Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

While Kitahara Iwao and Kamachi Sachiko were enjoying their meal at the barbecue restaurant, Shinchosha's hotline was ringing off the hook.

This time, however, it wasn't the PTA's angry complaint, but the desperate cries of countless young people and the almost frantic additional orders from bookstores across Japan.

Kitahara Iwa, who was originally regarded as the instigator, was elevated to a pedestal by countless students and writers after this night.

As for the arrogant Ministry of Education?

Faced with this massive social wave that could lift rooftops, the bureaucrats, who are usually high and mighty, once again demonstrated their superb fence-sitting skills.

The stern warning that "Confessions" should be listed as a harmful book disappeared without a trace the next day.

The next morning.

Tokyo, Shinchosha editorial department.

The editorial office should be lifeless at this time, with only a few editors who have been working late into the night and are dozing off.

But today it was unusually noisy.

"Ring ring ring!!"

"Ring ring ring!!"

The sound of dozens of phones ringing simultaneously was so loud it seemed like the ceiling was about to be blown off.

Every operator's hands were almost broken, and the additional orders spitting out by the printers piled up in the aisle like snowflakes.

"Damn it! Who told you to say it was 30,000 copies?!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato's voice echoed throughout the office area.

The usually smiling editor-in-chief, now sporting enormous dark circles under his eyes, roared at the printing plant manager, "Didn't you see last night's news?! 35.4% rating! That's 35.4%! Half of Japan is talking about this book!"

"I don't want 30,000 copies! I want 200,000 copies! Now! Immediately!"

"What? Not enough paper? Then go borrow some! Go rob some!"

"Even if you have to empty every paper mill in Tokyo, you have to print this! If bookstores run out of stock this afternoon, I'll stuff you into a rotary printing press and print you into a book!"

boom!

After hanging up the phone, Editor-in-Chief Sato slumped onto the table, exhausted, then jumped up as if injected with adrenaline, grabbing another constantly ringing phone: "Moshi moshi! This is Shinchosha! What? Kinokuniya Bookstore wants to order another 50,000 copies? Okay! No problem! We'll arrange it right away!"

At the bookstore entrance, a long line had already formed before the doors even opened.

Middle school students in uniforms and high school students with rebellious eyes clutch their pocket money tightly, all for the sake of obtaining a legendary forbidden book.

Today, "Confessions" is no longer just a novel.

It became a medal, a bible about a cruel rite of passage.

Ironically, the place where the fire burned the brightest was Kyoto, the very city that issued the ban and attempted to confine the children with a moral high ground.

During last night's live broadcast, Kitahara Iwao's statement that "he was just a piece of trash that could be easily broken" completely shattered the psychological defenses of young people in Kyoto.

If they don't let us buy it, then we'll buy it anyway.

Thus, starting this morning, a peculiar sight appeared on the Hankyu Railway connecting Osaka and Kyoto.

Groups of students in Kyoto school uniforms, and even young office workers skipping work, flocked to Osaka.

Their sole purpose was to buy "Confessions".

In the bookstore in Umeda, Osaka, every young person from Kyoto who buys a book will hold it up high like a trophy.

At this moment, owning a copy of "Confessions" becomes proof of awakening.

This is not only about fighting against outdated adults, but also about fighting against juvenile laws that protect children who have already made mistakes.

For these young people, adults always say, "You're still young and don't understand," and "The law will forgive you."

But Confessions tells them: evil is evil, regardless of age. If the law cannot punish you, then ethics and revenge will come after you.

For profit-driven media outlets, the winds of change shift faster than turning the pages of a book.

Yesterday, the newspapers that were vehemently criticizing Kitahara Iwa as an instigator and a poison of the Heisei era on their front page have completely changed their tune in today's morning editions.

In particular, the Yomiuri Shimbun, Japan's largest-circulation newspaper, published an editorial in the most prominent position of its commentary section entitled "Do We Need 'Bad Kids' Like Kitahara Iwao?"

The article concludes with the following:

"When we criticize Kitahara Iwa for reopening old wounds, perhaps we should reflect on why our education system has allowed these wounds to fester so deeply."

"We need bad kids like Kitahara Iwao, because those so-called good kids are all pretending to be asleep."

"And Kitahara Iwa was the one who woke us up with cold water."

With the spread of this conclusion, the siege against Kitahara Iwa finally came to an end.

Two weeks later.

The afternoon sun shone on the large desk.

Kitahara Iwatsu twirled a fountain pen in his hand, the manuscript paper in front of him already densely covered with writing.

"spiral"

Now that Sadako's videotape has been implanted in readers' minds through "The Ring," it's time for this virus to mutate.

Kitahara Iwa wrote the following on the manuscript paper:

"Ando Mitsuo looked at the corpse on the autopsy table. It was Takayama Ryuji, his old classmate."

"The cause of death was a myocardial infarction. But in the deceased's stomach, Ando found a note with numbers written on it."

"This isn't a will, it's a code. A viral code that can even rewrite DNA sequences..."

Unlike the supernatural horror of the first film, Spiral will elevate the curse to the level of science fiction and biological evolution.

The curse is no longer resentment, but a virus.

Videotapes are no longer just a medium of transmission, but a carrier capable of rewriting human DNA sequences.

Kitahara Iwao continued writing the key plot point of Ando cracking the code.

Ding dong.

The doorbell rang abruptly, interrupting Kitahara Iwao's actions.

Kitahara Iwa frowned and walked to the video intercom.

The screen showed a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit.

The other person was wearing sunglasses and had a serious expression, with his hands folded in front of him. He didn't look like an ordinary visitor, but more like an official on official business.

"Teacher Kitahara, I apologize for disturbing you."

The man's voice came through the electrical connection, polite yet professionally cold: "I'm a producer from Kadokawa Shoten's video division. My boss would like to invite you for a cup of tea."

"Kadokawa Shoten?"

Kitahara Iwa raised an eyebrow.

In the Japanese entertainment industry of that era, this prefix represented absolute power.

"Understood. Please wait a moment."

Kitahara Iwa hung up the walkie-talkie and casually grabbed the coat draped over the back of the chair.

Five minutes later.

The automatic sensor door slowly opened, and Kitahara Iwa stepped out of the apartment building.

A white Rolls-Royce Silver Spur was illegally parked in the middle of the driveway of the apartment building.

There were plenty of empty parking spaces around, but it just sat there, its massive size and dazzling white paint forcefully blocking everyone's view, forcing other residents' vehicles to take detours.

The most eye-catching thing was the license plate number – “Shinagawa 33 88-88”.

In Japan's publishing and film industries, this license plate is more well-known than many second-tier celebrities.

As soon as they see this string of numbers, everyone knows who is sitting in the car.

Haruki Kadokawa, the man known as the "publishing madman".