Chapter 123 The Confidence Behind an Initial Print Run of 6 Copies

With the final period marking the end.

Kitahara Iwa's fingers, holding the pen, remained still for about three seconds, maintaining the writing posture.

The ink blotted out a tiny ring around the period, like a raindrop falling on a calm lake, before being quickly absorbed by the fibers of the paper.

Then Kitahara Iwa put down his pen, and the study was so quiet that the only sound could be the mechanical pendulum of the antique German clock on the wall.

Outside the window, the afternoon sun shines through the half-open blinds, casting rows of neat latticework on the floor.

A very faint smell of ink and the dry aroma of paper hangs in the air.

Kitahara Iwa leaned back in his chair and raised his right hand to rub his temples.

The movement was very gentle, like smoothing out a piece of silk that had been folded for a long time.

Kitahara Iwa slowly exhaled a breath of stale air, at which moment he felt an indescribable sense of detachment.

Like a creator who has spent countless days and nights crafting an entire world, the streets of Osaka, the dust of the Showa era, the entire lifeline of two children from childhood to adulthood, and then, at the last moment, calmly withdrawing from the world of the book, sealing it forever on the manuscript.

From then on, Kirihara Ryoji and Karasawa Yukiho were no longer related to him.

Kitahara Iwa glanced down at the neatly stacked pile of manuscript papers on the table. It was astonishingly thick, easily exceeding eight hundred pages.

Each page is filled with vertical text written by myself, the handwriting neat and austere, like rows of soldiers waiting for inspection.

Then Kitahara Iwa reached out and gently tapped the edge of the manuscript paper against the table to align them perfectly.

Then he got up and walked to the landline in the corner of the study.

Pick up the receiver and dial.

Kitahara Iwa knew the number by heart, and dialed the direct line to the editor-in-chief's office of Shinchosha.

beep - beep - beep -

After the third ring, the other end answered.

"This is Kenichi Sato from the editorial department of Shinchosha."

Editor-in-Chief Sato's voice carried the slight hoarseness characteristic of someone who works at a desk for long periods, while the background noise of the editorial department's chaotic commotion could be faintly heard.

The phone rang incessantly, and someone in the distance shouted, "Has the proofreader returned yet?"

"Editor-in-Chief Sato".

Kitahara Iwa said, "The new book is finished. Come and get the manuscript."

As Kitahara Iwa finished speaking, there was a half-second of dead silence on the other end of the phone.

Immediately afterwards, Kenichi Sato jumped up from his chair.

He really did "bounce" up.

The old office chair that had been with him for years was suddenly kicked away, its wheels screeching on the floor as it slid back nearly a meter before crashing heavily into the metal filing cabinet behind him with a loud bang that echoed throughout the editorial department.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up at Editor-in-Chief Sato in astonishment.

Editor-in-Chief Sato completely ignored these stares.

His hands gripped the receiver tightly, his eyes were wide open, and his mouth was slightly agape.

His facial muscles battled fiercely between extreme ecstasy and desperate restraint, ultimately contorting into a comical yet shocking expression.

"Tai-Taihara-sensei—you said you've finished writing?!"

"Um."

"All of them? The whole book? What's the title?"

"That's right, it'll be called 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun'."

Editor-in-Chief Sato swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Kitahara-sensei's new book is finished so quickly!

What does the name "Kitahara Iwa" mean in the publishing industry at this moment?

The Ring sold two million copies, ushering in a new era for Japanese horror novels.

The movie "Confessions" grossed over 6 billion yen, making Yasuko Sawaguchi a legendary figure, while Iwao Kitahara's name dominated the headlines of major media outlets every day!

The scandal that continues to be a hot topic throughout Japan has propelled his national recognition to a new peak for a literary writer!

At this critical juncture, Kitahara Iwao has released a new book!

At this moment, Editor-in-Chief Sato's business acumen was stimulated to the extreme.

He knew all too well the ironclad rules of the publishing industry: how much a book could sell depended 30% on the content and 70% on when and how it ignited the public.

