615 – That’s How You Thank Me?

The Mystery Writers Association moved fast—probably because the final judging date was getting close.

Just one day after the protest march, they launched a new official website.

It not only had a voting page but also posted the judges’ previous evaluations.

At first glance, it all looked very fair and transparent.

Other literary award organizations like the ones behind the Akutagawa and Naoki Prizes—couldn’t help laughing when they saw how the Mystery Writers Association got thrown into chaos by a single small protest.

Some even mocked them in the papers, saying things like, “Ah, look at that! The Association’s keeping up with the times, embracing the new generation and its trends, how progressive!”

Of course, anyone with half a brain knew it was sarcasm.

They were basically saying the Mystery Writers Association had lost its dignity and professionalism as a literary award—reducing itself to the same populist level as the Bookstore Awards.

What a disgrace for cultured people!

Amid the chorus of mockery, Chairman Konno Kenzo didn’t bat an eye.

He pushed ahead with his reforms, even adding a special public voting session.

Professional critics were invited to join a live-streamed meeting, with a link right on the official site.

The goal? To let the public see how the judging process worked—up close and personal.

That, of course, was Hojou Kyousuke’s idea.

The inspiration came from those famous clips of politicians brawling in parliament and writers arguing on talk shows. “If they want drama, let’s give them drama,” he’d said.

Not only would it show the Association’s determination to be open and fair, but it would also boost public trust in the awards themselves.

Don’t underestimate the impact of Kyousuke’s novels.

Sure, they sell like crazy, but their real influence goes deeper.

His latest book, The Dream and Death of Author K, didn’t just sell 1.5 million copies—it shook the entire Association.

Just like how an emperor’s rebellion once set off chaos for generations, Kyousuke’s defiance inspired others to start questioning the system too.

And that was the last thing he wanted.

So, to prevent others from following his example and to restore the Association’s damaged reputation, Kyousuke—now financially comfortable—decided to “smash his own bowl,” as the saying goes.

He and Kisaki began feeding Konno ideas to make sure no one else could profit off the same stunt again.

The live broadcast, of course, followed a carefully written script.

Every line and every move was rehearsed.

Konno now held absolute power within the Association, and everyone else was terrified of being made the next scapegoat.

Inside the meeting room, the judges sat in formal suits, delivering serious, professional critiques with fiery conviction.

Voices rose, faces turned red, and soon two of them actually jumped over the circular table, grabbing each other by the tie.

It looked more like a wrestling match than a literary debate.

The live chat exploded:

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“Wait, this isn’t like what Hojou-sensei wrote at all. These judges are too passionate—did someone bribe them? (lol)”

“LMAO maybe they agreed to celebrate in Ginza later!”

“Did they actually start fighting!?”

“Too bad Hojou-sensei’s not there—he’d convince them all with a sword.”

“I don’t get a word they’re saying, but it’s hilarious. Way better than our parliament fights.”

“So in the end, money still wins, huh?”

“You’re kidding, right? After this they’re totally going to duel outside.”

Most of these chaos-loving commenters were clearly fans of Kyousuke’s new novel, but there were plenty of serious viewers too.

“I used to think judges voted based on personal gain or bias, but they actually saw layers in the story that I completely missed.”

“Hojou-sensei’s The Devotion of Suspect X is incredible! I only saw Ishigami’s love for Yasuko and Yukawa’s friendship with him.

But I didn’t realize it also explored women’s issues and homelessness. Hojou-sensei really deserves to be called a national teacher!”

“Agreed! I already voted for him. Osaka Gou’s such a bro for promoting his work.”

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Oh, right—one of the guys fighting was Osaka Gou, and the one getting pummeled was Toyomasa Kurokawa.

The fight scene had actually been Kurokawa’s own idea, though no one really knew if he wanted to show “awakening through defeat” or just look righteous on camera.

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“They’re so passionate about the works they support. The judges are actually kind of admirable.”

“Next time I recommend Hojou-sensei’s books to my dad, I’ll know what to say.”

“Idiot, don’t grab your dad by the tie!”

“And don’t throw tea at him!”

“Who even does that?!”

