Seiji briefly explained to Professor Yamada his idea about writing a mainstream novel for publication.
On the other end of the line, the professor sounded puzzled at first.
"Oh? Fujiwara-kun, you're not planning to finish Snow Country first? To be honest, ever since we came back from Hokkaido, I often think of your astonishing opening chapter. Writing like that has the potential to go down in literary history!"
His tone was filled with genuine admiration.
Seiji chuckled and replied, "Snow Country requires deeper life experience. I'm still too young. If I force it out now, it'll just be superficial. Besides, with my current reputation, releasing something like that would cause too much of a stir—it'd do more harm than good."
Given how rigid social hierarchies were in Japan, even if an eighteen-year-old like him somehow wrote a masterpiece and used connections to win the Akutagawa Prize, the uproar and backlash would outweigh any benefit.
There was simply no need to do it.
Having spent decades in the literary world, Professor Yamada understood those unspoken rules perfectly.
He fell silent for a few seconds, then sighed deeply.
"Remarkable. To rise to fame so young, yet remain unburdened by it—patient, self-aware… Fujiwara-kun, that mindset is rarer than your talent."
The praise came straight from his heart.
Then, curious, he asked about Seiji's new book.
"It's a mystery novel of sorts…"
Seiji gave a short summary of the story, then added his request. "Honestly, I'm not familiar with the mainstream publishing world. Professor Yamada, could you recommend three suitable publishers?"
"Hahaha! That's an easy one." The professor laughed heartily. "Leave it to me! Helping a genius like you find his way is this old man's honor. I'll get back to you soon."
True to his word, his efficiency was astonishing.
That very night, he called back with a name and a number.
"Editor-in-Chief Ichiro Suzuki from Iwanami Bunko. I already spoke with him. He's one of the finest editors in Japan—sharp as a blade. Just contact him directly."
"Thank you, Professor. I really appreciate it."
After hanging up, Seiji immediately dialed Suzuki's number.
A calm, cultured male voice answered, brimming with enthusiasm and curiosity.
"Is this Fujiwara Seiji-sensei? This is Suzuki from Iwanami Bunko. I just got Professor Yamada's call—it's a great honor! I never imagined I'd get the chance to work with such a remarkable young talent."
After a brief exchange, they arranged to meet the next afternoon in Iwanami's reception room to discuss the submission details.
…
The following day, Seiji arrived at Iwanami Bunko's headquarters in Jinbōchō, Chiyoda.
The building was old, steeped in history, its quiet dignity standing out amid the modern towers surrounding it. The air was filled with the faint scent of ink and paper.
This was one of Japan's literary sanctuaries. In the last century, countless legendary authors had emerged from here.
Led respectfully by the receptionist, Seiji entered an elegant reception room.
Before long, a tall, refined middle-aged man strode in with a warm smile.
"Fujiwara-sensei! It's an honor to finally meet you. I'm Ichiro Suzuki."
He reached out both hands to shake Seiji's firmly. "When I got Professor Yamada's call yesterday, I could hardly believe it! To collaborate with a once-in-a-century genius like you—it's my privilege."
"You flatter me, Suzuki-san." Seiji smiled politely.
They sat down. After the secretary brought tea and quietly left, Suzuki began.
"I heard you have a new work you'd like to publish with Iwanami Bunko?"
His tone was calm, but inside he was conflicted. Yamada's personal recommendation carried immense weight—he had to take this seriously. Yet his professional instincts told him to stay cautious.
Seiji's success in the light novel world was undeniable, and the Ranpo Prize had proven his potential in mystery fiction.
But it had only been two months since that award.
Could anyone truly produce another masterpiece in just two months?
Moreover, Suzuki had heard that Seiji wrote without relying on editors—an alarming thought for someone in his profession.
Still, he kept a perfect professional smile. "Fujiwara-sensei, shall we have a look at your manuscript?"
"Please."
Seiji slid a neatly printed stack of pages across the table.
Suzuki accepted it solemnly. The manuscript was thick—substantial in length.
Adjusting his glasses, he began reading.
At first, he leaned back casually on the sofa. But after only three pages, his smile faded.