The scandal was at its peak.

The film's box office is at its peak.

Even its commercial value is currently at its peak.

If Kitahara Iwao's new book can be released to the market within the next three months, it will be a super money-printing machine that doesn't need any fuel!

Editor-in-Chief Sato strained with all his might to keep his voice from cracking: "Teacher Kitahara, I'll come get the manuscript myself right away! Please wait a moment!"

Overwhelmed with excitement, Editor-in-Chief Sato slammed the phone down before Kitahara Iwa could even respond.

The huge commotion plunged the previously noisy editorial office into a deathly silence for a second.

The deputy editor-in-chief sitting opposite him looked up from a pile of proofreading documents, staring in astonishment at his boss, who was flushed and frantically stuffing contracts into his briefcase. He asked in a low voice, "Editor-in-chief, what's wrong? Where are you going?"

"To the port area!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, his voice trembling with excitement, "Professor Kitahara called! His new book is completely finished! I'm going to get the manuscript now!"

"What?!"

"So fast?!"

These words caused the entire editorial department to erupt in disbelief and gasps, as if a powder keg had been set ablaze.

"This is terrifying... The momentum of 'Confessions' and 'The Ring' hasn't even peaked yet, and now a new book is out?"

A senior editor suddenly stood up, his eyes filled with astonishment, and said, "Others spend years honing their books, but Kitahara-sensei's work is practically a masterpiece produced on an assembly line!"

"Not only does he write at a monstrous speed, but the quality of each and every one of his works is breathtaking!"

"Yes! This kind of genius who writes so fast and consistently produces top-quality work is simply a miracle in the publishing industry!"

"Stop talking nonsense!"

As Editor-in-Chief Sato stormed towards the editorial office door, he turned back and roared, "Immediately clear out all of next month's typesetting and proofreading schedules! Everything must make way for Kitahara-sensei's new book! Top priority!"

Then, he practically sprinted all the way to the underground parking lot, knocking over a file box in the hands of a senior executive of Shinchosha, but he didn't even have time to say "sorry" before running away.

Seeing the editor-in-chief Sato's excited expression, which looked like he wanted to devour someone, the driver didn't ask any questions and stepped on the gas pedal to the floor.

The black Crown sedan weaved left and right through Tokyo's congested traffic, driving with the flair of a Hollywood cop movie, heading straight for the apartment in Kitahara-iwa, Minato Ward.

At this moment, Editor-in-Chief Sato, sitting in the back row, had no time to notice the street scene rushing past outside the window.

He gripped the seatbelt tightly, his entire attention and blood boiling over the book title that Kitahara Iwatsu had uttered on the phone.

"Journey Under the Midnight Sun"

Sitting in the back row, Editor-in-Chief Sato was frantically dissecting those three words in his mind.

"White Nights" - the polar day, a pale world without darkness, where the sun hangs on the horizon 24 hours a day.

"Wandering" – wandering like a lost soul in extreme environments where there is no night.

With twenty years of publishing intuition, a brilliant horror-suspense story instantly took shape in his mind: a remote island in Northern Europe covered in ice and snow, where there is nowhere to hide under the midnight sun.

A series of murders occurred under the perpetually pale sunlight.

When the night is completely extinguished, darkness instead seeps into everyone's heart—this is the highest dimension of the "time chamber"!

"Incredible...this idea is absolutely brilliant."

Editor-in-Chief Sato gripped his briefcase tightly with both hands in excitement.

He even had the main slogan for the promotional posters in his mind: "How do demons kill people in a place without night?"

As for the initial print run... Editor-in-Chief Sato took a deep breath and firmly decided on a number in his mind.

Six hundred thousand copies.

This is an astronomical figure that would cause any publishing house's CFO to have a heart attack.

In the history of Japanese publishing, the number of literary works whose first print run reaches 600,000 copies can be counted on one hand.

This means that hundreds of millions of dollars in paper, printing, warehousing, and logistics costs must be covered before the new book is even released.

