Chapter 143 Beiyuan, don't do anything foolish.

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The news reached Japan in the early morning Tokyo time.

Foreign correspondents from major mainstream media outlets such as the Yomiuri Shimbun and Asahi Shimbun sent this historic news back to Japan almost simultaneously.

At 7:00 AM, the extra editions of major morning newspapers and the scrolling news feeds were all completely dominated by the same explosive news: "Kitahara Iwao defeats European contenders to win the CWA Golden Dagger Award! For the first time, an Asian author has reached the pinnacle of world crime literature!"

It started as a brief moment of disbelief, followed by a frenzy that swept across Japan.

For the Japanese literary world, this is not just a victory in an award, but a great breakthrough that has shattered a century-old cultural barrier.

Countless readers bought out the newspapers on their commutes, long queues formed at bookstores before they even opened, and major television stations broadcast footage of Kitahara Iwao accepting the award repeatedly.

The entire nation was filled with immense pride and a sense of triumph that morning.

However, this pure joy belonging to the victor lasted for less than half a day.

In the afternoon, the special correspondents in London translated Sir Richard's original words on the late-night television program, along with the "conspiracy theories" and "behind-the-scenes stories" put forward by European conservatives, into Japanese overnight and sent them back to the Tokyo editorial office as an urgent report.

When the evening paper hit the market, the bold headline in the lower right corner of the front page was like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing the jubilation of the Japanese: "British conservative knight publicly denigrates Kitahara Iwa... calling the awarding of the Golden Dagger Prize a 'politically correct trick' and a 'soulless circus act,' and questioning whether there was any behind-the-scenes manipulation."

This time, the reaction within Japan was completely different from the jubilation of the morning.

What swept across Japan was an extremely strong, and collective, outrage.

This indignation was extremely profound, because it had long since transcended mere support for a domestic writer.

For a long time, Japanese and even Asian literature as a whole has inevitably been in a state of being scrutinized and looked down upon when faced with the lofty Eurocentrism.

Today, as European conservatives attempt to obliterate a fair and square victory with the most blatant arrogance...

The humiliation of being treated as a cultural marginal for so long finally erupted in its most thorough and complete form after hitting rock bottom.

The Asahi Shimbun's opinion column the following day used a highly aggressive headline: "The Sore Mouth of the Jazz: A Century of Arrogance in European Conservative Literature Has Finally Torn Off Its Decent Pretense."

The Daily News, however, approached the issue from a different angle: "What does Sir Richard's attack reveal? — The panic when Eurocentrism faces a devastating blow from Asian texts."

Today, the Japanese literary criticism community, where critics who usually dislike each other and fight fiercely for a little bit of discourse power, have formed an extremely strong united front on this matter.

They used different wording in their respective columns to express the same meaning:

Kitahara Iwa didn't obtain that golden dagger through any charity, but rather through the impeccable textual quality of "Confessions," fighting his way out of the most rigorous blind censorship.

Sir Richard, in turn, questioned the highest authority of his own camp simply because the result did not conform to his outdated prejudice that "European literature must be ruled by Europeans."

This is no longer literary criticism, but rather a desperate attack by the defeated.

The readers' reactions were even more direct and shocking.

In Tokyo, Osaka, Nagoya, Kyoto… almost all large and medium-sized bookstores across Japan spontaneously witnessed a moving scene that afternoon. Readers not only bought out all the stock of "Confessions" in the bookstores, but also began to spontaneously post posters in prominent locations to support Kitahara Iwao.

Some posters were handwritten on cardboard: "We support Professor Kitahara! Sir Richard's arrogance cannot represent true literature!"

Some were exquisite posters that readers paid for to be printed overnight at a printing shop, printed with Kitahara Iwao's calm yet powerful rebuttal at the awards ceremony:

"The depth of literature has never depended on geographical coordinates."

That afternoon, the phrase spread throughout bookstores and literature enthusiast circles across Japan, and even transcended social circles to become a phenomenon-level slogan.

Kitahara Iwa, a name that was merely "a literary master" a few days ago, was propelled to a completely new level on this single day.

Under the arrogance and pressure of European conservatives, he became a banner, a banner representing "Japanese literature will never succumb to prejudice" and fighting to the death with absolute textual strength.

The Savoy Hotel, London.

There are less than 24 hours left before the scheduled flight back to Japan departs.

Kenichi Sato, holding two first-class tickets with confirmed itineraries, knocked on Kitahara Iwao's door.

