[Writer K: Dreams and Death.]
That was the title of Hojou Kyousuke's latest work.
"This time, have you seen through my trick?"That was the very first line of the new novel.
"This time, are you satisfied with my trick?"That was the second.
No doubt about it—it was a mystery novel.
Back when Chairman Konno Kenzo and Osaka Gou first discussed awards with him, two judges from the social school had complained that his works weren't really "social mysteries."
They feared he would encourage a trend of people slapping the "social school" label on novels that were, in truth, just orthodox mysteries in disguise.
At the time, Kyousuke had casually replied: "Then how about I just write a proper social mystery to show how much I admire the style?"
In truth, Kyousuke couldn't care less about literary factions.
He had started out as a manga artist, after all.
Compared to the lofty "sensei" title that mystery authors enjoyed, manga artists stood on much lower ground.
Even today, with manga's influence at its peak, the title still carried less prestige.
If you went back twenty or thirty years, calling yourself "sensei" as a mangaka would've been a joke.
So, to him, it didn't matter what school he was put in.
Like he once told Eriri—he wrote light novels because they made money.
He drew manga because they made money.
That was all.
In a way, the judges' fierce protection of literary awards actually benefited him.
If, one day, Japan's Prime Minister had to be elected by mystery novelists, Kyousuke would be rolling on the floor laughing.
And then he'd immediately quit manga and light novels altogether, and just transcribe every mystery novel he remembered in one go.
The truth was, he dove into mystery writing because of the prestige it carried.
He was already enjoying the perks.
Defending that circle was only natural.
So if writing a social mystery could win him those two judges' support, he wouldn't hesitate.
What was one more "borrowed" book, anyway?
The authors he copied didn't exist in this world.
You could even call it… cultural exchange.
Another Earth's literature invading this one.
Of course, that was the kind of thing you could only say if you'd knocked your conscience out of the park with a home run swing.
Chairman Konno Kenzo and Osaka Gou had immediately stopped him:
"Hey, brat—what are you trying to pull? You saying social mysteries are so easy you can just crank one out to mock us? Think you can spit on your seniors like that? You got a death wish?"
Yeah… looking back, Kyousuke realized they had a point.
It'd be no different from the time Kosaka Akane tried to provoke him by blatantly copying Eriri's work.
Kyousuke wasn't exactly a saint, but he wasn't the type to stoop that low either.
He let the idea die on the spot, and instead waited for Osaka Gou and Chairman Konno to work their connections on his behalf.
He was even prepared to cough up some "lobbying funds" if it came to that.
And there was a good reason why he was investing so much into this award.
First—money.
Japan was, and still is, a "nation of books." While the rest of the world marched into the internet age, Japan clung to its old ways.
Newspaper conglomerates still wielded immense power.
That influence wasn't just for show.
The country's most powerful TV networks were all run by newspaper groups.
They fought tooth and nail to suppress rising internet platforms, all while tightening their own grip.
From the start, serialized novels had been the biggest weapon newspapers had to secure subscriptions.
A single strong story could carry an entire paper.
Subscribers brought in advertisers, advertisers brought in ad revenue, and ad revenue meant higher author royalties.
A virtuous cycle.
On the other hand, more than one newspaper had folded the moment their star serial ended.
And how did you convince readers that your serialized novel was worth reading? Simple.
You told them directly.
Through literary prizes.
The Yomiuri Prize—founded by the Yomiuri Shimbun.
The Mainichi Arts Award—founded by the Mainichi Shimbun.
The Edogawa Rampo Prize—Japan's highest mystery honor, awarded by Kodansha.
It wasn't just novels.
The manga industry followed suit.
Award it yourself, publish it yourself.
Want a prize? Submit to us.
Want to read the best? Trust the works we crown winners.
Which, of course, meant buy our books and papers.
Once one paper started this racket, the others had to keep up. And so, Japan became littered with literary awards.
Hundreds, maybe thousands of them.
Enough to keep the entire literary world running year-round.
Even if a reader picked up one "Grand Prize Winner" a day, it would take a full year before they ran out—only to be greeted by the next year's crop.
There wasn't another country in the world that so shamelessly milked literary awards.
But this, too, birthed the strange phenomenon of Japan as a true "nation of books."
And among all those prizes, the Mystery Writers of Japan Award stood near the top, rivaling even the Edogawa Rampo Prize in prestige.
To win it was to turn the printing press itself into a money-printing machine.
Naturally, Kyousuke's publisher wanted the award even more than he did.
They were already pulling strings on his behalf.
Second—fame. Or more precisely, status.
In Japan, anyone who can help others is called "sensei" as a sign of respect.
Teachers, lawyers, doctors… and writers.
The first three are obvious—teachers impart knowledge, lawyers solve problems, doctors heal the sick.
But what about writers? Were they only good for killing time?
No.
People learn about the world in only a few ways—what their parents teach them, what they observe for themselves, and, for the vast majority, what they learn from books.
One of a novel's greatest roles is to explain the unfamiliar aspects of daily life.
'Even if I've never hired a detective, I can learn what one does.'
'Even if I've never killed, I can understand how terrifying it is.'
'Even if I've committed crimes, I can see how miserable life afterward can become.'
In Japan, writers are seen as enlightening the people, elevating public consciousness.
That's why they're respected.
But then—if all writers are "sensei," why is a mystery author held higher than, say, the author of erotic novels?
That honor belonged to the father of Japan's social school of mysteries: Seichou Matsumoto.
It's no exaggeration to say he singlehandedly raised Japanese mystery fiction to the level of a cultural pillar.
After the war, Japan was a ruin.
