Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 80 I will always be a fan of Kitahara-kun's books!

With the official confirmation of the name Izumi Sakai, Daiko Nagato immediately demonstrated the decisiveness and efficiency of a rising star record company leader.

He picked up the phone in the private room and dialed Being's legal department directly, requesting them to draft an exclusive contract with special additional clauses as quickly as possible and then immediately send someone to the club in Roppongi.

While waiting for the contract to be delivered, Haruki Kadokawa didn't stay idle.

To ensure this favor was done perfectly and that Kitahara Iwa couldn't find any fault with it, Kadokawa Haruki also skillfully called his personal lawyer into the private room.

About half an hour later, an original copy of the contract was placed on the coffee table.

Haruki Kadokawa's private lawyer stood aside, scrutinizing the more than ten pages of clauses word by word.

After confirming that there were no word games regarding liquidated damages or hidden clauses requiring attendance at business engagements, the lawyer closed the document and nodded to Haruki Kadokawa and Iwao Kitahara.

There were no traps; it was a clean and straightforward contract, solely for the purpose of singing.

After receiving confirmation from the lawyer, Kitahara Iwao turned his head and gave Sakai Izumi a look.

Seeing this, Izumi Sakai took a deep breath, then picked up the pen on the table and solemnly signed four characters on the contract: "Yūichi Sachiko".

Seeing this, Nagato Daisuke nodded and then put the contract into his briefcase.

Although the contract was signed, this did not mean that Daiko Nagato would be perfunctory in the music production.

"Ms. Kamachi—no, Ms. Sakai, this contract will give you absolute freedom, but Being's recording studio never keeps idle people."

Daikichi Nagato put away the documents, his gaze returning to a professional tone as he said, "Your timbre is excellent, but objectively speaking, your current vocal technique, breath control, and transitions between head and chest voice are still at the level of an amateur."

"Since we've given up on television promotion, we can only go head-to-head with the highest quality record."

Daiki Nagato said bluntly, "Starting tomorrow, I'm terminating my contract with your modeling agency."

"Then prepare for a long and extremely tedious vocal training session."

"I won't let you go into the studio to record any singles until you've truly learned how to use your breath to support a complete song."

Faced with this uncompromising, even somewhat cold, professional warning, Izumi Sakai did not show any sign of being intimidated.

On the contrary, upon hearing the words "long and extremely tedious vocal training," her tense shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.

For a somewhat introverted girl like her, honing her vocal techniques in a closed recording studio is far more reassuring than forcing a smile and trying to please the audience in front of the camera.

For her, being able to dedicate all her energy to music itself is a rare form of protection.

So Izumi Sakai quickly stood up and said, "President Nagato, please rest assured. I will do my best to hone my voice and will never let this contract down."

Looking at the seemingly delicate but stubborn girl in front of him, a barely perceptible hint of admiration flashed in Nagato Daiyuki's eyes as he said, "Come directly to Being headquarters at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Yes."

Izumi Sakai then agreed.

Seeing that the matter was completely settled, Kitahara Iwa nodded, stood up, and gave a slight nod to Kadokawa Haruki, who was sitting in the main seat, saying, "Now that things are settled, we'll take our leave."

"Mr. Kadokawa, Mr. Nagato—thank you for your hospitality tonight."

At this moment, Kadokawa Haruki leaned back comfortably on the sofa, first waving his hand, and then saying in an extremely righteous tone, "Haha, Brother Kitahara, you're too kind. Take care on your journey."

Kitahara Iwa nodded, then led Sakai Izumi out of the private room.

As the door to the private room closed, Haruki Kadokawa lit another cigar.

In his view, the deal that resulted in Kitahara Iwa owing such a heavy favor in exchange for Nagato Daiko's return was a textbook example of investment.

Meanwhile, the night breeze outside the club swept through the bustling streets of Roppongi, gradually dispelling the tobacco smell clinging to Kitahara Iwao and Sakai Izumi.

Kitahara Iwa and Sakai Izumi walked side by side on the neon-lit walkway.

When the two reached a relatively quiet street corner, Izumi Sakai stopped, turned around, and bowed deeply to Iwata Kitahara with utmost solemnity.

"Kitahara-kun—thank you so much for today."

"If it weren't for you, I might never have dared to take this step, let alone have such an incredible contract."

"

"There's no need to be so formal."

Hearing Izumi Sakai's thanks, Iwao Kitahara casually waved his hand and said in a relaxed tone, "Just consider it as me using my position for personal gain."

"After all, I'm a fan of Izumi Sakai."

"We have to find a way to create the most comfortable stage for our favorite singers."

Upon hearing the term "fans," Izumi Sakai paused slightly.

then.