At this point, public opinion in Japan was in an uproar, with all media outlets and readers eagerly awaiting the triumphant return of this "national cultural hero" wielding the golden dagger.

Editor-in-Chief Sato had even contacted Shinchosha's public relations department in advance to arrange a grand welcoming ceremony at Narita Airport.

"Teacher Kitahara, my flight is at 10 a.m. tomorrow."

Suppressing his excitement, Editor-in-Chief Sato reported to his supervisor, "Everything has been arranged back home. As soon as you land..."

"Cancel my plane ticket, Editor-in-Chief Sato."

Kitahara Iwa sat at his desk without turning his head.

Beside him lay the stack of original manuscript papers from the night before, the opening lines of which he had already written.

Upon hearing this, Editor-in-Chief Sato was stunned, and the long speech he had prepared got stuck in his throat.

"...You're not going back?"

"Yes. I'll stay in London for now."

"But readers back home are waiting for you to return and speak out. Sir Richard's remarks have already sparked outrage throughout Japan. If you were to step in at this time..."

"It is the media's job to speak out and fight back."

Kitahara Iwa put down his pen, turned to Sato Kenichi, and said, "And a writer's job is simply to write."

Sato Kenichi paused for a moment, then followed Kitahara Iwa's gaze to the stack of manuscript paper on the desk, which already had several pages of writing on it.

As a seasoned editor-in-chief, Kenichi Sato suddenly understood when he saw the fountain pen with the cap still on.

At this moment when public opinion has pushed him to the forefront, returning to Tokyo to receive flowers and support would undoubtedly be the most comfortable choice.

But Kitahara Iwao clearly didn't intend to do that. Instead, he chose to stay in the eye of the storm and use his only and sharpest weapon... a new text, to write an irrefutable conclusion to this debate about pride and prejudice.

"...What do you need me to do?"

Thinking of this, Kenichi Sato stopped trying to dissuade him and immediately switched back to his role as a professional editor.

Kitahara Iwao simply picked up the notepad on the table, unscrewed the pen, and quickly wrote down a list.

"Help me gather this information."

Kitahara Iwa handed over the note he had written, saying: "Historical archives and architectural drawings of private boarding schools in rural England in the second half of the 20th century, as well as topographical and landscape maps of rural England—particularly East Sussex."

"The more detailed the better, ideally including some real-life records and old photos of the students at that time."

Kitahara Iwa paused, then added, "Also, find me a quiet apartment nearby that can hold all these documents. Don't worry about the view or orientation, just a large enough desk. Nothing else matters."

Kenichi Sato has always been extremely efficient.

After confirming Kitahara Iwao's intentions, he immediately mobilized all of Shinchosha's publishing resources and copyright agents in London.

That evening, he not only rented an extremely quiet duplex apartment on the edge of Westminster, but also scoured through various channels, collecting three large boxes of English documents and picture books from local public libraries, secondhand bookstores, and the archives of several old schools.

There was no celebration, nor did they heed the uproar caused by Sir Richard's remarks.

The moment Kitahara Iwa moved into the apartment, he began unpacking and organizing the heavy documents.

The large solid wood desk was quickly covered with yellowed maps of the English countryside, old black-and-white photos of boarding schools, and even several photocopies of English student diaries from the last century.

A musty, time-worn scent, unique to old paper, gradually filled the air.

Outside the window, London was experiencing a continuous, cold, and rainy night.

Inside the window was a table lamp emitting a warm yellow light.

Kitahara Iwa sat down at his desk, his fingertips gently tracing the image of children in English school uniforms running under a gloomy sky in an old photograph.

Kitahara Iwao then placed the stack of original manuscripts neatly in the center of the mountain of British historical materials.

Then, I unscrewed the pen cap and, in the complete silence of the room, quietly began to write.

The news that Kitahara Iwao is currently staying in London to write behind closed doors is being strictly kept under wraps within a very small circle.

Apart from Kenichi Sato, only three titans of European literature—Colin, Arthur, and Ian—knew the inside story.

However, when Colin learned that Kitahara Iwa not only did not return to his country to avoid the storm, but instead planned to use a pure British novel as a counterattack in this riverside apartment, he did not feel excited, but instead felt a deep worry.

During a private coffee meeting with Kenichi Sato, the CWA chairman couldn't help but pour out his grievances.

"I completely understand how Kitahara was hurt. Sir Richard's remarks were extremely harsh; they were not only an attack on him but also an insult to the professionalism of our entire judging panel."

