Chapter 112 Well done, Kitahara!

As a veteran of the Japan Literature Promotion Association, this seasoned emcee has hosted more than a dozen award ceremonies, witnessed the peak moments of countless writers, and is well-versed in the art of maintaining a steady and composed demeanor.

But tonight, as he stood under the spotlight and opened the gold-embossed process card in his hand, he still took a barely perceptible deep breath.

Good evening, distinguished guests.

"Tonight, we gather here to solemnly hold the joint award ceremony for the 103rd Akutagawa Ryunosuke Prize and the Naoki Thirty-Five Prize."

As is customary for half a century, what follows is a lengthy introduction, such as reviewing the history of the award, paying tribute to the members of the judging panel, and reiterating the harshness and rigor of the judging process.

He had recited these official platitudes so fluently over the past decade that he could recite them flawlessly with his eyes closed.

But tonight, as his gaze followed the proceedings and landed on the last line of the award speech...

The normally steady and professional broadcasting tone paused for a very rare moment.

Then, the emcee instinctively straightened his back and, in a more composed voice than before, read out the award citation that was destined to be written into the history of Japanese publishing:

"The winners of this year's Akutagawa Prize and Naoki Prize—"

He deliberately paused there for a full three seconds.

During those long three seconds, the entire Peacock Hall was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"This is the first and only time in more than half a century since the establishment of the two highest awards in the history of modern Japanese literature that the same writer has won both awards in the same year."

"Now, please allow me, with immense honor, to extend my invitation—"

The emcee immediately turned up the volume, channeling all the sound into the microphone so that every word resonated clearly throughout the banquet hall:

"Mr. Kitahara Iwao, winner of the 103rd Akutagawa Prize and Naoki Prize, please come to the stage to accept your award."

The moment the words left his mouth, the banquet hall, which had been under extreme pressure all night, erupted into a frenzy, as if some kind of seal had been broken.

The applause erupted without any hesitation or spread, but in the same second, it burst forth in perfect unison from hundreds of hands.

The literary elders in the front row, the publishing giants in the middle row, and the political and business elites in the back row, seemed to be strongly drawn by some invisible historical force, and all stood up in perfect unison.

Thunderous applause, like a tsunami, surged wave after wave, reaching the dome of the sky.

In the Peacock Hall, which symbolizes the highest threshold in Japan, all the air resonates intensely because of Kitahara Iwa's name.

Amidst the rising crowd, Kitahara Iwao paused his conversation with Murakami Haruki.

Then he slightly turned his head and gave a very brief nod to the senior beside him. After that, he stood up and walked steadily through the wall of people standing and applauding on both sides of the aisle, and then walked towards the most dazzling spotlight on the stage.

On the stage, two literary giants with gray hair were already in place.

They represented the jury of the Akutagawa Prize and the Naoki Prize, respectively, each holding an exquisitely crafted wooden box, standing on either side of the microphone.

According to the extremely strict etiquette of Japanese society, when the recipient goes on stage to accept this highest honor, he should first bow deeply, then respectfully accept it with both hands, and bow again to express his gratitude.

But Kitahara Iwa did not bow.

He walked between the two titans and, quite naturally, simultaneously spread his hands out to both sides.

With his left hand, he faced the Akutagawa Appreciation.

With his right hand, he faced Naoki Shono.

The two elders, who were used to the respect shown to their juniors, were slightly taken aback by this scene.

But just a moment later, they exchanged a knowing smile, a helpless expression even appearing in their eyes.

Next, the two opened their respective boxes and placed the prizes with utmost solemnity in Kitahara Iwa's outstretched palms.

On the left is the traditional prize of the Akutagawa Prize, a beautifully crafted sterling silver pocket watch with an engraved relief of Ryunosuke Akutagawa's cool profile on the cover.

On the right is the traditional prize of the Naoki Prize: an extremely simple and understated watch with no numbers on the dial, only sharp markings.

Kitahara Iwa stood under the lights for two seconds, holding an honor in each hand that would drive an ordinary writer mad.