The girl, who had been shrouded in tension and pressure all night, suddenly revealed a faint but genuine smile on her face.

This was also the first time Kitahara Iwa had seen her laugh so unguarded.

Izumi Sakai looked up at the dazzling neon lights of Roppongi, gazing at the man who had seen through her awkwardness and led her out of her misplaced path.

She didn't say any of those polite platitudes, but responded in an extremely gentle yet incredibly serious tone: "Then—me too."

Izumi Sakai clenched her fist, as if making a promise that belonged only to the two of them, and said, "I will always be a fan of Kitahara-kun's books."

"No matter what kind of text it is, I will keep reading it."

Hearing this promise, which was completely sincere, Kitahara Iwa looked at her eyes, which appeared exceptionally clear under the neon lights, and a very gentle and genuine smile appeared on his lips.

"Okay, it's a deal."

Kitahara Iwa replied softly, "I look forward to the day I hear your voice on the radio. As for my writing—"

Kitahara Iwa paused for a moment, then continued, "Then I have to go back and keep writing. I can't let you, a fan of my books, look down on me."

Upon hearing Kitahara Iwao's somewhat joking reply, Sakai Izumi bowed deeply again before turning and walking towards the ramp leading to the subway station.

Kitahara Iwao stood at the bustling street corner of Roppongi, quietly watching her slightly thin but no longer lost figure merge into the crowd.

Then Kitahara Iwa withdrew his gaze and turned to walk into the slightly cool night.

A new beginning for Izumi Sakai has begun, and now it's time for her to switch battlefields.

For the next week, Kitahara Iwa stayed in his apartment, ignoring all the noise outside, and poured all his energy into creating "The Cry," as if he had vanished from the face of the earth and read half of it.

However, it was precisely Kitahara Iwa's complete disappearance and silence, coupled with the equally unusual stillness of the "Literature" editorial office, that elicited an extremely strange reaction from outsiders.

A week earlier, the editor-in-chief of "Literature" magazine had received the manuscript of "Love Letter" and immediately locked it in the office safe. He also issued a very strict gag order to the entire editorial department: "Before the special issue is officially sent to the printing press, anyone who dares to leak even a single word about the contents of this novel to the outside world will immediately pack their things and leave."

The old editor-in-chief did not issue such a strict gag order for no reason.

On the one hand, this is naturally to ensure that this special issue can give readers the purest emotional impact on the day of its release.

But more importantly, it is also for the silent protection of Kitahara Iwa.

This old-school publisher, who has been navigating the literary world for decades, knows better than anyone else.

How much hostility and prejudice does the traditional literary world today harbor towards Kitahara Iwa, an outlier who started out writing bestselling popular novels?

The most moving farewell letter in Love Letter is written entirely in broken, even somewhat clumsy, Japanese.

If word gets out beforehand, even if it's just a few snippets, those conservative intellectuals who have been sharpening their knives for a long time will surely pounce on them like hyenas smelling blood.

They would use a magnifying glass to take things out of context, clinging to grammatical errors and crude descriptions of the lower classes, and launching a malicious media campaign against Kitahara Iwa before the full emotional buildup could even begin.

What the old editor-in-chief needs to do now is to completely nip the possibility of these petty people causing trouble in the bud.

He wanted readers all over Japan to read the article in its entirety and in one go, without any prejudice.

Once true resonance is formed, any slanderous attempts to find flaws will crumble in the face of absolute strength.

However, the deathly silence that the old editor-in-chief deliberately suppressed in order to protect the author was seen by outsiders—especially by the Kyoto school of writers who were already wary of Kitahara Iwa—as an extremely absurd illusion.

In the social rules of traditional literary circles, if a publication acquires a masterpiece that is enough to shake the literary world, even if the editors are as restrained as possible, they will still reveal some pretentious praise in private tea parties or in the corner columns of the newspaper to generate buzz in advance.

The unusual silence of *Literature* magazine, which seems as if nothing has happened, usually points to only one possibility in the established experience of the Kyoto School:

It was Kitahara Iwao, a guy who was used to writing commercial popular novels, who finally stumbled solidly at the threshold of pure literature.

The original manuscript he submitted was bound to be unsuitable for the literary journal, and the editorial department was probably in a state of panic, forcing him to make major revisions in order to barely maintain the journal's dignity.

Under this idea, those narrow speculations that originally circulated only in private were given the guise of objective literary criticism.

then.

Harsh pronouncements such as "Kitahara Iwao's talent has run its course," "Popular literature can never reach the highest level," and "Inviting Kitahara Iwao to contribute to literary journals was a blunder" began to frequently appear in the literary sections of major newspapers and magazines.