"I completely understand how Kitahara was hurt. Sir Richard's remarks were extremely harsh; they were not only an attack on him but also an insult to the professionalism of our entire judging panel."

Colin stirred his coffee, his expression grave. “But Mr. Sato, if I may be so bold… to use a new book to retaliate against those conservatives, especially one that attempts to touch their core bottom line and depict the state of England, is far too risky, even reckless.”

Kenichi Sato paused for a moment, then asked, "You mean... Kitahara-sensei can't write well?"

"No, his talent is beyond question."

Colin shook his head and sighed, "But talent is not the same as cultural immersion."

"The unique quality of British literature... its restraint, its gloom, its 'sorrow beneath the surface'... can only be naturally revealed by someone who has lived on this land all their life and been immersed in the mist and continuous rain of the Thames."

Colin looked out the window at the streets of London and added, "If he tries to force a British story into a Japanese style, no matter how good the suspense or how profound the theme, the 'texture' of the writing will betray him."

"If Richard and his gang were to reveal even the slightest trace of Eastern narrative habits, they would pounce like sharks smelling blood. They would declare in the most arrogant tone: 'See, he has always been an outsider who doesn't understand our souls.'"

"So I'm worried that his counterattack this time will not only be ineffective, but will also destroy the reputation he just built with 'Confessions'."

Although Kenichi Sato didn't have a deep appreciation for European literature, Colin's concerns hit him like a hammer blow, making him worry as well.

Back at his apartment near Westminster Bridge, Sato relayed Colin's words verbatim, even with a slightly tactful touch, to Kitahara Iwao.

At this point, a full week had passed since Kitahara Iwa moved into the apartment.

On the large desk, thick stacks of British documents were worn and frayed from being turned over.

Kitahara Iwa was sitting by the window, having just put down his pen.

After listening to Sato's retelling, Kitahara Iwa remained calm, neither offended by Colin's "fog theory" nor offering a lengthy explanation of his own background.

Kitahara Iwa simply and quietly tidied up the stack of manuscript paper on the table, which was already covered with writing.

"Please contact Chairman Colin, Professor Arthur, and Mr. Ian for me."

Kitahara Iwa placed the heavy stack of manuscripts on the table and began to speak in a calm tone.

Kenichi Sato paused for a moment, then asked, "Now?"

"Um."

Kitahara Iwa glanced at the grey Thames River outside the window and said calmly, "Ask them to put aside what they're doing for now. Tell them I have something I'd like them to see."

more than three hours later.

Three heavyweights in the British literary world—Colin, chairman of CWA; Arthur, a senior professor at Oxford; and Ian, a titan of translation—gathered in the riverside apartment rented by Kitahara Iwao.

Upon entering, a hint of worry flashed in the eyes of the three old-school intellectuals as they looked at the mountain of British local gazetteers and historical documents piled up in the room.

"Kitahara, Sato has already told us your thoughts."

Professor Arthur, without even taking off his coat, spoke first with earnestness: "Listen, we all understand that you have been greatly offended."

"But Sir Richard's deep-seated prejudice cannot be reversed by you alone in a day or two."

"You are a mature writer. You must not act impulsively and go to fight in an away game where others have set the rules."

"That's right."

Ian chimed in with a serious expression, "Trying to construct a purely British story using Japanese presents a very deep cultural barrier."

"No matter how much research you do, if your writing reveals even a trace of Eastern narrative style, it will become a weapon for them to attack you."

Chairman Colin frowned, preparing to continue dissuading the talented but "too impulsive" young man by citing the harsh realities of the European publishing market.

But Kitahara Iwa didn't refute it. He simply picked up the stack of Japanese manuscripts, whose ink seemed not to be completely dry, and two pre-printed copies from the desk with a calm expression, and handed them over with both hands.

"Three seniors."

Kitahara Iwao slowly said, "Before you try to convince me to give up, please take a look at this."

Arthur and Ian exchanged a glance, sighed helplessly, and took the original Japanese manuscript.

Initially, the two translation masters simply lowered their heads with a scrutinizing mindset of "finding faults in the young writer and discouraging him from further difficulties."

However, this was only after glancing at the first few paragraphs of the first page.

The slightly admonitory atmosphere in the apartment quietly came to a standstill.

Ian, who had been leaning against the back of the sofa, straightened up slightly, and the slight helplessness on his face disappeared, replaced by a look of slightly surprised scrutiny.

Professor Arthur's reaction was equally restrained.

