Inside the first-round screening room for the 56th Edogawa Ranpo Prize.
Stacks of thick manuscripts piled up like miniature mountains across the long conference table. More than a dozen junior editors sat slumped in their chairs, eyes glazed, faces shadowed with fatigue and the faint bruising of sleepless nights.
Every year, hundreds—sometimes over a thousand—entries poured in. Most of them were good. Some even brilliant. But therein lay the problem: only the ones with no weak seams could advance.
That meant line-by-line scrutiny, every paragraph dissected for flaws invisible to a casual reader. And that kind of work drained people dry.
The air was heavy with the smell of coffee, cigarettes, and desperation. Energy drink cans littered the floor. Even so, the editors kept yawning, their heads drooping toward the paper piles.
"Another one that falls apart at the end…"
A young editor rubbed his stinging eyes and tossed a manuscript into the rejected bin with a sigh. "Should've known not to get my hopes up. Thought it'd keep that energy through the last act."
"Get used to it," muttered an older editor without looking up. "A story that stays sharp from start to finish? Maybe one in fifty. Don't set yourself up for heartbreak."
"You're absolutely right, senpai." The younger man nodded vigorously.
Then—from the far corner—
"Huh?!"
A startled yelp cut through the dead quiet. Every head turned.
Editor Takahashi was hunched over a manuscript, practically glued to the pages. The dull, lifeless mask he'd worn for hours had vanished, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief and… exhilaration.
"Takahashi, what's got you so worked up?" one of the veterans teased.
No reply. His breathing quickened. Sweat beaded across his forehead.
The whole room went still.
When he finally turned the last page, Takahashi exhaled shakily, leaning back as if all strength had drained out of him. "A monster," he whispered. "An absolute monster…"
"Hey, stop being dramatic—what is it?" someone complained.
Wordlessly, Takahashi held up the manuscript, his voice trembling with awe. "I think… we've just found this year's winner."
The statement hit like a thunderclap.
"You serious?"
"It's way too early to call that."
"Yeah, this is only the first day of screening!"
Grumbles rose all around, but Takahashi ignored them. He handed the manuscript to the oldest senior in the room. "Please. Just read it."
The veteran took it with a skeptical look.
And then—history repeated itself.
As the old man read, his expression shifted: disbelief → curiosity → grim focus → shock. His fingers trembled; his mouth moved soundlessly.
"What the—what is this?" he finally breathed.
The other editors surged forward, demanding a look.
"Let us see!"
"What's it about?"
"It can't be that good!"
Pages began passing from hand to hand. Within minutes, the air filled with gasps, whispers, and the hiss of sharp intakes of breath.
"Oh my god… that fake solution twist!"
"The author's grasp of human darkness—this is terrifyingly precise."
"This prose feels seasoned. Are we sure it's not a veteran under a pen name?"
"Even Tetsuya Nishio's work doesn't hit this hard…"
"Now I get it, Takahashi-san. This might really be the one."
By the time the voting ended, consensus was unanimous.
The manuscript—titled "After School"—received a historic full vote of approval, every editor marking it with the highest possible grade: S.
It was immediately forwarded to the secondary judging committee.
The second-round review panel consisted of veteran critics and senior editors—people whose names carried weight in the literary world. When they saw the attached note "Unanimous S-grade—potential grand prize winner," they raised their brows.
"All S's? Come on," scoffed one bespectacled critic. "Is this Tetsuya Nishio's entry? Even for a seeded favorite, that's blatant bias."
"Let's not jump to conclusions," said a woman seated across the table, her tone even. "We'll read it and see."
They opened the envelopes. Pages rustled.
Then silence.
Minutes passed. None of the critics spoke. The only sound was the soft, synchronized exhale of shock.
The man with the gold-rimmed glasses set his copy down first. He dabbed sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
"...I take back everything I said earlier." His voice was hoarse. "This manuscript deserves every S it got."
He looked around the room, eyes gleaming with something between fear and admiration.
"The prose is masterful. The structure ingenious. The insight into human nature—chillingly deep. It reads like the work of a major author at the height of his powers."
"Compared to this," another judge murmured, "everything else this year feels like fireflies against the full moon."
No one disagreed.
"The quality is too high—perfection, almost. I can't think of a single revision note."
Another judge nodded firmly. "This has to be our frontrunner. No contest."
When the votes were tallied, "After School" once again achieved a perfect score, sailing straight into the final round of judging.
Although submissions for the Edogawa Ranpo Prize were anonymous and the review process confidential, the committee always leaked a few "teasers" to stir up buzz.
The day after the second review, headlines hit the web:
Breaking: A Mysterious Dark Horse Dominates the Edogawa Ranpo Prize—Unanimous Approval from Judges!
The news spread like wildfire.
"A dark horse? Seriously?"
"It's been years since we had one of those!"
"They say it crushed the entire field?"
