Chapter 136 Kitahara Iwa's Rejection and Sakai Izumi's Confusion

The overwhelming positive reviews for "Thirst" triggered an unexpected buying frenzy in the publishing industry.

The standalone edition of "Thirst for Water" was urgently released to the market by the publisher on the third day after the award announcement.

In the initial distribution plan, the publisher originally intended to conservatively print 20,000 copies in the first print run... For a newcomer with no literary background, this was already the safe upper limit based on the Akutagawa Prize title.

But as Kitahara Iwa's phrase "rough reality" spread throughout Japan, the publisher's executives overturned all the data at the last minute, and despite the huge risk of stock being returned, forcibly increased the first print run to 50,000 copies.

In the realm of pure literature at the time, this was almost a high-stakes gamble on Kitahara Iwao's personal credibility.

However, it turned out that they still underestimated Kitahara Iwa's terrifying power of discourse.

On the morning of its release, 50,000 copies completely disappeared from counters across Japan.

Kinokuniya Shinjuku Main Store had to put up an apology notice at 11:00 AM stating that "Thirst Water" was sold out.

By the afternoon, major bookstore chains throughout Tokyo announced that they were completely out of stock.

The publisher's phone was ringing off the hook with calls from bookstore owners all over the country, all desperately demanding more quotas.

The publisher, shocked, urgently contacted the printing plant to order an additional 100,000 copies overnight.

However, all 100,000 copies were sold out within three days.

The second additional order was 200,000 copies.

The first week's sales figures ultimately reached a number that shook the entire industry—breaking all previous records held by new writers in the Japanese literary world, except for Kitahara Iwao himself.

A low-level civil servant who was previously unknown and whose name had never been heard of miraculously became the best-selling new literary star in Japan within a week.

The entire publishing industry knows perfectly well who is the real driving force behind this sales frenzy.

Kitahara Iwa essentially lent his accumulated national credibility to the crumbling Akutagawa Sho free of charge, providing them with the strongest guarantee.

Kitahara Iwa not only stabilized the mess that was on the verge of bankruptcy due to the scandal, but also brought back on track a dead end that had caused the public to completely lose faith in pure literature.

Tachikawa City, Tokyo.

In mid-July, at noon, the temperature was 34 degrees Celsius.

The air was like a scorched iron plate, and the rising heat distorted the distant buildings into a swaying phantom.

A middle-aged man in a waterworks uniform walked out of the iron gate of an old municipal residential area.

His name is He Linman, and he is nearly forty years old.

The back of the uniform was completely soaked with sweat, the damp fabric clinging tightly to the skin, outlining the tired contours of the shoulder blades.

A ring of white salt stains was imprinted in the center of his back; these were mineral crystals left behind after sweat repeatedly soaked and evaporated under the scorching sun.

At this moment, he was carrying a canvas bag full of meter reading tools, the bottom of which was stained with dark red marks that were hard to tell whether they were rust or mud.

He had just finished reading meters and collecting payments all morning.

He knocked on the door of the last house for a full five minutes before a boy of about ten years old timidly opened it.

The boy said his mother had gone to work.

So He Linman silently stuffed the water outage warning notice into the mailbox by the door and turned to go downstairs.

Like Iwakiri in the book, he didn't look back.

Because he knew that once he turned around and met those eyes, he might not be able to leave.

12:30 PM.

Kawarashi Mitsuru walked into a cheap ramen shop in a small alley near Tachikawa Station.

The store's renovations stopped being updated about ten years ago.

The white tiles on the walls had a greasy, slightly yellowish tinge, and the solid wood bar counter was covered with mottled scratches left by diners over the centuries.

There was an old fluorescent tube overhead that emitted an intermittent buzzing sound.

Kawarashi sat down on a high stool in the far corner of the bar and ordered the cheapest tonkotsu ramen.

Five hundred and eighty yen.

When the noodles were served, He Linman pulled out a pair of bamboo chopsticks from the plastic chopstick holder and started eating.

The old CRT television overhead was broadcasting NHK's midday news.

He didn't look up.

