Chapter 141 Golden Dagger Award Winner, Kitahara Iwa!

After a few more brief exchanges, the string ensemble in the center of the hall suddenly changed to a more ceremonial piece.

Then, waiters wearing white gloves began to move through the crowd, quietly reminding the guests that the dinner was about to begin.

"It seems we must excuse ourselves now. We look forward to the discussion after the ceremony."

Arthur and Ian raised their glasses and nodded slightly to Kitahara Iwao and Editor-in-Chief Sato in farewell, then turned and walked to the front row seats belonging to the jury and special guests.

Kitahara Iwao, accompanied by Sato Kenichi, walked towards the round table belonging to the Shincho-sha, guided by a waiter.

As more than a hundred guests took their seats, the banquet proceeded smoothly.

The soft clinking of cutlery against porcelain plates mingled with the hushed conversations of European elites.

This continued until the dinner was halfway through.

The crystal chandelier on the dome gradually dimmed, and the conversation in the hall quieted down.

The awards ceremony is now officially beginning.

CWA's current president, Colin, straightened his suit and steadily walked onto the stage.

He began with a brief and appropriate opening, reviewing the development of European crime literature over the past year, before proceeding with the well-organized awards ceremony.

The atmosphere in the hall gradually heated up as each award was announced.

The first award presented was the "John Cressy New Blood Dagger Award," which aims to encourage emerging writers.

Subsequently, the "History Dagger Award" also welcomed its owner.

Amidst waves of polite applause, the award-winning European writers took to the stage one after another, delivering acceptance speeches imbued with British humor or French romance.

Following that, Colin announced the winner of the "Nonfiction Crime Dagger Award".

The prize was unsurprisingly awarded to a highly respected veteran critic, Sir Richard, in recognition of his collection of reviews published this year on the origins of classical European crime literature.

Sir Richard straightened his tailcoat and walked onto the stage amidst enthusiastic applause.

He then accepted the trophy, his gaze intentionally or unintentionally sweeping across the crowd toward the corner where Kitahara Iwa was.

"We live in an era where we are easily misled by novelty."

Richard, trophy in hand, spoke through the microphone, his voice carrying his usual arrogance and condescension: "In the face of commercialization, there are always some exotic, ingenious toys that cater to people's curiosity and attempt to infiltrate the halls of fame."

"But this trophy reminds me, and everyone here... that it is our inescapable responsibility as European writers to defend the foundation of orthodox literature that has been built up over hundreds of years."

As Sir Richard finished speaking, a tacit applause and soft laughter rang out from the audience.

All eyes turned to Kitahara Iwao and Editor-in-Chief Sato, because everyone in the hall knew who Sir Richard was referring to as the "exquisite toy in exotic clothing".

When Sir Richard walked off the stage, he deliberately took a short detour, passing by the edge of the round table where Kitahara Iwao and Sato Kenichi were.

Then, in the instant they brushed past each other, Sir Richard, in a voice only those at the table could hear, returned verbatim what Kitahara Iwa had said to him not long ago:

"It seems that time has already given its first answer in this hall."

"Mr. Kitahara, enjoy your night as an 'audience member'."

Upon hearing this, Kenichi Sato trembled with anger, his hands clenched tightly on his knees, but he couldn't lash out because of the occasion.

Richard's actions were like a starting gun, causing the European celebrities at the surrounding tables, who had been maintaining a facade of politeness, to completely let down their guard.

"He really thought he could get a place in this hall of fame."

A German bestselling author sitting at the next table swirled his wine glass and said with undisguised sarcasm, "To get a nomination in the finals, Shincho Publishing must have already spent all its public relations budget."

"Sir Richard's words, though harsh, were quite apt."

Another British publisher chimed in with a laugh, "In their Far Eastern parlance, it's called overestimating yourself. An expensive weekend in London is enough; don't get your hopes up about honors that aren't yours."

