Chapter 129: A Literary Junior Walking Under the White Night and Kitahara Iwao's New Book
half a month later.
Shingo Fujiwara's "The Glimmer of Early Summer" was released with great fanfare amidst the aftershocks of Kohei Murota's column.
The publisher has poured an astonishing amount of money into marketing and promotion.
Huge posters of "Early Summer Glow" are plastered all over the major transfer stations of the Tokyo subway.
The main visual features a warm orange hue, accompanied by a straightforward and emotional tagline: "After the white night, welcome the first ray of light that belongs to you."
Indeed, the subtext of this novel is extremely blatant.
It made no attempt to hide its intention to ride the wave of "White Night", directly printing the words "White Night" on its own materials, almost adding a small line at the bottom of the poster: "Official Antidote for 'White Night'".
On a television cultural program, several commentators who were close to Kohei Murota took turns speaking, repeatedly emphasizing the same point in an almost assembly-line style: "Teacher Kitahara gave us the most profound darkness, but the hearts of the people cannot be nourished by darkness alone."
"Shingo Fujiwara's new book is exactly the warmth that this desperate era needs most."
Every step was meticulously planned, and every word was meant to push Shingo Fujiwara to the opposite side of Kitahara Iwa, but not in a confrontational way; rather, it was a "complementary" relationship.
Darkness and light, poison and antidote, despair and hope.
This marketing logic is flawless; there isn't a single flaw to be found.
On the day of release.
Kitahara Iwa also had his assistant buy a copy from the bookstore.
At three o'clock in the afternoon, Kitahara Iwa sat on a recliner on the balcony of his apartment.
The early summer afternoon sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the entire balcony bright and warm.
Then Kitahara Iwa opened the book "The Glimmer of Early Summer" in his hand.
Five minutes passed.
Kitahara Iwa's index finger rested on the bottom of the third page, but he hesitated to turn to the next page.
The gaze that was originally focused on the printed type began to gradually and uncontrollably wander.
Snapped.
With a soft click, Kitahara Iwa closed the book.
At this moment, Kitahara Iwa felt as if he had just chewed a bite of tasteless boiled vegetables, and completely lost interest in continuing to watch.
Then Kitahara Iwa casually tossed the book back onto the coffee table, lightly tapped the handle of the coffee cup with his fingertip, picked it up, and took a sip.
My gaze passed over the beautifully covered novel and returned to the scenery outside the balcony.
At this moment, Kitahara Iwa felt no anger whatsoever, only a sense of utter boredom.
Kitahara Iwao originally had some expectations, wanting to see what kind of real talent a work could have that could create such a big stir by riding on the coattails of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun".
The result is like opening an extremely lavishly packaged gift box, peeling back layer after layer, only to find that inside is just a bland, unremarkable, mass-produced item.
For a seasoned novelist, three pages are enough to fully grasp the conservative framework beneath the surface.
To be fair, this is not a bad novel.
The first page contains a very neat description of the scenery under the early summer sun, without any grammatical errors, which shows that the author has received extremely rigorous literary training.
On the second page, the female protagonist looks up at the sky and sighs, "As long as you're alive, good things will always happen."
This line, which was specially bolded, safely hit the spot where ordinary readers are most likely to resonate with it.
By the third page, the narrative smoothly transitions into a steady, everyday routine: a gentle breeze, sunshine, and a few touching moments unfolding in a predictable manner.
It's not rotten.
It's just too mediocre.
This is a standard answer wrapped in countless "safety labels".
The author carefully avoided any sharp edges that might offend the reader, using the most harmless language to brew a pot of sweet and lukewarm soup.
It can certainly offer some temporary relief, but that's about it.
It cannot answer the pains of the times, nor can it leave any tremor in the depths of the reader's soul.
Once the book is closed, those lukewarm emotions will evaporate quickly, like morning dew, leaving no trace.
This mediocre work is utterly unworthy of the massive publicity campaign, and it cannot bear the heavy banner of "fighting against darkness and redeeming the era."
Kitahara Iwa casually tossed the book back onto the coffee table and took a sip of his coffee.