Just those two seconds.

The media section on both sides of the stage went completely wild. The sound of camera shutters was as dense as a storm. The continuous flashes turned into a silent meteor shower, permanently recording the moment when Kitahara Iwa held his hands outstretched to admire the view on film in the winter of 1990.

In the back row of the business seats, seeing what Kitahara Iwa was doing, several people lowered their voices and said in extremely complicated tones, "There wasn't even a proper bow, they just reached out to accept both awards at the same time... If it were anyone else, those old fogies on the judging panel would have turned pale on the spot."

"But the person standing on the stage is Kitahara Iwao."

An older businessman standing nearby shook his head, his eyes filled with shock, and said, "If I were to write 'Confessions,' 'Love Letters,' 'The Last Cry,' and 'Railway Man,' I would be even more outrageous than him."

"Also because he's a writer."

Another voice rang out softly, carrying a sense of self-assurance.

Upon hearing this, the people around fell silent for a moment, and then nodded slightly in unison.

Yes.

In Japan, a society that places great emphasis on "reading the room" and "following the rules," politicians must be shrewd, businessmen must be discreet, and entertainers must please the public.

Only writers don't need it.

Osamu Dazai's drunken stupor and desperate suicide, Yukio Mishima's extreme fanaticism and balcony seppuku, Yasunari Kawabata's silent farewell with a gas pipe in his mouth...

This nation has always had an almost pathological, even bordering on unlimited, tolerance for writers' madness, arrogance, and even destruction.

Because everyone knows an extremely cruel truth.

Truly groundbreaking writing never springs from a docile and conventional shell.

They can only be born from those souls that refuse to bow down, even those that are scarred.

Under everyone's watchful eyes, Kitahara Iwa walked to the standing microphone.

Then, he slightly raised his head.

At this moment, hundreds of eyes below the stage were eagerly watching Kitahara Iwa.

The political and business leaders in the front row adjusted their posture, their faces bearing impeccable, polite smiles.

The publishing giants in the middle rows leaned forward slightly, ready to capture words that could become tomorrow's front-page headlines.

Meanwhile, in the media areas on both sides, the red lights of countless voice recorders were flashing, and the pens of reporters hovered over blank notebooks.

Everyone was naturally waiting for a perfect acceptance speech, befitting the style of the Imperial Hotel... such as thanking the jury for their favor, thanking the era for its gifts, and finally using a few humble platitudes to perfectly soothe this slightly restless winter night.

Kitahara Iwa stood in front of the microphone, his gaze sweeping calmly across the audience, looking at those well-dressed elites who had made a fortune during the bubble era, but were now trying to shift the cost onto the lower classes.

Looking at those faces sitting upright in gilded chairs, waiting to be gently comforted by a lukewarm literary speech.

Then, Kitahara Iwa spoke.

"Before stepping onto this podium, some people earnestly hoped that I could say a few words to reassure people."

Kitahara Iwao stood in front of the microphone, speaking slowly but with extreme clarity: "They want me to use tonight's spotlight to tell the nation that this current winter is just a 'brief pain.' As long as the people grit their teeth, everything will soon return to normal."

A few extremely faint sounds of fabric rubbing could still be heard in the banquet hall.

But when Kitahara Iwa uttered those words, the polite smiles on the faces of the political and business leaders in the front row instantly froze.

All the noise in the entire Peacock Hall was instantly silenced by an extremely terrifying stillness.

"But I refused."

Upon hearing Kitahara Iwa's words, the more than 500 dignitaries and literary figures in the banquet hall seemed to have been collectively put on pause.

The hand that was about to clap froze in mid-air, the hand holding the champagne glass stopped at the mouth, and the reporter's pen hovered over the paper before heavily poking a dot of ink.

Ignoring the suffocating pressure from the audience, Kitahara Iwao continued, "Because literature has never been an anesthetic used to whitewash the truth."

"It cannot act as a safety net to catch falling people."