Because his attention was now entirely focused on the bowl of noodles in front of him, or more accurately, on his most primal survival instinct: to "ingest enough calories to get through the afternoon's high temperatures at work."

After finishing the sports briefing, the news switched to the culture section.

The female anchor's clear and articulate voice came from the speaker above her head, mixed with the noisy conversations in the restaurant and the sounds of a strainer hitting the edge of a pot in the kitchen.

"Next up is cultural news. The Japan Literature Promotion Association officially announced the final results of the 103rd Akutagawa Prize yesterday..."

The female anchor's clear and articulate voice came from the speaker. He Linman put a large mouthful of noodles into his mouth, preparing to chew it heartily.

The winning entry is "Thirst for Water," by He Linman...

With that sound, He Linman's muscles froze instantly.

The noodles, suspended between the lips and the bamboo chopsticks, stopped in mid-air, and the scalding hot soup dripped back into the bowl, one drop at a time, following the curve of the noodles.

For a moment, he thought he had heatstroke and was experiencing some kind of auditory hallucination caused by the combination of high temperature and fatigue.

Then he suddenly raised his head and looked at the greasy television set above him.

On the screen, the official announcement released by the revitalization association is displayed.

At the very bottom of the screen, a bold, white-text caption on a black background scrolls across the screen: [This year's special guest judge, Kitahara Iwao's, final selection comments: Rough truth always possesses the power to tear apart hypocrisy.]

Northern original rock.

The young man who wrote "The Last Cry" and "Journey Under the Midnight Sun".

A name that no one in the current Japanese publishing industry can ignore.

He not only actually read his own somewhat clumsy and rough manuscripts.

It even transcended all seniority-based hierarchies and prejudices, presenting it squarely to readers across Japan.

Thinking of this, He Linman's hand holding the bamboo chopsticks began to tremble.

At first it was just a slight tremor, but then my forearm started shaking uncontrollably.

Then he suddenly lowered his head.

The noodles slipped and splashed into the bowl, raising a few drops of murky broth.

He put down his chopsticks, gripped the edge of the rough porcelain bowl tightly with both hands, and tears fell without warning.

Large chunks of oil were smashed into the bowl of cheap ramen in front of them, creating a thin layer of oil droplets on the broth with floating scallions.

The diners sitting next to him turned their heads and looked at him in surprise.

But He Linman ignored him.

At this moment, his throat felt like it was being choked by something, tight and painful in waves.

A middle-aged man who is used to being repeatedly battered by life and used to being submissive will even break down silently.

He couldn't make a sound; he could only clench his back teeth tightly, letting his shoulders twitch silently.

This is a low-level employee who has struggled to make ends meet for most of his life.

This is a meter reader who wears a uniform stained with salt every day and goes door-to-door in the sweltering heat, cutting off people's hope of survival.

This man, who had resigned himself to his fate and prepared to pack up his literary dreams and throw them into the trash can after writing the last line of "Thirst for Water," burst into tears at this moment.

He knew better than anyone what this report meant.

This is more than just a trophy.

Instead, there was actually someone who, at a time when even he himself was on the verge of utter despair, quietly sat down and carefully read the story he had written.

That person did not despise his clumsy technique, but rather looked beyond the rough words and understood the struggle hidden between the lines, acknowledging the despair and cries he poured into the story.

In this literary world, tightly closed off by background and circles, finally a pair of eyes looked at his words equally and openly told all of Japan that the suffering he wrote about was valuable.

The television overhead was still broadcasting news about the aftermath of the Akutagawa Prize's sensational impact on bookstores across Japan.

He Linman looked at the soup residue mixed with tears in the bowl, then picked up his bamboo chopsticks again and lowered his head to eat his noodles.

One bite after another.

He chewed slowly but forcefully. He swallowed the remaining noodles, scallions, and half a bowl of lukewarm, murky broth, bit by bit.

Not a drop left.

Kawarashi's weeping in the secluded ramen shop was silent and secretive.

But to outsiders, this "rags-to-riches" storm, spearheaded by Kitahara Iwa, has long since transformed into a deafening commercial frenzy.