Then, glancing past the novel with its beautiful cover, he stood up from the recliner, stretched in the sunlight, and turned to walk back to his study.
The book "The Glimmer of Early Summer," which was highly anticipated by the literary world and touted as a "cold wave dispelling," was simply tossed onto the coffee table on the balcony.
Kitahara Iwa didn't even have the inclination to bring it into the house.
However, Kitahara Iwa is not the only one who feels this way.
Readers across Japan, whose souls were utterly pierced by the abyss of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" and who were desperately searching for a "cure," experienced an emotion more unbearable than disappointment after opening "The Glimmer of Early Summer"...
Feelings of being deceived.
"I was completely shattered by Kitahara-sensei's writing, and then someone confidently told me that this book could piece me back together."
"I was completely shattered by Kitahara-sensei's writing, and then someone confidently told me that this book could piece me back together."
"When we opened it, we found it was full of fake suns painted on cardboard with cheap paint."
At an offline mystery novel book club in Jimbocho, Tokyo, a seasoned reader succinctly summarized his reading experience with this single sentence.
This sharp commentary quickly spread by word of mouth in various offline reader salons in Tokyo, and was even copied and sent to the reader mailbox of Weekly Bunshun. After it was published, it immediately triggered a tsunami of resonance.
In the reader column of Bunshun, the condemnation was almost unanimous—the people were not targeting Shingo Fujiwara as a person, but rather this despicable marketing system that "uses 'White Night Walking' to sell sweet soup".
"Kohei Murota said that 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun' is an icicle, while this book is a warm sun?"
"I don't think it even qualifies as a candle; at best, it's a wet match that you can't even get a spark out of after striking it for ages."
"Mediocrity is not a sin, but to use Kitahara's name and the aftershocks of 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun' to promote this kind of mediocrity is a complete fraud."
"I spent 1,500 yen on a bowl of lukewarm water. The money is a small matter, but I feel my taste and intelligence have been insulted."
However, public anger could not stop the market's frenzy.
"The Glimmer of Early Summer" sold over 150,000 copies in its first week of release, experiencing a terrifying surge in sales.
For a newcomer to pure literature, this is simply an unbelievable achievement.
However, everyone in the industry knows perfectly well that the vast majority of readers who bought these 150,000 copies were not attracted by the content of the work, but by Kohei Murota's column and the overwhelming marketing rhetoric of "the only cure for the White Night".
Because the aftereffects of "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" are just too strong.
The fear of economic collapse was already suffocating, and "White Night" dragged everyone into an even deeper night.
Therefore, the public desperately wants to find a way out and needs a glimmer of light to hold onto.
Meanwhile, in a luxury apartment in Tokyo.
Shingo Fujiwara's studio was brightly lit.
This rising star, adored by everyone in the literary world, was currently lounging on the sofa with an air of great style.
On his large mahogany desk, the first-week sales report, which had just been faxed over by the publisher, was casually tossed in the center.
150,000 copies, printed in black and white, though somewhat blurry due to the fax machine, do not diminish the exhilarating magic of the numbers.
At this moment, Shingo Fujiwara picked up the whiskey on the table, spun the ice ball with amusement, looked down at Zhang's report with a smug smile on his lips.
The debut work by a new author of pure literature sold 150,000 copies in its first week.
Although it cannot compare to Kitahara Iwa's initial achievements, it is still a remarkable feat worthy of being recorded in the entire history of publishing.
However, in Shingo Fujiwara's view, Kitahara Iwa's sales figures, which relied on promoting despair and selling gory sensationalism, were nothing more than cheap stimulants precisely fed to the public by publishers.
He genuinely believed that these 150,000 copies were the highest reward for his unparalleled talent.
It was his own exquisite, warm words, full of the so-called high-class feel of pure literature, that struck a nerve with the nation's vulnerable soft spot in this ignorant era.
He firmly believed that he had written a masterpiece that could surpass Kitahara Iwao's work.
No, Kitahara Iwa is not worthy of being his opponent.
Kitahara Iwa is nothing more than a novelist who only knows how to hide in dark corners and dig into the rotten abyss.