If the market response falls short of expectations, the massive inventory can wipe out the entire project's profit margin like an avalanche.

But Editor-in-Chief Sato was willing to take the gamble.

He dared to gamble on 600,000 copies not only because the name "Kitahara Iwa" itself was an absolute guarantee of sales, but also because he keenly captured a signal of the times that most of his peers had overlooked.

The economy is now starting to decline.

Since the Ministry of Finance issued its "aggregate regulation" document a few days before 1990, the downward trend in the Japanese economy has spread from the financial market to the real economy.

Stock prices are falling, land prices are falling, corporate profits are falling, and the unemployment rate is quietly rising.

Those middle-class people who spent money like water during the bubble era, and those salaried workers who used to fly to Paris to shop and spend lavishly in Ginza, are now tightening their belts.

Reservations at upscale French restaurants are declining, the average spending per customer at Ginza Club is shrinking, and luxury floors in department stores, where there used to be long queues for Hermès and Louis Vuitton boutiques, are now deserted on weekday afternoons.

Even taxi drivers have started complaining – in the past, they would pay 20,000 yen without batting an eye when taking a drunk securities firm employee home from Roppongi late at night.

But now, more and more people are rushing back to the station before the last tram stops, and obediently taking the last tram home.

Consumption is downgrading across the board.

But there is an ironclad law of human nature: material deprivation inevitably breeds spiritual hunger.

When people no longer have the spare money to eat a 30,000 yen kaiseki meal, no longer have the confidence to take a two-week vacation to Hawaii, and no longer dare to step into a brand counter on the fourth floor of a department store... they will not lose their love for " The demand for "".

On the contrary, suppressed consumer desires will frantically seek the lowest-cost outlet, like a blocked river.

A novel, in fact, is the perfect outlet for the flood of this era.

1,500 yen.

The retail price of a single paperback novel isn't even enough to buy a simple cup of coffee in Ginza.

But what does it offer? Hours or even days of immersive emotional experiences—fear, tension, suspense, anxiety, trembling…

Even all these extreme emotions that are suppressed, prohibited, and forcibly sealed by social norms in daily life can be safely, legally, and without any cost the moment the book is turned.

There is a famous concept in economics called the "lipstick effect"—the more depressed the economy, the better the sales of lipstick.

Because lipstick is the cheapest of all cosmetics, it can provide the most direct psychological comfort of "I am still living a good life" at the lowest cost.

In Japan in the early 1990s, the biggest beneficiary of the "lipstick effect" was not the cosmetics industry, but the publishing industry.

Especially those genre novels that can provide extremely strong emotional impact—horror, suspense, mystery—will experience an unprecedented explosive growth in the next decade.

Editor-in-Chief Sato may not have read many economics textbooks, but his business acumen had already detected this undercurrent.

He knew that those middle-aged men who were busy speculating in stocks, land, and golf club memberships during the bubble era were now tossing and turning in bed every night, staring at the ceiling and calculating how much of their assets they had left and whether they could still pay off their loans.

They need an outlet, something that allows them to temporarily forget the fears of reality in the two or three hours before bedtime, and instead experience a feeling of "controllability," "fiction," and "ending when you turn to the last page."

Compared to the boundless, endless economic fears in reality, the stories in novels become a kind of comfort.

Because at least, the book will be finished.

Therefore, Sato dared to bet 600,000 copies.

It wasn't because he was crazy, but because he saw a fact with extreme clarity: in a collapsing era, the story itself is the biggest business.

The normal driving time from Shinchosha to the apartment in Kitahara-iwa, Minato Ward is 45 minutes.

However, under the almost frantic urging of Editor-in-Chief Sato, the driver sped through the congested streets of Tokyo and stopped the car in front of the luxury apartment building in just 28 minutes.

When the car stopped in front of the Kitahara Iwa residence, Editor-in-Chief Sato had already mentally laid out the framework of the entire project.

From initial print run to pricing strategy, from poster visuals to media placement schedule, from initial distribution density to additional printing plans for the second week, every step was meticulously calculated by him based on his twenty years of industry experience.