As Kawarashi wiped away his tears, climbed back onto his rusty bicycle, and disappeared into the sweltering heat of 34 degrees Celsius to continue his work of transcribing water meters, the entire Japanese publishing industry was going crazy over his name printed on the book covers.

The afternoon after the award announcement was released.

The first press conference for "Thirst" is underway in a hastily vacated conference room on the first floor of the publishing house.

The flashes of light created a blinding white wall.

He Linman, wearing a cheap suit that he had borrowed and that was obviously too big for his shoulders, sat awkwardly behind a long table covered with a red velvet tablecloth.

His dark skin, exposed to the sun and wind year-round, appeared somewhat shiny under the strong light.

Those hands, used to holding wrenches, didn't know where to put them, so they could only grip their trouser legs tightly under the table.

Facing a sea of ​​cameras and microphones in the audience, he answered haltingly, spending most of the time wiping away sweat.

It wasn't until a reporter from the Yomiuri Shimbun stood up and posed the question that everyone was most concerned about: "Mr. Kawabayashi, everyone knows that it was Professor Kitahara who overruled everyone's objections at the final selection meeting and pushed you, a newcomer with no background, to the Akutagawa Prize. What would you like to say to Professor Kitahara now?"

Upon hearing this name, He Linman lowered his head slightly.

He remained silent for a long time, so long that the reporters in the audience thought he was so nervous that he forgot his lines, and even the sound of camera shutters became sparse.

When he finally raised his head and leaned closer to the microphone, the awkwardness and timidity of someone from the lower class disappeared from his face.

Instead, there is an awkward but weighty seriousness.

"On the day I learned I had won the award, I had already made up my mind that 'Thirst for Water' would be the last novel I ever wrote."

He Linman's voice was not loud, and his voice still sounded dry from years of hard work.

"I'm almost forty years old. Every day I have to climb dozens of old buildings in temperatures over thirty degrees Celsius to knock on the doors of people who can't pay their water bills."

"Life has drained me of all my strength. I have no energy left, nor the face to even dream of pursuing any literary dreams."

As He Linman continued to speak, the conference room gradually quieted down, with only the rustling of reporters' pens as they wrote.

"But, Kitahara-sensei saw it."

At this point, He Linman's Adam's apple bobbed, and he emphasized each word.

"He didn't look down on the earthy quality in my writing. He proved to all of Japan that even struggles written in the darkest corners are worthy of being called literature."

"Without Kitahara-sensei's persistence, my literary path would have died completely when I finished writing the last line of 'Thirst for Water'."

"So he gave me more than just a trophy; he forced the pen that I had already thrown into the wastebasket back into my hand."

"I feel awe and gratitude towards him that I can never repay in my lifetime."

This clumsy yet heartfelt speech appeared verbatim in major newspapers the following day, earning the tears of countless people.

Meanwhile, the publishing executives who were standing in the back row of the conference room and listened to the entire interview had their eyes light up at this genuine outpouring of emotion.

In their eyes, this is not the salvation of the soul of a writer from the bottom of society, but rather a perfect public relations material directly fed to them by God!

So, on the third day after the news of the award spread,

The publisher of "Thirst for Water"...that is, this medium-sized publishing house, sensed an opportunity to maximize profits in this traffic boom and made a decision that seemed obvious to them.

They planned to interrupt Kawarashi Man's work and arrange for him to bring lavish gifts and, under the covert surveillance of familiar media, visit Kitahara Iwa's upscale apartment in Minato Ward to express his gratitude.

In the shrewd calculations of the higher-ups, this was not only a routine courtesy of the award recipients to express their gratitude, but also an excellent marketing stunt.

Of course, given Kitahara Iwa's terrifying prestige in the literary world, the publishing house's executives didn't dare to rashly lead reporters to block the door.

So they assigned the editor in charge of the matter to first sound out the situation through official channels.

Listening to the senior management's ideas, the editor was full of confidence.

In his view, there was absolutely no reason to refuse.

If this publicity stunt succeeds, Kitahara Iwa will gain a reputation in the literary world for his "discerning eye and ability to help the poor," further solidifying his status as a leading figure.

