Chapter 131 The Literary World Takes Action to Suppress!

Four o'clock in the afternoon.

In Shingo Fujiwara's apartment in Tokyo, the curtains were drawn, the room was dimly lit, and the air was filled with the smell of fermenting beer and stale tobacco.

Several newspapers were haphazardly spread out on the coffee table, their culture sections particularly glaring with praise for "The Doctor's Love Equation."

Several empty soda cans lay on the floor, and the cigarette butts in the ashtray had long since overflowed, leaving a gray-black scorch mark on the solid wood table.

At this moment, Shingo Fujiwara sat in the chair in front of his desk, staring blankly into the void, while still holding the telephone receiver in his hand.

The call was from the editor in charge of the new book.

The man who usually greeted him with a smile and addressed him as "Fujiwara-sensei" spoke with a cold, businesslike tone on the phone just now.

"Fujiwara, the faxes for returns haven't stopped since this morning."

"Kinokuniya Shinjuku Main Store has removed your book from the first-floor display. The return slips from Sanseido and Yurindo just arrived this afternoon."

"With an inventory of 160,000 copies... based on the current return rate, at least 50,000 copies will be returned to the warehouse for pulping by the end of the month."

The sound of pages turning came from the other end of the phone; the editor's tone was rather flat.

"The president just finished a meeting. All subsequent print runs are cancelled, and the unsettled marketing budget is frozen immediately."

"You should rest at home for a while. Sorry, I have to hang up now."

The moment the busy signal sounded, Shingo Fujiwara's shoulders slumped.

Then, Shingo Fujiwara slowly put the receiver back in its original position, his fingertips trembling more and more obviously, and his whole hand was shaking slightly.

At this moment, Fujiwara Shingo didn't even have the strength to be angry.

The whole world seemed to have been muted, leaving only the heavy pounding of his own heart, each beat striking the empty air in his chest.

Then, Shingo Fujiwara's gaze swept aimlessly across the room, finally landing on the stack of readers' letters on the corner of the table.

These letters were once his greatest source of daily anticipation.

He would read it word by word, copying the words of praise into his notebook and looking at them repeatedly.

But now, this stack of pristine white envelopes looked to him like a pile of red-hot irons, burning his eyes with pain.

But he still couldn't help thinking about it.

What if?

What if there's someone who isn't here because of the popularity of "White Night"?

What if there is someone who is truly moved by your story?

Even just one letter, even just one short sentence, can prove that I am not a complete fraud?

Thinking of this, Fujiwara Shingo trembled as he tore open the first letter.

"Hypocritical and pretentious."

The second letter.

"The so-called sunshine you described is like colorful plastic garbage floating in a sewer; it's nauseating to even look at."

The third letter.

"Go read Kitahara Iwao's 'The Doctor.' After reading it, you'll understand that someone like you is not worthy of holding a pen and being a writer."

The fourth letter.

"Give me my money back! You're a scammer!"

The fifth letter.

On the entire sheet of letter, there was only one word, written with force that seemed to penetrate the back of the paper—"Get out."

Upon seeing this, Fujiwara Shingo suddenly crumpled the letter into a hard ball and slammed it onto the floor with a loud thud.

Then he dug his hands into his hair and pulled at it frantically, a sharp pain shooting through his scalp, but his knuckles remained clenched tightly.

Then a surge of burning hatred and resentment exploded in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.

A hissing sound came from his throat, his breathing was shallow and rapid, like a person being held underwater, struggling desperately but unable to get a single breath of air.

He was not reconciled.

How could I accept this!

Bloodshot eyes scanned the mess on the floor frantically before finally settling on the corner of the coffee table.

Here lies the latest issue of "Shincho," delivered this morning. It's perfectly sealed, and the name of Kitahara Iwa on the cover is glaringly hot.

The essay that landed him in hell, "The Doctor's Equation of Love," was printed inside.

Actually, since the magazine was published, Shingo Fujiwara has never dared to read this novel.

He was afraid of losing too badly, afraid that his proud writing would become worthless in front of Kitahara Iwa.

Therefore, he would rather live in the dream he created than face the cruelty of reality.