And he himself, Fujiwara Shingo, was Prometheus, generously showering the world with his radiant light.
Are those who spread light after the darkest night not more noble and greater than those who only create cold despair?
Under the influence of alcohol, he even had a ridiculous illusion: it was not Kohei Murota who made him famous, but rather his own sudden emergence as Shingo Fujiwara who saved the increasingly declining and lifeless field of pure literature.
He believed himself to be the savior of this era.
However, just as this morbid arrogance swelled to its peak, as if about to lift him into the air—
"Ring ring ring!"
The black landline phone on the desk suddenly shrieked.
The shrill mechanical bell instantly shattered Fujiwara Shingo's reverie.
Fujiwara Shingo frowned slightly, a hint of displeasure at being interrupted from his reverie, and slowly walked back to his desk with his wine glass in hand, picking up the receiver with one hand.
The caller was Kohei Murota, his reclusive mentor.
"Shingo, I've seen the data from the first week."
On the other end of the line, Kohei Murota's voice carried a rare hint of pleasure and relief as he said, "150,000 copies, well done."
"With this report card as a foundation, your path in the world of pure literature will be completely paved, and those old fogies who rely on their seniority will no longer have any excuse to hinder you."
Then he tilted his head back and took a sip of the whiskey in his glass.
Slightly tipsy, and after this victory-sharing phone call, he completely shed his usual humble facade, revealing his truest arrogance: "This is all thanks to your guidance, teacher. But... I think it was also an inevitable choice made by the market."
Shingo Fujiwara swirled the ice puck in his glass, his tone carrying a condescending pity as he said, "The masses have already been tormented enough by Kitahara Iwa's utterly baseless despair."
"As it turns out, they desperately need genuine literature for salvation. As long as they give me real light, my words can not only surpass them, but even stand taller than them."
As Shingo Fujiwara finished speaking, the other end of the phone fell into a deathly silence.
A full five seconds passed.
When Kohei Murota spoke again, the previous pleasure had vanished without a trace, replaced by a shrewdness and gloom.
As a seasoned veteran who had spent half his life navigating the literary world, he instantly sensed the fatal vanity in his apprentice.
"Shingo."
Hearing Murota Kohei's icy tone, Fujiwara Shingo was taken aback. The smile on his lips froze slightly, and his previous arrogance was instantly extinguished. He quickly replied, "...Yes, teacher."
Go wash your face with cold water. Wash away those ridiculous thoughts from your head.
Kohei Murota's words were like a bucket of cold water mixed with ice crystals, poured over his head.
"Do you really think that current sales figures are an affirmation of your 'literary talent'?"
"You were able to sell this many copies entirely because of my column, which practically tied you to the 'White Night' bandwagon! You're riding on Kitahara-sensei's coattails, you know that?!"
Upon hearing this, Fujiwara Shingo's breath hitched.
"As for whether your book actually has the weight of 150,000 copies, don't you know the answer in your heart?"
The voice on the other end of the line was piercingly honest, mercilessly tearing away the veneer of impressive sales figures.
"We merely used a few tricks, borrowing someone else's pre-built altar, and temporarily thrusting you into the spotlight. Understand?"
Shingo Fujiwara gripped the receiver tightly, his knuckles turning bluish-white from the force.
He opened his mouth, but the arrogance that hadn't even warmed his chest was instantly crushed.
The remaining pride was screaming wildly, wanting to loudly refute, "Teacher, my writing absolutely deserves this sales figure."
But faced with Kohei Murota's intimidation, he could only swallow his words back in humiliation.
"...Understood, teacher."
At this moment, Fujiwara Shingo's voice was so dry it sounded like he had swallowed a handful of sand.
"Very good. Now that you understand, there's something you need to do."
Kohei Murota slowed his speech, revealing a shrewd calculation like an old fox, and said, "I've already gotten Kitahara-sensei's phone number."
"Call him later. Remember to be humble and ask him for a meal in a tone that is like a junior asking a senior for advice."
"And he said he wouldn't use this method to gain attention again..."
Upon hearing this, Fujiwara Shingo's brows furrowed deeply, and he quickly asked, "Why?!"
