Chapter 113 The Japanese Government's Operations
Late at night after the awards ceremony.
Top floor duplex apartment in Minato Ward.
Kitahara Iwa had just entered the house less than twenty minutes before the doorbell rang.
On the wall of the entryway, a black-and-white CRT video intercom, which was an absolute rarity in 1990, was flickering with a faint static light.
Kitahara Iwa stepped forward, his gaze falling on the small screen, which was only the size of a palm and had a slightly rough image quality.
The person standing in the picture is Haruki Kadokawa.
It was already 11:40 p.m.
This esteemed head of Kadokawa Shoten, a top tycoon with a media empire worth tens of billions of yen, was standing alone outside his private elevator lobby, without a secretary or editor by his side.
He was still wearing the same tailored suit he had worn two hours earlier in the Peacock Room of the Imperial Hotel, with even the Windsor knot of his tie not loosened in the slightest.
However, at this moment, he was tightly holding a leather folder under his arm, his back was straight, but even under the black and white screen, you could still see the eagerness between his brows that he couldn't hide because of his excitement.
A man who could shake the Japanese publishing industry with a single stomp of his foot was now like a salesman eager to offer his services, personally visiting in the winter night.
Seeing this, Kitahara Iwa reached out and pressed the open button on the access control panel.
Accompanied by a dull "click" from the electronic lock on the gate.
A few seconds later, Haruki Kadokawa, carrying the chill of a winter night and the smell of cigarettes from the world of fame and fortune, stepped into the entrance hall.
"I'm so sorry to bother you so late."
Haruki Kadokawa changed into slippers, his tone carrying a unique familiarity and warmth.
Kitahara Iwa led him to the sofa area in the living room, then turned and went into the kitchen.
Then I took two glasses and poured two glasses of room temperature water.
When Kitahara Iwa returned to the living room with the water, Kadokawa Haruki had already opened the black leather folder and laid it out very solemnly on the coffee table.
Inside was an elegantly bound roster, with the words "The Scream" printed in gold lettering on the cover: Film Adaptation Project, Female Lead Candidate Profile.
Haruki Kadokawa turned to the first page, where the coffee table was covered with carefully taken audition photos.
Each of these names represents one of the most sought-after top actresses in the Japanese entertainment industry at the moment.
"Teacher Kitahara."
Haruki Kadokawa leaned forward slightly, his eyes revealing undisguised ambition, and said, "After 'Scream' won the Naoki Prize tonight, expectations for its film and television adaptation have risen to an insane level."
"Right now, all the top talent agencies in Japan are doing everything they can to pull strings, just to compete for the role of 'Yoko Suzuki'."
Then, Haruki Kadokawa pointed to the roster with his finger: "Everyone here is the best candidate selected through three rounds of internal screening at Kadokawa. We invited you to review it tonight so that you, the original author, could make the final decision."
After Kadokawa Haruki finished speaking, he adopted a relaxed attitude of "you can choose any resources you want" and waited for Kitahara Iwao to open the roster.
However, Kitahara Iwa did not reach out to flip through the thick register.
"Put it away, President Kadokawa."
Kitahara Iwa's tone was very calm.
Haruki Kadokawa was slightly taken aback upon hearing this.
"I have no interest in the possibility of making 'Scream' into a movie right now."
Kitahara Iwa placed the glass back on the coffee table and continued, "I only want to focus my energy on finishing the remaining chapters of 'The Ring' in seclusion."
"As for casting and preparation, Kadokawa Shoten can handle that themselves. I trust your professionalism."
Upon hearing this, Haruki Kadokawa leaned forward slightly, a clear look of surprise flashing in his eyes.
He originally thought that Kitahara Iwa would take advantage of the double award to make strict demands for control of the film.
But he never expected that Kitahara Iwa would so casually and completely relinquish control of this top-tier project that the entire Japanese entertainment industry was envious of.
"Teacher Kitahara, this is 'The Last Cry'!"
Haruki Kadokawa couldn't help but speak up, his tone carrying a hint of insistence on the weight of the work: "It just won the Naoki Prize, and the character of Yoko Suzuki could even determine the success or failure of the entire film."
"Even if you don't care about other work, I still hope that you can personally finalize the choice of the female lead."