Beneath the calm, ordinary surface of the opening, there was a quiet tension—a creeping unease. And with just a few strokes, the protagonist, Tetsuya Ishigami, came to life with startling clarity.
Suzuki's posture straightened unconsciously. His eyes sharpened. "This opening… has something special," he muttered.
Across from him, Seiji sipped his tea, lips curved in faint amusement.
The only sound left in the room was the rustle of turning pages.
When Suzuki reached the middle of the story, he froze.
The brilliant, almost mathematically precise twist unfolded before him—so perfect in logic it made his head spin.
He forgot to breathe.
The way Ishigami was written—his obsessive devotion burning beneath an emotionless shell—shook even a veteran editor like Suzuki to his core.
"My god… this character, this structure… how did he come up with this?" he whispered, cold sweat breaking across his back.
It felt less like reading a novel and more like staring into an abyss called "human nature."
When he finally reached the last page—the tragic, self-sacrificing ending—his mind went completely blank.
His hands trembled as he closed the manuscript.
After a long silence, he exhaled deeply and looked up at Seiji. The last trace of doubt in his eyes had vanished, replaced by pure reverence.
"Fujiwara-sensei…"
He stood up and bowed deeply. "Please forgive me for ever doubting you. This work is a masterpiece—truly extraordinary."
"With this, winning the Naoki Prize is more than possible—it's inevitable!"
Suzuki was almost trembling with excitement. "To show our sincerity, I'm offering a fifteen percent royalty share, signed on the spot!"
Seiji merely nodded calmly. "Then let's work well together."
…
The power of Iwanami Bunko was immense.
Under Suzuki's full backing, it took only a week for a bombshell announcement to rock Japan's publishing world.
"Iwanami Bunko presents: Seiji Fujiwara's latest work The Devotion of Suspect X! A century-defining masterpiece—where logic weeps and love sacrifices itself!"
The lavishly worded press release hit like a stone dropped into a still lake, sending waves rippling through the entire literary world.
…
At Shueisha.
Editor-in-chief Masao Tanaka was leading a high-spirited strategy meeting for the upcoming Naoki Prize race.
"Our main competition this year is still Watanabe from Kodansha and that newcomer from Shinchosha. But with our ace writer Miyazaki-sensei's new novel, the odds are in our favor…"
He was full of confidence—until a young editor burst in, holding a tablet with a strange look on his face.
"Chief… you need to see this."
Tanaka frowned, took the tablet, and when he saw Iwanami's blazing promotional poster, his smile froze.
The room went dead silent.
"Seiji Fujiwara…? And with Iwanami Bunko?!"
…
Elsewhere, in the private study of renowned author Takigawa Kyo, Kodansha's leading contender for this year's Naoki Prize—
He was in a meeting with his editor, discussing media strategy.
"The theme this time should emphasize 'the redemption of humanity.' That kind of tone always sits well with the judges—"
Before he could finish, his assistant's phone buzzed with a news alert.
The assistant glanced at it, face draining of color, and handed it over.
Takigawa read the headline, froze, and after a long pause, waved his hand weakly. "...That's enough for today."
He dismissed everyone, then sat alone in his study, staring out the window in silence.
…
Meanwhile, the "Comet of the Literary World," Akito Ito, saw the news on social media, along with worried messages from fans.
He forced a calm smile and replied publicly:
"Don't worry, everyone. Iwanami's marketing always exaggerates. Quality speaks for itself. Let's wait and see."
But privately, his heart had sunk.
No one had expected Seiji Fujiwara—a supernova—to enter the competition.
Half a month later, The Devotion of Suspect X hit bookstores—
and the entire literary scene was swept away in a storm.
…
At Shueisha headquarters, Editor-in-Chief Tanaka and his ace writer Miyazaki sat in silence, each holding a copy of the book.
The office was hazy with cigarette smoke. From afternoon till dusk, not a word was spoken—only the sounds of pages turning and lighters clicking.
When Miyazaki finally closed the book, he collapsed onto the sofa, drained. The ashtray before him overflowed with cigarette butts.
After a long silence, his hoarse voice broke the air.