But now, his pitiful pride has long been crushed to dust by the readers' curses and torn to shreds by the publisher's termination notice.

I already have nothing left, so what is there to be afraid of?

Thinking of this, Fujiwara Shingo suddenly jumped up from his chair, staggered to the coffee table, and grabbed the magazine.

The fingernail dug fiercely into the plastic seal, and with a tearing sound, the plastic film was ripped to shreds.

Then I randomly flipped to the table of contents, my fingers trembling so much I almost missed the page number, found "The Doctor's Love Equation" and read it word by word.

At this moment, Shingo Fujiwara was examining this short story with the most demanding, critical attitude.

He vowed to find a flaw! To discover Kitahara Iwao's mistake in this short story that had been hailed as a masterpiece throughout Japan!

Even if it's just a slightly imprecise adjective, or a slightly sluggish rhythm in a certain paragraph... as long as he can find even the slightest flaw, Fujiwara Shingo can frantically comfort himself in his heart: Kitahara Iwa is nothing special!

As a result, Shingo Fujiwara's gaze moved across the paper word by word like a searchlight.

On the first two pages, a forced, clearly hostile and disdainful sneer lingered on his lips. An old man with only eighty minutes of memory? Talking about prime numbers and friendly numbers? Is that something to brag about?

But that cold laugh didn't last long.

Turning to the third page, Shingo Fujiwara's cold smile froze.

When he turned to the fifth page, Shingo Fujiwara's fingers began to tighten unconsciously, creating deep creases on the edges of the magazine.

Turning to page six, when Shingo Fujiwara reads the doctor explaining to the housekeeper why he called the child "square root".

Shingo Fujiwara's breathing stopped for a moment.

"Because the square root is a tolerant symbol. No matter what kind of number it is, no matter how big, small, or complex it is, the square root will accept it without hesitation and shelter it under its roof."

Shingo Fujiwara stared at the words and remained silent for a long time.

As a fellow writer, he understands the difficulty of writing this kind of text better than the average reader.

Without flowery language or hysterical sentimentality, his simple interpretation of a cold mathematical symbol effortlessly reveals the compassion he could not feign, no matter how hard he tried.

This is a gap that leaves no room for even jealousy.

At that moment, Shingo Fujiwara truly felt fear.

It wasn't the panic of facing danger, but the utterly despairing helplessness of an apprentice clutching a cheap match, facing the real sun.

Then, as if possessed, Shingo Fujiwara continued reading.

Until the very end—when the doctor handed the note with Euler's formula written on it to the housekeeper in the sanatorium.

Shingo Fujiwara slowly closed the magazine.

Then he placed "New Tide" on his desk, mechanically turned his head, and glanced at the copy of "Early Summer's Glimmer" that had been carelessly tossed aside.

Two books lay side by side on the table.

One left and one right.

Shingo Fujiwara's gaze shifted back and forth between the two three times.

Then, the last trace of color drained from his face, turning it completely ashen gray.

At that moment, he finally understood.

It's not that this year's readers are too demanding, it's not that Kohei Murota's column wasn't well-written, and it's not that there were any problems with the later marketing.

There is only one reason.

These are words I poured my heart and soul into writing after months of hard work, words I genuinely believed could illuminate the literary world.

Compared to Beiyuan Yan's 20,000-word masterpiece, which is so natural and devoid of any artifice, it appears so clumsy, pale, and not worth mentioning.

It's not that it's slightly inferior, nor that they each have their own merits.

Rather, they are not even on the same dimension.

This kind of "absolute talent crushing" among creators is a thousand times more deadly than any collapse in sales figures, any abusive letters from readers, or any notice of abandonment from a publisher.

Because sales figures can be embellished through marketing, and criticisms will fade over time; at worst, one can simply switch to another publisher and start over.

But the gap in talent is never easy to bridge.

It cannot be filled by sweat alone, it will not disappear automatically over time, and it cannot be forcibly smoothed out by any external force.

It was like a natural watershed, clearly standing in front of him.

Thinking of this, an overwhelming sense of despair instantly drained the strength from his back.