Faced with Kadokawa Haruki's almost earnest suggestion, Kitahara Iwao simply shook his head.
After all, writers need to write books, and they need to fill the gaps in their debut works, which is a reason that no publisher can refute.
Haruki Kadokawa opened his mouth, but ultimately swallowed back the persuasive words that were about to come out.
He knew all too well that continuing to pester such a pure creator, whose ideas were so deeply ingrained in his very being, would only backfire.
Haruki Kadokawa nodded, neatly closed the roster on the coffee table, put it back in the folder, and said, "I understand. Then I'll wait for your good news on the deadline of 'The Ring'."
Just as Kadokawa Haruki fastened the folder and prepared to get up and leave.
The landline phone on the coffee table rang without warning.
Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa immediately picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.
The landline phone on the coffee table rang without warning.
Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa immediately picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.
"Bro! Congratulations! You practically ripped the roof off the Peacock Hall tonight at the awards ceremony!"
A cheerful male voice came from the other end of the phone, speaking very quickly and with great energy.
The owner of that voice was none other than Hiroshi Kume.
The anchor of News Station speaks with the penetrating power characteristic of television news professionals.
"Let's save the pleasantries for another day over drinks; let's get down to business."
Before Kitahara Iwa could reply, Kume Hiroshi's tone instantly switched from familiar warmth to a sharp professional stance.
"Your remarks tonight gave me goosebumps. But—"
Kume Hiroshi lowered his voice, revealing a sense of impending doom.
"Less than an hour after you left the Imperial Hotel, the Cabinet Intelligence and Research Offices of the Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of International Trade and Industry had already begun their operations."
"They put pressure on the editorial departments of major mainstream print media overnight."
"Your key remarks about the 'economic downturn' and 'recording gravity' in tomorrow's morning paper will be heavily edited, or even completely shelved."
Kitahara Iwa held the receiver but didn't speak.
Then Kume Hiroshi sneered, his tone full of mockery of the official line: "The version that will appear in the newspapers tomorrow morning will most likely be forcibly embellished to say—'Kitahara Iwao delivered his acceptance speech, expressing his firm confidence in the future of Japanese literature and the nation.' They've already prepared this whitewashed official line."
The living room was very quiet late at night, and Kume Hiroshi's powerful voice came through the receiver.
Kadokawa Haruki, who was sitting opposite and hadn't even had a chance to get up yet, heard everything on the phone.
The head of Kadokawa Shoten, who had just been preoccupied with business calculations for casting movies, instantly cooled down.
He then composed himself and quietly focused his gaze on Kitahara Iwa in front of him.
"So, buddy."
On the other end of the phone, Hiroshi Kume's voice suddenly rose half an octave, his tone brimming with the pure fighting spirit of a news beast.
"They've got the lifeline of print media in their hands; I can't control it."
"But live television broadcasts—they can't cut them out."
"The day after tomorrow at 8 PM, during prime time on News Station. I've reserved a full interview slot for you."
Kume Hiroshi's voice carried an almost provocative fervor as he said, "How about coming to my livestream and saying those lines that were cut from your performance at the Imperial Hotel again, in front of all 100 million people in Japan?"
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone, as if they were waiting for an answer.
Kitahara Iwa didn't speak immediately. Instead, he held the receiver and looked past the floor-to-ceiling window at the night view of Tokyo Bay.
In 1990, the sea was pitch black, with only a few distant navigation lights casting blurry streaks of light across the undulating water.
"it is good."
Although it consisted of only one word, it was extremely decisive and without any hesitation.
On the other end of the phone, Kume Hiroshi laughed heartily, "Great! See you tomorrow night, I'll send a car from the station to pick you up."
After hanging up the phone, Kitahara Iwa put the receiver back on the landline.
Across from him, Kadokawa Haruki looked at Kitahara Iwa, his eyes filled with a mixture of shock and the extreme excitement of a businessman witnessing a historical storm.
Finally, the media mogul picked up the folder, stood up, and said, "Are you going to wage war against half of Xiaguan?"
Kadokawa Haruki looked at Kitahara Iwao, his tone not showing fear but rather a hidden tremor, and said, "Tomorrow night's ratings will probably break the record in Japanese television history."