The publisher and Mitsuru Kawabayashi, on the other hand, can gain massive exposure and royalties.

In the vulgar business logic of the publishing industry, this is a "perfect win-win" situation that cannot be faulted.

With this meticulously calculated plan,

The editor, beaming with delight, dialed Shinchosha's number and poured out his "brilliant public relations plan" to Kenichi Sato, earnestly requesting his recommendation.

however.

After hearing this grand plan, Sato on the other end of the phone fell into an eerie silence.

After a moment, he replied in a subtle tone, "I can pass on your message. But as a colleague, I suggest you prepare yourself for rejection."

Twenty minutes later, Sato called back.

"Mr. Kitahara refused. He said he wouldn't see me."

The editor on the other end of the phone was stunned.

The beautiful rhetoric he had prepared for so long about "how to gain both fame and fortune" was abruptly cut off by this harsh rejection.

After a long pause, he finally managed to squeeze out a dry question: "This... even a five-minute private meeting isn't allowed? And... is there anything that Professor Kitahara needs us to convey to Mr. Kawabayashi?"

"have."

Editor-in-Chief Sato's voice was devoid of any personal emotion: "He asked me to relay his exact words—'Write your next book well. Don't let the neon lights of Tokyo blind you. That's enough.'"

Upon hearing this, the editor fell silent.

Upon hearing this, he froze, suddenly realizing that his supposedly clever business calculations were completely exposed in the other party's eyes.

Kitahara Iwa not only saw through their mercenary intention to use Kawarashi Mitsuru as a puppet for a show, but also interrupted their next move and directly exposed their pretense.

When the editor spoke again, his previous slickness and confidence had vanished completely, leaving only a dry sigh devoid of any remaining assurance: "...I understand. Sorry to bother you."

This firm rejection, along with the uncompromising warning, quickly spread throughout the publishing industry via various private dinners and internal phone calls.

The shock and lingering impression it caused were no less than the success of "Thirst for Water" itself.

In the Japanese literary world, or rather in Japanese society as a whole, "bestowing favors" is inevitably accompanied by "forming bonds."

Seniors mentor juniors, and juniors visit to express their gratitude and perform the rites of a disciple, thus naturally binding both parties to a chain of interests.

This is not only a set of rules for interpersonal relationships, but also a core means for traditional literati to build connections and establish factions.

Those old men who occupy the judging panel have, for decades, relied on the expansion of their "disciples and former subordinates" to snowball their influence.

The former presiding judge, Yoshisuke Maruyama, was a master of this kind of power play.

Everyone assumed that Kitahara Iwa's aggressive actions at the final election meeting were aimed at strengthening his own power base.

However, he didn't even let He Linman see his own house number, coldly refusing all gifts and pleasantries, cutting off any interactions that could be interpreted by outsiders as "forming cliques" or a showy display.

He does not accept disciples, does not establish factions, and does not form alliances.

Kitahara Iwa used his iron fist in the Japanese-style room to carve out a bloody path for a work from the bottom of society, and then, at the pinnacle of his success, cleanly withdrew from the scene.

In Kitahara Iwao's logic, all he did was because the words in "Thirst for Water" deserved to be seen.

This has nothing to do with He Linman himself, nor is it related to expanding his own power base.

This practice of completely separating literary judgment from human relationships stands out starkly in the traditional literary world, where people are accustomed to sticking together for mutual support.

It left the media outlets that had set up their cameras and microphones, ready to sensationalize the "mentor and protégé" story, completely disappointed, and they didn't even know how to publish their prepared press releases.

"Teacher Kitahara has absolutely no interest in cultivating any literary factions."

At an internal dinner afterwards, Kenichi Sato, holding a wine glass, casually remarked to several colleagues from Shinchosha.

"He took the position of chief judge simply to put the right works in their proper places. Once he did that, his job was done."

"People in the circle always try to use those old, outdated rules to speculate about him, thinking that his insistence on protecting He Linman against all odds must be to cultivate his own power."