Then, Editor-in-Chief Sato took a deep breath, straightened his tie, opened the car door, strode to the front door, and knocked a few times.

Soon, the door opened.

Kitahara Iwa stood inside the entrance hall, dressed in a dark gray casual home outfit, his expression indifferent.

"Teacher Kitahara!"

Looking at Kitahara Iwa in front of him, Editor-in-Chief Sato's voice was filled with barely suppressed excitement as he bowed at least fifteen degrees deeper than usual, saying, "You've worked so hard! You've really worked so hard!"

Kitahara Iwa stepped aside to let him in. "Come in."

Then, Editor-in-Chief Sato changed into slippers and followed Kitahara Iwa through the corridor into the study.

His gaze locked onto the stack of manuscript papers on the desk the moment he stepped into the study.

The stack of manuscripts sat quietly in the center of the table, its edges perfectly aligned, like a precision part just cut from an assembly line.

The afternoon sun streamed through the gaps in the blinds, cutting a bright edge of light along the side of the manuscript paper. Tiny paper fibers floated gently in the light, like stardust in some microscopic world.

Upon seeing this, Editor-in-Chief Sato involuntarily swallowed.

Kitahara Iwa walked to the desk, picked up the manuscript paper, and turned around to hand it over.

However, Editor-in-Chief Sato accepted it with both hands.

"Teacher Kitahara, this book, *Journey Under the Midnight Sun*—"

Editor-in-Chief Sato, clutching the manuscript, his face flushed and eyes gleaming with an almost devout fervor, exclaimed, "I can't wait! To be honest, the title alone is enough to send shivers down my spine. 'White Night'—the polar day—a world without darkness…that's the image I can picture…it's simply…"

"This must be a really good horror/suspense story..."

At this point, Editor-in-Chief Sato rubbed his hands together, looking just like a child about to open a birthday present, having already mentally rehearsed what the gift box would contain a thousand times, and firmly believing that his prediction would be 100% correct.

Kitahara Iwao quietly looked at Editor-in-Chief Sato, then smiled and shook his head, saying, "Editor-in-Chief Sato, there's no Arctic region in this story, only a not-so-pleasant one."

Upon hearing this, Editor-in-Chief Sato's excited smile froze for a moment.

"Not a horror/suspense film?"

He stared blankly at the eight hundred pages of manuscript in his arms, his mind momentarily blank, and asked, "Then... what is this book, *White Night*, about?"

Kitahara Iwa explained softly, "This is a social tragedy about the times. 'White Night' doesn't refer to natural phenomena, but to the human heart."

Seeing Sato completely speechless, Kitahara Iwao unusually added a piece of advice:

"Take your time. Don't stay up late tonight."

Upon hearing this, Editor-in-Chief Sato hugged the manuscript tightly, nodded, and said, "Then I'll head back to the office first, Kitahara-sensei."

His voice was slightly trembling with intense anticipation. "Tonight—no, I'll start watching on the way back!"

Upon hearing this, Kitahara Iwa was momentarily stunned, not expecting Editor-in-Chief Sato to be in such a hurry, but still managed to ask, "Aren't you even going to drink your tea?"

"Next time, next time! Please forgive me, Kitahara-sensei!"

As he spoke, Editor-in-Chief Sato walked to the entrance and quickly changed his shoes.

At this moment, Editor-in-Chief Sato changed his shoes much faster than usual.

Although he tried his best to maintain the composure and dignity of an editor-in-chief of a major publishing house, the steps he took when he pushed open the door betrayed his eagerness.

"Please stay a while. Goodbye!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato stood in the sunlight outside the door, holding the manuscript in his hands, and bowed deeply to Kitahara Iwao.

Kitahara Iwa stood at the door, waved, and watched as Editor-in-Chief Sato strode towards the elevator.

"bite--"

Only when the elevator doors were completely closed did Editor-in-Chief Sato finally lose some of the composure and dignity he had been trying so hard to maintain.