"Because this marketing campaign was so blatant, any expert who isn't blind can tell we're trying to scam people."
"Someone of Kitahara-sensei's caliber is perfectly perceptive; he must have seen right through our plans long ago!"
Seeing that Fujiwara Shingo still dared to question him, Murota Kohei's voice turned completely somber.
"If he's willing to play along with us, in any public setting... even if it's just casually mentioning in an interview, 'I've read Fujiwara's books, and they're pretty good'... with his current influence, your title of 'Sunshine of the Times' will be completely solidified."
"But if he, on the other hand, expresses even the slightest bit of disdain for your book in front of the media..."
Kohei Murota didn't finish his sentence, but Shingo Fujiwara wasn't stupid; he instantly understood the underlying meaning.
Kitahara Iwa's dominance in the book market today can no longer be summed up by the words "bestselling author".
Today, Kitahara Iwa is a bellwether for sales and is the only major player in the current Japanese publishing industry.
If this great scholar publicly rejects a work that claims to "heal his trauma," then the book, along with the author's career, will be reduced to dust overnight.
It wasn't a slow slide, but an instantaneous death.
"So bow your head. Invite Kitahara-sensei to dinner. The more humble your attitude, the better."
Kohei Murota gave his final instruction: "As long as you keep him calm and prevent him from undermining us in public, you can continue to enjoy the profits from these 150,000 copies without any problems."
"Is that clear?"
"...Understood."
As the call ended, the busy tone echoed in the empty studio.
Shingo Fujiwara stared intently at the sales report on the table for a very long time.
The impressive figure of 150,000 copies still lies here, but in his eyes, the number that had just been radiating a sacred light now seems like a series of glaring mockery, instantly dimming.
The arrogance of "I am the savior" was forcibly interrupted, replaced by intense resentment and jealousy at having to bow down to Kitahara Iwa in humiliation.
That evening.
Shingo Fujiwara sat at his desk, holding a note with Kitahara Iwa's personal number written on it.
He stared at that string of numbers for a full five minutes.
Then, he picked up the microphone and dialed.
beep - beep - beep -
The fourth tone indicates the call has been connected.
"Feed?"
Kitahara Iwa's voice came through the receiver, calm and gentle, without any extra emotional fluctuations.
Shingo Fujiwara took a deep breath and forcibly switched the muscles on his face from "extremely unwilling" to "humble and respectful".
Although the other person couldn't see him over the phone, he subconsciously felt that if his facial expressions weren't right, his voice would betray his resentment.
"Teacher Kitahara, I am Shingo Fujiwara. I apologize for disturbing you."
He deliberately lowered his voice and slowed his speech, trying to create an atmosphere of respect as a junior looking up to a great master.
"My new book, 'The Glimmer of Early Summer,' was recently released, and thanks to the support of readers, the response has been quite good."
"But to be honest, the success of this book is entirely due to the huge social impact of your book, 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun,' which is worth mentioning."
"As a junior, I owe my gratitude to you for your help, and it is only right that I personally come to express my thanks."
Fujiwara Shingo paused, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, and continued, "But I have always greatly admired your literary talent. If it's convenient, I would like to invite you to a private meal so I can ask you for your guidance in person."
"The time and place are entirely up to the teacher; I'll be waiting anytime."
Shingo Fujiwara pronounced each word perfectly.
Humility, respect, and knowing when to advance and retreat.
If Kohei Murota were listening in, he would definitely give this impeccable speech a perfect score.
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.
Then, Kitahara Iwa's voice rang out again, still in that gentle tone, even with a hint of a smile.
"Mr. Fujiwara, you're too kind. Congratulations on the great success of your new book."
"However, I'm currently working on a new short story and need some completely quiet time to organize my thoughts. We can talk about dinner another time."
"I hope your new book continues to be a bestseller."
Kitahara Iwa's tone was impeccable, gentle and polite.
For die-hard fans of Kiichi, the latest chapter of "Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s" has been released!
But when Kitahara Iwao uttered the words "continue to sell well," to Fujiwara Shingo, it sounded like a cheap handout that floated down from the clouds with a smile.
