Chapter 115 Akina Nakamori: Iwa-kun, let's go to America.
Chapter update reminder: Chapter 115 Nakamori Akina: Iwa-kun, let's go to America (three-in-one), reading address.
In the studio, the red indicator light on top of the camera, after burning for a full forty-seven minutes, finally went out quietly.
The live stream signal was then cut off.
Kume Hiroshi removed his in-ear monitor, let out a long breath, and leaned heavily back in the anchor chair, like a runner who had just finished a marathon and needed a few seconds for his heart rate to return to normal.
He then turned his head, preparing to say something to Kitahara Iwa, who was sitting in the guest seats.
But before he could finish speaking, the soundproof door to the studio was pushed open from the outside.
The door was pushed open with great force, and the metal hinges made a dull thud.
The person who rushed in was the director of the news department of Asahi TV.
This television executive, who usually maintains an elite demeanor in any public setting, could only be described as disheveled at this moment.
His tie was askew next to the second button of his shirt, and he had run his fingers through his hair countless times; his forehead was covered in sweat.
Magnet's hands were tightly gripping a piece of paper that had just been torn from the printer in the control room, the edges of which were still jagged and torn.
It is clearly a graph of real-time viewership ratings.
"Kumi——!"
At this moment, the bureau chief's voice became so hoarse that it was distorted.
He then slammed the viewership ratings chart onto the table in front of Kume Hiroshi and Kitahara Iwao, his voice suddenly rising as he exclaimed, "Look at this!"
On the graph, the horizontal axis represents time, and the vertical axis represents viewership share.
From the start of the program until Kitahara Iwa's official speech, the curve remained stable at around 22%, a figure that made all competitors in the same time slot despair.
But from the moment Kitahara Iwa uttered the "three excesses," the curve began to rise from an angle that defied common sense in television ratings.
When he mentioned the next part, the curve immediately broke through 35%.
And when he said, "The real winter is just beginning, and you've only just taken your first step into it"—the curve broke through 40%.
The bureau chief's lips trembled slightly, and his voice seemed to be squeezed out from the deepest part of his throat: "The highest instantaneous viewership rating... 41.3%."
As soon as the director finished speaking, the studio fell silent.
Kume Hiroshi's pupils suddenly contracted.
He's been in this industry for over twenty years and knows all too well what 40% means.
This is not the kind of viewership a regular news program should have.
This is the kind of viewership rating that only the year-end "Red and White Song Battle" can achieve.
This is a miracle that only occurs when an event is so significant that half of Japan simultaneously stops everything they are doing and stares intently at their television screens.
Kitahara Iwa did it simply by speaking the truth.
The bureau chief's bloodshot eyes were filled with a rare, almost manic joy for a television professional: "This is the highest viewership record for a news program in the history of TV Asahi! No, this is the highest record in the entire history of Japanese television news!"
Kitahara Iwa sat in the guest seat, looking at the ratings curve graph that had been slapped on the table. His previously tense shoulders visibly relaxed.
Then Kitahara Iwa stood up, bowed slightly to the director and Kume Hiroshi, and said, "We owe this result to the hard work and cooperation of everyone at TV Asahi tonight."
Kitahara Iwa's tone was as gentle as ever, revealing the sincerity of adults helping each other succeed.
"Teacher Kitahara, you're too kind! We should be thanking you tonight!"
The director wiped the sweat from his brow, clapped his hands excitedly, and said, "Kume, hurry up and book the best seats in Roppongi! Tonight, the entire production team is having a celebratory banquet; all expenses are on the station's pay. Everyone drinks until they drop!"
Kume Hiroshi, his face flushed, smiled and looked at Kitahara Iwao, saying, "Brother Kitahara, shall we go together?"
"You're the absolute star tonight. We must have a good drink to celebrate this brilliant comeback that's delivered a slap in the face to the bureaucrats of Kasumigaseki!"
Hearing this enthusiastic invitation, Kitahara Iwao did not readily accept. He shook his head slightly and replied with an apologetic look on his face, "Director, Kume-san, thank you very much for your kindness. But I really can't go tonight."
"Huh? What's wrong?"
The bureau chief paused for a moment, then quickly asked, "Is there some other important social engagement?"
