She shook her head hard, forcing out the trace of weakness in her mind.
She still hadn't finished the illustration job for Fujikawa!
And once that was done, she had to prepare the art for Utaha's upcoming work—there was no time to mope around here.
Eriri took a deep breath and put on her headphones, shutting out the noise of the world.
Her fingers tightened around her pen again. The hesitation in her eyes vanished, replaced by the sharp brilliance that only a genius illustrator possessed.
From that moment on—no exaggeration—she saw through every bit of her past confusion.
—
Seiji Fujiwara closed his eyes and said in his mind, "System, receive The Devotion of Suspect X."
In the next instant, a torrent of knowledge surged into his brain, flooding his thoughts with information that he absorbed effortlessly.
It was a story full of tragedy and beauty:
—The protagonist, Ishigami, silently loved his neighbor Yasuko, who worked at a bento shop. His only joy each day was buying lunch there just to see her smile.
—Yasuko lived with her daughter. One day, she accidentally killed her abusive ex-husband who came to harass her. To protect her, Ishigami offered to take care of everything.
—Using his razor-sharp logic, Ishigami constructed an impossible deception, creating a flawless alibi for Yasuko so the police could never link her to the crime.
As Seiji sorted through the information in his mind, a faintly nostalgic smile curved his lips.
In his past life, this masterpiece by Keigo Higashino wasn't just a bestseller.
It was a monument.
A work that simultaneously won the 134th Naoki Prize—one of Japan's most prestigious literary awards—and the 6th Honkaku Mystery Grand Prize, the highest honor in the mystery world.
It was a double-crowned achievement that broke through the walls of genre fiction.
By using the framework of a mystery novel, it opened the door to pure literature and ushered in a golden age of Japanese mystery writing.
It was a requiem—a man's final song dedicated through his very life.
Its literary and emotional depth transcended the category of mystery fiction, moving even the harshest literary critics to tears.
Seiji leaned back on the sofa and murmured, "My next step… obviously has to be the Naoki Prize."
In the literary world of Japan, there were two awards that mattered most: the Naoki Prize and the Akutagawa Prize.
The former recognized excellence in popular literature—the "rookie king" of mainstream fiction—while the latter represented the highest achievement in pure literature.
Winning either one instantly elevated a writer's status—fame, prestige, massive royalties, everything.
Seiji already earned a respectable rate per manuscript and wasn't short on money, but these prizes meant something more.
They were the line separating common authors from the true elites—the door into the upper hall, the moment you step off the chessboard and become one of the players watching from above.
You could even say that winning one was like becoming a recognized scholar in ancient China's Nine Ranks System: no longer a mere commoner, but still just short of holding power.
"Ishigami's story already won the Naoki Prize once," he mused.
"With my current literary skill, I can refine it even further. That covers half the requirements for winning again."
"The rest… is just maneuvering."
He tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"And besides, it's still too early to go after Eriri. I'll wait a little longer."
He smiled faintly. "Perfect timing anyway. The Hokkaido trip's about to start."
It was time for a little reward.
—
The next day, Seiji and Utaha said goodbye to Eriri and boarded a flight to the north.
After they left—
During lunch break at the library in Rinonosaki, Eriri sat in her usual seat.
She glanced around. Nothing had changed. Yet somehow, everything felt emptier.
—
By December, Hokkaido was a land sealed in ice and snow.
At New Chitose Airport, a biting wind swept across the open walkway, flinging fine snowflakes into travelers' faces as they stepped out from the warmth of the terminal.
Seiji wore only a black cashmere coat over a white turtleneck sweater, his tall frame straight and elegant.
He didn't bother with a scarf, letting the frigid air brush against his face with a look of calm enjoyment.
Beside him, Utaha Kasumigaoka was wrapped up tight.
A long off-white down coat, matching knit scarf covering half her face—only her wine-red eyes peeked out like gems under the winter light.
Clinging to Seiji's arm, she pressed close, greedily soaking in his warmth.
