But more importantly—
the sheer quality of After School towered over every other entry that year, even Tetsuya Nishio's The Cry of the Void.
No one could object to giving it the award. Not the committee, not the sponsors, not even the critics.
That meant they could safely share in the enormous prestige and publicity—
all they had to do was hand the Edogawa Ranpo Prize to After School.
A simple choice, really.
The day of the final judging arrived.
And something unprecedented happened.
When the organizers and Kodansha staff distributed the two finalist manuscripts, everyone expected a fierce debate.
But there was none.
The five judges flipped through the pages only out of formality—
and then went straight to voting.
"I vote for After School."
"After School, one vote."
"Seconded."
"Seconded."
"Seconded."
...
"Unanimous decision. After School, by Seiji Fujiwara, is the winner of the 61st Edogawa Ranpo Prize."
The entire process was over in less than ten minutes.
The much-hyped The Cry of the Void by Tetsuya Nishio—once considered the sure favorite—was dismissed without even a single serious comment.
The organizers and Kodansha representatives sat frozen, exchanging bewildered glances.
At exactly 4:00 p.m.,
everyone in Japan with even a passing interest in literature—readers, writers, editors, journalists—held their breath.
All eyes turned to the homepage of the Edogawa Ranpo Prize.
A bright red countdown ticked down to zero.
3…
2…
1…
Refresh.
The results appeared.
[Winning Work: After School]
[Winner: Seiji Fujiwara]
Just two lines of text—
and the entire internet exploded.
For a moment, people simply froze, brains refusing to process what they'd just seen.
Then came the tidal roar.
"What the hell?! Seiji Fujiwara?! Who even is that?!"
"What about Tetsuya Nishio?! My man Nishio lost?!"
"This has to be rigged! Total insider deal!"
"The dark horse actually won?! That mysterious rumor was real?!"
"Oh, this is gonna be fun."
"Seiji Fujiwara… I'll remember that name."
"When After School gets published, I'm buying it day one!"
Within hours, comment sections and message boards went nuclear.
Kodansha released its official congratulations, buying full-page ads across major platforms.
Since the Ranpo Prize was managed by Kodansha, the winning novel would, as always, be published under their banner—
and After School was no exception.
Meanwhile, in Seiji Fujiwara's apartment, the atmosphere couldn't have been more different—quiet, almost serene.
On the huge flat-screen TV, the live broadcast of the Ranpo Prize ceremony reached its climax.
The host's excited voice echoed through the room:
"Let us congratulate the winner of this year's Edogawa Ranpo Prize—Seiji Fujiwara! For his work, After School!"
Applause thundered through the speakers.
Seiji leaned lazily back on the couch, his expression calm—almost bored, as if the award had gone to someone else.
Beside him, Utaha Kasumigaoka stared wide-eyed at the TV, her wine-red pupils fixed on the giant image of his name splashed across the screen.
Her mind went blank.
The world around her—sound, breath, heartbeat—seemed to fade into silence.
"He… actually won?" she murmured. "He really won… the Edogawa Ranpo Prize?"
Utaha felt her thoughts jam, a surreal haze washing over her.
That prize—the highest honor in Japan's mystery fiction—had been taken by Seiji Fujiwara.
And he was only eighteen.
Barely a year since his debut. Practically a nobody.
It felt unreal.
And yet, despite herself, she felt a surge of awe and admiration—
even if she still thought he was a shameless bastard.
A brilliant bastard was hard to hate.
Over at the Fushikawa Bunko editorial office—
"We did it!!"
Sonoko Machida literally jumped out of her chair.
"He won! He really won! Fujiwara-sensei just took the Ranpo Prize!"
She twirled and cheered, too ecstatic to care how unprofessional she looked.
No one scolded her—because Ryuji Aida, her boss, was grinning ear to ear, equally unable to contain himself.
"Genius? No… this is divine!"
"Fujiwara-sensei is a god descended into our era!"
He clenched a fist in triumph before spinning to his team.
"Quick! Call him and congratulate him—and move to the next phase of our plan!"
"Yes, sir!"
Machida fumbled for her phone, dialing Seiji's number with trembling fingers.
"Hello? Fujiwara-sensei? It's me, Machida! Congratulations! You were amazing! We—"
Elsewhere, in a private tea room—
Tetsuya Nishio, Editor Onizuka, and Professor Watanabe sipped tea, their expressions composed and confident, waiting for good news.
Then Nishio's phone lit up.
He unlocked it casually—
and froze.
"No way…"
He shot to his feet, face draining of color.
"Nishio-kun? What's wrong?" Watanabe asked, startled.
Nishio didn't answer. He hurled his phone at the floor.
CRACK!
The screen shattered.
"This is impossible! There's no way I lost! That nobody—winning my prize?! There's corruption here, there has to be!"
Onizuka and Watanabe stiffened, panic flickering in their eyes.
Quickly, they checked their own phones.
The name Seiji Fujiwara and the title After School stared back at them in black and white.
Both men went rigid.
Onizuka's face turned pale. "We… actually lost?" he muttered.
Watanabe slammed his palm on the table, his face flushed an ugly red. "Outrageous! Those senile fools on the judging panel—are they blind?!"
At Fushikawa Group headquarters, on the top floor—
the mood was the polar opposite.
"Ha! We did it!"
"What a clean win—beautifully played!"
The boardroom burst into applause.
The chairman himself was smiling as he picked up the internal line.
