However, after that essay was published, instead of sparking any resonance, it was met with ridicule.
Soon after, it was quietly suppressed—by an invisible hand.
At Fushikawa Bunko.
The new novel by Seiji Fujiwara, The Devotion of Suspect X, had just been released. The buzz was explosive, the quality outstanding.
Even the higher-ups couldn't sit still anymore.
Ryuji Aida once again sought out Seiji Fujiwara. This time, his attitude was more humble than ever before.
"Fujiwara-sensei, the public is unanimously optimistic about your chances. But precisely because of that, some people might try to sabotage things out of jealousy. Our group's PR department has prepared a few... 'networking' plans—to get closer to certain judges and ensure everything goes smoothly..."
"Chief Editor Aida," Seiji interrupted him with a faint, amused smile. "That won't be necessary."
"But—"
"Those little tricks are harmless," Seiji said calmly. "If you truly want to show sincerity, how about upgrading our future cooperation contract instead? I think my value goes beyond what we've agreed on so far."
Ryuji Aida froze, taken aback by the sudden shift into business talk. He stared at Seiji, uncertain and confused.
At such a critical juncture, why was he bringing up something as trivial as a contract?
"I…" Aida started to speak again.
"Just wait and see, Aida-san," Seiji cut him off before he could continue.
Soon after—
The culture section of The Asahi Shimbun, one of the most influential literary barometers in all of Japan, published an article that shook the entire literary community.
That morning, countless readers, writers, and editors opened their newspapers to see a name that made their hearts tighten—Kenji Yamada.
The chairman of the Naoki Prize judging committee had personally stepped into the ring.
The title of the article was nothing short of earth-shattering:
"At the End of Logic Lies Divine Love — A Brief Analysis of the Classical Tragic Core in 'The Devotion of Suspect X'."
In his office at Shueisha, editor-in-chief Masao Tanaka trembled as he held the paper, barely able to grip it. As he read Professor Yamada's article line by line, the color drained from his face.
With scholarly precision and elegant prose, Professor Yamada compared the structure of The Devotion of Suspect X to ancient Greek tragedy, elevating the protagonist Ishigami Tetsuya to the level of a saint who sacrifices himself for faith.
"When a mathematical genius sees all things in the world as variables to be calculated, an unquantifiable variable—'love'—enters his world. This is not a simple love story. It is a kingdom of logic, willingly collapsing in the radiance of divinity. Seiji Fujiwara has used the coldest logic to write the hottest passion. His mastery has transcended this era."
The newspaper slipped from Tanaka's hands and fell to the floor. He slumped in his chair, muttering to himself:
"It's over... it's all over..."
At the Yasuda Auditorium of Tokyo University, a literature symposium was underway, attended by students, professors, and major media outlets.
The keynote speaker was Professor Takeshi Watanabe, one of this year's Naoki Prize judges.
The topic had been "The Expression of Humanity in Modern Literature." But during the final Q&A session, a brave female student stood up and voiced the question everyone wanted to ask.
"Professor Watanabe, how would you evaluate Seiji Fujiwara's The Devotion of Suspect X, which has caused such a stir recently?"
Instantly, every camera and microphone turned toward the podium.
Professor Watanabe adjusted his glasses, smiling gently yet with a hint of excitement. Instead of answering directly, he asked, "How many of you here have read the book?"
A wave of rustling filled the hall—over eighty percent of the audience raised their hands.
Watanabe nodded in satisfaction. His voice, amplified through the microphone, rang clear across the entire auditorium.
"Then allow me to say this: Ishigami Tetsuya is the most successfully crafted tragic character in Japanese literature in the past twenty years—without question!"
His tone was firm and decisive, drawing a collective gasp from the audience.
"The Devotion of Suspect X is a once-in-a-century masterpiece exploring the limits of pure love. It teaches us that the highest deception isn't fooling the police—it's the sacrifice of oneself. To live in the same era as a work like this is our greatest fortune. I truly believe that future literary history cannot be written without this book—or without the name Seiji Fujiwara."
When he finished, he bowed slightly to the audience.
That scene, captured by countless cameras, spread across all of Japan.