Shingo Fujiwara gripped the edge of the desk tightly with both hands, his head bowed, panting heavily like a fish out of water.

Just then, his unfocused gaze inadvertently caught sight of the Yomiuri Shimbun, which had been pushed to the edge of the table.

The newspaper was spread out, and occupying half of the front page was Kohei Murota's open letter.

When he bought it in the morning, his mind was filled with bad news from the publisher and the readers' insults, so he didn't bother to read it at all.

Looking at those bolded headlines again now, they felt like red-hot needles piercing his eyes.

"A shallow speculator blinded by sales figures."

"They deceived me with their false words and fooled the public."

Upon seeing this, Shingo Fujiwara grabbed the newspaper, his bloodshot eyes wide, and read through the statement word by word.

The name of his mentor, Kohei Murota, was clearly printed in the signature area.

Just three weeks ago, this same person orchestrated the entire staged marketing campaign, patting himself on the shoulder and assuring himself, "We've got this windfall in the bag."

Throughout his career, this person has consistently played the excellent role of a loving father and mentor.

But at this very moment, this shrewd and calculating literary veteran put on a sanctimonious face in Japan's largest-circulation newspaper, and unhesitatingly kicked himself into the mud.

What literary conscience, what heartache and indignation, it's all bullshit.

Kohei Murota was only trying to protect himself.

In order to curry favor with the great master Kitahara Iwa and clear his own name, he desperately needed a scapegoat.

And he himself, Fujiwara Shingo, was the scapegoat in Murota Kohei's hands.

At this moment, all the blows finally culminated in a suffocating deadlock.

The market abandoned him, and Kitahara Iwa crushed himself.

In the final second before he fell into the abyss, his mentor, who had led him to the edge of the cliff, not only failed to pull him up but instead stabbed him in the back with the most fatal blow.

All dignity, pride, and that ridiculous teacher-student relationship were utterly shattered into a joke under this one blow.

A suffocating sense of absurdity instantly gripped his heart.

Shingo Fujiwara stared intently at the familiar signature on the newspaper, his chest heaving uncontrollably.

A full half minute later, he suddenly burst out laughing.

This is the laughter that comes from the complete collapse of one's beliefs, more chilling than any weeping.

Then, Fujiwara Shingo used both hands to forcefully tear the newspaper in half.

Paper scraps drifted in the air.

"good……"

Fujiwara Shingo's lips twitched nervously, his voice so hoarse it was unrecognizable.

"Very good."

Then Fujiwara Shingo tore at it several more times, saying viciously, "Since you won't let me live—"

Shredded paper fluttered down, mingling with crumpled letters from readers scattered on the floor.

"Then let's all go to hell together."

Just a few hours later.

Editorial Department of Weekly Bunshun.

This gossip magazine, known for its ruthless efforts to expose the true nature of celebrities, received a bombshell tip.

The caller was none other than Shingo Fujiwara himself, who was at the center of the storm.

He offered to do an exclusive interview with Bunshun.

The only condition was that no deletions or embellishments were allowed; every single word he said had to be printed verbatim.

The editor-in-chief of Bunshun was so excited after the phone call that he didn't even notice the cigarette between his fingers fall onto his trouser leg.

He immediately dispatched the most hyena-like, elite team in the company to Fujiwara Shingo's apartment.

The moment the door was opened, even these seasoned paparazzi were stunned.

The room was filled with a strong smell of tobacco and alcohol.

Instead of sitting on the sofa, Fujiwara Shingo slumped dejectedly on the floor in the corner, his back against the wall and his hands on his bent knees.

At this moment, his hair was greasy and messy, and his chin was covered with bluish-black stubble.

His bloodshot eyes held no regret or weakness, only a kind of madness born of being driven to the brink of despair and preparing to drag everyone down with him.

There was no conventional small talk or preamble.

The interview began with the click of a button being pressed on a miniature cassette recorder.

Without waiting for the reporter's questions or needing any guidance, Fujiwara Shingo began his confession, which resembled a self-destructive act.

"The entire marketing campaign for 'The Glimmer of Early Summer' was orchestrated by Kohei Murota."