"Okay... Thank you, Kitahara-sensei. Sorry to bother you."
Shingo Fujiwara stiffly placed the receiver back on the landline.
The deathly silence after the phone call ended caused the muscles in his face to twitch uncontrollably a few times, and his face gradually turned ashen.
He wasn't angry because he was turned away.
In fact, before dialing, he even imagined that Kitahara Iwa would fly into a rage on the phone or make sarcastic remarks to him.
If Kitahara Iwa really got angry, he would actually feel relieved.
Because that meant the other party felt threatened, and that his solid sales of 150,000 copies had finally stung this literary giant.
But Kitahara Iwa did nothing. Instead, he used a gentle and polite manner that was impeccable, like dismissing a low-level salesman selling water purifiers, and ended the conversation gracefully and efficiently in less than two minutes.
But within Fujiwara Shingo's increasingly twisted obsession, the more emotionless Kitahara Iwa appeared, the more vicious his actions became.
"He must be faking it..."
Shingo Fujiwara stared intently at the silent landline, his eyes filled with a gloomy, bloodshot look.
He began frantically listing the faults of Kitahara Iwa's impeccable behavior in his mind.
He believed that Kitahara Iwa's bland "Congratulations" was full of condescending contempt, and he was convinced that the phrase "continue to sell well" was a veiled criticism that he could only sell books by riding on other people's popularity.
He even felt that Kitahara Iwa's lack of interest in questioning was entirely due to his desire to enjoy this kind of mental torture. It is a deliberate act of "ignoring" to cruelly trample on one's own self-esteem!
She had already lowered herself so much! She had already humbled herself and taken the initiative to please him!
But this guy, who thinks he's all that just because he has a few best-selling books, won't even give me a second glance!
Why is Kitahara Iwa so arrogant?!
At this moment, Fujiwara Shingo arrogantly shifted all his humiliation onto Kitahara Iwao.
From the perspective of any normal person, Kitahara Iwao's handling of the situation was textbook-perfect in terms of correctness and clarity. Facing an opportunist who climbed to the top by extorting money and then came to feign intimacy, not getting entangled, not playing along, and politely but firmly drawing a line was the highest level of good manners.
If he were to encounter someone with a short temper, they might not only hurl insults in his column, but they might also directly name him at a book signing, ensuring that Fujiwara Shingo could never hold his head high in the literary world again.
He lowered his head and stared intently at the first week's sales report on the table.
150,000 copies.
This is the pride he painstakingly wrote, the glory his mentor achieved by using half a lifetime of connections.
But during those two minutes of politeness from Kitahara Iwa, the report seemed to have become a piece of loose change to casually give away to a beggar.
"You will regret this... You will pay the price for your arrogance today."
Shingo Fujiwara clenched his fists tightly, his nails digging deep into his palms.
He blamed all his misery and frustration on Kitahara Iwa, who was so lazy he couldn't even remember his own name.
a few days later.
The reception area of a large comprehensive literary magazine.
Shingo Fujiwara sat upright on the sofa, with two cameras and a miniature tape recorder in front of him.
This was a planned, routine interview to promote the new book.
In the latter half of the interview, the reporter astutely posed a question: "Mr. Fujiwara, recently there have been many voices pointing out that the high sales of 'The First Light of Early Summer' in its first week were largely due to Mr. Kohei Murota's column juxtaposing your work with 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun'."
What are your thoughts on this?
This extremely pointed question was not in the outline that had been discussed beforehand.
It was entirely a spur-of-the-moment decision by the reporter—because the controversy surrounding "taking advantage of someone else's situation to extort money" in the reader's letter was simply too great.
If we don't address this key issue, this interview will be nothing more than a worthless piece of paper with no news value.
Upon hearing this, Fujiwara Shingo's back stiffened slightly.
His reason told him that he should now resort to the standard rhetoric that Kohei Murota had taught him: humility and gratitude, and to share the credit equally with his teacher's guidance and the legacy of his seniors.
But in that one second of hesitation, the reporters opposite him keenly caught a glimpse of reluctance in his eyes.