These low jeers, accompanied by the clinking of knives and forks, surged towards the round table in the corner like a tide.

Just as Kenichi Sato felt like he was suffocating, two figures crossed the corridor.

Arthur and Ian, who were originally sitting in the front row of VIP seats, noticed Richard's targeted and deliberate detour, as well as the xenophobic atmosphere that gradually spread around them.

These two highly respected figures in the British literary world walked directly to Kitahara Iwa's table, wine glasses in hand, ignoring the surprised looks around them.

"Don't take his arrogance to heart, Kitahara."

Arthur Pendleton placed his hand on the back of Kitahara Iwao's chair and said in a gentle but loud voice that everyone around could hear, "Richard has never represented true literature. All his words and actions were nothing more than protecting his fragile self-esteem and venting his ecstasy and obsession at finally winning this award after so many years."

"Your text doesn't need a consolation prize for nonfiction to prove itself."

Meanwhile, Ian Smith, standing to the side, loosened his tie in frustration, making no attempt to hide the anger in his eyes: "If tonight's jury is truly swayed by Richard and his group of conservatives, using the awards as a tool to protect European heritage, it would be a disgrace to the entire publishing industry!"

With the personal endorsement of these two heavyweight figures, the harsh mocking voices around them immediately subsided.

With the personal endorsement of these two heavyweight figures, the harsh mocking voices around them immediately subsided.

But that deeply ingrained atmosphere of oppression did not disappear; instead, it reached its peak during the penultimate highlight—the announcement of the "International Dagger Award."

In the eyes of the vast majority of European critics and publishers present, this is the only ceiling that Kitahara Iwao's "Eastern suspense novel" could possibly reach.

"It's time to award the International Dagger Award."

A French independent publisher at the next table swirled his half-empty glass of red wine and whispered to his companion, "If that young Japanese man can take anything away tonight, it'll be this award. After all, the word 'international' carries a certain connotation of appeasing non-English speaking outsiders."

"This is indeed the award he is most likely to win."

His companion glanced in Kitahara Iwa's direction and whispered in agreement, "But to be honest, I still think they're dreaming. That veteran from Northern Europe has been a runner-up for this award for three whole years. No matter how you look at seniority, it's the Swede's turn tonight."

This is not only a consensus among Europeans, but also a reality that Kenichi Sato is well aware of.

As the presenter walked onto the stage with the golden envelope, Kenichi Sato took a deep breath, then tugged at his sweat-soaked shirt collar, leaning forward slightly involuntarily, and said in a low voice to Kitahara Iwa beside him, "Kitahara-sensei... this is it."

At this moment, Sato's voice trembled slightly, revealing immense pressure, as he said, "The International Dagger Award. Based on historical data and judging criteria, this is the award we are most likely to receive, and almost the only one."

He stared intently at the unopened envelope on the stage, a hint of bloodshot appearing in his eyes: "To secure this nomination, Shinchosha mobilized almost all of its overseas public relations resources."

"If we can't even win this award, then our trip to London, which spanned half the globe, will truly be a complete waste of money and a laughing stock."

This is Kenichi Sato's last trump card tonight, and the lifeline that the entire Japanese literary world is desperately hoping for.

"Um."

Hearing Sato Kenichi's words, Kitahara Iwa nodded.

however.

When the award presenter opened the envelope in front of the microphone and read out the final results with a smile.

The name that was pronounced did not belong to Japan, nor to Kitahara Iwa.

The winner was a Swedish crime novel, and the winner was the same veteran author they had just been discussing who had been working in the Nordic region for over twenty years.

The hall immediately erupted in enthusiastic applause, which carried a sense of "it was only right."

Amid the applause, the European writers, who had just fallen silent, began whispering among themselves again.

"The suspense is over."

The French book critic, holding his wine glass, glanced at Kitahara Iwa out of the corner of his eye and sneered, "I told you, even with Professor Arthur's endorsement, the jury wouldn't be crazy enough to give the top prize to an Asian novel, let alone an international one."