Shingo Fujiwara's hoarse voice emphasized each word: "You really think that column that linked me to 'Journey Under the Midnight Sun' was written out of genuine feeling?"

"On the surface, it appears to be about mentoring younger generations, but in reality, the emotionally charged core rhetoric of 'finding a cure' and 'welcoming the warm sun' is all a marketing outline he personally devised!"

Shingo Fujiwara stared intently at the reporter in front of him, the bloodshot veins in his eyes appearing particularly menacing.

"The night before the column was published, that hypocritical old fox called me for a full three hours! He taught me word by word how to face the media, how to feign humility, and even precisely calculated how much gratitude I should squeeze out in the corner of my eye when facing the camera!"

In the living room, there was the frantic scraping of a ballpoint pen across a sketchbook and the faint whirring of a tape recorder.

For the paparazzi of Weekly Bunshun, these inside stories of "manipulating public opinion" and "faking a persona" are already enough to make for a big news story that will ignite the pages.

The reporter leading the team was already brainstorming tomorrow's front-page headline.

But Shingo Fujiwara clearly had no intention of stopping there.

What he wanted was not to embarrass Murota Kohei, but to bring him to utter ruin.

"However, you wouldn't be so naive as to think that Murota Kohei's shameless praise of me is truly out of some teacher-student bond of appreciating talent, would you?"

At this point, Fujiwara Shingo paused, a twisted smile spreading across his face, and forced a cold laugh filled with deep hatred from the depths of his throat: "He took the money."

As soon as these words were spoken, the frantic recording in the room came to an abrupt halt.

The reporter leading the group suddenly looked up, his pupils slightly contracting in extreme shock.

"Before the new book was released, in order to boost sales, the publisher slipped an astonishing amount of 'literary guidance fee' into Kohei Murota's pocket through a middleman's secret account."

Before the reporters could ask any more questions, Shingo Fujiwara grabbed the briefcase next to him and roughly ripped open the zipper with a loud "whoosh".

He pulled out a thick stack of documents and slammed them onto the floor in front of the reporter… copies of forged remittance slips, receipts, and several correspondences with the publisher’s internal letterhead.

"These are the slips I secretly photographed and kept when I went to his office to 'pay my respects' and the old man wasn't looking."

Shingo Fujiwara lay on the floor, peeling back these irrefutable pieces of evidence one by one.

"He's not really guiding literature; he's just a middleman who gets paid to do things!"

"That book review, which claimed to be written by a literary giant and was touted by you media outlets as 'objective and fair,' was, from beginning to end, a commercial smear piece bought with a large sum of money!"

At that moment, the hands of the Bunshun reporters sitting around trembled slightly as they held their pens.

If the previous revelations about "marketing rhetoric" were merely moral flaws, then these things now thrown on the floor are solid evidence enough to send Kohei Murota to prison.

This is absolutely the most unexpected scandal in the Japanese literary world this year!

A man revered as a "giant in literary criticism" in the Japanese literary world accepted monetary benefits from publishers and used his credibility to endorse specific works.

Then, after the matter failed, he surprisingly abandoned his protégé and publicly distanced himself from the matter.

This is hardly highbrow literary criticism.

This is clearly a disgusting and utterly filthy business fraud.

After obtaining this batch of top-secret materials, which was enough to cause a major earthquake in the literary world, the editor-in-chief in charge of the team picked up the documents on the ground, and the entire interview team rushed back to headquarters overnight as if they had been injected with chicken blood.

That night, the editorial office of Weekly Bunshun was brightly lit, and no one slept.

Urgent typesetting, overnight cover replacement, and the printing plant's machines running at full capacity all night long.

Just over ten hours later.

The latest issue of Weekly Bunshun, still carrying the strong smell of ink, was delivered to convenience stores and newsstands across Japan on time the following morning, causing a sensation.

Huge, bold black font dominated the entire cover: "Exclusive Deathmatch Confession! Shingo Fujiwara Desperately Reveals—Literary Giant Kohei Murota Accepted Huge Amounts of Scam Money; 'Glimmer' is Pure Commercial Marketing Scam!"