I guess so.
Kitahara Iwa nodded and said, "There's still an unfinished manuscript on my desk at home. I'm still a few thousand words short of finishing the latest chapter of 'The Ring.'"
Upon hearing this reason, everyone in the studio was stunned.
On this historic night, he broke the viewership record in Japanese television news history and single-handedly turned the national public opinion field upside down.
Countless important figures across Japan wanted to invite him for a drink, but all he could think about was going home to write a novel.
Kume Hiroshi looked at Kitahara Iwa in front of him, and after a moment of astonishment, the respect in his eyes deepened.
Because this person doesn't care about worldly fanaticism and fame; all his ambition is expressed through his pen.
"I see……"
Kume Hiroshi smiled with relief, took a half step back, and opened the heavy soundproof door of the studio for him, saying, "Since Brother Kitahara is still writing diligently, then we won't take up your precious creative time. We'll owe you this celebratory drink!"
"I'll treat you another day."
Kitahara Iwa smiled and nodded, then put on his coat, turned and walked out of the studio.
At the same time.
Xiaguan, Tibet Province.
In the minister's office, the small television on the oak cabinet was still lit.
The screen is showing the end of TV Asahi's live broadcast, but no one is watching anymore.
The section chief who intercepted Kitahara Iwa in the corridor last night is now standing behind his desk.
His fingers, holding the cigarette, trembled slightly uncontrollably.
He didn't even notice the cigarette ash accumulating until it finally fell onto the expensive carpet.
The accompanying staff members standing in the office didn't dare to breathe.
After nearly ten seconds of silence, a young bureaucrat with a livid face finally spoke up, his voice low and filled with a desperate ruthlessness: "Sir, should we... use administrative channels to immediately restrict the distribution of his book or confiscate it?"
The suggestion was coldly interrupted by the section chief assistant as soon as it was uttered.
"Are you crazy?"
Then he stubbed out the burnt-out cigarette butt in the ashtray, raised his head, and looked at himself with a deep, unfathomable weariness and despair in his eyes.
"Do you know how many people in all of Japan watched that live broadcast just now? Forty million!"
"He's no longer just an ordinary bestselling author."
"In the past hour, he has been regarded by forty million citizens struggling on the verge of bankruptcy as the only writer who dares to speak the truth in this age of lies!"
"Are you going to confiscate his books now? Restrict their distribution?"
The section chief took a deep breath, his voice hoarse from the intense pressure: "Believe it or not, by tomorrow morning, the citizens of Tokyo will have trampled the main gate of the Ministry of Finance to pieces?"
"The opposition is currently struggling to find a reason to impeach the cabinet; are you handing them the butcher's knife yourself?!"
Upon hearing this, the young bureaucrat immediately shut his mouth, his face turning deathly pale.
The office fell silent once again.
Everyone knew that what the officer said was true.
With public opinion already ignited by Kitahara Iwao, any administrative action against him would be tantamount to throwing a match into a powder keg.
Faced with this massive state apparatus, power was forced to choose humiliating silence at this moment.
It wasn't out of tolerance, but out of genuine powerlessness.
It's late at night, 11 p.m.
Top floor duplex apartment in Minato Ward.
The elevator doors slid open to both sides with a soft sound.
Kitahara Iwa stepped out of the elevator, looking slightly tired, and into the corridor covered with a thick carpet.
As soon as he turned the corner, Kitahara Iwa stopped in his tracks.
Because there was a person standing against the wall in front of his own front door.
He wore a camel-colored trench coat with the collar turned up high, almost covering half of his face.
A pair of large sunglasses perched on his nose, and his hair was covered by a baseball cap pulled low, with only a few strands of black hair falling over his shoulders.
With his face completely covered up, if he were walking the streets of Tokyo late at night, he would most likely be stopped and questioned by the police.
But Kitahara Iwa recognized her at a glance at her slightly slender figure in the corridor.
Hearing the approaching footsteps, the figure leaning against the wall suddenly sat up straight.
She couldn't wait to take off her sunglasses and hat, revealing a face slightly flushed from anxiety and the chill of the corridor.
It's Akina Nakamori.
