Day by day, the wait ended.
At last—under the anticipation of countless eyes—the release date of A Certain Magical Index volume two had arrived!
That day, the weather in Japan was unusually clear.
But within the publishing world and the ACG community, the air was thick with storm clouds, a tense stillness before a downpour.
Early morning. Bookstores weren't even open yet.
But outside, lines already stretched around the block—fans, skeptics, and casual readers all mixed together.
Some diehard fans were practically vibrating with excitement, shouting,
"Everyone! Today is the holy war! We'll use sales to slap those stubborn old critics right in the face!"
"Ohhh!!"
The Index fans erupted in cheers, their voices shaking the air.
Meanwhile, lurking in the crowd, some haters sneered.
"Heh. Just a bunch of brainwashed sheep."
"Four hundred thousand for a first print? Fushikawa's next quarter financials are gonna implode."
"Yeah. Just wait for the crash."
The line split sharply into two factions—true fans and anti-fans glaring daggers at each other.
And then there were the bystanders, chatting quietly, not picking sides.
"Think Fushikawa's gonna flop this time?"
"Could be. Four hundred thousand first print—if it doesn't sell, Ryuji Aida might as well commit seppuku on the spot."
"Don't you think it's thrilling, though? Whether it becomes the biggest joke in publishing history or the greatest comeback ever—we're here to witness it."
"Exactly! I live for this kind of drama."
"Blood on the floor, please!"
Amidst the chatter, eight o'clock struck.
The doors opened.
The crowd surged in like a tidal wave.
On the front display shelves, Index II was torn off in seconds. Staff scrambled to restock, arms loaded with more boxes.
Some of the earliest buyers didn't even bother to go home. They ripped off the shrink-wrap right there, dropped into seats in the store's reading lounge, and dove in.
And soon—whether fans, haters, or casual readers—every face tilted toward the pages began to shift.
Shock. Awe.
"Holy crap! This opening… it's even more gripping than volume one!"
"No way… his level jumped this much?!"
"Yeah, it's insane—like an Agumon suddenly evolving straight into WarGreymon!"
"Oh my god, this foreshadowing—it ties perfectly with that detail from the first volume! Prince Warukawa is playing 5D chess!"
"Ugh… this scene… it's so moving! Touma, you absolute hero!!"
The lounge boiled with excitement.
Even the haters sat dumbfounded on the floor, books half-open in their laps, faces slack with disbelief.
"How… how is it this good? This doesn't make sense…"
"It reads like mainstream literature—but without any preachy crap. It flows smooth as silk!"
"This is book of the year material!"
"Who the hell is this Prince Warukawa, really?"
By mid-morning, word-of-mouth erupted online like a dam bursting.
It was everywhere. Instant explosion.
And the first casualties of the blast?
The lofty, self-righteous critics who had once sneered from their pedestals.
TVS Television.
Official Twitter of Midnight Sharp Talk.
Producer Makoto Itō sat in his office, fingers twitching in anticipation. He was waiting for the sales flop news to break—ready to pounce, ride the wave, and feast on Fujiwara's downfall.
But then—
His assistant burst in, face pale.
"Producer Itō! Bad news! Our official account is under attack!"
"What?"
Stunned, Itō whipped open Twitter.
In an instant, a tsunami of furious comments crashed across his screen.
"@MidnightSharpTalk—come out and take your beating!"
"Trash show! All lies for ratings and dirty money—did you eat your conscience?!"
"Rename it Midnight Mad Dogs! That's all you are—howling mongrels!"
"I already filed a complaint with the Broadcasting Ethics Committee. Get ready to be pulled off air!"
Wh… what the hell?!
Itō's eyes went wide. Weren't they praising him just yesterday?
How did it flip to this overnight?!
Ring ring—
The phone on his desk shrilled. The caller ID: Station Director Kimura.
"Yes, Director Kimura?" Itō snatched it up.
The voice on the line was ice.
"Itō. My office. Now."
A bead of cold sweat slid down his temple. That tone meant only one thing—disaster.
He bolted for the director's office.
Minutes later—
Inside, Itō was reduced to a dog underfoot, while upper management tore into him.
"Idiot! You absolute idiot!"
"Who told you to pull something this reckless?!"
"As a review program, you dared to openly take sides? Fine. But you bet on the losing side!"
Complaint letters slammed against his face.
"Look at this! Because of your garbage episode, our complaint lines are jammed nonstop!"
"Even advertisers are getting harassed by viewers!"
"How do you plan to pay for these losses?!"
"I-I just wanted to boost ratings…" Itō stammered, face ashen.
"Boost ratings?" The director laughed coldly. "Congratulations. Everyone in Japan now knows TVS is staffed with shameless liars who'll sell their souls for clicks!"
He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe.
"As of today—Midnight Sharp Talk is suspended."
The director's gaze was merciless.
"And you, Itō? Take a long 'vacation.' We don't have a place for you here anymore."
Thunder. That's what it felt like—struck, hollowed out, left empty.
Not a formal firing. But no different. His hard-earned empire, his flagship program, all gone in an instant.
Itō stumbled out of the office like a ghost.
In the hallway, he ran into his rival—Producer Sai, head of another hit show.
Sai plastered on a saccharine smile, voice dripping fake concern.
"Itō-san, you don't look so good. I heard your show ran into… trouble? Young people really shouldn't overextend themselves. Take care of your health."
A pat on the shoulder.
But his eyes said it clearly: You're finished, Itō.