"Tanaka-san… let's withdraw from this year's competition."
…
At Takigawa Kyo's home, he finished reading, then locked himself in his study for the entire night.
His wife and assistant waited outside, hearing only one sigh after another.
The next day, through his publisher, Takigawa announced he was taking a six-month break for "creative reflection."
Everyone knew it was just a graceful way of conceding.
…
In Akito Ito's apartment, he opened the book intending to find flaws.
But the deeper he read, the more his expression shifted—from smug, to grim, to utterly pale.
When he reached the final, devastating ending, he slammed the book shut with a sharp crack.
"Damn it!"
Defeat was written all over his face. The last of his pride crumbled.
…
As the literary world reeled, Seiji's phone began lighting up nonstop.
Ryuji Aida and Sonoko Machida from Fushikawa called first, followed by Utaha and Eriri, all congratulating him after reading The Devotion of Suspect X.
Finally, a familiar number appeared on the screen—Professor Kenji Yamada.
His voice was thick with awe and emotion.
"Fujiwara-kun, we old men have all read your work… I can only say, you're a monster. A true monster."
He paused. "We all agreed—if this novel doesn't win, it'll be the Naoki Prize's disgrace."
At the same time, he let slip something interesting: three of his old friends from the Hokkaido conference were serving as judges this year.
Seiji caught the implication and smiled faintly. "You flatter me, Professor."
But really, this wasn't about favors—his work's quality simply crushed everything else that year.
The judges only needed a reason to go along with the inevitable.
…
Within a week, The Devotion of Suspect X had conquered the entire media landscape, overshadowing every other contender.
Still, some refused to give up. After all, literary prizes were never only about the writing.
At the luxury Ginza restaurant Kikunoi, the air was rich with the aroma of kaiseki cuisine.
Shueisha's chief editor Tanaka was all smiles as he poured premium sake for three influential Naoki Prize judges, including the venerable critic Osamu Oyashu.
His ace, Miyazaki, sat beside him stiffly, like a nervous student.
"Oyashu-sensei, please take good care of Miyazaki-kun's new work The Monument of Falling Sakura," Tanaka said humbly.
Oyashu, a meticulous man in his sixties, sipped the sake slowly. "Miyazaki-kun's writing has always had that rare, delicate beauty of mono no aware. Among the younger generation, he's one of the best."
"Thank you, Sensei," Miyazaki bowed deeply.
But then Oyashu casually picked up a slice of fatty tuna and said, almost offhandedly, "By the way… have you read Iwanami's new one? The Devotion of Suspect X. That young Fujiwara fellow is something else. His prose burns with cold logic and passionate love. Truly… astonishing."
He changed the subject soon after, never once promising support for The Monument of Falling Sakura.
By the end of the meal, Tanaka and Miyazaki were left with nothing but frustration—and an expensive bill.
…
Elsewhere, in the home of a literary elder—Matsumoto Daigo, a retired titan still well connected to the judges—
The president of Sanseidō personally visited, carrying a box of the finest gyokuro tea from Shizuoka.
In the tranquil tea room, Matsumoto poured the tea himself, his movements elegant and deliberate.
"Matsumoto-sensei, you've read Watanabe-kun's Tokyo Elegy, haven't you? We believe it's his greatest work yet," the president said earnestly.
Matsumoto divided the tea into two cups, handing one over before taking a slow sip. "Yes, I've read it. It's excellent… but his timing is unfortunate."
He looked up, his calm eyes unblinking. "As for Fujiwara Seiji… that young man defies reason."
With that one sentence, every door closed.
The president held his tea, feeling a chill spread through his hands and feet.
…
Meanwhile, a literary critic—an acquaintance of "the Comet" Akito Ito—published an essay titled "On the Depth of Literature and the Weight of Age."
Though it never mentioned Seiji by name, every line implied the same thing: that his work was technically brilliant but lacking in maturity, a thinly veiled attempt to defend Ito's pride.
But the effort fooled no one.
By then, everyone knew—
the Naoki Prize that year had already been decided.
====
You can read up to chapter 100 on patreon.com/NiaXD.