"Professor Yamada…"
"Who are that boy and girl behind him?"
"So young…"
Whispers rippled through the hall.
No wonder—the boy following Professor Yamada looked far too young, barely out of high school.
But this literary salon had only invited rising authors—the youngest of whom was twenty-seven.
The age gap made no sense at all.
"Yamada, who's this young friend of yours?" asked an elderly professor with gold-rimmed glasses and a gentle air of refinement.
"Haha, Aoki, let me introduce him properly."
Yamada was clearly in a buoyant mood. He patted Seiji Fujiwara on the shoulder and announced proudly, "This is the young man I told you all about last night—the one who just won the Edogawa Ranpo Prize, Seiji Fujiwara!"
"Oh? So he's Fujiwara-kun!"
"Truly, a hero born of youth!"
"He looks even younger and sharper than in the newspapers!"
Aoki and several other literary veterans immediately smiled with genuine warmth. They all came forward to shake hands, their praise overflowing.
"Fujiwara-kun, we all read After School. That ending twist was absolutely brilliant—sheer genius!"
"Indeed, to use a mystery format to explore themes like bullying and human redemption—it's remarkably profound for your age!"
"I've reread it multiple times. It's endlessly fascinating!"
Meanwhile, at the other end of the hall, the so-called rising stars of the literary world exploded in disbelief.
"What?! He's Seiji Fujiwara?!"
"He really is that young!"
"Yeah, when I first read the news, I couldn't believe it—he's only eighteen!"
"Eighteen, and already a Ranpo Prize winner! Unheard of!"
The younger writers were abuzz with awe and envy.
Among them, Kikuchi Makoto clenched his teeth quietly.
If Seiji hadn't been here, he would've been one of today's main attractions.
But now, every spotlight in the room was fixed squarely on Fujiwara.
Facing the elders' compliments, Seiji responded with modest grace. "You flatter me, professors. I was simply lucky—the judges were far too kind."
"Ah, that's not humility, that's modesty," Professor Aoki said firmly. "We discussed it just last night—After School displays a command of language, structure, and thematic depth far beyond that of a newcomer. This award was well earned."
"Indeed—well deserved!" the other veterans agreed in unison.
Across the room, the murmurs of the younger writers carried clearly:
"I've read After School too. Honestly, after finishing it, I felt like everything I've written is trash…"
"Yeah… I doubt I could ever produce something of that caliber."
"That's the kind of work only a true genius could create. The rest of us are just mortals trying to catch up."
Those sincere words of admiration stabbed into Kikuchi's chest like invisible needles.
He kept a neutral face, but inside, he was seething with frustration.
Because he'd read After School too—
and he knew they were right.
"At any rate," Seiji said smoothly, drawing attention back, "let me introduce someone."
He gently pulled Utaha Kasumigaoka forward. "This is my girlfriend, Utaha Kasumigaoka."
Utaha stepped up gracefully, smiling politely. "Good morning, professors. I'm Utaha Kasumigaoka. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Ah, hello."
The professors nodded absently before turning their focus back to Seiji.
In their eyes, the beautiful girl beside the prodigy was nothing more than a pleasant ornament—a flower by his side.
Utaha could feel that subtle condescension, sighed inwardly, but maintained her polite smile.
Being underestimated was only natural.
After all, not everyone could be Seiji Fujiwara.
"Alright, alright, everyone, let's not just stand here." Professor Yamada waved cheerfully. "Seiji, Shizuka, Utaha—come, our seats are over here."
He led the three of them to a front-row table reserved specifically for him.
As they sat down, the chatter among the younger writers grew even louder.
"Ugh, what's the point of competing? The top prize this afternoon's obviously going to Fujiwara."
"Yeah, we can't compare to that."
"Guess we'll just watch and learn."
Listening to the murmurs, Kikuchi quietly clenched his fists beneath the table.
He'd spent months preparing for this event.
He refused to surrender before it even began—
not even to Seiji Fujiwara, the author of After School!
After they sat down, Hiratsuka Shizuka leaned closer and lowered her voice to explain the event to Seiji and Utaha.
"Today's salon has two main sessions," she said. "This morning is a literary review—several professors and veteran writers will take turns summarizing the year's trends in both popular and pure literature, and forecasting what's ahead."
"In the afternoon, though, it's our turn—the younger generation's showcase."
Her tone brightened with excitement. "The theme this time is 'snow'. We'll all write a short piece or an opening scene inspired by that theme. Submissions are anonymous, and the professors will pick the best one."
"Is there a prize?" Utaha asked curiously.
"Just a commemorative tea set—not worth much. The real reward is reputation. Winning here means your name spreads through the literary circle overnight. It's a huge boost for your future."
Seiji and Utaha nodded thoughtfully, listening like good students.
As she finished, the host stepped onstage to announce the official start of the Winter Literary Salon.
The hall fell silent.
The first speaker was a professor in black-rimmed glasses—a critic specializing in mystery fiction.
He cleared his throat and began with a line that sent ripples through the audience.
"Before reviewing the developments in Japanese mystery literature this past year, I must first mention one man—and one work. His emergence has reignited the entire genre with unprecedented brilliance."
He paused, eyes landing squarely on the front row.
"That man is Seiji Fujiwara—and the work is After School."
His voice brimmed with admiration.
"With its ingenious structure and its unflinching portrayal of human darkness, After School is a masterclass in storytelling. I can say without exaggeration that its arrival has single-handedly elevated the standard of Japanese campus mysteries to a new height!"
