He'd come to Hokkaido to relax—
not to show off.
Seeing that Seiji Fujiwara was still perfectly unmoved, Shizuka Hiratsuka knew she'd have to make a real sacrifice to get this Buddha to move.
"Come on, Seiji, please!"
Hands clasped together in a pleading gesture, Hiratsuka looked up at him with the most flattering smile she could muster.
"If you agree to help, I'll owe you one! Whatever you need in the future—if it's within my power, I won't say no!"
Then, in dramatic fashion, she smacked her chest just like some chivalrous hero in a movie.
Smack! Smack!
The "snowy peaks" on her chest rippled with each motion, sending dazzling waves through the air.
Seiji's gaze couldn't help but drift toward the magnificent tremor.
He couldn't help it—
she was just too… well-endowed.
Besides, back in his previous life, he'd always liked this bold, mature woman from Oregairu.
Now that he had the chance to get close to Shizuka Hiratsuka in person, how could he not at least consider the opportunity?
"Stop staring already…" Utaha Kasumigaoka tugged on his sleeve, snapping him out of it.
When he looked up again, Hiratsuka's face was flushed red with a mix of embarrassment and irritation.
She shot him a glare and half-laughed, half-scolded, "Hey, had enough yet?"
Her tone carried no real anger—if anything, it sounded teasingly affectionate.
"Sorry, sorry," Seiji quickly apologized. "It's just… when faced with a beautiful, mature woman like you, it's hard not to lose focus."
"Fine, fine, I'll let it slide this time," she said, waving her hand grandly.
Across from them, Utaha had witnessed the entire exchange. Her wine-red eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of suspicion glinting within them.
"Well then," Seiji said, puffing up his chest in mock heroics, "leave it to me, Hiratsuka-sensei."
"You brat… if you were my student, I'd have already punched you." She shot him a glare, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
——
Meanwhile, inside Kikuchi Makoto's room.
He'd skipped lunch, locking himself in to review his draft again.
The morning's embarrassment hadn't crushed his spirit—it had only stoked his competitiveness.
Now, reading through his manuscript again, inspiration began to surge like a flood he couldn't stop.
Words poured out like honey—sweet, rich, unstoppable.
He lunged at his desk, pen racing across the paper as he began making furious revisions.
An hour later, he leaned back with a long exhale. His face was lit with newfound confidence.
This was it.
A complete transformation.
This piece could compete for any major literary award!
In a small salon like this, it would be total overkill.
——
After lunch with Hiratsuka, Seiji and Utaha returned to their hotel suite.
Seiji opened his laptop and, on the blank document, typed two characters:
Snow Country.
When he thought of "snow," the first thing that came to mind was this timeless masterpiece of modern Japanese literature—Kawabata Yasunari's Snow Country.
It was a work that embodied "the beauty of nothingness," "the beauty of purity," and "the beauty of sorrow."
A story that took the Japanese aesthetic of mono no aware—the pathos of things—to its absolute pinnacle, to a level so exquisite even the gods would sigh.
Kawabata had won nearly every major literary award for it.
A work of that caliber didn't need prizes to prove its worth—
rather, the prizes needed it to justify their existence.
Tatatatatat—!
The only sound in the quiet suite was Seiji's relentless typing.
Utaha, sitting nearby, tried to act uninterested—but the rhythmic tapping soon drew her attention.
After a moment of indecision, curiosity got the better of her. She stood quietly and crept behind him to peek at his screen.
And the instant her eyes fell on the words, her breath caught.
"The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. The earth lay white under the night sky. The train stopped at a signal in the distance."
Just that one sentence seemed to transcend time itself, painting an image so vivid she could almost see that vast, lonely snowfield.
Utaha couldn't stop reading.
She fell deeper and deeper into the prose—into a world so beautiful, so fragile, that her heart ached.
A girl rose from the seat across from Shimamura and opened the window before him. A gust of cold air rushed in. Leaning out, the girl called softly, as if to someone far away:
"Station master! Station master!"
A man with a scarf around his nose and earflaps down walked toward them, lantern in hand, stepping through the snow.
Shimamura thought: Has it grown this cold already?
Looking out, he saw the small huts at the foot of the mountain—temporary shelters for railway workers—scattered like lonely stars against the darkness. The snow beyond had long been swallowed by night.
She felt as though she was no longer Utaha Kasumigaoka, but a snowflake drifting through that story—
silently watching the reflection of a girl's face in the train window, watching her fleeting passion burn and die in the void of that frozen world.
Time slipped by.
Seiji finally stopped typing and glanced at the corner of the screen—10,325 characters.
That was enough.
The afternoon session only required the beginning, not a full work.
He saved the file, printed it, and stretched his fingers.
Behind him, Utaha was frozen in awe, completely overwhelmed.
She stared at Seiji's back as if gazing up at a mountain—
a mortal looking upon a god, separated by an unfathomable gulf.
——
1:50 PM, the venue.
Seiji and Utaha arrived just before the event began.
Utaha still seemed dazed, her soul half-lost in that snowbound world.
Hiratsuka noticed and walked up curiously. "Utaha? You okay? You look… kind of out of it."
Utaha blinked, slowly coming back to reality. Her voice came out like a dream. "Hiratsuka-sensei… I think I just saw a mountain. A literary peak I could never climb, no matter how hard I tried."
"Huh?" Hiratsuka tilted her head, utterly confused.
Utaha shook her head, looking at Seiji with complicated eyes. "It's nothing… I just read Seiji's draft. It's so good it made me feel… hopeless."