The old scholar did not show any dramatic shock, but the words he was about to say to dissuade him naturally went back into his throat.

He subconsciously took out his reading glasses from his pocket and put them on, and his previously rapid scanning gaze became noticeably calmer.

For these two top scholars who had spent their entire lives reading original manuscripts, there was no need to see any dramatic plot twists.

The very first few hundred words, with their linguistic feel and syntactic structure, were enough for them to keenly perceive that... there was none of the "forced Japanese translation style" they had expected in this Japanese manuscript.

There were no gasps or exaggerated movements.

But the way the two of them suddenly switched from "advice from elders" to the focused state of "extremely professional reviewers" completely stunned Colin, who was waiting for them to continue speaking.

Because he didn't understand Japanese, his hands were empty.

The CWA chairman, who was used to being in control, was now like an outsider isolated at the door.

"What's wrong? What problem does it say on the document?"

Colin glanced at Arthur, then at Ian, and realized that the two were completely absorbed in the power of the words and had no time to pay attention to him.

Colin, who is usually extremely gentlemanly, was so anxious at this moment that he even broke down a little.

He paced anxiously between the narrow desk and the fireplace, finally reaching out to pat Arthur's arm, his voice filled with desperate urgency: "God! You two, stop staring like you've seen some medieval ghost! What's written here? Don't keep me in the dark!"

Professor Arthur was jolted awake by Colin's shaking and looked up as if from a dream.

He glanced at the anxious Colin beside him, then looked deeply at Kitahara Iwa sitting opposite him with an extremely complex gaze.

"Colin... be quiet."

Professor Arthur took a deep breath and said, "I'll interpret for you right now."

Ian sat to the side, his eyes fixed on the Japanese copy in his hand, occasionally jotting down the correspondences of words in his notebook, his expression growing increasingly serious.

Colin picked up a cup of black tea from the coffee table. From the moment he heard the first sentence, he had stood up from the sofa. He walked to the fireplace, his posture becoming increasingly tense as Arthur's deep translating voice filled the air.

At the beginning of the first chapter, Professor Arthur, in perfect London accent, translated the seemingly mundane opening line: "My name is Casey H. I am thirty-one years old and have been a caregiver for over eleven years."

The moment Arthur translated those words, Colin, standing by the fireplace, paused slightly in his teacup.

This is not because Arthur's translation skills are particularly brilliant.

On the contrary, it's the tone, rhythm, and the way the sentence is spoken in English that are so precise it's chilling.

What impressed Ian and Arthur, two top translators, the most was the quality of Kitahara Iwao's original Japanese text.

When Kitahara Iwao wrote in Japanese, he completely abandoned the pathos and complex rhetoric common in Japanese literature, and instead adopted an extremely restrained and cold syntax.

When this high-density Japanese syntax is translated into English, it requires almost no localized translation, naturally generating an English style that is damp, cold, and has a classical English country feel.

It possesses an inimitable core British quality... that kind of "I can tell you anything, but I don't intend to shed a tear" silence, using gentlemanly decorum to tightly wrap up an unfathomable sorrow.

As Arthur's interpretation continued.

Casey calmly recalled her life at Haytham School. The neatly trimmed holly hedges, the afternoons playing football under the gray sky.

Tommy has a bad temper, and Ruth is extremely possessive.

Everything was extremely ordinary, extremely British, and extremely warm.

But amidst these heartwarming descriptions of everyday life, every few paragraphs, a chilling statement slips out as if unintentionally: "Of course, at that time we didn't fully understand what 'donation' really meant."

"The lady's attitude toward us made us realize very early on that there was something we shouldn't have known."

"Our paintings will be taken away. We never know where they will be taken."

These understated sentences, devoid of any emotion, are embedded in those warm memories of youth and school.

There is no deliberately exaggerated horror, and no gory words.

But Colin, standing by the fireplace, felt a chill run down his spine the more he listened.

As a seasoned reader, he astutely pieced together a suffocating truth from these fragmented clues: these children who grew up in the English countryside were not ordinary people.

That picturesque boarding school was actually a secluded "farm".

And the extremely ordinary "donation" that Casey mentioned was by no means a noble metaphor.

It is organ removal in the literal sense, a death procedure that is predetermined for these young people from birth, devoid of dignity and absolutely irreversible.

What's most terrifying is that the narrator in the novel has no complaints about this fate, as calmly as if he were talking about tomorrow's weather.

Oogami Kiichi joins the platform with his new work, "Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s"!