"Getting a nomination is already a huge blessing for them. Richard is right, they really are just exotic toys."

Listening to those trivial discussions that seemed to have reached a definitive conclusion, Kenichi Sato let out a long sigh.

The nerve that had been taut all night snapped instantly, and his entire shoulder slumped.

He gave a bitter smile, feeling that his trip to London, which had taken him halfway around the world, was finally over.

"This is utterly absurd!"

Standing by the table, Ian stared intently at the winner on the stage, his voice filled with suppressed astonishment and resentment.

The old-fashioned intellectual gripped his wine glass tightly with anger: "I've read the English translation of that Swedish novel; it is indeed a solid standard reading."

"But compared to Confessions? These two works are not even on the same level! There must be some mistake here. Have those guys on the judging panel lost even the most basic sense of appreciation?"

"Calm down, Ian."

Professor Arthur patted his old friend's arm.

Despite his efforts to maintain the dignity of an old-fashioned scholar, the deep disappointment and heartache in his eyes could not be concealed.

He turned to look at Kitahara Iwa, who was still sitting in his seat, and said reassuringly, "Kitahara, please believe me, this is by no means a failure of the writing itself. It is the most outdated xenophobic mechanism in the European literary world at work."

"I never imagined they would rather bestow the honor upon a mediocre, familiar face than lower their proud heads to accept a revolutionary greatness."

"The problem isn't 'Confessions,' but this temple that's been blinded by prejudice."

Faced with the indignation and regret of the two translation masters, Kitahara Iwao turned around, looked at the two elderly people with their eyes full of heartache, and said calmly, "Seniors, there is no need for you to feel sorry for me."

Kitahara Iwa's tone was devoid of any reluctance or bitterness, revealing a clear and composed demeanor.

"The barriers of arrogance cannot be broken down overnight. The life of words exists independently from the moment they are put to paper; awards are merely footnotes from the outside world."

"Since one work isn't enough to completely win over this hall, then let's use the next one to tear it down."

Upon hearing these words, Arthur and Ian were both stunned.

They looked at the young Asian writer before them.

Despite suffering such unfair treatment and even being collectively ostracized by the European literary world, Kitahara Iwao's eyes showed not humiliation or resentment, but rather a deep and unfathomable certainty.

This purity, which transcends the gains and losses of awards and is solely responsible for literature itself, deeply shocked the two well-informed old-school writers.

The two exchanged a glance, both reading confirmation in each other's eyes... This young man's talent and character were far from reaching their limits.

Given time, he will surely write an even more dominant and timeless masterpiece.

"You're right, Kitahara. True literature shouldn't be defined by trophies."

Professor Arthur took a deep breath, his previously dejected gaze sharpening once more. He then raised his glass and solemnly promised, "But we cannot allow this prejudice to run rampant."

"After tonight's awards ceremony, Ian and I will jointly publish our thoughts in the Times' literary column. We will let the entire European literary world know just how great a masterpiece they missed tonight."

"We would not hesitate to fight a war of words with the entire Royal Society of Literature."

Ian also firmly echoed this sentiment from the side.

"Thank you. We appreciate your help."

Kitahara Iwa nodded to the two senior colleagues who had given him their unwavering support, expressing his sincere gratitude.

Then, Kitahara Iwa turned his attention back to the stage directly in front of him.

Looking at the Swedish writer on stage, his face beaming, Kitahara Iwao joined the crowd in clapping. His applause was perfectly timed, blending naturally into the jubilation of the victors, without revealing the slightest hint of dejection from the losers.

He was neither angered by Richard's mockery nor swayed by the disdain of those around him.

After the elderly Swedish writer finished his five-minute speech and stepped down from the stage, the atmosphere at the banquet reached a strange critical point.

Now only one award remains.