A black Lexus was already waiting at the VIP exit. The driver bowed respectfully and opened the door for them before stowing their luggage.
All top-class hotels offered private transfers.
"Mr. Fujiwara, Miss Kasumigaoka," the driver said, "we'll now head to Kaze no Sumi, the hot spring villa by Lake Toya. The drive will take about an hour and a half."
"Thank you," Seiji nodded and got in with Utaha.
The car glided off into a sea of white.
Outside the window, the world looked like a painting—fields blanketed in snow, forests glazed with frost, a few steep-roofed cottages puffing smoke into the pale sky.
Seiji watched quietly, a trace of nostalgia softening his features.
This was the third day of their Hokkaido trip.
For the first two, they'd wandered through Otaru—strolling along the canal under snowlit lamps, picking out glass trinkets at the Whistle Museum.
They spent their days sightseeing and gathering inspiration, their nights writing in the cozy suite.
Utaha would brew a cup of hot tea, sit at the desk, and stare at a blank document, wrestling with her ideas.
Sometimes she'd bite her pen, frown, then type a burst of words—only to delete them minutes later in frustration.
She was used to sharp-tongued duels set in school settings. Writing a tender, emotional love story was an entirely different battlefield.
Meanwhile, Seiji lounged on the sofa, laptop on his knees.
He didn't even have to think. His ability, Genius-Level Literary Conception, made inspiration pour out like a broken dam.
Refining The Devotion of Suspect X felt as natural as breathing.
Every word, every line of dialogue came to him effortlessly—perfectly measured and purposeful.
Sometimes, Utaha would stop typing and glance at him.
Watching his calm, focused face as he typed, her chest would warm with a blend of admiration, affection, and quiet security.
—
Kaze no Sumi—a secluded, members-only hot spring inn nestled in the mountains by Lake Toya.
No flashy signboard, just a simple wooden gate standing silently amid the snow-covered forest, radiating tranquil Zen-like isolation.
Though the property spanned acres, it had only a few private villas, each with its own open-air hot spring and panoramic view.
Not long after Seiji and Utaha checked in, another car—a Tokyo-plated Toyota Alphard—rolled into the parking lot.
A tall woman in a dark suit, long hair tied back but unable to hide her sharp, dignified aura, stepped out first. She hurried to the other side and opened the door respectfully.
"Professor Yamada, we've arrived."
Out stepped an elderly man in a navy kimono with a black haori draped over his shoulders.
He looked about sixty, hair graying at the temples, but his eyes were bright and penetrating despite the gentle smile on his face.
He was none other than Kenji Yamada, a towering figure in Tokyo University's Department of Literature.
Professor Yamada stretched and exhaled into the frosty air, his tone amused. "Mm, not bad. Much better than that place in Hakone last year."
Behind him followed Shizuka Hiratsuka, carrying his travel case with an air of restrained respect. "It's an honor to accompany you this time, Professor. My family kept reminding me to learn as much as I can from you."
"Learn? Ha! Learn how to sip a glass of wine for half an hour and babble meaningless nonsense like those old geezers?" Yamada waved her off with a hearty laugh. "Relax, Shizuka. This so-called 'Winter Literary Salon' is just an excuse for us old friends to complain about life and scout for interesting newcomers. You can treat it like a free vacation."
Shizuka smiled politely. "Understood."
She knew his casual words carried weight—every comment from him could shape the career of some aspiring author.
And though she herself wasn't a literary expert, her family had arranged for her to tag along for networking purposes. After all, she was a Japanese literature teacher now.
The two followed a staff member through the serene courtyard toward the main hall.
Inside, the minimalist modern design blended perfectly with Japanese elegance. Through the giant glass window, the snow-covered garden stretched endlessly, while a fireplace crackled warmly nearby.
Professor Yamada checked his watch. "Dinner's in a while. I'm meeting some old friends in the reading lounge. Come along—you should get to know them."
"Yes, Professor." Shizuka nodded.