No fight left in him. Itō just lowered his head and walked away, every whisper around him stabbing like needles.
"Did you hear? Itō got chewed out by the director—show's axed."
"Serves him right! He strutted around like he owned the place just 'cause of ratings. Offended half the station."
"Exactly. Finally crashed into a wall."
"Sweet justice! I'm cracking champagne tonight."
The laughter, the jeers—shredding him, piece by piece.
Itō fled the building, hollow and broken.
At the publishing house.
Osamu Ono's editor was drowning in calls.
First—Kinokuniya's manager. His tone apologetic.
"Really sorry. But Ono-sensei's new book—we'll have to return all copies."
The editor panicked. "Please reconsider! We'll give you the steepest discount—"
The manager cut him off with a bitter laugh.
"It's not about money. Readers are threatening to boycott us if we stock Ono's books. We're a small shop. We can't afford that kind of trouble…"
Click. Line dead.
Before he could breathe, the phone rang again.
Junkudō's manager this time, voice sharp.
"Get Ono's books out of my store, now! Some college kids nearly fought my staff just for seeing it on the shelves! I won't risk my business for one book!"
"Wait—please, I'll send sales reps right away—"
Click. Gone.
The third call. A new partner bookstore.
The owner barked, furious,
"Return! Don't waste my time! If I see Ono's book here again, I'll pull all of your publisher's stock, you hear me?!"
Click.
The editor sat trembling, drenched in sweat. It was over. Everything was over.
He dialed Ono's number.
"Ono-sensei… disaster. The stores—they're all returning your books. No one dares sell them."
On the other end, Osamu Ono's voice was defiant.
"Fools! What do they know of literature?!"
"Sensei, please! This isn't the time!" The editor's voice cracked. "You have to apologize now—or your name will be ruined forever!"
"Apologize…" Ono hesitated. The thought of bowing to a light novel author made his pride twist.
But then his editor whispered urgently,
"I've heard some stores already received razor blades in the mail addressed to you… If you don't back down, your life might actually be in danger!"
"What—what?! Razor blades?!"
Cold sweat drenched him instantly. Pride meant nothing in the face of real fear.
He slammed down the call, logged onto social media, and typed a desperate apology.
[Osamu Ono's Public Apology]
"To all readers who love A Certain Magical Index, and to Warukawa-sensei:
I sincerely apologize for my previous remarks.
I was blinded by jealousy and foolish arrogance. After reading volume two of Index, I realized just how small and ignorant I truly am. Please forgive the pitiful man who let envy cloud his reason…"
But instead of forgiveness, a storm of ridicule greeted him.
"Scared now, huh? Too late! Weren't you cocky on TV?"
"Jealous? You wish. Don't flatter yourself. You're not even worthy to carry Prince Warukawa's shoes!"
"If apologies fixed everything, we wouldn't need cops! Boycott him—kick him out of publishing!"
"Pathetic lol. Keep groveling, maybe if you kneel enough we'll forgive you."
Ono trembled violently as he scrolled through the hate.
Why had he been stupid enough to provoke Prince Warukawa?
Now, all he could do was spam "I'm sorry" and "I was wrong" in the comments, clinging to survival.
In a quiet, slightly old villa.
Eriri had received her advance copy that morning. She devoured the entire book in one sitting.
By the time she closed the last page, night had already fallen outside her window.
"…Incredible."
She sat frozen at her desk, mind replaying the epic scenes over and over.
Only after a long breath did her face reveal a storm of awe and admiration.
"Amazing. Absolutely amazing."
"Like something written by a god."
"Prince Warukawa-sensei… to create such a vast, vivid, breathtaking world with just words…"
"Every character alive. Every plotline gripping. This isn't just talent—it's beyond what talent can describe."
The next day.
Inside Seiji Fujiwara's apartment.
He lounged lazily on the sofa. Utaha knelt beside him, gently massaging his shoulders.
His phone rang—Sonoko Machida calling.
"Warukawa-sensei!" Her voice shook with excitement. "We did it! It's a complete victory!"
Words tumbled out rapid-fire:
"First-day sales… 130,000 copies!"
"Online buzz has flipped completely! Every distributor is begging for more stock! The editor-in-chief just held an emergency meeting—another 100,000 copies going to print immediately!"
"Warukawa-sensei—you've made history! You're a god!"
Machida's breathless voice grew even more excited.
"Honestly, at this level, you could move into mainstream literature. You'd sweep something like the Naoki Prize for sure!"
Seiji just chuckled. "Heh. Soon. Soon."
"Soon? Then which prize are you aiming for?" Machida laughed along, teasing. "If you write mysteries, Japan's market is wide open—you could definitely try!"
"Mystery, huh…" His tone turned thoughtful. "Then maybe I'll go for the Edogawa Ranpo Prize."
"The highest honor in mystery fiction? That's incredible! I can't wait!" She chattered excitedly a little longer before reluctantly hanging up.
To her, it sounded like a joke.
But to Seiji Fujiwara, it was no joke at all.
He lowered the phone, one hand resting casually on Utaha's silky black-stockinged thigh, fingers caressing idly.
With the other, he opened his banking app—watching the astronomical royalties from the reprint roll into his account.
The feel of soft skin beneath his fingertips. The glow of digits on the screen.
Seiji Fujiwara's lips curved into a satisfied grin.
This was the life.
And silently, he added to himself:
As for the Edogawa Ranpo Prize… I wasn't kidding.
====
You can read up to chapter 80 on patreon.com/NiaXD.
P.s: 200 powerstones for extra chapter