For these uncrowned kings who make a living by capturing sensational stories, the interviewee's hesitation is an excellent breakthrough point.
Before Fujiwara Shingo could even formulate his insincere pleasantries, a young reporter on his left seized the opportunity, leaned forward, and threw out a more aggressive trap: "To put it more bluntly, some literary critics believe that your work is essentially just an 'accessory' to the social tsunami triggered by 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun,' a 'placebo' for riding the wave of popularity."
"Do you feel that your brilliance as a newcomer to pure literature has been completely overshadowed by Kitahara-sensei?"
Another reporter on the right followed suit, adding fuel to the fire by asking, "Yes. Everyone's discussing whether pure literature these days has to rely on the aftershocks of a commercial thriller to sell?"
"Add-ons," "placebos," "completely covered up," "relying on the aftershocks of commercial suspense"...
These words were like poisoned daggers, precisely piercing Fujiwara Shingo's most vulnerable nerves.
The image of Kitahara Iwa's casual remark on the phone a few days ago, "Let's talk about it another time," instantly flashed through his mind.
That condescending disregard, coupled with the reporters' relentless questioning, completely ignited the pent-up jealousy and morbid arrogance within Fujiwara Shingo.
The muscles in his face twitched slightly.
Immediately afterwards, Shingo Fujiwara completely abandoned his hypocritical script and uttered a statement that left the entire audience breathless.
"I have great respect for Kitahara-senpai."
Shingo Fujiwara took a deep breath, his tone suddenly turning cold, transforming from feigned humility into a sharp and assertive confidence.
"But I must clarify one thing. My book is by no means an accessory! The fact that 'The Glimmer of Early Summer' sold 150,000 copies in its first week is entirely due to its pure literary core."
Shingo Fujiwara looked directly into the camera at the editor in the center and said, word by word, with conviction: "The effort and emotion I poured into this book can withstand the scrutiny of any serious reader."
Upon hearing this, the reporters' eyes lit up instantly.
They leaned forward slightly, sensing the dangerous yet exciting shift in the air like sharks smelling a strong scent of blood.
They didn't interrupt, but instead tacitly pushed the tape recorder further towards Fujiwara.
At this point, Fujiwara Shingo had completely lost control, driven by vanity.
Shingo Fujiwara stared intently at the camera and continued his outrageous remarks: "True warmth that soothes the soul doesn't need to rely on sensational, gory, or suspenseful commercial gimmicks to grab attention!"
"I, Shingo Fujiwara, rely on my own words. I don't need to depend on anyone's fame to illuminate the literary world!"
After these words were spoken, the interview room fell silent for a second.
Even the sound of the camera shutter seemed to freeze at that moment.
The writer who asked the question glanced discreetly at the cassette tape spinning on the table, confirming that the outrageous statement had been recorded completely and without error. He then suppressed his wildly rising joy and, in an extremely calm and restrained professional tone, posed the next question.
But in her mind, the headlines for tomorrow's issue of the magazine, which would be enough to ignite national headlines, were already laid out.
The interview was published on the morning of the same day.
Kohei Murota's study.
This shrewd and calculating literary figure sat at his mahogany desk, wearing reading glasses, his gaze sweeping over the few paragraphs of his speech that had been deliberately enlarged and bolded on the magazine page.
"There's no need to rely on commercial suspense gimmicks to grab attention."
"It doesn't need to rely on anyone's halo to illuminate the literary world."
After reading the last line, Kohei Murota closed the magazine, took off his reading glasses, and then rubbed his temples hard with his thumb. He closed his eyes and remained silent for a full half minute in the deathly quiet study.
Then, Kohei Murota opened his eyes, grabbed the landline, and dialed Shingo Fujiwara's number.
The phone was answered after only two rings.
"teacher--"
Fujiwara Shingo's voice came through the receiver, revealing a hint of feigned composure and unease.
It was clear that Shingo Fujiwara had already guessed the purpose of the call.
"You're crazy."
Kohei Murota's voice was unusually calm, but this suppressed, stagnant calm was more unsettling than any furious roar.