The moment the nuclear bomb landed, the roof of the entire Japanese publishing industry was blown off.

But at that moment, Kohei Murota was sitting in a high-class restaurant in Ginza that operated entirely on a members-only basis.

The early summer breeze swept through the startled deer in the courtyard, making a crisp tapping sound.

Inside the private room, Kohei Murota was enjoying an expensive kaiseki meal with several executives from major publishing houses.

"Mr. Murota's statement of severing ties this time was truly swift and decisive."

A managing director at Kodansha raised his sake cup, his tone tinged with admiration, and said, "That Fujiwara brat brought this upon himself. If he tarnishes your reputation in the literary world, it will be a loss for the entire publishing industry."

"No, it was my poor judgment of people that almost led to a terrible mistake."

Kohei Murota sighed with feigned sorrow, then picked up his wine glass and took a small sip, a confident and refined smile playing on his lips.

He then put down his wine glass, lowered his voice, and said with an arrogance that only those in high positions possessed: "There's no need for you all to worry too much. To be honest, I personally called Professor Kitahara the night before I made this statement."

Upon hearing this, the executives in the private room all stopped eating, their faces showing unanimous shock.

They never expected that Kohei Murota had actually made contact with Kitahara Iwa, whom they had been unable to reach.

"Teacher Kitahara... what did you say?"

Someone cautiously inquired.

Kohei Murota enjoyed being looked up to by everyone.

He slowly picked up a piece of tuna belly and said with a smile, "Teacher Kitahara is truly a master, with extraordinary demeanor."

"I apologized to him on the phone for the despicable act and promised to use my connections and resources to give him an explanation. Guess what?"

Kohei Murota looked around, deliberately keeping everyone in suspense, before slowly saying, "Teacher Kitahara is very understanding. He personally told me on the phone, 'There's no need to trouble yourself,' and even told me to get some rest since it was late."

As Kohei Murota finished speaking, a long sigh of relief and fawning agreement filled the private room.

Then Kohei Murota put the fish in his mouth and concluded in a definitive tone, "So, everyone, you can rest assured."

"Now that I've gotten Kitahara-sensei's forgiveness, the little storm that Fujiwara Shingo stirred up can be considered completely calmed down."

"The literary world will continue to follow our rules..."

Whoosh—!

Before Murota Kohei could finish speaking, the wooden shoji door of the private room was suddenly and violently pulled open.

His personal assistant didn't even bother to take off his shoes before stumbling into the private room, his face as white as a dead person's, and his forehead covered in large beads of cold sweat.

"Mr. Murota! Something terrible has happened..."

The assistant scrambled to the table, his hands trembling violently, and placed a newly purchased copy of "Weekly Bunshun" on the expensive solid wood table.

"Don't you know the rules! Can't you see I'm entertaining guests..."

Kohei Murota's anger had barely surfaced when his gaze inadvertently fell upon the magazine cover.

Those few lines of bold black text... "Kohei Murota accepts huge sums of dirty money", "The inside story of the commercial marketing scam is fully exposed"... were like a heavy hammer that struck head-on, instantly shattering all the carefully crafted tranquility in the private room.

Snapped.

The moment Kohei Murota saw the cover, the pair of gold-rimmed chopsticks in his hand fell onto the tatami mat with a thud.

Just moments ago, her face was rosy and vibrant, adorned with a refined smile; in that instant, it turned a deathly pale ashes.

At this moment, the private room fell into a deathly silence.

The publishing executives, who had been fawning over Mr. Murota just moments before, changed their expressions completely after peeking at the words on the magazine cover.

They silently lowered their glasses, which were raised in mid-air, and instinctively shrank back.

When they looked at Murota Yasuhiro again, the awe in their eyes had vanished, replaced by a fear that they wanted to avoid at all costs... as if the person sitting in front of them was no longer a literary giant, but a literary corpse reeking of plague.

No one asked any questions, and no one stepped forward to smooth things over.

In his extreme panic, Kohei Murota couldn't even muster a decent remark.

He pushed the chair away as if he had been electrocuted, and scrambled out of the private room, fleeing the ryotei that had made him feel so comfortable just a moment ago.