—
At the same time, in another corner of the inn, Seiji and Utaha had finished settling in and were feeling a bit bored.
"There's still time before dinner," Seiji suggested. "I heard this place has an amazing library."
"Sure." Utaha exhaled deeply. Days of constant writing had worn her out.
The two wandered downstairs to the lounge by the fireplace.
There were a few sets of dark leather sofas and towering bookshelves lined with everything from classic to contemporary literature—Japanese and foreign alike.
Utaha randomly pulled out Mistake by Tomotaka Amatori, flipped through a few pages, then shut it with a sigh.
"What's wrong?" Seiji asked.
"Nothing, just…" She slumped against the sofa, looking visibly frustrated. "My new story's stuck. No matter what I write, it doesn't feel right."
Seiji smiled at the rare sight of her looking so adorably defeated.
He closed his book and set it aside, then said casually, "Then why don't you just ask me?"
"…Ask you?" Utaha blinked up at him.
"Of course. When it comes to light novels, there's nothing I don't know."
Her eyes widened slightly.
That was… quite the claim.
Sure, he'd written A Certain Magical Index, a megahit that made him the rising star of the light novel world—but "nothing I don't know"? Even the gods of light novels wouldn't say that.
Still, a flicker of curiosity sparked in her heart.
Wait—was he actually planning to coach her?
She'd thought he saw her writing as a cute hobby at best, something he wouldn't interfere with.
But now…
—
Not far away, Professor Yamada and Hiratsuka Shizuka had just stepped into the lounge.
And they heard him.
Their steps froze mid-stride.
Yamada's brows lifted in amusement.
"There's nothing I don't know about light novels."
In all his decades in the literary world, he had never heard such arrogance.
Yet instead of disdain, curiosity gleamed in his eyes.
Shizuka, however, frowned slightly.
As a language teacher—and a closeted fan of light novels and manga—she understood enough to know how absurd that sounded.
Still, both of them found themselves intrigued.
They exchanged a glance, then quietly stepped behind a bookshelf nearby to listen in.
—
On the sofa, Utaha stared at Seiji, half skeptical, half curious.
He smiled, calm and confident.
"Utaha," he said gently, "before you get tangled up in plot details, you need to understand why you're writing a short story."
His tone was steady and persuasive, carrying a quiet authority that made her instinctively listen.
"From a business perspective," he raised one finger, "today's readers—especially light novel readers—have fragmented attention spans. For a completely unknown author, writing a hundred-thousand-word epic is a huge gamble."
"How can you be sure readers will even stick with you?"
"But a short, under-ten-chapter story that's tight and complete can give them a full emotional experience in a short time. That builds word of mouth—and your first loyal fanbase."
Utaha blinked in surprise.
It sounded so familiar…
Right—Editor Machida had said something similar before. But Seiji's explanation was far more precise.
"Secondly," he raised another finger, "from a technical standpoint, short stories are the best way to train your craft. They force you to develop characters, structure, and emotional payoff within tight limits. You can't afford endless foreshadowing or sprawling arcs."
"You don't have to juggle a giant web of subplots. Less workload, more focus."
Utaha found herself nodding along. It made perfect sense.
Before knowing how readers would react, investing too much too early could be disastrous.
"And finally," Seiji lifted a third finger, his gaze meeting hers, "you excel at character work, atmosphere, and sharp dialogue. Those are your natural gifts."
"A short story lets you showcase all of them at once. Make your debut with something concise and striking—let the market remember your name. That's far wiser than locking yourself into a long novel that might never take off."
Utaha's lips parted slightly, her expression caught between awe and admiration.
Across the room, behind the bookshelf, both listeners fell silent—one intrigued, one astonished.
And Seiji Fujiwara simply leaned back, calm and sure of himself.
After all—when it came to light novels, there really was nothing he didn't know.
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Note: For today, I'll be releasing bonus chapter for every 100 powerstones contributed. Good day!
You can read up to chapter 95 on patreon.com/NiaXD.
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