Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

In late January, Tokyo was shrouded in cold, continuous rain.

The sky was like an old rag soaked in sewage, pressing down gloomily on the city.

This damp and cold weather made every bone in my body feel chilled.

In his 7-square-meter apartment in Koenji, Kitahara Iwa finally put down his pen.

After two days of polishing, the final revisions of "The Ring" were completed.

Kitahara Iwa now has a stable source of income thanks to his night shift work at the TSUTAYA video store.

Although the hourly wage wasn't high, it was enough for him to escape the predicament of eating only one bowl of instant noodles a day, and even afford the kind of high-quality manuscript paper that was thick and smooth to write on, as well as expensive Seven Stars cigarettes.

Kitahara Iwa lit a cigarette and did a final check on the manuscript.

At this moment, Kitahara Iwao was like a patient with severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, scrutinizing every punctuation mark to ensure that the damp, sticky sense of dread could seep through the paper and penetrate into the pores of every reader.

"Finally finished."

Kitahara Iwa put the thick stack of manuscripts into a pre-prepared kraft paper envelope and then sealed it with glue.

As I stepped out of the apartment, the chilly morning wind, mixed with drizzle, hit me in the face.

Kitahara Iwa wrapped his newly bought trench coat tighter around himself and strode towards the mailbox on the street corner.

The red mailbox stood out starkly against the gloomy rain, resembling a gaping mouth.

Kitahara Iwa didn't hesitate and stuffed the envelope inside.

Clang.

A slight thud.

"Go."

Kitahara Iwa patted the cold mailbox and said with a smile, "Let those judges have a nightmare."

Several days later, late at night, at TSUTAYA Koenji store.

The heavy rain was still falling outside the store, and the raindrops were hitting the glass door, making a pattering sound.

The only sounds inside were the low hum of the heaters and the occasional distant sirens of police cars.

It's the night shift again.

But the atmosphere tonight is a bit depressing.

Sachiko Kamachi, who usually hums an unknown tune while wiping the counter, was unusually silent today.

She kept her head down, mechanically repeating the action of wiping the table. Behind her black-rimmed glasses, her eyes were red, clearly indicating that she had just been crying.

Even when giving change to a customer, she nearly knocked over the teacup beside her, her movements as sluggish as a rusty machine.

As the customers left the shop, the two of them, as usual, sat behind the counter and ate a late-night snack.

Tonight's late-night snack is a discounted bento box from a convenience store: fried pork cutlet rice.

In this bubble era, leftover food is considered food for losers, but for two people chasing their dreams in Tokyo, it is a rare source of sustenance.

Sachiko Kamachi poked at the cold, hard pork chop with her chopsticks, but hesitated to put it in her mouth.

"What's wrong?"

Kitahara Iwa opened a can of hot coffee and gently pushed it towards her, steam rising between them: "Was the pork chop too tough today? Or... did yesterday's audition not go well?"

Holding the warm coffee can, Sachiko Kamachi finally broke down after hearing the word "audience."

"Kitahara-kun..."

Her voice had a heavy nasal tone, as if it had been soaked by rain: "I went to a harmony audition for the Being department today."

"As a result... he was stopped after singing only two lines."

Sachiko lowered her head, large tears falling onto the lid of the plastic lunchbox with a soft sound.

"The producer said that my appearance was too old-fashioned, not only not fashionable enough, but also that my voice didn't have the sweet idol feel."

"Wearing glasses, he doesn't look like a celebrity at all."

She sniffed, mimicking the producer's arrogant tone, each word like a tearing wound: "He said... someone like you is better suited to be a librarian than standing on a stage."

The air froze the moment the words were spoken.

For someone who has given their all to stand on stage and express themselves through song, such words are undoubtedly the cruelest verdict.

It negates your talent, leaving you only with a mediocre fate.

Seeing Sachiko Kamachi's trembling shoulders, Iwao Kitahara put down his chopsticks.

He knew that feeling all too well.

In my past life, I was humiliated by data as a writer; in this life, I am abandoned by the times as a pure literature author.

This kind of pain is universal.

Looking at the girl who was about to break down, in order to keep her from feeling lonely and to give her some warmth on this cold rainy night, Kitahara Iwa decided to tell a lie.

"What a coincidence."

Kitahara Iwa picked up a cold pork chop, put it in his mouth and chewed it vigorously, his tone as flat as if he were talking about the weather: "I got rejected today too."

"That editor didn't even look at my manuscript, but said my novel was trash, that I didn't understand current trends, and that I should write those vulgar erotic novels."

Upon hearing this, Sachiko Kamachi was stunned for a moment. She quickly looked up and looked at Iwata Kitahara through her blurry glasses. She seemed surprised that this man, who usually seemed so confident, had also suffered the same Waterloo.

"yes……"

Sachiko Kamachi wiped away the tears from the corners of her eyes and gave a bitter smile, saying, "A disliked librarian and a novelist who writes trash... then we really are the loser duo of Koenji."

"No."

Kitahara Iwa didn't laugh. He swallowed the cold, hard pork chop in his mouth, turned his head, and looked out the window at the neon lights flashing in the rainy night.

"Sachiko."

Kitahara Iwa reached out and gently tapped the counter in front of him, the sound deep and powerful.

"We are not losers."

"It's a wolf that hasn't yet shown its fangs."

Kitahara Iwa turned his head and stared intently at Kamachi Sachiko, saying, "Don't listen to those idiots' opinions."

"In this era, their ears are plugged with money, and they can't hear the real voices."

"They only like those beautifully packaged candies, those soap bubbles that pop at the slightest touch."

"But bubbles always burst, and gold always runs out."

"When the tide goes out, only true talent will remain."

Kitahara Iwao looked at Sachiko's slightly red and swollen eyes and said, word by word, "We are enduring this now, we are grinding our teeth. When the time comes, we will show our true brilliance."

Hearing Kitahara Iwao's words, Kamachi Sachiko stared at him blankly.

At that moment, she felt as if the wildfire burning in Kitahara Iwa's eyes had ignited the ashes in her heart that had already cooled down.

The grievances in my heart were gradually replaced by something hotter and harder.

And this kind of thing is called ambition.

Sachiko Kamachi wiped away her tears forcefully, took off her glasses, and revealed her plain yet stubborn face.

"Um!"

Sachiko Kamachi nodded emphatically, grabbed her chopsticks, picked up the cold pork chop, and took a big bite: "We're going to be wolves!"

……

The Yomiuri Shimbun building in Otemachi, Tokyo.

The conference room was filled with smoke late at night. The pungent smell of tobacco and the anxious atmosphere mixed together, almost causing a dust explosion.

This is the final judging session for the "First Japan Fantasy Novel Award".

The long conference table was piled high with hundreds of entries sent from all over the country.

Five heavyweight judges sat around the table, each with a different expression; some were exhausted, while others were flushed.

The argument lasted for three whole days.

All the blame was directed at the manuscript titled "The Ring" in the center of the table.