Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

The moment his consciousness returned, Kitahara Iwa felt as if his brain had been boiled in scalding sake.

The air was filled with unrestrained cheers, the clinking of glasses, and the off-key rendition of "Goodbye Egogiedance" emanating from the karaoke machine.

The air was thick with the cloying smell of cigarette smoke, cheap hairspray, and expensive whiskey.

"Kitahara! Stop pretending to be dead! This is only the second round! We're drinking until we drop tonight!"

Someone patted him hard on the back while handing a wine glass to Kitahara Iwa.

Kitahara Iwa struggled to open his eyes. The last image of his previous life, before he died suddenly in front of the computer while typing, remained on his retina. But what flickered before his eyes were young but swollen faces.

Memories surged like a tidal wave, shattering the dam between reality and illusion.

I've traveled through time.

I am no longer a university student studying Japanese literature in Tokyo.

Instead, it was Kitahara Iwa, a recent graduate of the Faculty of Letters at a prestigious private university.

This is Tokyo in 1989, at the peak of the most insane bubble economy in human history.

Today is the graduation party for my university classmates.

"Here comes the bill! Let's split it evenly!"

The squad leader, beaming, waved a long bill and shouted, "Everyone should have a great time tonight! Only 30,000 yen per person, what a bargain!"

30,000 yen.

This number was like a cold bullet, instantly piercing Kitahara Iwa's chaotic mind.

He instinctively clenched his pocket, his fingertips touching only a few limp banknotes and the cold, hard edges of a few coins.

When I took it out, I found it was only a mere 40,000 yen.

The students around him took out their wallets, and some casually pulled out several ten-thousand-yuan bills and threw them on the table as if they were throwing away waste paper.

Some people jokingly complained that their bonuses hadn't been paid yet, but they were wearing brand-new Rolex watches on their wrists.

Most of them had secured offers from top trading companies, major banks, or GG agencies; in this era, they were the darlings waiting to be gilded.

Kitahara Iwa is the only exception.

In my memory, my predecessor was a fool clinging to a decadent literary dream.

He insisted on writing obscure and difficult-to-understand personal novels, but as a result, he was unemployed immediately after graduation, and even the money for this party was saved from his meager savings.

"Hey, Kitahara, what's up? Didn't bring any cash?"

A young man reeking of alcohol approached, his eyes filled with an undisguised sense of superiority and pity—the look one would give a stray dog.

"It's okay, I'll cover your meal tonight. I just received my signing bonus from Mitsubishi anyway."

That look was more piercing than the cold winter wind.

A strong sense of shame made Kitahara Iwa's cheeks burn.

This is the impoverished pride of intellectuals, crushed to pieces in the face of the giant wheel of capital.

"...No need."

Kitahara Iwa reached into his pocket and, without hesitation, slapped the three still-warm Fukuzawa Yukichi photos in front of the class monitor.

"This is my portion. Sorry, I won't keep you company any longer."

Ignoring the feigned attempts to stop him, Kitahara Iwa grabbed the worn-out jacket from the back of the chair and stumbled away from the upscale izakaya in Roppongi.

Pushing open the heavy soundproof door, it's Showa 64...

No, it's already early winter in the first year of the Heisei era, and the cold wind is like a blade scraping against my cheek.

Kitahara Iwa stood on the street in Roppongi, his hands in his pockets, tightly wrapped in his cheap, thin jacket.

Although it was already 2 a.m., the city refused to sleep.

Or rather, it was so excited that it couldn't sleep at all.

The neon signs burned the night sky red, and on the huge GG sign, the female celebrity's smile looked particularly alluring amidst the crackling of electricity.

But what he saw was not prosperity, but a huge, absurd parade of a hundred ghosts.

The streets were lined with men and women who had just finished their revelry.

The men wore exaggeratedly wide-shouldered double-breasted suits, while the women had loose, wavy hair and bright red lipstick.

They were laughing wildly, their laughter so shrill it seemed to pierce eardrums.

"Taxi! This way! To Chiba! 30,000 yen!"

A man who looked like an office worker rushed into the middle of the road.

To stop an empty car, he didn't wave, but instead raised his right hand high.

Between his index and middle fingers were three brand-new Fukuzawa Yukichi bills, each worth 30,000 yen.

This was the cost of drinks that Kitahara Iwa almost couldn't afford, and it was also his only hope of surviving the month.

But tonight in Roppongi, it's just a train ticket home.

Then, more people followed suit.

Bills of ten thousand yuan waved in the cold wind, like a flock of peacocks flaunting their feathers called "money," or like a group of tireless zombies greedily devouring the last flesh and blood of this era.

