Judge C was the most generous of them all.
Not only did he refuse to demand anything from the protagonist, but he even offered to take him as a disciple, promising to pass down all his writing techniques without reservation.
Having just witnessed the darker side of the literary world, the protagonist almost thought he was hallucinating.
But once he confirmed it was real, he was so moved he broke down in tears.
Then Judge C added that becoming his student wasn't so simple — he'd have to pass a test first.
The test: write a novel good enough to earn his approval.
This was a true paragon of the industry, a pillar of integrity!
If only there were more people like this in the world of mystery writing, newcomers would never need to fear obscurity.
The literary scene would surely flourish.
Perhaps the string of ups and downs had ignited his talent, because in just a few days he managed to write an excellent piece — one that won Judge C's recognition and allowed him to formally become his student.
"If you're willing, Sensei… this novel could be considered our joint work," the protagonist said humbly, bowing to the floor.
He felt that his teacher had saved him just as he was about to sink into the abyss, and he wanted to repay that kindness.
"Nonsense! Don't speak such foolish words," Judge C scolded.
The protagonist was even more touched, pressing his forehead harder against the ground, filled with reverence.
"You merely followed a few insignificant instructions of mine. How dare you covet your teacher's work?" Judge C's voice cut sharp as a blade.
The protagonist looked up mid-bow.
The noble mentor was gone.
In his place loomed a terrifying demon with fangs and a twisted grin.
"You've cleared the entrance test. But don't slack off — the yearly evaluations will be even harsher… This time I'll help you with the award. From now on, you'll follow me. My connections, my knowledge — they'll all be yours… Just obey…"
The rest of the words blurred into static.
The protagonist staggered out of the house and glanced back.
The towering doors loomed like they reached the sky, their threshold high enough to touch the clouds.
Could wood really grow this tall? Was it because it basked in the sun every day?
His thoughts spun nonsense as he answered his editor's questions mechanically, then followed him — trembling — to Judge D's residence.
What kind of ordeal awaited him this time?
Standing in the marble lobby of a luxury high-rise, he looked down at his reflection in the gleaming floor.
His legs felt frozen, refusing to move.
But the editor dragged him into the elevator. At this point, there was no turning back.
If he didn't win the prize, everything he'd sacrificed would vanish like bubbles in the wind.
Judge D turned out to be a woman — in her sixties, with some physical disabilities.
Her debut work had been based on her own tragic past.
To the public she was always optimistic and inspirational, but after encountering so much malice, the protagonist couldn't afford to be naïve anymore.
By the time the elevator doors opened, he had already steeled himself to sacrifice anything.
Whips? Ropes? Steel wool scrubbing? Bring it on. I will win this award!
To his surprise, when they were alone together, Judge D didn't drop the mask.
She was exactly as she appeared in interviews: gentle, warm, almost motherly.
She praised his talent, shared behind-the-scenes truths about the awards, criticized the corruption, and comforted him for his struggles.
The protagonist, no longer innocent, still couldn't help tearing up.
Yet he dared not say a word — terrified she might be recording him, saving his complaints to blackmail him later, like Judge C had.
But no.
Judge D truly seemed like someone who had suffered too much and now wanted to hold an umbrella for others in the rain.
She kept praising his talent and character, clearly admiring him.
Only at the end, when he cautiously brought up the matter of votes, did Judge D change the subject.
She mentioned, ever so casually, that she had a daughter of marriageable age.
The protagonist instantly understood.
He boldly declared he had stayed single for decades just for this day — to meet her daughter.
If I was ready to endure steel wool torture, then what's a marriage?
Even if she inherited her mother's disability, that was fine! I'm not so shallow as to— as to—
But the words froze in his throat.
In front of him stood a woman built like a yokozuna sumo wrestler.
She was six times his size, with a predatory half-smile tugging at her lips.
While he stood paralyzed, Judge D sighed and introduced the two "young lovers."
"Sweetko may look a little scary, but deep down she's very kind."
The protagonist believed it — because the poor girl was actually mentally challenged. Not an insult, but the truth. Her weight, too, was from a medical condition.
He wasn't sure when it happened, but suddenly he found himself on the sofa beside her.
A sofa built for four felt cramped with just one person — and now she had him clutched tightly in her arms.
Shamefully, the protagonist realized he felt… safe. After being wrung dry by the endless schemes of the other judges, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in that embrace and finally sleep.
Even worse, faced with this arrangement, he sincerely felt gratitude toward Judge D. She hadn't taken anything from him — instead, she'd given him her daughter.
A kindness weighing three hundred and seventy-two pounds!!!
Leaving the high-rise, standing in the elevator, the protagonist's first thought was: It must be hard for Miss Sweetko to ride the elevator.
If others could squeeze in, she'd often have to wait for the next one. And people probably looked at her with disdain.
Realizing what he was thinking, the protagonist's eyes widened. He clapped a hand over his mouth and burst into tears.
What's happening to me? Why am I like this?
Back at the company, when his boss exploited him, he'd curse them every night. So why was he now… grateful?
When he worked endless overtime, his body had felt like it was dying.
Now, his soul was what was dying.
His time had stopped forever at the moment he first saw his novel published.
As for Judge E — his name was Osaki Sanjusaburou. He was the only one who refused to even open his door to the protagonist.
No negotiations.
Through back channels the editor discovered why: Osaki's closest friend was also on the award's shortlist, so he'd already decided to cast his vote for him.
The protagonist collapsed to his knees, pounding his fists against the cold cement floor while cursing the heavens for their cruelty.
Why? Why am I not his closest friend?!