He then went down to the first floor, hurried through the apartment lobby, and got into the black car waiting by the roadside.

"Get back to the company, the sooner the better."

Editor-in-Chief Sato carefully placed the manuscript on his lap, then immediately gave instructions to the driver in the front seat.

With a dull thud as the car door closed, the sedan smoothly and quickly merged into the traffic on the main road, leaving the streets of the port area and speeding towards Shinchosha.

When Editor-in-Chief Sato rushed into the Shinchosha building with the manuscript of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun," he was still immersed in a state of near-manic excitement.

At this moment, his steps were quick and hurried, and the sound of his leather shoes striking the marble floor echoed with a crisp rhythm in the empty first-floor lobby.

The receptionist looked up at him briefly before quickly looking down again—because this kind of "rage state" of Editor-in-Chief Sato was not uncommon within Shinchosha, and the appearance of this state usually meant that something big was about to happen.

Therefore, everyone knows that the wisest choice at this time is not to block his path.

As Editor-in-Chief Sato strode through the lobby and turned left into the corridor leading to the editorial department, his mind was already racing, planning his next steps: first, return to his editor's office, close the door, brew a strong cup of tea, and then, starting from the first page, read through the entire manuscript with utmost focus.

At his reading speed, an 800-page handwritten manuscript would take him about eight to ten hours, meaning he could finish the first reading before midnight tonight and start writing editorial comments first thing tomorrow morning.

"Editor-in-Chief Sato".

Just then, a voice sounded from behind.

Sato paused for a moment.

Then, turning around, I saw the president's secretary, a forty-year-old woman who always wore a dark blue suit and whose expression was always just right, standing at the corner of the corridor, bowing slightly to me.

"The president requests your presence."

Upon hearing this, Editor-in-Chief Sato's brows furrowed almost instinctively.

"Now?"

"Now." The secretary's tone was gentle yet authoritative, a standard smile honed through countless professional training gracing her lips as she explained, "The president said he heard that Mr. Kitahara's new book has been submitted, and he wants to know the details in person as soon as possible."

Editor-in-Chief Sato stood in the corridor, clutching his manuscript tightly, his expression undergoing a series of dramatic changes within two seconds—

How did the president know?

Less than forty minutes had passed since he left the Kitahara Iwa residence, and he hadn't even had a chance to inform anyone in the editorial department—

Editor-in-Chief Sato then realized what was happening, but that's normal.

After all, what level of status does Kitahara Iwa hold in Shinchosha?

It is now considered the company's true prized asset, and it has consistently ranked first in revenue contribution rankings last year.

Everything surrounding this Buddha statue—when he goes out, when he calls the editorial department—is probably being tracked in real time by someone on the editorial board.

Therefore, when Editor-in-Chief Sato answered the call saying "I'll come pick up the manuscript right away," the information had most likely already been transmitted to the president's office.

Afterwards, the astonishment and understanding subsided, replaced by a deep-seated and almost irrepressible resistance.

He didn't want to go.

I absolutely do not want to go.

What am I holding in my arms right now?

He didn't want to go.

I absolutely do not want to go.

What am I holding in my arms right now?

It is the original manuscript of Kitahara Iwao's new book.

This is the next work that all of Japan has been eagerly anticipating after "Confessions," "Scream," and "Ring." This means that at this moment, in all of Japan, besides Kitahara Iwao himself, I am the only person qualified to read this work.

This "exclusivity" brings For someone who has worked as an editor for twenty years, it's more intense than any other kind of pleasure.

Now, the president wants to call him over.

This is equivalent to a captain being abruptly interrupted when he is preparing for takeoff.

This won't do!

But when Editor-in-Chief Sato thought of the president's identity, his body trembled involuntarily.

Taro Murata. The fourth head of Shinchosha, 73 years old.

Contrary to the stereotypical image of "publishing tycoons" as profit-driven, this old-school publisher, a graduate of the Faculty of Letters at Waseda University, has an almost religious faith in words.