Just two hours later, the pathetic, homeless dog locked himself in the study of the mansion and let out a trapped beast-like roar into the phone.

He certainly wasn't calling Fujiwara Shingo, since he had already completely erased that traitor's number from his contacts the day he decided to publish a blaming article.

He is now calling every newspaper and television station he knows, trying to use his decades-old network of connections to forcefully suppress this scandal.

But every call received a remarkably consistent response: "Mr. Murota, give up. Shingo Fujiwara's chain of evidence is too complete; he even has bank statements. Too many people already know about this; no one can cover it up anymore."

When he hung up the last phone call after being politely declined, Kohei Murota slumped back in his chair, utterly exhausted, and closed his eyes tightly.

He knew that all the reputation and power he had accumulated in his life was gone.

But the old fox, who understands the law of the jungle, doesn't intend to go to hell alone, even in death.

Late that night, Kohei Murota, in a manner as hysterical as Shingo Fujiwara, simultaneously sent a twelve-page "final statement" to dozens of mainstream media outlets across Japan.

In this statement, he completely tore off the facade of an elder, exposing Shingo Fujiwara's plagiarism scandal from his university days.

There are suspicions that the core paragraphs of his debut work were ghostwritten.

His private life was a series of chaotic power-for-sex transactions.

Even the twisted and illicit affair between Shingo Fujiwara and a married female editor at a major publishing house, which Fujiwara Shingo boasted about to him while drunk, was made public with the exact time, place, and people involved.

With these twelve densely packed pages, Kohei Murota dumped all the dirty deals he and his apprentice had made in the shadows over the years—including those he was aware of, tacitly approved of, or even personally instructed—into the public eye like dumping garbage.

He no longer cares whether these counter-revelations will backfire on him.

Because he had already been blown to smithereens by Fujiwara Shingo's self-destructive trump card, all he wanted now was to bite his enemy's throat and drag him down into an abyss of no return.

For the next week, the entire Japanese public was forced to witness a literary "meat grinder" drama that could only be described as magical.

This is no longer a covert, undercurrent-driven power struggle, but a street brawl with no scruples and no moral boundaries.

The "literary giant" and "healing genius" who once appeared in front of the camera in a suit and tie, spouting compassion and literary ideals, has now completely transformed into the most vicious gambler, tearing into the front pages of major newspapers, gossip magazines, and evening television programs.

The battle was pushing the boundaries of public understanding almost daily.

On Monday, Kohei Murota held an emergency press conference, where he tearfully and publicly accused Shingo Fujiwara of hiring a ghostwriter, and projected the ghostwriter's confession video and employment contract onto a large screen.

On Tuesday, Shingo Fujiwara immediately retaliated by sending the complete bank statements of Kohei Murota's secret overseas money laundering accounts, obtained through shell companies, to the Tokyo District Public Prosecutors Office Special Investigation Department.

On Wednesday, an enraged Kohei Murota, in collaboration with tabloid paparazzi, plastered explicit photos of Shingo Fujiwara seducing female readers and having illicit relationships with several married female editors all over the newsstands.

On Thursday, a completely bloodthirsty Shingo Fujiwara sent a 60-minute telephone recording directly to several major national radio stations. The recording clearly documented the shocking inside story of how Kohei Murota colluded with the judging panel to manipulate and openly sell national literary awards.

In order to protect themselves, to seek revenge, and to drag each other into a deeper quagmire, the master and apprentice threw out all the cards they had accumulated over the years.

In particular, the cassette tape about "buying and selling literary prizes" has had an explosive impact that has far exceeded the scope of this mentor and student.

The recording implicated more than a dozen prominent figures in the literary world, prompting several major traditional publishing houses to issue statements overnight to distance themselves and urgently remove the relevant books from shelves.

This master and apprentice, through a suicidal attack, stripped away the last shred of dignity from the traditional literary world, leaving not a single thread of it behind.

Faced with such a barrage of scandals, the public and media's emotions quickly shifted from initial shock and anger to a scornful frenzy of gossip.

Because this farce was just too ugly.