Her eyes were red, not the kind of red from just crying, but the red from extreme worry, from staring intently at the TV screen all night, her nerves stretched to the limit.
"Teacher Kitahara...are you...alright?"
Upon seeing Kitahara Iwa standing unharmed before her, Nakamori Akina's first words were tinged with barely suppressed trembling and lingering fear.
As someone who is also in the world of fame and fortune, she knows all too well what those 47 minutes of live broadcast just now meant.
Kitahara Iwao was not only going against the authorities, he was practically putting himself on the guillotine where he could be crushed to pieces at any moment.
"I'm fine."
Kitahara Iwa responded, then stepped forward, took out his key, and inserted it into the lock.
With a crisp metallic click, Kitahara Iwa pushed open the door, letting the warm air from the apartment out.
Then, Kitahara Iwa turned around and looked at the national diva who had been standing in the deserted corridor for who knows how long, waiting for him, and said, "It's cold in the corridor, let's go inside. I'm just about to boil some water to make tea."
Akina Nakamori gripped her sunglasses tightly, staring at Kitahara Iwao's calm face, her chest heaving violently.
Akina Nakamori gripped her sunglasses tightly, staring at Kitahara Iwao's calm face, her chest heaving violently.
Only when she confirmed that Kitahara Iwa was standing unharmed in front of her did Nakamori Akina's heart, which had been hanging in suspense all night, finally settle back into her stomach.
Then, she took a few stiff steps and followed Kitahara Iwa into the entrance hall.
After changing into slippers, Kitahara Iwa pointed to the living room, indicating that she should make herself at home, while he took off his coat and went straight into the open kitchen.
"I watched the live broadcast tonight... from beginning to end."
As the aroma of tea filled the air, Akina Nakamori finally couldn't help but speak.
His voice was trying hard to stay steady, but the last syllable still trembled uncontrollably: "Teacher Kitahara... in front of 20 million people, you slapped the Ministry of Finance in public."
Kitahara Iwa came out of the kitchen carrying two cups of freshly brewed hot tea and gently placed one of them on the coffee table next to her.
"Yes, I did get it."
Kitahara Iwa's tone was very light and flat.
Upon hearing this, Akina Nakamori felt a chill in her heart, but the warmth from her palms failed to dispel the coldness within.
Having navigated the cutthroat entertainment industry for so many years, she knows all too well where the bottom line of those tycoons and bureaucrats lies.
She might not dare to openly ban someone, but she's seen far too many underhanded tactics—tax audits, gang intimidation, and fabricating scandals to ruin a person.
"Teacher Kitahara."
Thinking of this, Nakamori Akina took a deep breath, suddenly stepped forward, and grabbed Kitahara Iwao's arm.
Her fingers were icy cold, yet her strength was surprisingly great.
"Let's go to America."
Akina Nakamori's voice was low, yet it conveyed a desperate resolve: "Avoid this storm."
"With your talent, you could thrive anywhere, and even write better works. You don't need to stay here and risk your safety to confront the state apparatus head-on..."
When she said those words, a pleading, desperate look flickered in Nakamori Akina's eyes.
In the heart of this national diva who has long been accustomed to the fickleness of human nature, Kitahara Iwa is no longer just a talented writer.
In the darkest, most desperate, and most mired period of her life, it was Kitahara Iwa who forcefully cleaved through the chaos and pulled her out of the abyss.
He was the guide who led her out of the darkness, and also her only anchor in this cold, fame-driven world.
This feeling, which had long taken root in her heart but had always remained hidden, made it impossible for her to bear the possibility that this man might be swallowed by darkness.
Therefore, in Nakamori Akina's view, as long as Kitahara Iwao could be kept, she was even willing to give up all her career and status that she had worked hard for in Japan and leave with him.
Kitahara Iwa looked down at her fingers, which were clenched around his forearm.
Feeling a slight shiver from his fingertips, Kitahara Iwa gently shook his head.
"No need to go to the United States."
Kitahara Iwa gently patted Akina's cold hand with a reassuring force, pressing her back onto the sofa.
After she sat down, Kitahara Iwa sat down opposite her, picked up his tea and took a sip before slowly saying, "Akina, they don't dare to touch me now."