A taxi stopped, and the driver arrogantly rolled down the window, glanced critically at the thickness of the banknotes, and then reluctantly opened the door.

"It's foam..."

Kitahara Iwa murmured softly, and the white breath he exhaled instantly dissipated.

He went against the tide of the fervent crowd, like a freshwater fish that had strayed into the deep sea, navigating alone through the golden torrent.

The crumpled letter in my pocket felt particularly uncomfortable at that moment.

This is the rejection letter that Kodansha sent me yesterday.

"Mr. Kitahara, your writing is too gloomy. In this prosperous age, people need happiness and hope, not the suffocating despair you depict."

"A golden age?"

Kitahara Iwa let out a sneer: "This is not a golden age, this is clearly a masquerade ball built on quicksand."

……

When I returned to my dilapidated 7-square-meter apartment in Koenji, the clock had already struck 3 a.m.

The room was filled with a musty smell.

The tatami mats were somewhat yellowed, and the only piece of furniture was a low table with a half-eaten bowl of Nissin cup noodles that had long since swelled up, with solidified oil floating on top of the noodles.

Beside this pile of leftovers lay a mountain of rejection letters.

Those envelopes bearing the letterheads of major publishing houses now look like white tombstones, mocking the laughable literary dream that once existed.

"Fuck it..."

Kitahara Iwa didn't even have the strength to look at her again. He collapsed into the blankets and let his consciousness sink into darkness.

Kitahara Iwa was awakened by spasms in his stomach.

And the hangover headache cut through my nerves like a rusty saw.

But what's worse than a headache is reality.

He searched through all the pockets of the worn-out jacket, then opened the dusty drawer and turned it upside down.

The crisp clinking of the coins sounded somewhat desolate in the silence.

A 500 yen coin, several 100 yen coins, and a few crumpled 1000 yen bills.

Kitahara Iwa laid them out on the tatami mat and counted them over and over again.

Four thousand six hundred yen.

poor.

We're fucking poor.

That amount of money probably wouldn't even buy a glass of water with ice in the bizarre and dazzling Roppongi.

But in Koenji, a corner forgotten by the bustling city, this money was enough to sustain him through the long month.

Forget about next month's rent, even this month's lunch has become a problem.

Kitahara Iwa patted his shrunken belly, his eyes gradually turning from bewilderment to coldness.

In this era dominated by money, dignity is a luxury, and last night, he had already overdrawn this luxury.

The most important task now is to survive.

"I need to find a job. Even if it's just washing dishes."

After all, in this age where gold is everywhere, starving to death is the biggest joke.

Kitahara Iwa washed his face and forced himself to leave the apartment.

In 1989, the streets of Tokyo were plastered with urgent job postings for young men.

Construction workers earn 20,000 yuan a day, while nightclub waiters earn 2,000 yuan an hour.

This enormous economic machine is frantically devouring the workforce.

But he walked all day without ever entering a single store.

Standing in front of a real estate agency, looking at the employees inside with bloodshot eyes, shouting into the phone to sell real estate, a sense of nausea made him stop in his tracks.

Are you asking us to write those deceptive articles? To make people who haven't bought a house yet become part of this bubble?

The time traveler's rationality told Kitahara Iwa that finding a job and eating was the most important thing, but could he really sell a property with a future full of bubbles to someone else? The last bit of kindness in his bones kept Kitahara Iwa rooted to the spot.

At that moment, the cold wind swirled withered leaves, mocking Kitahara Iwa's fruitless efforts.

"Maybe we should find a quieter place..."

As Kitahara Iwao passed the street corner, he stopped in his tracks.

This is a video rental shop called "TSUTAYA". There is an inconspicuous blackboard hanging at the door: "[Urgently seeking night shift staff, hourly wage 800 yen, videotapes can be borrowed for free]".

"A videotape store clerk...?"

At least here you don't need to fake a smile for customers, nor do you need to push non-existent value.

Kitahara Iwa sighed and pushed open the glass door covered with posters.

Welcome!

The shop assistant's voice was mechanical and busy.

The shelves were densely packed with black VHS tapes, like black bricks, forming a spiritual fortress for modern people.

Kitahara Iwa originally intended to go to the counter to inquire about the recruitment, but when he found himself in this sea of ​​blackness, that original thought was suddenly dispelled.

People select Hollywood action blockbusters or newly released idol drama videotapes with numb anticipation on their faces.

They were eager to take these plastic boxes home, stuff them into machines, and fill the emptiness of the night with fictional images.

Kitahara Iwa's fingers gently traced the rough plastic casing.

Suddenly, he felt an electric shock.