The "Golden Dagger Award," the undisputed highest honor of the entire event and representing the pinnacle of English crime literature, was firmly reserved for last.

Of the more than 150 European elites present, none of them felt that this award had anything to do with Kitahara Iwao, not even editor-in-chief Sato, Arthur, and Ian.

In their minds, Kitahara Iwa's role as a runner-up had officially ended a second ago.

Under everyone's watchful eyes, Chairman Colin once again stepped in front of the microphone.

The relaxed social atmosphere in the hall became solemn again because of the arrival of this prestigious award.

"Before announcing the final awards tonight, I'd like to talk about 'fear'."

Colin stood behind the podium, his gaze sweeping across the room, and slowly began to speak: "We've been immersed in this field for decades, and we thought we'd seen all forms of malice."

"We are accustomed to classical tragedies, to ingenious tricks, and even to packaging evil as an aesthetic." .

Sir Richard, sitting in the audience, straightened his back slightly, exuding the arrogance that was taken for granted by traditional European intellectuals.

But this year, one work completely shattered our composure.

Colin stood under the spotlight, pulled a card from a golden envelope, and said slowly, "It didn't seek recognition from our traditions, nor did it try to please the judges with any clever exoticism."

"On the contrary, it is more like an inescapable mirror, ignoring all cultural barriers and directly piercing through the shell of our proud civilization. It tells us with a chilling calmness just how desolate humanity can become beneath this seemingly orderly modern society."

As Colin finished speaking, the hall fell silent, but after a brief silence, slight commotion and glances arose around several round tables.

The European writers and critics present exchanged glances, their minds racing as they searched for the works on the shortlist.

"Which book is he referring to? Has any veteran local writer tackled this kind of barrier-breaking subject matter this year?"

"Could it be that Colin picked up the wrong award citation card? There don't seem to be any European novels on the shortlist that fit this description."

This almost revolutionary and extremely high praise makes it impossible for them to compare it with any of the nominated mainstream crime novels.

As for the "Oriental exotic toy" that they had already ruled out in their minds, it was not even on their radar, and they hadn't even glanced at the manuscript.

At this moment, Kenichi Sato was still looking down dejectedly.

Even though he heard Colin's resounding award speech, his nerves had already become dulled in a self-protective state due to the disappointment of missing out on the international award.

He even wondered, in a daze, which lucky person in the European literary world could receive such unreserved praise from the chairman of the jury.

Listening to the discussions of the crowd below, Colin took a deep breath and then held up the name on the card to the light.

An aged yet incredibly penetrating voice echoed beneath the dome of the hall: "The winner of this year's CWA Golden Dagger Award is—a translation of the Japanese novel, Kitahara Iwao, 'Confessions'."

At that moment, the expressions on the faces of the European critics and top publishers sitting in the front row collectively froze.

Sir Richard remained seated, his wine glass tilting slightly, the cold liquid wetting the cuffs of his tuxedo, but he was completely unaware.

In this highest hall, which has been dominated by European languages ​​for more than half a century, Kitahara Iwa, which they labeled as "commercial" and "curiosity," unexpectedly shattered everyone's expectations.

"This is impossible..."

It is unknown who uttered the first incredulous murmur in the dead silence.

"Why was the Golden Dagger awarded to an Asian novel? Was there a mistake in the list?"

These few whispered words, suppressing a sense of astonishment and absurdity, sounded exceptionally clear in the frozen air.

Several self-important European conservative writers even leaned forward, trying to find the same skepticism in the eyes of their companions.

Faced with these questions, which were mixed with arrogance and resentment, the judges sitting in the core seats in the front row did not remain silent.

A seasoned British judge turned to the several bewildered bestselling authors behind him and said seriously, "There is no mistake. Gentlemen, put away your prejudices."

"This is a masterpiece that is impeccable in both narrative structure and intellectual depth, and it is fully worthy of the weight of this golden dagger."