Editor-in-Chief Sato shook his head and gave a self-deprecating laugh, saying, "But in fact, from the very beginning, Professor Kitahara never put himself into that framework that needed to be maintained by personal connections."

Sato's remark accurately pierced the blind spot of the traditional literary world.

Those old-school literati never realized that the reason Kitahara Iwa didn't care about any literary factions was because his personal influence had long since overflowed the narrow territory of pure literature.

The timeline moved to late July.

The aftermath of the Akutagawa Prize, the buying frenzy sparked by "Thirst for Water," and the real-life fairy tale of a lowly meter reader's rise to success... these news stories have dominated the culture front pages of major newspapers across Japan over the past week.

And at the center of all these phenomenal events, without any doubt, it all points to the same name.

Northern original rock.

In the current perception of the Japanese public, this name has transcended the simple identity of "novelist" and become a national landmark that has turned ordinary people into celebrities.

People began to talk about his terrifying ability to endorse things:

He casually recommended a song at a book signing event, and that previously unknown song quickly became a hit.

By overcoming opposition on the judging panel, they selected a novel about the lower classes, and this novel was able to directly break the historical sales record for new-generation pure literature.

Even Kitahara Iwao's refusal of Kawabayashi Mitsuru's visit, leaving behind the words "Write your next book well," has been repeatedly chewed over by major media outlets and regarded as the most insightful golden quote in the literary world.

In the public's perception, Kitahara Iwao is no longer just a writer.

It is a coordinate system.

A frame of reference.

An absolute standard: "If he says it's good, it's good; if he doesn't say anything, it means it's not worth mentioning."

And the more this happens, the stronger the public's curiosity about his daily life becomes.

This man, who wields immense influence in the literary world, whose word carries weight on the judging panel, and whose words at book signings can trigger a nationwide buying frenzy... what exactly does he do in his apartment every day?

All the media outlets in Japan wanted to know the answer.

The number of reporters and paparazzi staking out the sidewalks below apartment buildings in the port area has nearly tripled in the past week.

The Weekly Bunshun dispatched two teams to monitor the apartment's main entrance and underground parking garage entrance 24 hours a day.

A photographer from Friday magazine, armed with a professional camera and a 400mm telephoto lens, aimed from the rooftop of the opposite building at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Kitahara Iwa apartment building, attempting to capture even a blurry frame through the gaps in the sheer curtains.

In their imagination, the scene behind that floor-to-ceiling window was probably like this—

The literary luminary sat upright at his mahogany desk, with the manuscript of a monumental work he was currently conceiving laid out before him.

A cup of hand-drip coffee sat beside him, his gaze deep and cold, his mind churning with literary images powerful enough to shake the entire nation of Japan once again.

Or... he's in his study reviewing an important, yet-to-be-published manuscript, writing a comment on the title page with that pen that could change someone's fate.

Regardless of the interpretation, it carries a strong, solemn aura of a "literary master."

however.

Inside those floor-to-ceiling windows that were extremely soundproof...

The scene unfolding right now is about as wide as the Pacific Ocean compared to all of the above-mentioned imaginations.

Kitahara Iwa sat cross-legged on the living room carpet.

Holding a popular magazine with a fat orange cat on the cover in my left hand—the July issue of "Cat Life Guide"—I turned to page thirty-eight, which featured the article "How to Train Kittens to Roll Over."

In his right hand, he held a cat toy with a badminton shuttlecock tied to the front and mint juice applied to the middle.

Kitahara Iwa is trying with utmost seriousness... to get the heterochromatic-eyed kitten in front of him to roll over according to the tutorial in the magazine.

The magazine described the steps as follows: "First, wait until the cat is in a relaxed, side-lying position. Second, slowly slide the cat toy across its upper abdomen. Third, using the cat's instinct to chase objects, guide it to perform a rolling motion."

Kitahara Iwato did it.

The first step is fine... the cat is indeed lying on its side.

The second step was also completed... Kitahara Iwao precisely and slowly moved the cat teaser from left to right across the upper part of the cat's abdomen.