At this point, Kadokawa Haruki paused, his eyes, which had seen countless people, fixed intently on the young man before him, and couldn't help but ask, "But, Kitahara-kun... are you really not afraid at all?"
"That's the Ministry of Finance and the Cabinet Intelligence and Research Office. Being crushed by this state apparatus is no joke."
Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa shook his head and replied, "President Kadokawa, in Japan, politicians who offend the Kasumigaseki-kai are forced to step down, and businessmen who offend the Kasumigaseki-kai face bankruptcy."
"But writers are the only exception."
"Kenzaburo Oe criticizes the cabinet and the imperial system in his column every day, yet he has not only escaped arrest but remains a respected literary giant."
"In his novels, Seicho Matsumoto exposed the dark secrets of the Kasumigaseki bureaucrats, making countless politicians feel like they had a thorn in their side, yet he remains the highest-paid national author in Japan."
Kitahara Iwa's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a calmness that came from a clear understanding of the rules of the game: "In this country, those in power have always had a helpless tolerance for the harsh voices of writers. Or rather, a fear of them."
"Those bureaucrats can use their power to block newspaper pages, but they would never dare to let a writer who has just won both the Akutagawa and Naoki Prizes 'disappear from the face of the earth'."
"They can't afford to lose face, nor can they bear that level of backlash from public opinion. As long as I keep writing, they'll just have to grit their teeth and bear it."
After listening, Haruki Kadokawa let out a long sigh of relief.
Then, the media tycoon, who had spent most of his life battling in the business world, remained silent for a few seconds, then shook his head with a self-deprecating smile, a relieved smile appearing on his lips.
"It seems I was overthinking it."
Haruki Kadokawa didn't continue the dangerous topic. Instead, he reached for the black leather folder on the coffee table and stood up decisively.
"Since you already have a plan in mind, I won't bother you any further tonight."
Kadokawa Haruki looked at the young man on the sofa and said with undisguised anticipation, "I'll be in front of the TV at eight o'clock the day after tomorrow."
After saying that, he picked up the black leather folder, turned around, and walked towards the entrance.
Kitahara Iwaya also stood up and escorted Kadokawa Haruki to the door.
Welcome to a vast collection of novels for you to explore!
After Kadokawa Haruki left, Kitahara Iwao turned around and walked back to the living room. He went straight to his desk, unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen, laid out a blank sheet of manuscript paper, and began writing the next part of the plot for "Ring".
The next day, at six o'clock in the morning.
As the first Yamanote Line train roared to life, newspaper racks in Tokyo's subway stations and convenience stores were promptly filled with the smell of freshly printed morning newspapers.
The Yomiuri Shimbun, Nikkei, and Sankei Shimbun—all of Japan's largest-circulation mainstream newspapers—all published reports on the Imperial Hotel's awards ceremony last night in their front-page culture sections.
But when commuters unfold their newspapers on crowded platforms, the headlines they see are like this:
Yomiuri Shimbun: "Double award-winning master Kitahara Iwao offers a message to the times: The economic pain will eventually pass, and literature will serve as a beacon to guide the nation."
Nikkei: "Kitahara Iwao's acceptance speech: The creativity of Japanese literature will become the cornerstone of national confidence."
In these carefully crafted texts, Kitahara Iwa is portrayed as a gentle master who deeply respects tradition and is full of hope for the future of the country.
The words about "falling" disappeared.
Those descriptions of "ruins" have disappeared.
The most jarring statement, "Literature can't save anything," has been completely erased.
Instead, there are carefully crafted official platitudes.
It was as if the person standing in front of the microphone last night was not Kitahara Iwa, who was judging the entire audience with his gaze, but a puppet that had been perfectly tamed by the system.
This is the efficiency of the Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of International Trade and Industry.
Less than an hour after Kitahara Iwa left the Imperial Hotel, an invisible hand had already reached into the editorial departments of major newspapers.
They don't even need to issue any harsh documents.
Under Japan's unique "journalists' club" system, there has always been a morbid symbiotic relationship between central government ministries and major newspapers.
Newspapers rely on bureaucrats to provide exclusive news and policy briefings to maintain sales; in exchange, they must maintain stability for the government at critical moments.