In business, he was ruthless and decisive, able to control the financial lifeline and market share of the entire Shinchosha with the coldest eye.

But in terms of literary talent, his taste and intuition were so sharp that all the senior editors in the publishing house were ashamed of themselves.

He can discern the depth of a work's soul from a single page, pinpoint the narrative rhythm gap in the third chapter of a renowned author's new work with pinpoint accuracy, and, with reverence for words, precisely sift out groundbreaking works that change the times from a vast sea of ​​discarded manuscripts.

For a leader who possesses both business acumen and literary conviction, requesting to "personally read Kitahara-sensei's new work as soon as possible" is an arrangement that couldn't be more reasonable.

But a sense of resistance still welled up in Editor-in-Chief Sato's heart.

But a higher-ranking official can have absolute power over a person.

In the context of Japanese businesses, this is not rhetoric, but an inescapable physical law.

"……I see."

Sato took a deep breath, suppressing the heartache of having his love stolen away, and replied in a dry voice.

The secretary maintained her impeccable smile and gestured for him to enter.

Carrying the manuscript, Sato followed his secretary down the corridor toward the president's office.

His steps were noticeably heavier than before, and he unconsciously clutched the manuscript paper in his arms even tighter.

This posture is very much like that of a devout knight who is forced to hand over a newly discovered holy relic to the Pope.

Although he knew in his heart that this sacred object belonged to the church, his body's instincts still made him protect the treasure in his arms tightly, unwilling to let go even a little bit.

The president's office is on the top floor of the Shinchosha building.

Pushing open the heavy walnut door, Sato stepped into a space that filled him with both awe and a sense of oppression.

This office exudes a sense of silence and depth accumulated over decades.

Although the huge floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the book-filled streets of Jimbocho, the interior lighting has been deliberately dimmed.

The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which occupy three entire walls, are densely packed with all the precious documents and first-edition signed books published by Shinchosha since its founding.

President Taro Murata was standing behind a large mahogany desk, with his back to the door.

At this moment, Taro Murata stood up straight, his gray hair neatly combed.

He exudes both the dignified presence of a business tycoon and the aloofness and rigor of an old-school scholar.

While the entire Japanese publishing industry was grappling with the bursting of the bubble economy and stockpiles of inventory, Shinchosha was one of the very few giants that managed to buck the trend and rise.

This is, of course, inseparable from Kitahara Iwa's terrifying commercial value, which is enough to support 30% of Shinsha's revenue.

But in Murata Taro's eyes, Kitahara Iwa was far more than just a money tree.

"Did you get it?"

President Murata's gaze went past the edge of his reading glasses and landed directly on the thick stack of manuscripts in Sato's arms.

"Yes, President. I just retrieved it from Kitahara-sensei's apartment."

Sato bowed slightly, his hands still tightly protecting the manuscript, as if afraid it would grow wings and fly away.

"Put it on the table."

President Murata pointed to the mahogany desk in front of him, then took off his reading glasses, took out a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, and carefully wiped the lenses.

Seeing this, Editor-in-Chief Sato gritted his teeth and, as if cutting off a piece of his own flesh, walked forward very slowly and gently placed the 800-page manuscript of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" in the center of the table.

President Murata put his glasses back on and his gaze fell on the three words "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" on the title page.

"Teacher Kitahara... did you have any instructions?"

President Murata asked without looking up.

Sato took a deep breath, and Kitahara Iwa's explanation came to mind.

"Teacher Kitahara only said one sentence."

Sato's voice was exceptionally clear in the quiet office. "He said that this is a social tragedy about the times. 'White Night' doesn't refer to natural phenomena, but to the human heart."

"President."

At this point, Editor-in-Chief Sato carefully considered his words, attempting a final effort: "We just received this manuscript, and the editorial department hasn't had time to conduct any initial review yet. As is customary, I should first prepare a detailed summary and editorial suggestions before giving you a formal report..."

"No need for that."