The recruitment issue was instantly forgotten.

In 1989, before the internet and smartphones existed, what was the fastest medium for communication?

Not a newspaper, that's too slow.

It's not television; that belongs to capital.

Rather, it's these things right in front of me.

These are black boxes that can be stuffed into bags, passed from room to room, and secretly copied and distributed.

video tape.

An idea suddenly exploded in his mind, like black ink dripping into clear water, spreading rapidly.

If it's a virus, it needs to be transmitted through the air.

If it were malicious, in this era, it would certainly be spread through videotapes.

A story begins to resurface in Kitahara Iwa's mind.

It's a story about a curse, a dry well, and a woman named "Sadako".

The Ring (or The Ring) at Midnight.

In its original timeline, it was the pinnacle of horror fiction.

But in this world, it has not yet been born.

Kitahara Iwa took a deep breath, temporarily suppressing his crazy ideas about the videotape.

The top priority now is to secure meal tickets.

Kitahara Iwa straightened his collar and walked towards the counter.

"Excuse me, I'd like to apply for a night shift store clerk position."

The store manager, a middle-aged man with a small mustache, was busy stocking the newly arrived Hollywood blockbusters.

He glanced at Kitahara Iwa, not even bothering to ask him to fill out a resume, but simply asked impatiently, "Can you work all night? Are you still a student?"

"Just graduated. Can work through the night, can start work anytime."

"Okay, then it's you."

The store manager casually tossed Kitahara Iwa a green uniform vest, saying, "Everywhere's short-staffed right now, I'm too lazy to be picky. 800 yen per hour, night shift allowance. Can we start tonight?"

"no problem."

Everything went incredibly smoothly.

In this bubble era of extreme labor shortage, as long as you are physically able, you will not have trouble finding a job that requires physical labor.

Kitahara Iwa breathed a sigh of relief.

At least I've secured next month's rent and tomorrow's lunch.

"Then I'll come tonight to take over."

Kitahara Iwa, holding the vest, turned around and was about to leave.

But just as he pushed open the glass door, a poster pasted on the corner of the wall behind the door caught his eye.

The corners of the poster were curled up and covered with a thin layer of dust, indicating that it had been up for some time without attracting the attention of passersby.

But those large characters now stung Kitahara Iwa's eyes:

[Call for Submissions for the 1st Japan Fantasy Novel Award]

[Organized by: Yomiuri Shimbun / Supported by: Shimizu Corporation, Mitsui Fudosan]

Grand Prize: 500 million yen

Kitahara Iwa's steps froze on the spot.

As a literature graduate, he knew all too well the significance of this award.

This is a brand new award that was established in 1989.

It's less of a literary award and more of a high-stakes gamble by capital and the media.

In this golden age of publishing, the Yomiuri Shimbun, in partnership with real estate giant Mitsui Fudosan, attempted to use money to create a JRR Tolkien for Japan.

It doesn't care about seniority or affiliation; as long as the story is exciting and imaginative enough, that's all that matters.

Most importantly, the prize money is 500 million yen.

In an era when the average office worker earns only around 20 yen a month, 500 million yen is a huge sum of money that can change one's destiny.

In comparison, the traditional Akutagawa Prize only has a prize of 100 million yen, while the night shift job he just got would require him to work 6250 hours without eating or drinking to earn that amount.

"Oh……"

A low chuckle escaped from Kitahara Iwa's throat.

The store manager gave him a strange look: "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, I just think...this poster is posted quite correctly."

Kitahara Iwa pushed open the door and stepped out.

Although he still only had 4,600 yen in his pocket, and although he still had to stay up all night to move videotapes, his eyes had completely changed at this moment.

Whether it's washing dishes or working as a shop assistant, it's just a means to keep the body alive.

This fantasy novel award is the true ticket to the soul.

Back in his 7-square-meter apartment, Kitahara Iwa didn't even bother to take off his shoes before rushing to the low table piled high with rejection letters.

He swept aside the letters that represented failure with a swift, brutal motion, as if clearing away roadblocks.

By this time, the feeling of hunger had long since disappeared, replaced by a fuel called "ambition".

"A fantasy novel award? Want to read fantasy stories?"

Kitahara Iwa spread out a brand new sheet of manuscript paper, removed his pen, and a smile appeared on his lips.

"Alright. Then I'll give you the most fantastical modern fairy tale. One about videotapes, about dry wells, about a curse that we can't escape in this bubble age."

Outside the window, the drunkards' cheers continued, but Kitahara Iwa could no longer hear them.

In his world, only the scratching sound of a pen gliding across paper remained.

He picked up the pen, then put it down.

Title: The Ring