"In a nationally distributed magazine, you told the public, 'We don't rely on the gimmick of commercial suspense.' Readers and the publishing industry throughout Japan understand who you're satirizing!"
"You're not only slapping Kitahara-sensei in the face, you're also implying that 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun' is just a bunch of commercial gimmicks!"
At this point, Kohei Murota's voice finally broke the silence, and he began to roar: "Do you think Kitahara-sensei is just an ordinary bestselling author? Kenzaburo Oe gave him the definitive title 'Heisei Era's *Crime and Punishment*,' and Seicho Matsumoto, on his deathbed, personally wrote a letter to pay his respects!"
"In the eyes of the top echelons of the Japanese literary world today, Kitahara-sensei is already a master! He can definitely be called a literary giant!"
"And you! A newcomer who barely managed to sell 150,000 copies thanks to me shamelessly blaming him, actually dares to publicly humiliate Kitahara-sensei?!"
A suffocating silence fell over the other end of the phone.
A few seconds later, Shingo Fujiwara's voice rang out again.
This time, he didn't humbly admit his mistake as he had before.
Now, caught between a false sense of prosperity in sales and a morbid sense of pride, Shingo Fujiwara has unleashed a desperate, all-or-nothing determination after being cornered.
"Teacher, my book sold 150,000 copies! This is a record for a newcomer to pure literature in their debut week!"
Shingo Fujiwara's voice trembled, but he enunciated each word with utmost precision.
"I've had enough of that humiliation; you forced me to call and apologize last time!"
"He humiliated me with that condescending attitude, like a beggar offering charity, and wouldn't even speak to me for two minutes. Why should I be his dog?!"
There was silence for five seconds on the other end of the line.
When Kohei Murota spoke again, all the anger, astonishment, and disappointment in his voice had vanished.
What remains is only a kind of clarity belonging to the old-school literary writers.
"You're digging your own grave."
Kohei Murota said as if he were pronouncing a judgment on something completely unrelated to him: "Since you insist on courting death, from today onwards, don't tell anyone that you are my student. I don't care whether you live or die."
Click.
Only a clean, crisp dial tone remained in the receiver.
After hanging up the phone, Kohei Murota immediately picked up his personal address book from his desk.
A short while later, he found Kitahara Iwa's number.
Then he quickly dialed the number.
This time, Kohei Murota's voice was completely different from when he was scolding Shingo Fujiwara.
Just moments ago, he was cold and unyielding, but now he has softened his tone and even speaks with a hint of careful flattery.
"Teacher Kitahara, I am Kohei Murota. I apologize for bothering you."
This old fox, who usually wields immense influence in the literary world and makes countless writers act according to his wishes, was now speaking with utmost sincerity.
"I just saw the interview with Fujiwara in the magazine today."
"I must explain to you that those arrogant and ignorant remarks were absolutely not my intention, much less at my behest."
Kohei Murota took a deep breath and mercilessly sacrificed his disciple.
"That good-for-nothing got carried away by a little bit of fake sales, which makes me feel really ashamed. I have completely cut ties with him, and from today onwards, everything he says and does has nothing to do with me."
"Teacher Kitahara, I sincerely apologize to you on behalf of that idiot. Please don't take his nonsense to heart."
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.
Then, Kitahara Iwa's voice came over.
Kohei Murota held his breath and strained his ears, trying to discern Kitahara Iwao's emotional fluctuations from the sound.
"Mr. Murota, you flatter me."
Kitahara Iwa's tone was very gentle, even with a hint of a clear, light laugh.
"It's a good thing that young people sell well and have a bit of ambition. It's perfectly understandable that he's confident in his work."
"Why would I hold a grudge against a junior? Mr. Murota, please don't worry about it."
Hearing this impeccable answer, Kohei Murota's heart, which had been hanging in suspense all morning, finally settled back into his stomach.
"Thank you for your understanding, Professor Kitahara."
Kohei Murota thanked him repeatedly, his voice filled with relief that almost overflowed from the receiver.
But this cunning old fox, well-versed in the laws of power, did not stop there.
He knew very well that his plan to use "White Night" to create hype could not be hidden from the other party's eyes.