Meeting Nakamori Akina's uneasy gaze, Kitahara Iwao spoke slowly, "Think about it, there are tens of millions of Japanese citizens struggling on the verge of bankruptcy. Their panic and anger have reached a breaking point."
"And in tonight's live broadcast, I broke through that barrier for them. I am now the only 'vent' for the voice of the people at the bottom of this country."
Sensing Akina Nakamori's somewhat suspicious gaze, Kitahara Iwao continued, "If the Ministry of Finance dares to touch me at this time, forcibly shut off this exhaust valve..."
"That anger, driven to a dead end, will explode immediately and burn the entire cabinet to ashes. The bureaucrats of Kasumigaseki cannot afford the consequences."
Upon hearing this, Akina Nakamori's tightly clenched fingers loosened slightly, but her brows remained furrowed as she said, "But... what if it's a sneak attack? I mean, those ruthless underhanded tactics..."
"Moreover, I have more than just readers behind me."
Kitahara Iwa interrupted her worries, casually pointing to the magazines he had just bought during the day on the coffee table.
"Haruki Kadokawa, Taro Murata, and Kenichi Sato—the core capital forces in the Japanese publishing industry—have now voluntarily tied themselves to me."
"Today, three rival magazines simultaneously published my original words, which is the tactic they used to approach the government."
At this point, Kitahara Iwa paused, then continued, "If the Ministry of Finance wants to touch me, it has to ask these zaibatsu who control the voice of the people whether they agree, and it has to ask the Japanese literary world whether they agree."
After listening to this meticulous analysis, Akina Nakamori remained silent for a long time. Then, the anxiety that had gripped her all night finally subsided.
"That's good……"
Akina Nakamori let out a long breath, and her tense back completely relaxed.
Then, Akina Nakamori's cheeks flushed slightly, and a hint of guilt appeared on her face: "I'm sorry... I was too flustered just now, did I hurt you?"
"It's alright, just consider it a medal of honor."
Kitahara Iwa smiled faintly and pushed the cup of tea, which hadn't been touched much, in front of her, saying, "Warm yourself up first."
The two chatted briefly for a while longer.
Kitahara Iwao only ended the conversation after confirming that Nakamori Akina's tense emotions had completely calmed down.
Then Nakamori Akina got up to say goodbye, walked to the entrance, put her baseball cap pulled low and her large sunglasses back on, hiding her stunning face under a heavy disguise once again.
Just as she reached for the door, a dark coat had already been placed over her shoulder.
With a slight metallic clanging sound, Kitahara Iwao casually picked up the car keys from the entryway cabinet and draped his coat over his shoulders.
"Let's go."
Kitahara Iwa didn't use a tone of discussion; he simply walked past her naturally and took the doorknob first: "It's too late, I'm worried about you going home alone. I'll take you."
Akina Nakamori paused for a moment, looking at Kitahara Iwa's tall and straight back. Behind his sunglasses, a faint warmth flickered in his eyes, which had just been filled with worry.
She didn't refuse, but obediently followed in his footsteps.
In the dead of night in Tokyo, a biting wind was blowing.
The black sedan drove smoothly on the nearly deserted elevated highway in the capital.
The car was well-heated, with no music playing, only the deep rumble of the engine.
Akina Nakamori sat in the passenger seat, turned her head, and quietly watched Kitahara Iwao's profile as he drove, using the occasional flashes of dim streetlights outside the window.
On this night, which has just experienced a major earthquake in public opinion across Japan, the storm from the outside world is enough to destroy any ordinary person.
But this narrow, quiet carriage has become the safest and most secure haven she has felt for the past two weeks.
Fifteen minutes later, the car smoothly glided into the hidden driveway below the Nakamori Akina apartment building.
"arrive."
Kitahara Iwa put the car in park, turned to look at her, and said, "Go back and get a good night's sleep. Don't worry about the storms outside; just focus on singing your songs."
Akina Nakamori unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the car door.
The cold wind rushed in at dawn, but she felt much warmer than when she arrived.
She stood outside the car, bent down slightly before closing the door, and took a deep look at Kitahara Iwa through the car window.
All fear and unease had faded from his eyes, replaced by an unspeakable torrent of emotions and an almost obsessive trust.