“Screw it, just settle it in an octagon—loser has to buy the book.”

“What are you people even talking about anymore!?”

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As expected, the internet went completely off-topic—but that only showed how popular the stream had become.

And it worked. The live broadcast pulled in over 100,000 concurrent viewers.

That might not sound like much compared to novel sales, but for the Japanese literary scene, it was massive. When the stats came out, everyone was floored.

Streaming platforms were lining up to collaborate with the Association.

Even if other literary organizations didn’t fully understand the value of the event, they couldn’t ignore the surge of traffic and comments on the voting site.

Nearly 200,000 votes had been cast so far—and Hojou Kyousuke alone had over 150,000 of them.

And this wasn’t some anonymous poll, either—it was a verified, real-name vote tied to citizen registration numbers.

The same wave of enthusiasm was reflected in book sales.

Usually, only after the award winners are announced do the books get a sales boost. But this time, things were different.

Not only did The Devotion of Suspect X (the top contender) skyrocket, even the lowest-ranked title, Labyrinth of the Arm, which had only 5,000 votes, sold another 5,000 copies in just a few days.

In today’s world, money is everything.

No matter how much people praise a book, if it doesn’t sell, the public won’t care.

But when the bestselling novel actually wins, people believe the judges must have some sense after all.

As for those critics who mocked the Association for losing its “seriousness and professionalism”? Well, just look at the public reaction now.

Through one single live broadcast, people went from mocking to respecting them.

Sure, they laughed—but deep down, they couldn’t deny the judges’ insight and perspective.

And as for Hojou Kyousuke? He just smiled.

Because now, all those newfound opinions, their understanding, their admiration, their passion— belonged to him.

‘They think they love the book for its meaning… but really, they’re just shipping the characters.’

The sudden turnaround left the literary establishment completely dumbfounded.

The old guard of Japan’s writing scene sat there slack-jawed, then burst into furious rants—cursing the younger generation, cursing the media conglomerates.

“If it weren’t for those incompetent fools in the press, how could readers today be so stupid?!” they fumed.

“If the internet didn’t exist and people still relied on newspapers and ‘expert opinions,’ Hojou Kyousuke would’ve never gotten this far!”

Ordinary people, they grumbled, were better off staying ignorant—don’t give them a place to speak!

Hojou Kyousuke, meanwhile, couldn’t care less about the criticism.

He was perfectly content accepting the expensive sake and a few handwritten manuscripts Chairman Konno Kenzo had sent him as gifts.

The manuscripts, amusingly enough, were originals of Konno’s own “masterpiece,” The Kendo Tournament Murder Case.

The guy really couldn’t do anything without dragging his own work into it.

But the fact that he’d part with the original drafts showed how sincerely grateful he was.

And how could he not be? The Association’s reputation had skyrocketed overnight—its popularity shooting up like a roller coaster into the clouds.

Under his leadership, the Mystery Writers Association was on the verge of surpassing its predecessors, becoming the pride of Japan’s literary world.

Konno was so thrilled he probably wanted to die right then and go brag to Edogawa Rampo by the River Styx.

At the same celebratory dinner, Osaka Gou was beaming.

After ten years of obscurity, one viral brawl had made him a household name.

His old works were rediscovered, royalties pouring in, and even his wife—who used to nag him for wasting time writing—now praised him as “a real man.”

Within the writing community, his reputation was soaring too.

Everyone said he had great character and that they wanted to be his friend—or sparring partner.

Even his latest novel, Memories of the Night, a love story about a woman suffering from Alzheimer’s, was being praised online.

“He may not be handsome,” fans wrote, “but he has such a delicate soul. No wonder he’s friends with Hojou-sensei.”

All this adoration had inflated the man’s confidence to record levels.

Over dinner, he leaned forward with a grin and asked Okudera Miki, “So, tell me—do you think I could charm a pretty college girl now?”

Konno nearly spat out his drink laughing.

Miki, however, maintained her calm smile—elegant as ever—and replied gently,
“Even without all this recent attention, Osaka-san, you’ve always been a man with his own kind of charm.”

That made Osaka Gou grin so wide his molars showed.