A nation that's just lost, its people impoverished.
Yesterday they were bombing Pearl Harbor, today they were occupied by America.
Everyone around you was either a veteran with blood on his hands, a widow whose husband died in battle, or an orphan with no home to return to.
Who was good? Who was evil? Why did we suffer like this?
Japan, as a society, had no answer.
When even the basic line between good and evil couldn't be drawn, how could society function?
At the time some people wrote novels trying to capture the state of things and to think it through.
But they never quite hit the mark — either too shallow or unbearably grim.
Was I a bad person?
Did I want you to poke at my scars again?
Did I want you to tell me what to do: repent and atone, or simply kill myself to make amends?
It was in that climate that Seichou Matsumoto appeared.
The two characters in "social mystery" — the "social" part — come from him.
Through one work after another he kept confronting readers across the country:
"I killed someone for reasons like these, I committed a crime — what do you think of me? What kind of person am I? What punishment do I deserve?"
Over thirty years Matsumoto published eight hundred works.
Against that backdrop, detective fiction — specifically the social mystery was elevated to an almost absurdly high status because of him.
That's also why writers of the social school could claim two seats on award committees: their forefathers were that powerful.
When Kyousuke first started thinking about which book to imitate, he had all of this in mind.
His decision to model himself on The Devotion of Suspect X was careful and deliberate — he'd researched it.
Yes.
What Editor Shimomura is doing now is exactly what Kyousuke once did.
The Devotion of Suspect X is, without argument, a classic fair-play mystery with brilliantly crafted puzzles.
But it also zeroes in exactly on contemporary social problems in Japan: the swelling ranks of the homeless and the plight of women in society.
The homeless receive no attention; even if someone murders them like an incidental piece of the scenery, no one notices.
They vanish from the world without a sound.
Is that right? Are people who become homeless supposed to endure that?
How does one become homeless?
Why do some sleep in shacks while still wearing suits?
There are issues around women, family life, marriage, social status.
Why must Yasuko Hanaoka a divorced woman struggling to raise her daughter alone — endure the bullying of her ex-husband?
Why doesn't she seek help?
She killed a man — should she die for it? If she shouldn't, then who should?
Her ex-husband? Why did no one stop him when he kept making mistakes?
Is society to blame? Or this country itself?
These are the kinds of questions the novel forces readers to confront, which is why it obviously belongs to the social-mystery tradition.
This is also why Kyousuke's fame still isn't big enough.
If his signing tour could stretch from Shinjuku to Hokkaido in a single queue, then the next morning's news would show the prime minister and cabinet kneeling, swearing they'd immediately address homelessness and women's issues.
If Tokyo's homeless are still invisible, then make them visible!
If domestic abusers won't disappear, then bring them into the light!
And if half a year or a year passes without change — and by then a Kyousuke novel has been made into a film and taken the world by storm — the prime minister would instantly be toast.
If Kyousuke really became one of those "national teachers" who can casually lash out at prime ministers with a pen, then don't be surprised if people praise even his affairs.
If on television he said, "I just don't want to selfishly give all my love to one person," a whole chorus would hail his magnanimity; no one would call him shameless.
Then, when he visited the Miyamizu household, Kyousuke would stand tall instead of shrinking away — he'd make Miyamizu Toshiki look closely at the man who'd taken his daughter away.
So, to build a happy life, the Japan Mystery Writers' Association prize is essential for Kyousuke — it's a key piece of the puzzle leading to a better future, no less important than homelessness issues.
Fame and fortune: that's what the prize would give him. It would cover everything in the world except love.
That's why, when Konno earlier offered to throw a party and invite the two judges, Kyousuke had already prepared a few flattering lines.
"I've admired social-mystery writers since I was a child," he'd say.
"I was raised on the works of old man Matsumoto even before I was born."
Flattery costs nothing, and once he's famous, he doesn't believe those old men will dare grumble.
As said earlier, these people's factional struggles are mostly self-interest, far less noble than they claim — yet Hojou Kyousuke liked watching them burn themselves out lighting his way.
As someone already inside the circle, you had to be aware of that.
But now the situation had changed: he couldn't become one of the establishment!?
Those old men actually wanted to shut him out?
Uncle could take it, Kyousuke could take it — but the fathers-in-law wouldn't stand for it!
If you can't be the hidden power, then overturn the table and don't let anyone eat!
[The Dream and Death of Writer K]
A mystery story.
It tells of a boy who loved detective fiction from childhood.
He grew up, toiled at overtime work while stubbornly writing, and one day finally produced a manuscript the publisher accepted.
The astonishing news was followed by something even bigger: the editor told him the book had a real shot at winning an award.
"The prize every mystery writer in Japan wants most."
That's what the novel's fictional award was called.
It wasn't just a swipe at the real Japan Mystery Writers' Association Prize — it took a dig at every other prize too.
Whoever felt guilty could take the hint.
The protagonist was ecstatic, but the editor told him that winning required more: lobbying and courting votes.
The protagonist didn't understand why a book's merit should depend on such needless maneuvering, but for his dream he went along.
Judge A was the most practical: he'd sell his vote to whoever paid most — a clear price list, honest and open.
The protagonist gave up hard-earned royalties and wages, but oddly enough he liked Judge A the most.
Judge B was straightforward in his own way: he was a lecher.
The choice was simple — money or flesh.
While cursing inside, the protagonist borrowed a large sum through a loan service Judge B recommended and bought a year's membership at the judge's fancy Ginza club.
Comforted by the editor's, "Once you win, you'll earn that money back in no time," the protagonist set off to visit Judge C's home.
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