In the end, these emotions were condensed into a gentle yet firm nod.
Goodnight, Iwa-kun.
With a muffled thud as the car door closed, Kitahara Iwa did not leave immediately.
He leaned back in the driver's seat, calmly watching the slender figure wrapped in a trench coat safely walk into the apartment lobby. Only when the elevator indicator light came on did he step on the gas again and drive the car back into the deep winter night.
For a full two weeks after Nakamori Akina left, Kitahara Iwa completely disappeared from the public eye.
The outside world was already in an uproar because of that record-breaking live broadcast.
Kadokawa Shoten's switchboard was busy from morning till night, and the reprint of the special edition broke the million-copy mark at an alarming rate.
Interview requests from major television stations and newspapers flooded the editorial departments of Shinchosha and Kadokawa Shoten like a blizzard.
Kume Hiroshi's "News Station" did something unprecedented: within a week of the live broadcast, it aired three consecutive "Kitahara Iwa Special Retrospectives," with each episode consistently achieving a viewership rating of over 20%.
The name "Beiyuanyan" has completely transcended the realm of literature, transforming into a social phenomenon akin to a belief.
However, the person who created this storm of the century cut off all contact with the outside world at the very heart of the storm.
Shinchosha and Kadokawa were explicitly told: no interviews, no announcements, and no public appearances.
Kenichi Sato and Taro Murata blocked all the incoming calls.
In the past two weeks, the security system at the apartment building in the port area has blocked countless reporters who tried to force their way in.
But Kitahara Iwa, who lives on the top floor, has returned to the purest minimalist state of life.
I get up at six o'clock every morning, brew a pot of black coffee by hand, and then sit down at my desk.
There was only a fountain pen filled with ink and a thick stack of blank manuscript paper in front of him.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Tokyo Bay gleamed with a cold, grayish-blue light in winter. Seagulls darted past the soundproof glass, casting fleeting silhouettes.
Kitahara Iwao wrote the story after "Ring" and completed the second book in the series, "Spiral", the third book, "Ring", and the fourth book, "Birthday", as a final and complete work.
The horror story of the ancient well and Sadako is expanding wildly at a chilling pace under Kitahara Iwao's pen, and is incredibly rushing towards medical anatomy and even a hardcore science fiction universe that subverts common sense.
No need for painful writer's block, no need for scrapped drafts to be scrapped and rewritten.
The classic four-part structure that once plunged the entire Asian continent into a collective nightmare and spanned three major thriller genres, from his past life memories, is being peeled away word by word by Kitahara Iwao, infusing it with fresh flesh and blood.
I write intensively for eight to ten hours every day.
When he got tired of writing, Kitahara Iwao would take his mug to the floor-to-ceiling window, look down at the cargo ships slowly moving on the sea, and let his thoughts wander between the prosperity of reality and the despairing "Ring Universe" in the novel.
The vertical height of several hundred meters and the thick double-glazed windows effectively shut out the noise from the outside world.
On this isolated island in the clouds, only the scratching sound of pen nibs rubbing against paper and the occasional low hum of the coffee machine remain.
And so, a full two weeks passed.
On a calm winter afternoon, Kitahara Iwao drew the final period on the manuscript paper.
He calmly put down the pen and tightened the cap.
On the left side of the desk, an outrageously thick "mountain" of paper has been neatly piled up.
The remaining three sequels to The Ring completed the entire series.
After reviewing the final draft, Kitahara Iwa leaned back in his chair, exhausted but relaxed, his gaze passing over the massive stack of manuscript papers and looking out the window.
The afternoon sun tore countless tiny golden spots of light across the surface of Tokyo Bay.
The Rainbow Bridge is clearly visible in the distance, and several huge container ships are slowly passing through the arches, leaving long white trails on the sea.
Kitahara Iwao withdrew his gaze, stood up, walked to the landline next to his desk, and dialed Sato Kenichi's number.
The phone rang only half a ring before it was answered instantly.
"Editor-in-Chief Sato".
Kitahara Iwao said, "The sequel to 'Ringu' is finished."
"Send someone to pick up the manuscript tomorrow."
Lock on Kiichi, lock on, lock on every update of "Tokyo Literary Masters: From the Late 1980s".