A perfunctory apology and severing ties with his apprentice are not enough to completely quell Kitahara Iwa's latent anger.
They must provide substantial compensation!
"Teacher Kitahara, this whole mess is ultimately the result of the trouble I caused when I started writing this column."
With that in mind, Kohei Murota gritted his teeth and offered the biggest bargaining chip he could.
"To make up for my mistake, I will personally write a long article for Bungei Shunju next month to give the most orthodox endorsement of your status in literary history."
"Not only that, but in the future, within the traditional literary circles, as long as you say the word, you can use my media connections and judging seats at will."
"Consider this my apology to you."
Faced with this astonishing compensation, which could be described as revealing his literary secrets, there was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.
"Mr. Murota, there's no need for that."
Kitahara Iwa interrupted him, his tone still gentle: "I write novels only for readers who are willing to read them. I don't need any formal endorsement, and I don't really understand the rules of the literary circle."
Kitahara Iwa's voice was completely unpretentious and affected.
"You should use the resources you have to support the young people who really need guidance. It's late, you should get some rest."
Click.
The phone hangs up.
Hearing the dial tone, Kohei Murota's hand, which was holding the receiver, froze in mid-air.
He then slumped back in the leather chair, exhaled a long breath, and realized that the back of his shirt was completely soaked with cold sweat.
Kitahara Iwa's rejection made him feel more uneasy than any harsh words of abuse.
Because he genuinely sensed that Kitahara Iwa wasn't playing hard to get, but truly didn't care.
The literary power and connections that Bei Yuanyan had painstakingly cultivated for most of his life were, in his eyes, no different from a pile of waste paper.
They're not even on the same level.
However, he also knew that his old bones were safe.
As for Shingo Fujiwara, that fool who dared to trample on Kitahara Iwa, what kind of storm he would face next was no longer within his consideration.
On the other side, Kitahara Iwa put the receiver back into the landline phone.
In the study, Izumi Sakai, who was looking at an entire wall of bookshelves, turned around.
The leaked audio on the phone just now, coupled with the sensational magazine interview that happened this morning, filled her clear eyes with indignation and resentment on his behalf.
"What Fujiwara Shingo said in that interview was infuriating, and now Mr. Murota is making these kinds of phone calls to try and distance himself from us..."
Izumi Sakai frowned slightly, her voice filled with undisguised protectiveness as she asked, "Aren't you angry at all?"
Kitahara Iwa leaned against the edge of the desk, his expression as calm as a still lake.
He showed no emotional reaction to Fujiwara Shingo's outrageous remarks or even Murota Kohei's kneeling slide, like a giant standing atop the heavens, naturally lacking the need to react to the clamor of ants at the foot of the mountain.
"There's nothing to be angry about."
Kitahara Iwa smiled gently as he looked at the girl's sullen face.
"The best way to deal with an opportunist who is ignorant of his own limitations and tries to use a cheap match to represent the sun is never to argue with him."
Seeing Kitahara Iwa's composed demeanor, Sakai Izumi's previously tense emotions also relaxed.
Then her eyes lit up, and her tone revealed unwavering trust: "Of course. If it were Kitahara-sensei, she could definitely write a work a thousand times, ten thousand times better than those fake 'glow sticks'!"
Hearing this, Kitahara Iwa raised an eyebrow, amused, and looked at the bright-eyed girl in front of him: "Are you trying to subtly urge me to start a new book?"
Having her thoughts exposed, Izumi Sakai chuckled somewhat sheepishly.
Then she reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes sparkling with playfulness and anticipation: "You've seen right through me... But since they insist that you only write about the despairing darkness, do you have any new ideas about 'light' in your head now?"
"Speaking of which..."
Kitahara Iwa turned around, pulled the cap off his fountain pen, and his gaze fell on the blank manuscript paper on the table.
"I actually have one."
Upon hearing this, Izumi Sakai curiously approached and stood next to Iwata Kitahara, holding her breath.
In the warm sunshine of early summer, Kitahara Iwa calmly wrote a line on the blank manuscript paper.
The Doctor's Love Equation.