"And it was utterly impossible to stop the fall of a massive era."

Kitahara Iwah withdrew his gaze from the world of fame and fortune and looked at the empty space directly in front of the microphone.

He seemed not to be speaking to the celebrities in the audience, but to all the ordinary faces in this country who were silently falling into darkness: "Faced with this era destined to continue to collapse, the only thing we, those who wield the pen, can do is—"

"It is simply standing honestly on the ruins of this era."

"Do not create illusions, do not peddle false hopes."

"Only the actual gravitational force experienced by each person during the fall is recorded."

The last syllable of that sentence lingered for a moment under the enormous crystal chandelier of the dome before being completely swallowed by silence.

No one applauded.

Of the more than two hundred distinguished guests, none of whom were wealthy or influential, could utter a sound.

The standard smiles on the faces of those political and business tycoons in the front row gradually stiffened, cracked, and finally peeled away completely as these few words were spoken.

Some people felt a tightness in their throats, while others subconsciously tugged at their bow ties, as if the oxygen in the banquet hall was being instantly sucked away by some terrifying force.

As the voice faded, they belatedly realized that what Kitahara Iwao on stage had announced was not an acceptance speech at all.

It is, rather, an extremely cold and realistic statement.

In front of the entire upper class of Japan, Kitahara Iwao ruthlessly tore away the false prosperity that the country was trying to conceal, calmly laying bare the cruel truth that everyone was trying so hard to avoid under the spotlight:

The fall has begun, and no one can escape it.

Then Kitahara Iwa didn't wait for the applause, or even give the elites in the audience any time to process or react.

He turned around decisively, holding the Akutagawa Prize in his left hand and the Naoki Prize in his right, and walked steadily off the podium.

The thick wool carpet of the Imperial Hotel swallowed the sound of his footsteps.

In those ten or so seconds, without background music or a host, only an extremely strange silence remained in the Peacock Hall.

He walked back down the aisle.

Passing by those political and business tycoons who have put away their social smiles and whose faces have become obscure.

Passing by those publishing industry executives whose expressions were extremely complex and who were subtly exchanging glances.

They also passed by the media section in the back row.

After a two-second moment of shock, the reporters here were frantically scribbling something down, their pens pressed firmly against their notebooks.

Kitahara Iwa didn't look at the reactions on either side; his back was straight and calm.

This is not a provocation, nor is it a pose; rather, it is the natural course of action after stating the objective facts and no longer caring about the audience's reaction.

When Kitahara Iwa walked back to the core seat in the first row and sat down very naturally.

Haruki Murakami, who was standing next to him, turned his head away.

This literary veteran, who has always maintained an absolute distance from the world of fame and fortune, unusually took the initiative to raise his wine glass and give a slight toast in the direction of Kitahara Iwa.

"To be honest, when I saw the people from the Ministry of Finance stopping you in the corridor, I was actually worried for a moment."

Haruki Murakami slightly curled the corners of his mouth, lowered his voice, and said with an extremely pleasant sense of relief, "If you had stood in front of that microphone just now and actually followed the wishes of those bureaucrats, saying some nonsense that whitewashed the situation... I would probably be extremely disappointed in you."

At this point, Haruki Murakami paused, a look of admiration for his kind appearing in his clear eyes.

"But now it seems that my judgment of people was indeed correct."

"In this hall, you probably wouldn't find another person who would dare to issue a critical condition notice to the times in this way."

"Well done, Kitahara."

And just as Haruki Murakami was whispering.

Throughout the Peacock Hall, the "gravity of the times" cast down by Kitahara Iwa is causing extremely intense tearing among different groups of people.

In the back row of the writers' seats, the atmosphere underwent a very subtle change.

The peer-scornful scrutiny that had lingered in the eyes of several well-known novelists, as well as their secret resentment at a newcomer winning two awards, had now completely vanished.

They stared at each other in silence.

After hearing the speech, which was tantamount to "declaring war" on the entire power structure, this jealousy was replaced by an extremely heavy and pure sense of awe.

