"So may I know what is your name …?"
Just as Kurokawa Toyomasa was about to deliver his fiery, triumphant speech, he realized he didn't even know his ally's name.
Before, he could still curse him in his head as "that blonde bastard," but now that they were supposedly on the same side, yelling "Mr. Blond Guy" would sound way too distant.
"Kisaki. Kisaki Tetta."
Kisaki Tetta introduced himself politely.
When he needed something from others, he never minded showing goodwill—something he'd picked up from his boss.
Unfortunately, he still lacked his boss's composure. He flipped from friendly to furious far too easily.
"Kisaki-san!"
To Kurokawa Toyomasa, exchanging names felt like a monumental step in their joint cause. His tone grew even more impassioned.
"The ones who deserve to be condemned, nailed to a cross and pierced through the heart with a sword, are those dark shadows looming over the literary world! For them, whether we throw stones or rotten eggs, it's only right!"
"Exactly," Kisaki nodded in agreement.
"But!"
Kurokawa raised the manuscript in his hand like a banner, eyes blazing.
"We're on the same side!"
"The… same side?" Kisaki blinked.
"Yes!"
With his free left hand, Kurokawa thumped his chest.
"I stand on the same front as you and the man behind you! I was once mired in filth, wrapped in darkness. But the moment I read this novel, I awakened, repentant and reborn!"
Kisaki Tetta finally understood the man's play.
So that's his plan—flip sides entirely, from villain to champion of justice.
And the beauty of it was that he wasn't trying to erase his past misdeeds. No, he wanted to stage a dramatic redemption arc.
After all, in Japan, nothing can't be solved with a deep bow—if once isn't enough, bow again and again.
Admit your sins today, dare again tomorrow, and keep bowing whenever needed.
Then, after his public apology, he'd stand shoulder to shoulder with Kisaki's boss, condemning the darkness in the literary world and rebranding himself as a heroic whistleblower.
Would his boss's novel really cleanse such deeply rooted corruption? Kisaki knew the answer was no.
But if things went exactly as Kurokawa imagined, it would still trigger a massive shake-up.
The old power blocs would apologize and resign en masse, replaced by a new one.
Sound familiar?
Like Japan's revolving-door prime ministers.
And this new bloc would inevitably revolve around Kurokawa himself—because he'd be the man who "saw the light."
Brilliant. If the timing weren't so awkward, Kisaki Tetta would've applauded.
This guy who dared mess with his boss was no lightweight.
No wonder he'd survived in the industry for decades, a "millennium turtle" who still worried about his wife cheating on him.
If Kisaki and his boss had been nobodies, fresh faces in the literary scene, maybe Kurokawa's speech would've swayed them.
But sorry, pal—we're not "your people."
"Kurokawa-san, hold on a moment."
Kisaki cut him off just as the man started dangling next year's Mystery Writers Association Award like bait.
"Hm?" Kurokawa blinked.
Young people these days—don't like being handed dreams?
If a mentor had said such words to him back then, he'd have been ready to work like a horse… or worse.
"You haven't read the last page yet," Kisaki said with a smile. "Please, finish it first."
"What? There's more?!"
Kurokawa's eyes lit up.
The ending so far had already been perfect—he could tell, and surely the author could too.
If there was still content beyond that, it could only be something even greater, something so essential the author had to add it.
Thinking this, he set the manuscript carefully on the coffee table, smoothed it out, and reverently turned the page.
In the center of the final sheet were bold black characters:
————————————————————————
[Written by Hojou Kyousuke]
————————————————————————
Oh! So it was the author's name.
No wonder his compliments earlier had felt awkward—he hadn't had a subject to attach them to.
Hojou Kyousuke. Nice name. Rolls right off the tongue.
With the right branding, it could even sound aristocratic.
Wonder what he looks like—this isn't the old days when talent alone mattered. If…
Wait. Hojou… Hojou Kyousuke…
Kurokawa frowned. Why did that name feel familiar?
He lifted his head, looking at Kisaki Tetta across from him, and hesitated.
"This Hojou Kyousuke, is he…?"
"Yes."
Kisaki nodded, giving him an encouraging smile.
"He's the one you said should 'go back to drawing picture books for kids.' The author of The Devotion of Suspect X."
'Gulp.'
Kurokawa swallowed hard. His eyes darted around the room.
The two burly men in black suits were still blocking his escape routes.
They hadn't moved a muscle the whole time he'd been reading, like statues.
'So… these guys came to kill me because I didn't vote for Hojou Kyousuke?'
'And that death scene in the novel—the one I just read—was meant for me?'
'What a waste.'
Out of nowhere, that thought popped into his head. Such a meticulously crafted trick—wasted on him? He almost felt honored.
Wait. If they really meant to kill him, they wouldn't have wasted so much time.
So this was a threat? If he didn't vote for Hojou Kyousuke, the man would publish this novel, exposing the injustice he'd suffered, nailing Kurokawa to a cross, then pelting him endlessly with rotten eggs.
But still…
'What a waste.'
There it was again.
A story like this could easily be his masterpiece.
Publish today, and tomorrow the papers and magazines would sing his praises—an old cask of sake whose hidden genius had grown richer with time.
With a manuscript like this, even a random newcomer could become a rising star overnight.
Fame, fortune—Hojou Kyousuke was using this just to threaten them?
Why hadn't he said so sooner? Just hand me the book!
Not only would I vote for you, I'd snag the other two votes as well.
Osaka Gou's a useless idiot anyway. From now on, you and I could be friends.
Original plan unchanged—I can still be the righteous good guy!
With that thought, his tension eased a little. He looked up at Kisaki Tetta and ventured:
"So… if I just give my vote to Hojou Kyousuke…"
"Hm?"