At a private, members-only club in Tokyo—
The top figures of Japan's cultural world were gathered: famous directors, star producers, publishing executives... and several literary prize judges.
Among them sat Tsuyoshi Sasaki, a veteran author known for his fiery temper and bluntness, currently surrounded by a few curious onlookers.
"Sasaki-sensei, the competition for this year's Naoki Prize is intense," a film producer said casually, though his real purpose was to probe Sasaki's thoughts for a writer his company had invested in.
Sasaki took a sip of whiskey, then let out a derisive snort.
"Competition? My ass!"
Everyone froze.
He scanned the crowd, then slammed his glass onto the table with a loud thud.
"Let me make this clear! If the Naoki Prize doesn't go to Seiji Fujiwara this year, I, Tsuyoshi Sasaki, will tear up my judge's certificate right here and toss it into Tokyo Bay!"
He jabbed a finger toward his own nose, eyes blazing like knives.
"We old bastards may sometimes give in to politics or seniority—but we're not so senile that we can't tell black from white! In front of a work like The Devotion of Suspect X, any kind of favoritism is blasphemy against literature! So all of you—cut the crap!"
That explosive declaration spread through every corner of the industry by the next day.
Three heavyweight judges—through entirely different channels—had sent out the same unmistakable signal.
The decree was clear.
Every last competitor's hope was crushed.
Publishers and writers who had still been maneuvering behind the scenes went silent overnight.
Banquets, visits, PR deals—all abruptly canceled.
The sharper critics even began writing new essays praising The Devotion of Suspect X, desperate to ride the wave of what was clearly becoming a historic moment.
The entire literary world fell silent—waiting only to crown the new king.
At Fushikawa Group's executive boardroom, the atmosphere was equally silent—but this time, out of awe, not doubt.
"He doesn't even need us to intervene…" one director murmured, eyes wide. "Professor Yamada, Professor Watanabe... These literary giants are lining up to support him?"
The president glanced around the table at the stunned faces, his own heart surging. He finally understood—Fujiwara's personal connections, combined with the overwhelming quality of his work, had formed something far greater than marketing power.
A force.
A momentum that could rival an entire corporation.
He made a snap decision. "Arrange a meeting immediately. I want to meet Fujiwara-sensei in person."
Then he paused, correcting himself.
"No—have Executive Director Tanaka visit Fujiwara-sensei personally. Bring the S-class author contract drafted by the legal department."
The next day, Eiji Tanaka, Fushikawa Bunko's executive director, arrived at Seiji's home in person.
He didn't mention the Naoki Prize at all. Instead, he respectfully handed Seiji a brand-new contract.
"Fujiwara-sensei, this represents our group's highest respect for your unparalleled talent. From now on, all your works published with us will have a permanent royalty rate of eighteen percent. In addition, we're including a Wagering Agreement: for any single volume exceeding three million sales, royalties will automatically rise to twenty percent. We only ask that this clause remain confidential, to avoid unnecessary complications."
Seiji glanced through the contract casually, then signed his name without hesitation.
"Pleasure working with you, Executive Tanaka."
Tanaka looked at the calm young man before him, overwhelmed with emotion.
The partnership between Fushikawa Bunko and Seiji Fujiwara would continue—but the balance of power had shifted completely.
Soon came the long-awaited day of the Naoki Prize ceremony.
The event was held in the grand Peacock Hall of the Imperial Hotel—Tokyo's most prestigious social venue.
Crystal chandeliers glittered above, marble columns reflected the crowd's finery, and the air was thick with the scent of champagne and designer perfume.
Media cameras were everywhere, flashes already firing.
Yet unlike past years—when tension filled the air and rival factions clashed behind the scenes—this ceremony carried an almost serene harmony.
All the guests—writers, critics, publishers—chatted politely, but their gazes kept drifting toward one spot.
There sat Seiji Fujiwara.
He wore a perfectly tailored black suit and a simple white shirt, no tie, the top two buttons casually undone. The relaxed confidence he exuded somehow blended effortlessly with the formal atmosphere.
Beside him sat Utaha Kasumigaoka, attending as his guest.