That shocked Hiratsuka. She couldn't imagine what kind of piece could make the proud Utaha Kasumigaoka use the word hopeless.
Now she was dying to see it for herself.
But Seiji had already turned his manuscript in.
——
At 2 PM sharp, the competition began.
Submissions, screening—everything proceeded as planned.
Before long, the judges had only a few manuscripts left.
Then, suddenly, Professor Yamada—who'd been resting with his eyes closed—snapped them open.
He glanced at the newly delivered manuscript, and with just one look, his eyes lit up like a predator spotting prey.
He began to read, completely absorbed.
"This…" he murmured, stunned.
When he finally looked up, his face was glowing with excitement. "I didn't expect to see something of this level here today."
"Agreed!" another judge exclaimed.
"Nothing else even comes close!"
"It's the clear winner."
Heads nodded all around.
"Let the young writers take a look too," Professor Yamada said, handing the manuscript—titled Snow Country—to the staff.
Soon, the piece made its way to the contestants' tables.
As someone began reading the opening line aloud, the entire hall fell silent.
"The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country…"
It was as if a spell had been cast. No one could move.
Each word struck their hearts like a hammer wrapped in silk—beautiful, crushing, inescapable.
"This…"
"Impossible…"
"Who could write something like this?"
The young writers passed it around, each one left trembling after they finished.
Kikuchi Makoto's turn came at last.
And the instant he saw those words, the confidence he'd just regained burst like a balloon.
He'd lost.
Utterly, completely lost—and even he couldn't deny it.
This wasn't a difference in skill.
It was a difference in realm.
Who brings a nuclear bomb to a small literary meetup? he thought bitterly—forgetting how hard he'd worked himself.
The manuscript finally reached Hiratsuka.
When she read it, she instantly understood why Utaha had said "despair."
The writing was refined, elegant, suffused with the subtle melancholy of Japanese aesthetics. It wasn't just literature—it was art.
Utaha read it again. Even on the second pass, she still felt crushed beneath its haunting beauty.
When everyone had finished, Professor Yamada stood and said, "I think we can all agree this deserves first place, yes?"
No one objected.
"But… whose work is this?" one young writer asked, frowning. "Did some veteran sneak a submission in?"
Everyone nodded. That seemed the only logical explanation.
The manuscript was returned to Seiji's table.
He picked it up, pretended to read it, and then said thoughtfully, "Indeed, a masterpiece. Its brilliance lies first in its language—the deep beauty of mono no aware and yūgen…"
He dissected Snow Country with precision—its language, atmosphere, even the way it used reflections in the train window as a mirror for reality. His insight stunned everyone.
Even the seasoned professors nodded, impressed.
Professor Yamada watched him with admiration—his own analysis didn't feel this sharp.
And yet, none of them suspected that the very boy analyzing the piece was its author.
"Alright then," Yamada finally said, excitement in his voice. "Let's open the cabinet and see who wrote Snow Country!"
All eyes turned to the locked cabinet at the front of the hall.
The host unlocked it, rummaged through, and pulled out the signed original.
He glanced at the name—and froze.
His eyes widened in disbelief. He rubbed them, but the name didn't change.
"What is it? Who wrote it?"
"Which veteran was it?"
The judges leaned in, curious.
The host swallowed hard and handed the manuscript to Professor Yamada with trembling hands.
Yamada took it, looked down—
and froze as well.
"Fujiwara… Seiji?"
He snapped his head up, staring at Seiji like he was a monster.
The other professors crowded around, sharing the same shocked expression.
Every gaze in the room turned toward the calm young man sitting quietly at his table.
The newcomers exchanged confused looks.
Kikuchi Makoto's stomach sank. Why were they all looking at Seiji?!
Finally, Professor Yamada took a deep breath and announced:
"The author of Snow Country is… Seiji Fujiwara!"
The hall exploded.
Every young writer stared at him like he'd just descended from another planet.
Kikuchi stood frozen, pale as stone.
Impossible.
But when the manuscript was passed around again, and everyone saw the signature at the end with their own eyes, there was no denying it.
"Seriously? It really was Fujiwara-sensei…"
"He's only eighteen!"
"I could chase him my whole life and never catch up…"
The gap was just too vast—so vast it crushed their will to even try.
Kikuchi's face turned ashen. He knew he'd never reach that height.
——
Amid the uproar, Professor Yamada presented the elegant tea set awarded to the winner.
He patted Seiji on the shoulder, his tone filled with emotion. "Seiji, I'm not exaggerating when I say this—the future of Japanese literature for the next fifty years may rest on you."
The words rang like prophecy.
The other professors crowded around, each one marveling at this once-in-a-century genius.
"A born prodigy!"
"You've got a brilliant future ahead of you."
"Seeing a talent like this… this trip was worth it!"
Seiji only smiled humbly. "You flatter me, professors."
After some polite conversation, he finally managed to slip away.
"Congratulations, Fujiwara-kun," Hiratsuka said, her voice soft with awe. "Your talent really is a bottomless pit."
Then she tilted her chin toward Kikuchi's empty seat, smiling wryly. "And… thanks for that."
Seiji and Utaha followed her gaze. Kikuchi was already gone—he'd left early, defeated and hollow.
Seeing that, both of them couldn't help but laugh.
——
That evening, after the salon wrapped up, Hiratsuka dragged Seiji to a bar.
This time, they didn't talk about pure literature, but about ACGN.
From obscure old anime to the latest games, the two unexpectedly hit it off.