At that, Seiji stood, smiled modestly, and bowed slightly toward the audience.
"Thank you, Professor. I'll continue to do my best."
Thunderous applause erupted across the hall.
Clap clap clap!
The younger writers looked on, faces filled with envy.
Kikuchi clapped too, his smile stiff, thinking how glorious it would feel to stand in that place himself.
Beside him, Hiratsuka watched Seiji under the lights, her eyes reflecting a strange gleam.
In a country obsessed with hierarchy and seniority, she had never seen anyone so young command the respect of every literary titan in the room.
Utaha's gaze, meanwhile, shimmered with quiet pride—as if all the light in the world had gathered around him.
One by one, other professors took the stage.
An elderly scholar who specialized in popular literature stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Last year's Naoki Prize was decent, but lacked a truly groundbreaking work. I, for one, hope young talents like Fujiwara-kun soon venture into mainstream fiction and bring us something extraordinary."
His eyes gleamed with expectation as they rested on Seiji.
Next, an elderly woman fond of classical literature spoke in a gentle tone about the beauty of language itself.
"Young people these days pay too little attention to the rhythm and harmony of words," she said. "Sometimes, reading the haiku of Matsuo Bashō—like 'An old pond, a frog jumps in, the sound of water'—and feeling that spark of life within silence, can teach us more about writing than any textbook."
Finally, a sharp-tongued critic of pure literature took the stage, lambasting the field's stagnation and self-indulgence. "Writers must dare to confront society's contradictions and create works that truly make people think."
Each speech was rich in insight and literary passion, leaving the younger writers inspired.
By the time the talks ended, it was nearly noon. The host announced a lunch break—the competition would begin at two o'clock.
Instantly, the room buzzed again with energy.
The morning had belonged to the veterans. The afternoon would be the battlefield for the new generation.
Kikuchi's fighting spirit reignited. He turned instinctively toward Hiratsuka—only to see her chatting cheerfully with Seiji. The two laughed together before heading out with Utaha.
That easy, intimate scene stabbed straight through Kikuchi's chest.
The fire in his eyes flared hotter than ever.
"Kikuchi, wanna grab lunch?" a friend called out.
"No," he said firmly, his voice low but determined. "I'm going back to revise my draft. I can still make it better."
He left without another word.
His friends exchanged uneasy looks.
"Didn't think Kikuchi would take it that seriously this time."
"Yeah… but honestly, what's the point?" another sighed. "We've all read After School. We know Fujiwara's on another level. Even if he joins last-minute, with his talent, he could write something breathtaking on the spot."
"True. Kikuchi's good—but compared to a real genius, the gap's just too wide."
They kept their voices low.
No one wanted to crush their friend's confidence right before the fight.
Outside the venue, Hiratsuka led Seiji and Utaha toward a quiet Japanese restaurant nearby.
"Fujiwara-kun, are you really not entering this afternoon's contest?" she asked again.
"Not interested," Seiji replied casually.
Utaha looked intrigued. "Sensei, can you explain the rules in detail? It sounds kind of fun."
"Of course." Hiratsuka smiled, though her eyes flicked toward Seiji.
"The submissions don't have to be full stories—just an opening scene, a poem, anything connected to the theme 'snow'. Each writer prints two copies: one signed with their name and locked away, and one unsigned, sealed in an identical envelope."
"During the judging, the professors take turns drawing envelopes. There are three rounds—first, to eliminate weak entries; second, to select the promising ones; and third, to pick the winner. Afterward, they'll match the anonymous draft with the signed one to reveal the author and give the award."
"Wow, that's so formal—it sounds exciting!" Utaha said with a grin.
Seiji only chuckled faintly. "Interesting format. I look forward to seeing what people come up with."
His detached tone made Hiratsuka frown inwardly.
She quickly added bait. "You shouldn't underestimate the prize, Fujiwara-kun! Winning comes with all sorts of perks!"
"First, it's fame. You'd be the talk of the literary world overnight. Big-name awards that don't even accept open submissions often invite the winner to compete!"
"Your manuscript rate would skyrocket! TV interviews, university lectures—they'd all be lining up for you!"
She rambled on enthusiastically, listing one benefit after another. But when Seiji remained unmoved, she scratched her head, then blurted in desperation:
"Okay, fine! The most important thing is—don't you think it'd feel amazing to crush those arrogant guys in front of everyone?!"
She pumped her fist dramatically, like a shounen manga protagonist mid-monologue.
Seiji and Utaha exchanged looks, both fighting the urge to laugh.
Her true motive was way too obvious.
Realizing she'd been caught, Hiratsuka's face flushed. She gave a sheepish laugh before sighing and admitting, "Alright, alright, I'll just say it. It's that annoying Kikuchi guy! He's been trying to show off and get my attention—such a childish idiot. I have zero interest in him!"
She clasped her hands together, flashing Seiji a pleading smile.
"So please, Seiji! Do me a favor—wipe the floor with him, will you? Make him give up once and for all!"
Seiji and Utaha stared at her wordlessly.
So that was it. The whole passionate speech boiled down to a classic case of "help me get rid of this annoying guy."
"Sensei," Utaha spoke first, her tone calm but firm. "Seiji was invited here last minute. He hasn't prepared anything. If he rushes something out just to show off, it might not turn out that great, right?"
"Exactly," Seiji agreed with a small nod.
Of course, with his system's Genius-Level Literary Conception and the wealth of works in his past life, he could crush Kikuchi with one hand.
But honestly—
there was no need to bother.