Murata Taro waved his hand, interrupting him directly, his tone revealing the absolute confidence of an industry leader: "What need is there for Kitahara-sensei's writing to undergo preliminary review and summary? His name is the highest certification of quality."

"Leave the original manuscript here. You can go back to the editorial department and get back to work. I want to read this masterpiece carefully by myself."

This is a perfectly standard workplace dismissal order.

Upon hearing this, Editor-in-Chief Sato slowly bent down and placed the manuscript of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" on the large mahogany desk.

However, he lingered on the manuscript paper, his hand still not withdrawing from it.

He kept his head down, his feet seemingly rooted to the ground on a thick Persian carpet.

Should we tell him to turn around and leave now?

This is like taking away a cup of water from someone who has been trekking through the desert for three days and three nights and is about to die of thirst, just a second before they bring the cup to their lips.

He simply couldn't move his legs.

President Murata sat behind his large desk, quietly watching Editor-in-Chief Sato, who stood rooted to the spot like a wooden stake.

How could this veteran of the publishing industry, who had spent most of his life in the business, not understand Editor-in-Chief Sato's mindset at this moment?

He knew this state all too well—the kind of fervent urge to devour a masterpiece when faced with it.

That kind of obsession and possessiveness that "I must be the first person in all of Japan besides the author to see it."

Only editors who truly love words would reveal such an almost shameless stubbornness.

A barely perceptible smile flickered across President Murata's usually dignified face.

He shook his head, picked up the manuscript from the table, then walked around the desk and headed straight for the large leather sofa in the center of the office.

"Alright, stop standing there."

President Murata sat down on the left side of the sofa, patted the empty seat next to him, and said with a hint of tolerance and helpless teasing towards a junior, "Come on, sit down. Let's watch together."

"So that if I send you back, you won't be so distracted tonight that you won't be able to sleep."

Upon hearing this, Editor-in-Chief Sato abruptly raised his head, his eyes instantly lighting up.

Although it's not something I can enjoy all by myself, at least I don't have to suffer outside anymore!

On the coffee table next to the sofa, the secretary had already prepared two cups of steaming Shizuoka sencha and a plate of delicate yokan (sweet bean jelly).

Clearly, the head of Shinchosha originally planned to clear his schedule to make a "pilgrimage" alone, but Sato Rei has now forced him to sit in the audience.

President Murata nodded in satisfaction, took the lead in sitting down on the left side of the sofa, and solemnly picked up the top few pages of the manuscript.

Editor-in-Chief Sato could only sit on the right side of the sofa, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the pages in the president's hand.

And so began a "relay reading" event, unprecedented in the history of Japanese publishing.

The rules were set by President Murata; they were simple and straightforward. After reading a page, he would hand it to Sato, who was sitting next to him.

Logically, there's nothing wrong with this rule. But in practice, it was a form of torture for Editor-in-Chief Sato.

The reason is simple—there is an appalling gap in their reading speeds.

Sato is widely recognized as one of the top editors in the Japanese publishing industry.

His ability to read ten lines at a glance is no exaggeration. Take, for example, Kitahara Iwa's vertically formatted handwritten manuscript of four hundred words per page. His eyes only need to scan it two or three times from right to left to absorb all the textual information, along with the emotional tension, into his brain without missing a single detail.

One page, forty-five seconds to one minute, never more.

This speed is not a talent, but a professional instinct forced out by the high-intensity review of hundreds of thousands of words every day. If you don't develop this speed, you will have been drowning in piles of manuscripts long ago.

And what about President Murata?

Taro Murata was a thoroughly old-fashioned reader.

He was born in 1949 and grew up in an era in which "appreciating the text word by word" was considered a basic form of education.

In his view, reading is by no means a cursory glance, but a solemn ritual.

Each Chinese character should be read aloud in your mind, and each long sentence should be repeatedly chewed over until it is fully digested.

When he encounters a subtle metaphor or twist, he might even stop, tap his fingers lightly on his knee, close his eyes, and savor the moment in his mind.