It's so bad that it doesn't even give you the energy to be indignant, and it's even become the most popular stand-up comedy routine for nighttime comedians, leaving only nauseating snickers after meals.

Street interviews in newspapers and online forums were filled with merciless mockery of the traditional literary world: "Is this what they call the pure literature circle? They spout morality and righteousness, but their hearts are full of thieves and prostitutes."

"I used to think of these literary critics as lofty social consciences, but now I see them as nothing more than a pack of wild dogs tearing each other apart in a cesspool for fame and fortune."

"Thanks to this master and apprentice pair, they cured my mental anguish. It turns out that when masters fight each other for money, their behavior is even more unsightly than that of petty thugs."

Amidst this overwhelming barrage of ridicule and condemnation, everyone's consensus ultimately converged into a bizarrely simple statement:

"In this literary wasteland that reeks of stench, the only reason that makes people feel that Japanese literature can still be saved... is probably because we still have Kitahara Iwao-sensei."

During the most heated days of this farce, all the media in Japan were doing the same thing—trying to contact Kitahara Iwao.

Shinchosha's switchboard was almost overwhelmed with calls.

On the sidewalk below the apartment building in the port area, there were so many reporters and paparazzi that they could form a small market on the spot.

Everyone wanted to know how this literary giant, who had caused a magnitude 10 earthquake in the literary world, would evaluate this farcical scene of master and disciple devouring each other.

As a result, they waited for one day, two days, three days...

Kitahara Iwa has not issued any public statement, nor has he given any interviews, nor has he conveyed even a single word of his opinion through any channel.

They remained silent.

Inside that well-insulated apartment door, the scene was the complete opposite of the crazy world outside.

The afternoon sunlight of early summer streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, quietly covering the solid wood floor of the study and revealing every detail of the years etched into the wood grain.

Kitahara Iwa was wearing soft loungewear and casually sitting cross-legged on the carpet.

He held a cat toy with a small feather tied to the end in his hand, and was leisurely teasing the pure white kitten next to his knee.

This cat is very small, so small that when it curls up, it's no bigger than a fist.

It was using its two still somewhat uncoordinated front paws to pounce and scoop up the tuft of feathers swaying in front of it.

Each time it missed, it would tilt its furry head and pause for a moment before relentlessly pouncing again.

Kitahara Iwa looked at it, a gentle smile on his lips.

Just then, the landline on the coffee table rang.

Kitahara Iwa casually picked it up.

"Teacher Kitahara!"

Kenichi Sato's voice poured from the receiver, carrying an irrepressible, triumphant joy, like that of someone who had finally gotten their revenge. .

"Have you seen the latest developments? Kohei Murota dropped another bombshell about Fujiwara today, claiming that the third chapter of his debut work appears to have been entirely ghostwritten. Fujiwara immediately retaliated an hour ago by releasing a recording of a private phone call between Murota and a literary prize judge..."

Sato spoke at breakneck speed, as if he were passionately commentating on a football match that had resulted in a major upset.

"This master and apprentice are now biting each other so hard their mouths are covered in blood, it's like gods fighting... no, it's like two lumps of mud splattering each other!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato became more and more excited as he spoke, and then finally got to the point: "Teacher Kitahara, now they have exposed each other completely, and the entire literary world is watching this huge joke."

"Should our Shincho-sha release a statement while this is trending? We don't need to attack them, just a simple statement will suffice... After all, with your current supreme influence, even a simple 'no comment' would be enough to seal their fate!"

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

Kitahara Iwao glanced down at the kitten rolling around on the carpet, its paws in the air. He extended a finger and gently scratched the soft fur on the kitten's chin.

The kitten half-closed its eyes and let out a contented purr.

"Issue a statement?"

Kitahara Iwa's voice was flat and calm, even carrying a hint of nonchalance at being disturbed from his leisure.

"Editor-in-Chief Sato".

Kitahara Iwa switched the cat toy to his left hand, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"If two stray dogs were fighting over spoiled leftovers, biting each other until their mouths were covered in blood next to a trash can..."