"…If I give my vote to Hojou-san, he won't publish this book?"
Kurokawa quickly corrected himself mid-sentence.
He'd heard rumors about Hojou Kyousuke's infamous reputation in Tokyo, and clearly they weren't exaggerated.
Even his subordinates were terrifying—what kind of demon must the boss be?
"Heh~~"
Kisaki couldn't help but laugh at that.
This brilliant work, just to threaten you? You think a bit too highly of yourself.
Doesn't that seem like a waste?
That was exactly what Kisaki himself had once asked his boss.
"If I really stopped publishing just because you gave me your vote, then I'd be part of the backroom deals myself."
Boss hadn't even finished speaking back then, but Kisaki had fully understood the point.
If this novel's existence ended here and now, then everything he and his boss had done would amount to nothing more than extortion—forcing Kurokawa Toyomasa's vote by threat.
That would be handing the man a weapon to use against them.
"What a foolish idea that would be."
Kisaki raised his voice, as much rebuking Kurokawa as he was chastising his own earlier thoughts.
That was the limit of his own thinking.
His IQ might be high, but he always leaned toward the shadows, unlike his boss, who carried himself with overwhelming, dazzling confidence.
"No matter how you vote, this novel will be published before April 27."
His words dropped like a death sentence, cold and final.
'Huh???'
Question marks exploded in Kurokawa's head.
Publishing the novel? Wouldn't that be a direct declaration of war against him?
Was Hojou Kyousuke really throwing away his shot at the award?
But then, realization struck.
Sitting in front of him was only Kisaki Tetta.
Yet, somehow, Kurokawa saw another figure—towering, oppressive, gazing down on him from above.
That face… he knew it. He'd only seen it once, but it was unforgettable in its striking beauty.
Hojou Kyousuke.
His presence seemed so massive his head nearly touched the ceiling. His eyes were calm, detached.
They looked at Kurokawa, but those deep black pupils never truly saw him—as if someone like him wasn't even worthy of occupying the man's attention.
"Choose. Do you want to die as cannon fodder, or crawl obediently as a dog?"
That was what the godlike figure said—or at least, that's what Kurokawa read from every move Hojou Kyousuke had made.
Overwhelming. Unparalleled.
This wasn't a threat, nor was it an attempt to curry favor with the "social school" of mystery writing. Hojou Kyousuke was simply stating facts.
The award? He was taking it.
If you had any sense, you'd cast your vote.
Stand in the way of the tide of history, and you'd be crushed into dust.
And Kurokawa knew it was true.
Once this novel was published, it would cause a sensation.
Then the spotlight would turn on him.
Reporters would dig into why he hadn't voted for Kyousuke, reinterpreting his every word and action against the man.
Old scandals would be unearthed.
He'd be branded the very judge who met a grisly end in the novel itself!
If he wanted to avoid that fate, there was only one path left: cast his vote for Kyousuke, cutting ties with the corrupt judges once and for all.
Humiliation burned his face red.
Him! An industry veteran! To be cornered like this by some upstart!
Watching Kurokawa's expression twist, Kisaki Tetta knew the man had figured it all out.
Yes—this was the path his aniki had chosen.
Like the blazing sun, it crushed every obstacle in its way.
No tricks, no schemes.
Every act righteous, every move out in the open, untouchable under the light of day.
A strategy so grand and open it became irresistible—even when you knew it, you had no choice but to follow.
That was Hojou Kyousuke. The man who led them forward.
The uglier Kurokawa's face became, the prouder Kisaki felt.
See? Hojou Kyousuke's power was absolute. A manuscript written in a single morning could still flatten trash like you.
And such a man—this was his boss. The one he'd chosen. The one he'd sworn, at first meeting, to follow for life.
Kisaki had always known: schemes and tricks might win short-term battles, but to stand forever unshaken, you needed true strength.
He was just a vine—he could only climb higher by entwining himself around a towering tree.
"…Don't you worry that things might spiral out of control?"
Kurokawa finally muttered, head bowed. If it were a no-name rookie, desperate for fame, no one would bat an eye.
But Hojou Kyousuke wasn't that.
He wasn't rich or powerful, but he wasn't a nobody either.
Doing something this bold—wasn't he afraid of being torn apart?
"Heh. A pack of hyenas might tear apart a lone lion. But the blazing sun in the heavens? They can't even lift their eyes to it."
Kisaki's scorn dripped with arrogance.
He knew his own limits—why he relied on schemes and manipulation.
Unlike his boss, he wasn't strong enough to stand bare beneath the light.
To expose everything was to expose your weaknesses, to make yourself easier to attack.
Publishing this novel was suicide by industry standards.
Maybe the pressure would force them to give Hojou the award this time, but after that?
He'd never see another trophy.
Or worse, they might refuse outright, slamming the door in his face.
One man against the entire industry? Impossible.
That's why actors never spoke out until the big companies crumbled—fear of being blacklisted.
But Hojou was different.
His strength was real.
Even without awards, he could produce masterpiece after masterpiece.
And then the shame would fall on the awards themselves.
The public would demand answers:
'How could a genius like Hojou Kyousuke, with so many brilliant works, never win?'
Once the credibility of the awards was questioned, everything would collapse.
Years of prestige, gone in an instant.
Kisaki's usual chuunibyou grandeur poured out, leaving Kurokawa bitter and speechless.
Kids these days—no respect for their elders.
Before he could respond, Kisaki pulled a tablet from his briefcase, tapped a few times, then slid it across the table with a gesture to look.
What now? That novel wasn't enough—he had more tricks up his sleeve?
'What a waste.'
That same thought echoed again in Kurokawa's mind.