She wore an elegant deep-purple gown that accentuated her graceful figure. Her wavy hair rested lightly on her shoulders, her faint smile tinged with affection as she whispered something to Seiji. The quiet intimacy between them made every other pair in the room fade into the background.
"Seiji, you don't look nervous at all," Utaha teased softly.
"For a ceremony where I already know the result? Not much to be nervous about," Seiji said, swirling his champagne and watching the bubbles rise. "I'm just debating whether my acceptance speech should be three sentences... or five."
Utaha laughed, poking him lightly in the side. "Tone it down, Great Author Fujiwara. At least pretend to give your seniors some face."
"Alright," he shrugged. "Four sentences, then."
Finally, after the long preamble, the award segment began.
Professor Kenji Yamada, chairman of the judging committee, stepped onto the stage. Clearing his throat, he looked over the audience and cameras with a solemn yet excited expression.
"After careful deliberation by the entire committee for the 168th Naoki Prize…"
He paused for effect—then, in a resonant voice filled with admiration and conviction, announced the inevitable:
"Winner of the Naoki Prize—The Devotion of Suspect X! Author: Seiji Fujiwara!"
Boom—!
Even though everyone had expected it, the moment his name was spoken, the entire hall erupted into thunderous applause. Flashbulbs exploded like fireworks, immortalizing the moment in blinding light.
The youngest Naoki Prize winner in history had been born.
Amid the storm of applause, Seiji rose and adjusted his suit jacket. No excitement, no pride—only a calm smile toward Utaha before he walked to the stage with unhurried composure.
He accepted the heavy, cold metal trophy from his mentor, Professor Yamada.
Yamada looked at his prized "younger friend" with pride shining in his eyes. He patted Seiji's shoulder firmly and said softly, "Congratulations, Fujiwara-kun. You've made history."
Seiji nodded slightly, then turned to face the audience.
At once, all applause ceased. Every camera and every gaze locked on him.
He spoke—his voice carrying clearly through the hall's speakers.
"Thanks to the judges."
Just four words—spoken out of courtesy.
Then his tone shifted slightly, his gaze cutting through the crowd until it landed squarely on Ryuji Aida, the chief editor of Fushikawa Bunko.
Aida tensed instinctively.
Seiji continued, his tone casual—almost businesslike:
"Chief Editor Aida, this trophy feels pretty nice. Make sure to print it on the obi of A Certain Magical Index Volume 3. The title should read, 'Recommended by the Naoki Prize–Winning Author.' Make the font big."
He finished, nodded politely to the stunned audience, and walked off the stage.
No emotional speech. No thanks. No future dreams.
Just… a marketing line?!
The entire banquet hall fell into dead silence.
Everyone sat frozen, their minds blank.
Then, as if a dam burst, the reporters went wild.
Click! Click! Click!
The sound of camera shutters roared like a storm.
They knew it instantly—tonight's headlines were secured.
A story big enough to shake all of Japan.
By the next morning, Seiji Fujiwara's name had completely taken over Japan.
At his apartment, Eiriri burst through the door, arms full of newspapers and magazines fresh from the convenience store. She threw them all over the carpet in excitement.
"Seiji! Utaha! Look!" she cried, kneeling on the floor like a child showing off treasure, her twin blonde tails bouncing as she moved. "You two are the center of the storm! Every single paper is going crazy over you!"
She held up The Yomiuri Shimbun. The front page showed a massive photo of Seiji holding his trophy, with a flamboyant headline:
"The Prodigy of the Literary World Descends! — The Eighteen-Year-Old God Who Judges an Era with His Pen."
"'The God Who Judges an Era'! Oh my god, that's such a badass title!" Eiriri squealed, grabbing another paper—The Mainichi Shimbun.
"Madman or Genius? — The Most Outrageous Acceptance Speech in History Shakes the Literary World."
"And look! Weekly Bunshun even released a special issue!" She pulled out a magazine, its cover dominated by bold black text:
"The End of an Old Era! An Eighteen-Year-Old Conqueror Ascends the Throne of Literature, Wielding the Sword Called 'Pen'!"