They were all intelligent people, and they understood all too well what Kitahara Iwa's words meant.

They also asked themselves honestly: if they were in that position today, facing the demands of the Ministry of Finance, would they have the courage to tear off the mask of those in power as decisively as Kitahara Iwao?

The answer is pessimistic.

They will most likely, for the sake of their future, sales, and industry resources, read out a perfectly plausible PR statement in an extremely tactful manner.

But Kitahara Iwao did not.

With the most unyielding stance, he upheld the most steadfast integrity of a writer.

"This is what writers should be doing..."

An elderly literary luminary sighed very softly, then shook his head, his eyes filled with self-deprecating admiration.

In stark contrast, those seated in the back row, filled with anger and apprehension, were the political and business elites.

The managing director of a top conglomerate looked ashen-faced.

He tugged at his tie in extreme frustration, lowered his voice, and coldly whispered to the ordinary official from the Ministry of Finance beside him, "Too arrogant. What kind of public relations team do you have?"

"How could such extremely dangerous remarks, capable of triggering market panic, be broadcast unimpeded on camera across all of Japan's media!"

The ordinary official didn't dare to respond. He could only keep wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, staring intently at Kitahara Iwa's back, his eyes flashing with extremely complex fear and calculation.

The media section, however, presented a completely different scene.

The eyes of these veteran journalists burned with an intensely pure and greedy professional fervor.

As news beasts, they don't care how terrible the abyss predicted by Kitahara Iwa is; they only care about tomorrow's sales and headlines.

"Tomorrow's front-page headline is ready."

The senior editor of the Asahi Shimbun gripped the recorder tightly, the tip leaving a deep mark on the paper. His voice trembled slightly with extreme excitement as he said, "Let's call it 'The Falling Gravity: Kitahara Iwao's Critical Illness Notice to the Heisei Era!'"

It was at this very moment, when everyone's thoughts were clashing violently and the air in the entire hall was almost frozen, that things began to change.

The deathly silence was finally broken.

It was the writer, Xi, who broke this suffocating vacuum.

The literary luminary who had just sighed softly raised his wrinkled hands with utmost solemnity and clapped them slowly but forcefully.

Snapped.

This extremely abrupt yet incredibly firm cracking sound was like a heavy hammer being slammed into a dull ice surface.

Immediately afterwards, several well-known novelists sitting next to him also raised their hands.

Then came the literary writers in the same row, the senior editors and critics in the middle rows... On this extremely oppressive night, the top writers in all of Japan offered the highest level of respect to the young people who had upheld their pride and bottom line for all of them with this extremely pure and unified applause.

Inspired by the applause belonging to literature, the reporters in the media sections on both sides also put down their pens and began to applaud vigorously.

Finally, applause surged like a tidal wave, reaching the front and back rows.

Those political and business tycoons and provincial officials, their faces ashen, had no choice but to raise their hands stiffly, barely maintaining the facade of high society, surrounded by their peers and countless cameras.

This moment.

The applause seemed to have been completely released from its seal, finally sweeping across the entire hall.

But this time, the quality of the applause has completely changed.

The applause, initially led by the writers, was crisp and pure, but once everyone was forced to join in, the sound became extremely dull, slow, and filled with differing thoughts.

Amidst this applause, which was filled with extremely complex emotions.

Kitahara Iwa's face showed no extra emotion; he simply picked up the water glass on the table with complete naturalness and calmly took a sip to moisten his throat.

Then, Kitahara Iwa put down his cup and turned his head slightly to the side.

Amidst the still-lingering clamor of astonishment and admiration, he picked up where he left off before going on stage, speaking in a calm tone as if he were simply in a late-night izakaya: "By the way, Mr. Murakami, what year was that Hakushu you mentioned earlier?"

"Maybe I'll need it next..."

Hearing Kitahara Iwa's response, Murakami Haruki chuckled and said softly, "Haha, listen carefully, I don't usually tell this kind of thing to just anyone!"