This means that it would take President Murata three to four minutes to read the same 400-word manuscript.

Sato only needs less than a minute.

Time difference: approximately three minutes.

For Sato, who was reading Kitahara Iwao's new book and had just finished one page before being forced to stop and wait for the next, every second of those 180 seconds was torture.

At this moment, President Murata picked up the first page of the manuscript, adjusted his reading glasses, and began to read.

Sato stared at him.

The president's eyes moved slowly across the manuscript paper, scanning line by line from right to left.

His lips moved slightly—Sato knew this meant he was reading silently—his brows furrowed occasionally, then relaxed, his expression focused and serious.

Three minutes and forty seconds later, President Murata finished reading the first page.

He handed the manuscript to Sato.

Editor-in-Chief Sato practically "snatched" it from his hands—of course, he made an extremely restrained disguise in his actions, making it seem like he was just "reaching out to take it," but the force and speed betrayed his true state of mind.

Upon receiving the manuscript, Editor-in-Chief Sato immediately looked down at it.

The moment the first line of text came into view, all of Editor-in-Chief Sato's distracting thoughts—his dissatisfaction with the president, his resistance to the interruption of his reading, and his excitement about the first print run of 600,000 copies—vanished in an instant.

Kitahara Iwa's writings occupied his entire consciousness.

Forty-seven seconds later, he finished reading.

Then he looked up and his gaze fell on the second page of the manuscript in President Murata's hand.

The president is looking at the third line of the second page.

Sato waits.

The president's gaze shifted to the fifth line.

Sato waits.

The seventh line.

Editor-in-Chief Sato's right hand unconsciously rested on the armrest of the sofa, and his index finger began to tap the surface of the armrest at a very fast frequency, making a soft tapping sound.

His gaze involuntarily drifted over the president's shoulder, attempting to peek at the words on the manuscript in his hand—but the angle at which President Murata held the paper created a perfect obstruction, so Editor-in-Chief Sato could only see the back of the manuscript, a blank white expanse with nothing on it.

The twelfth line.

Editor-in-Chief Sato's index finger tapping frequency had increased from three times per second to five times per second. The sound was clearly audible in the quiet president's office, like a woodpecker in a cage frantically pecking at the iron bars.

At this moment, President Murata seemed to realize something and glanced at Editor-in-Chief Sato.

Editor-in-Chief Sato immediately stopped typing and gave an extremely stiff smile.

"...Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

Editor-in-Chief Sato spoke dryly, seemingly unsure of what he was evaluating.

President Murata nodded in satisfaction and continued reading.

About two minutes later, the second page was finally handed over.

Editor-in-Chief Sato quickly accepted it.

Then it took forty-three seconds to finish reading.

I looked up again.

And so, the two of them took to the leather sofa in the office of the president of Shinchosha in an extremely absurd rhythm to carry out this "relay reading"—President Murata was like an old-fashioned printing press that had been in disrepair for many years, running at a snail's pace of three to four minutes per page.

Editor-in-Chief Sato was like a supercomputer whose speed was forcibly limited, completing data processing every forty seconds or so, and then being forced into a long standby state, consuming far more mental energy than reading itself while waiting.

By the fifth page, Editor-in-Chief Sato had stopped all the fidgeting and impatient movements that were making him wait for the next page.

At this moment, he finally understood what kind of suffocating monster Kitahara Iwatsu had described as "the oppression of the times and the abyss of humanity."

"White Night" is not a horror novel with supernatural elements at all.

Because it is far more chilling, cruel, and realistic than any horror novel.

Kitahara Iwao's writing is like a scalpel devoid of any emotion, cleanly and ruthlessly slicing through the surface of Japanese society.

In 1973, Osaka was an industrial city shrouded in the afterglow of rapid economic growth, somewhat noisy, crowded, and filled with the fumes of fried skewers and the fishy smell of river water.

The story begins with a murder that takes place in an abandoned building...

A middle-aged man was found dead in an old building slated for demolition; the cause of death was a sharp object piercing his chest.