Then the kitten finally pounced on the feather, excitedly picked it up with its mouth, and rolled around on the sunlit carpet.

"Would you deliberately stop and walk over to them to tell them who has the better biting posture?"

Upon hearing this, Kenichi Sato's excited tone was abruptly cut off.

He understood the meaning behind those words.

It wasn't because the words were particularly harsh, but because there wasn't even a hint of sarcasm in Kitahara Iwa's tone.

To be sarcastic, you at least need to take the other person seriously and treat them as an opponent.

But Kitahara Iwa doesn't have it.

He was just talking about a trivial matter, and he didn't even bother to say a word more.

This utter disregard is more cruel than any grand condemnation. The master and disciple's bloody argument was utterly worthless in Bei Yuanyan's eyes.

"……I see."

Kenichi Sato's tone instantly shifted from fervent to subdued, replaced by complete agreement as he said, "Then let's do nothing."

"Um."

"Excuse me, Kitahara-sensei."

The phone call ended, and the study returned to silence.

The kitten, carrying its prize feather, trotted over to Kitahara Iwa's knees and put it down. It tilted its little head up and looked at him with its innocent, clear round eyes.

Kitahara Iwa reached out and scooped it up, placing it securely on his lap.

The kitten took two turns with its tiny, shuffling steps, found the most comfortable position, curled up into a snowball, and fell into a deep sleep.

Kitahara Iwa placed his palm on the cat's back, feeling its subtle breathing and warm undulations.

He paid no further attention to the final fate of the master and apprentice, because to him, no matter how loud the commotion in the swamp was, it was just white noise that would soon be blown away by the wind.

And that is indeed the case.

Outside the gates of Kitahara Rock, this escalating farce finally reached its breaking point.

This baseless infighting has ultimately touched the most sensitive nerve of those who truly hold power in the publishing industry.

For the top executives of several established publishing houses, the rivalry between writers was originally just a harmless diversion, or even an occasional marketing gimmick.

However, the "suicidal revelations" made by Murota and Fujiwara have seriously crossed the line.

They not only stripped away each other's fig leaves, but also the credibility upon which the entire traditional literary circle depends for its survival.

When readers begin to question the value of every literary award and the monetary transactions behind every book review, the very foundation of the publishing industry is shaken.

The literary world can tolerate the arrogance and eccentricities of creators, but it will never tolerate anyone smashing all the pots used for eating.

In an effort to salvage the last shred of dignity remaining in the traditional literary world, and to forcefully stem the damage from the public, a coordinated and unexpected attack orchestrated by several major figures was launched.

There were no grand public announcements, only the cold, hard cutting of the industry machine at high speed.

Within a single day, Kohei Murota's columns on major mainstream media outlets were "suspended indefinitely due to layout adjustments."

His several national-level literary award judge titles, which he was very proud of, were removed from his list by the organizing committee overnight.

Major publishing houses tacitly returned all the review articles under his name and cut off all personal connections.

Even his personal works, which used to be prominently displayed in bookstores, were quietly removed from the shelves and returned to dark warehouses.

This once influential literary critic was stripped of all his voice by the entire industry in an absolutely silent manner, and was completely reduced to a literary corpse that no one cares about.

As for Fujiwara Shingo, who was the catalyst for all of this, his fate was even more straightforward and tragic.

Not only was the printing of "The Glimmer of Early Summer" halted, but the remaining hundreds of thousands of copies in stock were all recalled and sent directly to pulp mills.

He not only faced hefty breach of contract claims from several publishers due to the "scandal causing the project to fail," but his name was also automatically blacklisted by all legitimate publishing institutions.

From a "healing new star" forcibly promoted by capital to being burdened with huge debts and disgraced, it only took less than a month.

This farce, which shocked all of Japan, ultimately came to an end in a state of utter devastation, crushed by the relentless forces of capital and power.

From a "healing new star" forcibly promoted by capital to being burdened with huge debts and disgraced, it only took less than a month.

This farce, which shocked all of Japan, ultimately came to an end in a state of utter devastation, crushed by the relentless forces of capital and power.

In this situation, July gradually arrived... the day Izumi Sakai debuted.