The third step... the cat didn't roll over, and didn't even seem to be chasing after it.

It simply glanced indifferently at Kitahara Iwa with one blue eye and one gold eye... from below.

That look in his eyes screamed: What are you doing?

Then it arrogantly flicked its tail, turned its head to the other side, and faced Kitahara Iwa with the back of its head.

Kitahara Iwa stared at the back of the cat's head for two seconds.

He changed his angle and moved the cat toy from the right side again.

The cat still didn't react.

He tried again.

This time the cat finally moved... but instead of rolling over, it stood up with great elegance, stretched, and then leaped onto the bookshelf in the study.

It landed precisely on Kitahara Iwa's sample copy of the book, then circled around it twice, found the most comfortable spot, curled up in a ball, and closed its eyes.

Its tail rested on the cover of "White Night Walk," swayed rhythmically twice, and then stopped moving.

Seeing this, Kitahara Iwa threw the cat toy onto the sofa, glanced down at the "Cat Life Guide" in his hand, and then looked up at the cat on the bookshelf that was pressing down on "Journey Under the Midnight Sun" with its body.

"...Whatever you want."

Kitahara Iwa threw the magazine onto the sofa, got up and went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

Just then, the landline phone on the coffee table rang.

Kitahara Iwa carried his water glass back to the living room, sat down on the sofa, and casually picked up the landline phone that was ringing incessantly on the coffee table.

"Feed?"

"Teacher Kitahara..."

The voice coming from the other end of the receiver was that of Izumi Sakai.

Upon hearing the first two syllables, Kitahara Iwa's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

Izumi Sakai is not in a good state right now.

Unlike the last time she called to report the good news of her debut, when her voice was so clear and joyful that it almost overflowed from the receiver... this time, her voice was noticeably dry.

This hoarseness is definitely not caused by a cold, but rather a fatigue protest from the vocal cords after several days of intense overexertion.

"The spring? What happened?"

"Um...nothing happened. I just wanted to call you."

Izumi Sakai was trying her best to keep her tone steady.

But for her, this only made things more obvious.

She is a girl who is naturally good at pretending, and her voice shines when she is happy.

Even though she said "I'm fine" at that moment, her weak and inflexible tone had already revealed her deep emotional distress.

Kitahara Iwa placed his water glass on the coffee table, leaned back in the sofa, and asked, "How have you been feeling lately?"

"It's great. The single sold very well, President Nagato arranged a lot of events, and everyone has been very kind to me."

He said "good" three times in a row.

But when these few sentences are put together, they convey a suffocating sense of exhaustion.

However, Kitahara Iwa didn't expose him; he just quietly held the receiver and waited.

At this moment, there was a brief silence on the other end of the phone.

Following the radio waves, one could hear the faint hum of an air conditioner in the background, as well as the indistinct noise outside the corridor... She was probably hiding in a storage room or lounge at Being Records.

A few seconds later.

That barely-there facade of stability has finally crumbled.

"Teacher Kitahara..."

Sakai Izumi's voice lowered, and she said softly, "I feel like something's not right with me lately."

"Something's not right?"

"that is……"

Izumi Sakai paused for a moment, her tone filled with confusion and helplessness as she said, "I just wanted to sing quietly."

"But now, every day when I open my eyes, it's just endless interviews, photo shoots, commercial performances, and autograph sessions. My schedule is packed from nine in the morning until eleven at night, and I even have to eat a couple of bites of rice balls in the moving van."

"Everyone is congratulating me, asking me what it feels like to become famous, and praising how well the CDs are selling."

Izumi Sakai paused for a long time before continuing, "But no one has asked me—whether I've been singing well lately."

Following the sound of breathing coming through the receiver, his voice began to tremble slightly.

"I haven't been to a recording studio for nine whole days."

"Nine days. Kitahara-sensei, I'm a singer, but I haven't sung a song completely in nine days."

"Every day, the first thing I do when I open my eyes is to force a smile at the camera, recite 'Thank you for your support' into the microphone, and sign my name on hundreds of album covers until my fingers cramp up..."

"I feel like I'm getting further and further away from real music."