Another French female judge added without hesitation: "If we reject this work tonight because of regional differences, it would be a disgrace to the entire European critical community."

The judges' expressions provided the most irrefutable endorsement for this unprecedented exception, silencing any doubts raised in the hall.

"Slap. Slap."

After a brief pause, Professor Arthur, with his full head of white hair, pushed back his chair and stood up.

Ignoring the complicated gazes around him, he and Ian beside him calmly began to clap their hands.

Next up was the French female writer diagonally across from her.

These crisp claps were like the first crack opened on the ice.

In a short while, applause erupted in waves throughout the hall.

Even the conservatives who still harbored doubts and obsessions maintained their composure and politely offered applause in the face of the golden dagger's absolute authority.

There may still be some bewilderment left, but more importantly, there is a compromise and acceptance of the text itself.

As the spotlights converged, Kitahara Iwao calmly stood up, and then, under the excited gaze of Sato Kenichi, whose eyes were red with emotion, he turned and walked towards the dazzling stage.

The European celebrities on both sides of the aisle subconsciously shifted half a body length to the side.

Kitahara Iwa walked at a leisurely pace.

As he passed the publishers who had just been whispering and mocking him, and the stiff-faced Sir Richard.

Kitahara Iwa didn't deliberately turn his head to look at anyone's reaction, nor did he show the smug look that is common among victors.

He simply maintained his usual composure and quietly walked towards the podium, which originally did not belong to Asian writers.

Under everyone's watchful eyes, Kitahara Iwatsu received the heavy golden dagger from Colin.

Then the applause in the hall gradually subsided.

Countless eyes were fixed on Kitahara Iwa's young face, waiting for him to lose control of his emotions or launch a sharp counterattack.

But Kitahara Iwao simply stood quietly in front of the microphone, holding the trophy in one hand, his gaze calmly sweeping over the European elites with their varied expressions below the stage, and slowly said, "As I said before, the depth of literature has never depended on the geographical coordinates of the creator."

"Only absolute honesty about human nature can touch the soul."

"Confessions is not an exotic Eastern revenge tale. It explores the extreme evil that humanity can breed in the vacuum of despair when the boundaries of modern civilization and morality fail."

Kitahara Iwao's gaze swept over the crowd, his tone steady yet carrying an undeniable penetrating power: "I sincerely invite everyone here to personally open this book. Not to examine a Far Eastern story from an outsider's perspective, but to treat it as a mirror belonging to all humanity, to confront our shared weaknesses and fears."

Then, Kitahara Iwa turned his gaze to the two elderly people sitting in the front row.

"Here, I must also pay my deepest respects to Professor Arthur and Mr. Ian. It is the rigorous and great efforts of these two translators that have broken down the hard language barrier, allowing these words to retain their sharpness intact."

As he finished speaking, Kitahara Iwa bowed slightly to the audience.

The next second, a wave of applause, even purer and more resounding than when the awards were announced, swept across the entire venue.

If the previous applause carried a hint of polite formality, then at this moment, faced with this soul-stirring speech, many arrogant European intellectuals finally showed genuine respect.

As Kitahara Iwa stepped off the stage, Sato Kenichi, who was standing by the steps, was already flushed with excitement, his fists clenched tightly, and he couldn't even utter a complete sentence.

"Well done, Mr. Kitahara."

Colin, Ian, and Professor Arthur walked over together.

Colin looked at Kitahara Iwa with admiration in his eyes. Ignoring the complex expressions of his colleagues, he extended an invitation directly: "I think it would be a dereliction of duty of mine not to invite this newly crowned Golden Dagger winner for a drink tonight. Arthur, Ian, how about we go to the hotel's private bar?"

Arthur laughed and patted Kitahara Iwa on the shoulder, saying, "Of course, I've been waiting for this moment for a long time."

Sensing the other party's genuine goodwill, Kitahara Iwa nodded and smiled, saying, "Then let's set off now!"