"This year's mystery awards just got exciting."
The literary world—and the wider public—was instantly hooked.
But for one man, the report felt like a knife twist.
Tetsuya Nishio stared at his screen, his face hardening.
"A mysterious dark horse?"
As the widely acknowledged favorite to win, he knew the phrase couldn't possibly refer to him. And if the committee leaked it, it meant the rumor was grounded in truth.
Which meant: a powerful rival had emerged from nowhere.
His pulse quickened. He'd invested everything into this year's contest—money, connections, favors owed. Losing was not an option.
He began pacing, thinking furiously, before making two calls.
One to his editor at Harukawa Publishing—Onizuka.
The other to his old university mentor, the influential literary critic Professor Watanabe.
Half an hour later, inside a private room of an upscale teahouse, the three sat facing one another.
Onizuka's sharp eyes glinted. "The committee's sealed tight. All we know is that it's a high-quality manuscript, supposedly from a newcomer—submitted outside the usual channels."
"Newcomer?" Watanabe snorted. "Every year someone tries to stage a 'miracle.' Nonsense."
He and Nishio had long since formed a mutual-benefit alliance: the professor lent his prestige; Nishio's success, in turn, elevated Watanabe's reputation. Onizuka's career prospects also rose or fell with Nishio's achievements.
"So what do we do?" Nishio asked tensely.
"We fight back," Onizuka said. His gaze was cold. "Whether this dark horse is real or fabricated, we shape the narrative. Public opinion can move mountains."
Professor Watanabe nodded. "Exactly. Even judges are human. If the literary community rallies behind Nishio as the rightful heir of the mystery tradition, the pressure will be immense."
Nishio bowed deeply. "I'll leave it to you both."
The next day, the counterattack began.
Watanabe and Onizuka appeared on every major talk show and panel they could book.
Prime-time TV interview.
Host: "Professor Watanabe, as one of the leading scholars of modern mystery fiction, how would you describe your former student Nishio's writing?"
Watanabe (serious): "Tetsuya Nishio possesses a rare combination of insight and discipline. Even in his university days, his stories dissected the human condition and social structures with remarkable maturity. I believe his latest work will resonate far beyond genre fans."
Host (to Onizuka): "Editor Onizuka, you have a reputation for being extremely strict. What makes Nishio's work stand out?"
Onizuka (nodding): "In twenty years of editing, I've never seen anyone merge literary craftsmanship with mainstream appeal so naturally. His novel isn't just art—it's accessible art. I trust the Ranpo judges will recognize that."
Within days, the internet was flooded with commentary championing Nishio as the rightful successor to Japan's mystery tradition—and warning against "unproven upstarts."
Meanwhile, in Seiji Fujiwara's apartment.
Utaha Kasumigaoka scrolled through the trending articles, her delicate brows knitting tighter.
"He's in trouble," she murmured, glancing toward the sofa.
Seiji lay sprawled out, casually tapping away on his phone.
"Hey, Seiji," she said hesitantly. "Did you see the news?"
"Yeah." He didn't look up.
"You're… not worried? The opposition's pulling a lot of strings."
He finally turned his head, meeting her gaze with a calm, almost amused smile. "He's got his tricks outside the ring. I've got mine."
Utaha blinked. "You have something planned?"
He gave no further explanation—just went back to his screen, the faint curve of a smirk on his lips.
At the same time, in the top-floor boardroom of Fushikawa Group, the atmosphere couldn't have been more different.
"Hah. Looks like Watanabe and Onizuka are panicking already." A director chuckled, scrolling through headlines on his tablet.
Ryuji Aida stood at the head of the room, giving his report. "Yes, sir. According to our intel, 'After School' dominated the second-round evaluations. Nishio's camp is getting restless."
"As they should." The chairman leaned back with a calm, knowing smile. "They think a few critics and editors can sway the outcome? Naïve."
He turned to Aida. "Move up the schedule. Begin the next phase."
"Understood."
Quietly, discreetly, a series of "friendly meetings" began behind closed doors.
Fushikawa Group executives reached out to the five final judges of the Edogawa Ranpo Prize—not with pressure, but with conversation.
No bribes, no overt persuasion. Just two simple facts, dropped with deliberate casualness:
First: The mysterious author of After School was none other than Seiji Fujiwara—the same young man ruling the light-novel world under his pen name, Prince Warukawa.
Second: His A Certain Magical Index series had already become a commercial phenomenon, with only two volumes released and sales numbers so explosive they left every publisher envious.
The judges sat back, stunned.
If true, then this wasn't just a brilliant mystery—it was a bridge between worlds.
A literary award joined to a cultural juggernaut.
The potential prestige and profit shimmered before their eyes like a golden mirage.
And slowly, one by one, their expressions changed.
The Edogawa Ranpo Prize might soon break free of its niche—and make history.
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You can read up to chapter 80 on patreon.com/NiaXD.