Konno laughed too, slapping Hojou Kyousuke’s shoulder and teasing, “You’re a lucky guy, having such a smart girlfriend.”

Kyousuke smiled modestly, careful not to let Osaka notice anything.

Miki had been sharp ever since her college days—smart enough to become a floor manager at a luxury restaurant before she even graduated. Now that she ran her own business, her emotional intelligence had evolved to god-tier levels.

Her words sounded flattering on the surface, but if you thought about them for two seconds, they were basically saying: “You’re delusional if you think you have a shot.”

Osaka realized it a moment later, catching Konno’s sly grin—but he didn’t take it personally.

He just laughed and praised Miki’s quick wit, then turned to Hojou again, winking. “Seriously, Kyousuke, having such a clever girlfriend is a blessing.”

Konno joined in the teasing. “With a woman like her, you’ll never know peace at home, huh?”

Before Kyousuke could even respond, Miki calmly set down her chopsticks—she’d been serving him food a moment ago and smoothly changed the subject.

“By the way, Kyousuke—your new novel’s poster should qualify for the design awards this year, right?”

You see, Japan’s literary scene loves its awards.

Not only can the book itself win, but so can its characters, its cover art, and even its promotional posters.

Movies adapted from novels can win film awards—and then there’s a “Novel-to-Film Original Award” that honors the book a movie was based on.

The whole thing’s as flashy as show business.

The award Miki mentioned was one of those—the “Best Novel Poster Award,” jointly organized by several major publishers.

As soon as she brought it up, Konno and Osaka exchanged glances, both freezing mid-drink before slowly turning toward Kyousuke with complicated expressions.

‘Really? Your girlfriend’s helping you campaign for an award now?’

‘How much do you want to brag about her to us?’

“My wife doesn’t even talk to me that nicely!” Osaka shouted dramatically. “Drink! Konno, you get one glass—Hojou, you’re downing the whole bottle!”

He hollered for another round.

Konno, eager to prove his tolerance after last time’s drunken defeat, raised his glass with a confident grin—completely unaware he was walking into a trap.

Miki’s expression immediately soured.

Her lovely face puffed slightly in irritation as she tried to switch Kyousuke’s drink for fruit wine and replace the other two’s with vodka.

Kyousuke quickly laughed and intercepted her, swapping everyone’s drinks for brandy instead.

“Come on,” he said with a sly grin, “if I wreck my liver and kidneys tonight, I’ll just be back to square one by the end of the year. What are you two lightweights gonna do then?”

The two men stared at the strong liquor in horror. Konno hurriedly topped off Osaka’s glass—misery loves company, after all.

The lively dinner slowly faded into silence as both middle-aged men were eventually escorted home by their assistants.

Later, upstairs at Entei, the restaurant they’d rented for the party, Miki was cleaning up the table.

Kyousuke stood watching her graceful figure bend forward, the soft curves of her hips swaying slightly.

He stepped up behind her, slipped an arm around her waist, and leaned close to her ear.

“Thanks, Miki.”

His voice was warm, laced with the faint sweetness of alcohol.

The words brushed past her ear, trailed down her cheek, and melted into her breath.

Miki froze mid-motion.

Feeling the heat pressing against her lower back, the ever-composed Okudera Miki couldn’t help the blush creeping up her face.

“You’d better remember that,” she murmured—half teasing, half shy.

She wasn’t exactly close with Eriri, but she couldn’t stand hearing anyone mock Kyousuke.

That was why she’d spoken up earlier.

Kyousuke chuckled and nuzzled his forehead against her neck, breathing softly near her ear.

Of course he remembered the “poster award” thing.

He’d already arranged it with the publisher long ago—but the fact that Miki brought it up so naturally showed she’d been thinking about it too.

That was Miki for you—the kind of woman who always took care of the people she loved.

Kyousuke took her hand and gently pulled her into his arms.

Everyone else had already celebrated with drinks tonight. But his real celebration was still waiting for him—right here.

“I still need to clean up,” Miki said, voice barely above a whisper.

“You can let the staff handle it tomorrow.”

And with that, the room fell quiet again—just the sound of two heartbeats, and the faint clink of empty glasses cooling in the night.