"Ryuji," he said into the receiver, "congratulations."
"Chairman!" came Aida's voice, brimming with excitement. "It's all thanks to Fujiwara-sensei!"
"Well done. The results are out—make sure the next stage goes just as smoothly."
He paused, then added, "Every bit of our marketing, PR, and distribution muscle goes to Fujiwara-sensei alone. Understood?"
"Yes, sir! I'll see to it personally."
Back at Seiji's apartment—
He ended Machida's call, only for his phone to ring again.
This time, it was Ryuji Aida.
"Hello, Chief Editor?" Seiji answered.
"Fujiwara-sensei, congratulations once again," Aida said, his tone calm but his excitement unmistakable. "The Ranpo committee just sent over the invitation. The award ceremony's next Friday. And about your acceptance speech—"
"Don't worry," Seiji chuckled. "We'll stick to the plan."
He leaned back, voice casual yet deliberate. "At the ceremony, I'll publicly announce that I'm Warukawa."
It was a move they'd coordinated long ago, beneficial to both sides.
Seiji wasn't about to break the deal.
"Hahaha, of course! As expected of you, Fujiwara-sensei. Shall I arrange a car from Fushikawa to escort you there?"
"No need. I'll drive myself."
"Then I'll be there personally to meet you."
Friday night. Tokyo Imperial Hotel.
One of the city's most luxurious venues—
and the site of the 61st Edogawa Ranpo Prize award ceremony.
It was tradition.
Every major cultural award, from literature to art to Go, chose an elite hotel for its gala.
The banquet hall glittered with lights and laughter, champagne flutes clinking.
Editors, authors, critics, reporters—every major figure in Japan's literary world was there.
And every one of them was talking about one thing:
the mysterious newcomer, the dark horse—Seiji Fujiwara.
"Anyone seen what he looks like?"
"Nope. Still a total mystery."
"Maybe he's just an old veteran using a pseudonym?"
"Who knows. Nishio's here too, though. Look at that face—like he swallowed a bug."
"Hah, serves him right. Losing his prize to a kid must sting."
Suddenly—
Click.
The hall went dark.
A single spotlight hit the stage.
The host stepped up, voice ringing clear:
"Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming the winner of the 61st Edogawa Ranpo Prize—Mr. Seiji Fujiwara!"
Every gaze turned toward the aisle.
And then they saw him.
A tall, striking young man in a tailored suit, walking toward the stage with calm, effortless poise.
"Wait, that's him?!"
"No way—he's that young? Eighteen, maybe nineteen?"
"And that face… he could be an idol!"
"Unreal. Looks, talent—this guy's cheating at life!"
The hall erupted in applause that rolled like thunder.
Nishio's eyes burned with envy as he glared at the man who'd taken everything from him.
Seiji climbed the stage, smiling faintly, accepting the trophy from Professor Munakata, the head judge.
When he stepped to the microphone, the applause surged again before slowly fading.
"Thank you to the committee, to Kodansha, and to everyone who supported me," he said, bowing politely. His voice carried evenly through the hall.
"The inspiration for After School came from a factory."
It was a simple, formal statement—exactly what people expected.
Many of the senior attendees nodded approvingly.
A calm, composed young winner. Mature beyond his years.
But then—
"Oh, right. I almost forgot—I have another bit of news to share."
His tone shifted, lips curling into a faintly mischievous smile.
The room fell silent. Cameras tilted forward, ready.
"I also go by another pen name," Seiji said slowly, scanning the crowd. "One I used when I wrote light novels."
A ripple ran through the audience.
Light novels?
The word alone raised eyebrows. That genre wasn't exactly "respectable" among literary circles.
But the Fushikawa staff watching from the side smiled knowingly.
Here it comes.
"That pen name," Seiji continued, "is Prince Warukawa. Under it, I published the short story collection 6 People, 6 Days, 6 Guns, and the series A Certain Magical Index—two volumes so far."
BOOM.
It was as if lightning had struck the hall.
"What—?!"
"He's that Prince Warukawa?!"
"The author of Index, the one dominating the light novel charts?!"
"No way! Impossible!"
The entire venue erupted into chaos.
Reporters surged forward like sharks scenting blood, flashes blazing from every direction.
Even the older critics who'd never read a light novel in their lives knew that name.
Prince Warukawa—the newcomer who'd sold over a million copies in just half a year.
The reigning king of the light novel world.
The uproar was volcanic.
They might have looked down on the genre—but in sheer cultural and commercial impact, Fujiwara's achievement was beyond dispute.
"I apologize for taking up your time," Seiji said lightly, bowing again. "That concludes my speech."
He stepped off the stage with calm composure, handing the trophy to Machida waiting below.
From here, Fushikawa would handle the media frenzy, using that trophy to fan the flames higher—and shield him from the noise.
"Right this way, Fujiwara-sensei," said the staff member guiding him backstage.
But the tremors he'd triggered were already spreading across Japan.
That very night, the phrase "Light novel author wins the Edogawa Ranpo Prize" dominated every news site and social platform.
Yahoo News, 2ch forums, Twitter—
all flooded with his name.
Public opinion split clean down the middle.
Half were ecstatic—fans of Prince Warukawa and young readers cheering the fall of old literary barriers.
[Breaking News] Prince Warukawa Ascends the Throne! Edogawa Ranpo Prize Secured!
And the legend of Seiji Fujiwara—the boy who conquered both pop culture and high literature—had only just begun.