's knees suddenly buckled, and he felt as if all his bones had been removed, collapsing heavily onto the sofa behind him.

He suddenly covered his face with both hands.

His shoulders were trembling violently, but he clenched his teeth and didn't make a sound.

After a long while, he finally raised his bloodshot eyes from between his fingers and said in a hoarse, almost incoherent voice, "Teacher Kitahara...you succeeded."

Looking at the editor-in-chief, who was always impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, but was now trembling with excitement, Kitahara Iwao's eyes revealed a gentle smile.

Then Kitahara Iwa stepped forward and gently patted Sato's shoulder, which was stiff from extreme excitement.

"It wasn't me, Editor-in-Chief Sato."

Kitahara Iwa said, "We succeeded. Thank you for your hard work during this time."

Upon hearing this, Kenichi Sato's eyes suddenly stung, and the tears he had just stopped almost burst forth again.

But he still gritted his teeth and nodded forcefully.

The news spread faster in the private room than anyone expected.

Although Kitahara Iwao spoke softly on the phone, in the quiet of the night when the hum of the heating pipes could be heard, the words "I accept" were still caught by the people closest to him.

The first to react was a young editor sitting at the next table.

His pupils dilated when he saw Kenichi Sato slumped on the sofa, his face covered and his shoulders trembling violently.

"This...it's a hit?"

His voice wasn't loud, but in the private room at that moment, those two words were as penetrating as a bomb.

Everyone stopped moving at the same time.

The hand holding the wine glass hung in mid-air, the people who were talking in hushed tones had their mouths open and forgot to close them, and even the writer sitting in the corner flipping through a paperback suddenly looked up.

Hearing the editor's question, Kenichi Sato raised his bloodshot eyes and said in a hoarse, almost incoherent voice, "I won both awards."

The private room was deathly silent for a full two seconds, as if all the air had been sucked out.

Then, all the sounds erupted at the same instant.

"Double, double reward?! Are you kidding me... You got both?!"

"My God! How is this possible?! The pinnacle of both highbrow and popular literature has been captured by the same person?!"

"A miracle... This is an unprecedented and ultimate myth since the inception of these two awards!"

"This is insane! Those old fogies on the judging panel actually bowed down! I actually witnessed history unfold!"

At that moment, the sounds of chairs being pushed back and the clinking of glasses filled the air. Someone suddenly stood up and knocked the tea tray off the table, but no one paid any attention.

Several editors, who had been unable to contain themselves for a long time, rushed to Kitahara Iwa almost without regard for their manners.

"Teacher Kitahara! Congratulations! Congratulations on reaching the top!"

"This is an unprecedented first in the history of Japanese literature! You have made history!"

The old-school social realist writer in his fifties, who was also the first to come over to toast tonight, held up his wine glass with trembling hands and squeezed in front of Kitahara Iwa.

He stared intently at the excessively young junior before him, his lips trembling several times. Finally, with tears welling in his eyes, he managed to squeeze out a sentence as heavy as a thousand pounds: "Remarkable... truly remarkable. It is our honor to be born in the same era as you."

More people surged forward like a tide, with congratulations and exclamations rising and falling.

Some people clapped wildly, some pounded on the table excitedly, and others immediately opened the bottles of sake that had been ignored due to nervousness and began frantically pouring sake into everyone's empty glasses.

In just a few seconds, the atmosphere in the suite changed from a suffocatingly long and agonizing wait to a wild and unrestrained celebration that nearly lifted the roof off!

Yoshio Takahashi remained seated, refusing to stand up and join in the commotion.

He simply picked up the cup of Junmai Daiginjo sake on the table, tilted his head back, and drank it all in one gulp.

Then he put down his wine glass, looked at Kitahara Iwa, who was surrounded by a frenzied crowd in the center but still remained calm, and shook his head with a very emotional smile.

it is more than words.

Kitahara Iwa stood quietly among the crowd for a moment, smiling politely as he responded to the excited congratulations from everyone around him.

Then, Kitahara Iwa slightly turned to the side and naturally slipped out of the gaps in the frenzied crowd. He turned and walked to the coat rack by the door, reaching out to pick up his coat.

Kenichi Sato had just stood up from the sofa, not even having had time to wipe away the streaks of tears on his face, when he looked up and saw Kitahara Iwao preparing to get dressed and leave. He was stunned for a moment and quickly asked, "Teacher Kitahara, are you leaving already?"