At least he'd secured four votes already. The last one didn't even matter anymore.
Even if the most open-minded of the judges ended up swayed by someone else's bribe, he'd still have three votes in hand. Victory was practically guaranteed.
So, on the day the results were announced, the protagonist showed up at the award ceremony hotel dressed in the luxurious suit his fiancée's mother had picked out for him.
With a confident grin plastered across his face, he struck what he thought was his most handsome pose in front of the cameras.
In his breast pocket was the acceptance speech—carefully polished by "Mother."
With her years of experience managing appearances, she'd promised it would move the audience to tears and earn him a surge of popularity.
But when the chaos of announcements settled, his name was not among the winners.
The open-minded Judge A had not voted for him—apparently someone else had offered more money.
The reasoning given? His tricks were too simplistic.
The upright Judge B had not voted for him either—a candidate had introduced his own eighteen-year-old sister to him as part of the bargain.
The "generous" Judge C had withheld his vote too—claiming that early fame would only stunt the boy's growth, and that he needed more time to mature.
The only one who actually cast a vote for him was his mother-in-law.
No surprise there—this was a woman capable of raising a sumo wrestler of yokozuna caliber.
Her integrity and determination were no exaggeration.
The protagonist's face went blank, as though all life had drained out of him.
Mocking laughter echoed in his ears.
Some sneered that a corporate drone like him should've just kept working overtime.
Others jeered that a bumpkin like him had no business in Ginza.
Still others ridiculed him for not even knowing that a proper disciple should be washing his teacher's feet.
Glancing around, he saw his fellow "men of letters" staring at him as though he were some zoo animal.
They applauded, but not for the true winner on stage.
Their claps were alms—thrown his way only because he'd given them such a spectacular performance to laugh at.
The award hall was ablaze with lights and chatter, as lively as oil boiling over a roaring fire.
At the buffet, men in tailored suits discussed the social ills of the nation with righteous fervor.
Meanwhile, the protagonist slunk to the fruit table.
Despite having earned a sizable royalty check, he still hadn't fulfilled his dream of feasting freely on melons—the fruit he loved most.
On the day he'd been paid, the very first thought to cross his mind was to order a whole box of premium Hokkaidou melons and gorge himself.
But he never got the chance, swept away instead on his vote-soliciting campaign.
Now, finally lifting a piece of golden, ice-cream-like melon with a crystal fork and slipping it into his mouth, he gagged and spat it out before even chewing.
What the hell? Why does this melon taste bitter?
Under the scornful eyes of the onlookers, he tried again and again, but the sweetness never came.
He couldn't even enjoy his favorite food anymore.
Broken, he fled the hall.
Debt collectors came knocking. When he phoned his editor to ask about reprints, he was told there were no such plans.
Judge A, when confronted, threatened to report him for blackmail.
Judge B denied ever promising him that membership card and warned him the club could sue for leaking private matters.
Judge C's mentor demanded he show up on release day to help out with a new book launch—ironically, his own "apprentice test."
In the end, it was only his mother-in-law who lent him money to pay off his debts.
So in the end… the only ones who truly care about me are you two? he thought, gazing at his deformed mother-in-law and his mentally unwell fiancée.
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Alone in the opulent living room of his mother-in-law's mansion, he ran his hands over the genuine leather of the sofa cushions, his eyes gleaming with murderous intent.
Kill them. Kill them all.
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!
Setting down his pen, he slung his little backpack over his shoulders, grabbed a butcher's knife, and set out on a journey to "purify" society.
He had a wife.
A mother-in-law.
A grand house.
For all his despair, he wasn't about to throw away the comfort he already had.
Yes, he longed to show all those who mocked him what a man's resolve truly looked like—to make them regret ever pushing a good person to the brink—but direct, public slaughter of the judges would only ruin him.
No—he was a mystery writer. His killings had to be different.
The one he hated most was Judge C, who had stolen his royalties and treated him like a beast of burden.
So naturally, he'd be the first target.
His choice of method? A classic locked-room trick—the most fundamental of mysteries, and the truest measure of a writer's skill.
Facing Judge C, now bound tightly in a futon, the protagonist smiled as he held a dagger in hand.
"This time… are you satisfied with my trick?"
He laid out the entire trick for him, promising that if the man could spot a flaw, he'd let him live.
At first, Judge C spat curses—calling him disloyal, ungrateful, and unfilial.
When that failed, he switched to begging, promising to give him the next grand prize.
Still ignored, he turned to insults again, ranting about what a blind fool he'd been to ever take in such a worthless student.
The protagonist remained calm, gently reminding him that in his current state, clear thinking was impossible.
And indeed, Judge C had the talent that got him this far. He found a loophole.
So the protagonist refined the trick, smiled as he confirmed there were no more flaws, and then ended the man's life cleanly.
Looking down at his teacher's corpse, he chuckled.
"This time… are you satisfied with my trick?"
He knew well that no trick was truly flawless. But perfection wasn't what he sought. What he wanted was a crime that could never be proven.
Next on his death list wasn't Judge A, who had stolen his royalties, but Judge B.
Why do I have to risk being crushed every night by 372 pounds of flesh, while that bastard has an eighteen-year-old girlfriend and struts around Ginza?!
This time, his choice was a trick of time.
A murder committed in a place he should never have been, at a time when he should never have been able to act.
And though he had vowed to protect the fragile life he had left, he couldn't resist the urge to whisper to the world: It was me.
As always, he asked the victim:
"This time… are you satisfied with my trick?"
The third followed—this one a trick of the body.
The victim became the killer—suicide. Japan's greatest homicide mystery, turned into suicide.