All it takes is for a few phone calls from the Ministry of Finance's propaganda officer, casually implying that "the current social sentiment should not be overly pessimistic, and we hope your newspaper will consider the bigger picture," and Kitahara Iwatsu in the newspaper will naturally become a well-behaved child singing praises to the government.
However, while the authorities can silence the regulars in the "journalists' club," they cannot control another group of beasts who live off the smell of blood.
It was exactly 9:00 AM.
While the "special edition" reports of major daily newspapers were already covering desks all over Japan, another batch of printed materials were promptly dumped on bookstores and train station kiosks.
Weekly Shincho, Bungei Shunju, and a special supplement to Kadokawa Shoten's Wild Age.
These three top-tier magazines, belonging to different conglomerates and usually vying fiercely for exclusive scoops, did the exact same thing this morning—a highly unusual occurrence.
On their most prominent double-page spreads, they published Kitahara Iwa's exact words from the previous night at the Imperial Hotel in bold black text on a white background.
"Literature cannot serve as a safety net to catch those who are falling, nor can it prevent the fall of a vast era."
"But as the ones holding the pen, all we can do is stand on these ruins and record, with utmost honesty, the force of gravity on each person as they fall."
Not a single word was changed or deleted.
Against a black background, the white lead type is like a dagger piercing through the false prosperity, extremely glaring.
The editor-in-chief squeezed in "Weekly Shincho" overnight, bypassing layers of approval and forcibly stopping the printer.
After listening to the recorded message from the reporter at the scene, the executives of "Bungei Shunju" immediately decided to replace the original layout.
Kadokawa Shoten acted the fastest. The moment Haruki Kadokawa left Kitahara Iwao's apartment in the early morning, he immediately called the head of the magazine department and issued a single, absolute order: "Publish Kitahara Iwao's exact words in full, without changing a single punctuation mark!"
The three competitors made the exact same decision.
This wasn't because they were so passionate about truth, but rather based on an extremely keen business sense and an understanding of the underlying logic of the Japanese media ecosystem:
When the government forces those self-proclaimed authoritative mainstream newspapers to lie, weekly magazines can simply tell the truth without any alteration, thus crushing the credibility of the major newspapers and reaping the richest sales dividends from this wave of the times!
Moreover, these are the original words of a top author who just swept two awards.
Who dares to change even a single word for him?
At eight o'clock in the morning, the lingering heat of the morning rush hour had not yet dissipated. A dramatic and absurd scene began to unfold in the carriages of the Yamanote Line.
Two office workers in suits sat side by side. The one on the left was holding the day's Yomiuri Shimbun, while the one on the right was flipping through a newly bought copy of the Weekly Shincho.
The headline seen by the person on the left reads: "The economic pain will eventually pass."
The bold text seen by the person on the right reads: "Literature can't save anything."
As the train swayed, the two glanced at what the other was holding and froze simultaneously.
Why is the content of the newspaper he has different from the one I have?
The idea arose in both of their minds at the same time.
"Um...excuse me for asking, are you reading today's Yomiuri?"
Finally, the young man holding the "New Tide" magazine couldn't help but ask the other person a question, his voice filled with obvious confusion.
"yes."
Upon hearing this, the middle-aged man first glanced at the magazine in the other person's hand, then his brows immediately furrowed into a deep frown. "But what about the original quote from Kitahara-sensei published in that magazine?"
The next second, the two immediately began exchanging their newspapers and saw that each had a different wording.
Soon after, more and more people in the carriage noticed this strange misalignment.
Some people gasped in shock, while others laid the two printed copies side by side on their briefcases and compared them word by word.
"This is absolutely a weekly magazine spreading rumors to boost sales!"
An old-fashioned employee, carrying a briefcase, pointed excitedly at the Yomiuri Shimbun's pages and exclaimed, "The Yomiuri and Nikkei are the most authoritative newspapers in the country! How could they possibly collude to fabricate award citations printed in black and white?"
"Don't major newspapers lie?"
A young man who looked like a college student next to him sneered and waved the "Weekly Shincho" magazine in his hand, saying, "Look at how badly the Nikkei index has plummeted!"
"The news keeps saying it's 'just a temporary pullback' or 'a technical correction,' but do you believe it?"
"The government panicked a long time ago; they're absolutely capable of revising the draft overnight and covering up the truth!"
