Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter Six: The Preacher (Final Chapter).

At the end of this chapter, the genius boy A (Shuya Watanabe), who had always considered himself a victim and even attempted to end his tragic heroism by blowing up the school, pressed the detonation button.

However, the anticipated school explosion did not occur.

At that moment, on the other end of the phone came Yuko Moriguchi's calm, almost gentle voice, along with the sound of an explosion coming from a university research lab dozens of kilometers away.

Yuko Moriguchi delivered the bomb, like a gift, to Shuya Watanabe—the only person he loved in the world—his mother.

"The moment you pressed the button, you also pressed the death switch for your mother."

"This is my...revenge."

At this point, Kitahara Iwa stopped writing, looking at the thick stack of manuscripts on the table, as if he could smell the blood and burnt odor emanating from between the pages.

This is the real killer move.

It is not physical annihilation, but spiritual torture.

May the murderer live in the inescapable hell of killing his loved ones for every second of his remaining life.

At that moment, Kitahara Iwa stretched out a big yawn, listened to the cracking sound of his spine, and casually put the pen into the pen holder.

"Done."

Kitahara Iwa looked at the thick stack of manuscript papers on the table, thoughtfully stroked his chin, and suddenly found it somewhat amusing.

"Compared to this..."

Kitahara Iwao sank back into his chair, a relaxed yet mischievous smile spreading across his face. "Compared to this Moriguchi Yuko-sensei's spiritual revenge..."

"Sadako, who kills people directly with her telekinesis, is so clean and efficient."

Meanwhile, at the Suzuka Circuit's rest area.

Clang!

With a loud bang, an aluminum alloy folding chair was kicked away and crashed into the locker with a piercing screech.

The mechanics and car models around were so frightened that they fell silent; no one dared to provoke them at this moment.

Kondo Masahiko's eyes were bloodshot as he stared intently at the entertainment news playing on the wall-mounted television in the lounge.

"Tch, all that pretense! She's just playing a crazy woman; it's all just for attention!"

Kondo Masahiko irritably unzipped his collar, his chest heaving violently.

At this moment, jealousy gnawed at his heart like a venomous snake.

Why is it that the woman who only knows how to cry is showing signs of a comeback, while I have to suffer here?

His days have been absolutely terrible.

The team's sponsors have issued an ultimatum to withdraw their investment because of his consecutive withdrawals from several races.

His half-modified race car urgently needed a new imported engine, which would cost a considerable amount.

To make matters worse, in an attempt to vent his frustration, he lost everything at an underground horse racing casino these past few days.

At that moment, the host on the screen exclaimed in an almost worshipful tone, "This is simply a miracle for the late-night slot! Ms. Nakamori Akina's acting skills have not only captivated the audience, but have also caused her value to skyrocket overnight..."

Upon hearing the word "value," Kondo Masahiko's originally sinister eyes lit up instantly, revealing a greedy glint as he watched his prey fall into his trap.

"You're rich now..."

He licked his chapped lips, picked up the phone as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and skillfully dialed a number he knew by heart.

In his twisted logic, Akina Nakamori is still a foolish woman who will obediently pull out her checkbook as long as he says a few sweet words or throws a tantrum and uses psychological manipulation.

Her money is her own money.

beep--

The call was connected.

"Hey, Akina."

Kondo Masahiko didn't even bother with pleasantries, his tone remaining as condescending as ever, as if bestowing a favor: "I'm in Suzuka right now. There's been a bit of a problem with the team; we need to replace the engine, also in order to win the championship next week."

"Transfer five million to me now, I need it urgently."

Tokyo, in a dimly lit apartment.

The concerned voices that Kondo had anticipated did not materialize.

At this moment, Akina Nakamori sat quietly on the sofa, with the somewhat tattered manuscript of "Confessions" on her lap.

Faced with Masahiko Kondo's voice, she did not apologize in a panic as usual, nor did she show the slightest bit of joy.

"Five million?"

At this moment, Akina Nakamori's voice was eerily calm, like a stagnant pool, unable to stir even the slightest ripple: "Kondo-san, if I remember correctly, you just took three million yen last month under the guise of car repairs. And..."

At this moment, Akina Nakamori paused, her finger lightly tracing a line of text on the manuscript, her tone as indifferent as if stating an objective truth: "Whether you change the engine or the car, the outcome is the same. You lost the race because your skills were bad, not because the car was bad."

"..."

As soon as Akina Nakamori finished speaking, there was a three-second silence on the other end of the phone, so quiet that you could hear the faint crackling of electricity.

At this moment, Masahiko Kondo was completely stunned, frozen on the spot, and the smugness and nonchalance on his face vanished instantly.

He could hardly believe his ears.

The woman who has always been obedient to me, coming and going at my beck and call, like an ATM that I can use at any time, now dares to question my driving skills.

This sudden defiance and humiliation enraged him even more than the outright refusal to give him money.

"What...what did you say?!"

A furious roar even pierced the microphone, echoing in the quiet apartment: "How dare you talk to me like that? Who am I fighting for? I'm fighting for our future!"

"You selfish woman! Now that you're famous, you've forgotten all about me, haven't you?"

"Are you trying to ruin my dream?!"

This is his most common tactic: to package his own incompetence as a dream and to accuse the other party of selfishness when they refuse.

In the past, if she had heard such serious accusations as selfish and destroying dreams, Akina Nakamori would have cried and apologized long ago, obediently paying money to prove herself.

But at the moment.

Akina Nakamori lowered her head, looking at the description of boy A (Shuya Watanabe) on the manuscript—

He was extremely narcissistic and craved attention. To prove his existence, he could trample on the lives of others without any remorse. He was a cruel, perpetually immature, overgrown child.

"Oh."

Akina Nakamori chuckled softly.

There was no warmth in the laughter, only a weariness and indifference that came from seeing through the clown's performance.

"Kondo-san, do you know what? I recently read a book."

She spoke into the microphone, slowly reciting the lines she had practiced countless times in her mind: "Your pain means nothing to me."

beep...beep...beep...

The call was abruptly disconnected the next second.

In the lounge of Suzuka Circuit, Masahiko Kondo stood frozen in place, holding the receiver, listening to the busy tone, feeling as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head.

A person who is obsequious to me and can be summoned and dismissed at will... dares to hang up on me?

"asshole!!"

Kondo Masahiko slammed the phone to the ground, his face contorted like a demon, and shouted, "Rebellion... this is truly rebellion!!!"