"Nonsense! If Kitahara Iwa really said such treasonous things, would the Ministry of Finance let him off the hook?"
"That's why *Shincho* dared to publish it! He flipped the table on stage in front of all the powerful figures in Japan!"
At the same awards ceremony, with the same person, on the same night, two completely opposite parallel universes emerged.
The news spread 10,000 times faster than the Tibet Ministry had predicted.
By noon, the question of "what exactly Kitahara Iwa said" had spread like a virus from the train car to office buildings, university cafeterias, and street corner cafes in Marunouchi.
The debate among the public quickly escalated to a fever pitch.
The city was almost abuzz with a mix of panic, anger, self-deception, and suspicion.
"Is this major newspaper treating us like fools?!"
In a break room in Marunouchi, an employee slammed a Nikkei newspaper onto the table: "Such a uniform whitewashing—who else could it be but those bureaucrats from Kasumigaseki putting pressure on us?"
"But what if Kitahara-sensei changed his mind himself?"
A young female employee beside him looked uneasy, clutching her water glass tightly. "After all," she said, "he just won two awards last night, gaining both fame and fortune. What if he's been recruited by high society and is colluding with the government to deceive us?"
"Impossible! The person who wrote 'The Scream' would never fawn over power!"
Another male colleague wearing glasses immediately retorted.
"But if he really gets recruited... I'll actually feel relieved."
A male office worker burdened with a huge mortgage scratched his head in frustration, his eyes bloodshot, and said in a voice close to breaking down, "I'd rather believe what's written in the Yomiuri!"
"I'd rather believe that Mr. Kitahara really said everything would be alright! If even he says the times are destined to fall, what am I going to do about my loan next month? What am I going to do about my whole family?!"
The tea room fell into a deathly silence.
Faced with this cruel reality, even a false hope is something some people desperately try to grasp.
Stop deceiving yourself.
In a corner, a middle-aged section chief, whose stock portfolio had just been wiped out, spoke with a trembling voice, ruthlessly piercing the veil of secrecy and uttering the suspicion that everyone feared most: "If the government is going to forcibly silence even a double-award-winning author... then it can only mean one thing—the current economic mess has reached the point where the authorities dare not even let the people hear a single truth."
At this point, he suddenly raised his head, looking blankly at everyone: "Are we... completely finished?"
This last speculation, like a red-hot iron rod, pierced the most sensitive nerve of the entire Japanese nation.
Over the past two months, ordinary citizens who have watched helplessly as the stock market crashed, their neighbors went bankrupt, and themselves faced the constant threat of unemployment have placed an almost drowning man's reliance on the name Kitahara Iwao with the same reliance a drowning man might have on a piece of driftwood.
"The Cry" gave voice to the cries of the underprivileged, while "Railway Man" carried the dignity of those abandoned by the times.
If even a cold and hard-edged writer like Kitahara Iwao is co-opted by power and begins to cooperate with the government in whitewashing the truth—then this country is truly rotten to the point that not even a bone fragment remains.
Doubt quickly fermented into unease, and unease then expanded exponentially into anger at being fooled.
At the Cabinet's regular press conference at 3 p.m. that day.
The journalists from mainstream newspapers, who usually treat the government like brothers, all lowered their heads and pretended not to hear, but the foreign media and liberal weekly journalists, who were not bound by the rules of the "journalists' club," did not hesitate to throw out a barrage of questions.
Faced with a barrage of questions from the audience, the government spokesperson was sweating profusely.
He took out a white handkerchief and kept wiping his forehead, stammering on the podium for nearly ten minutes.
Aside from bowing repeatedly in an extremely awkward manner and repeating meaningless bureaucratic platitudes like "no comment" and "the Cabinet absolutely respects freedom of publication," he never dared to directly address whether the Ministry of Finance had actually pressured the newspaper.
However, in a political context, such an awkward evasion is tantamount to tacit consent.
The slippage of this last fig leaf ignited the anger of the entire society.
Just as the whole of Japan was plunged into a huge sense of division because of these two "schizophrenic" texts, and the public's panic, suspicion and anger at being fooled were like a pressure cooker that had been pushed to the limit of being about to explode.
Time quietly slipped to five in the afternoon.