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620 – When in Doubt, Drag Out the Ancestors
🕑 Added 2025-10-28 18:29:58 +0000 UTCThe day before the final selection, the voting page for the Japan Mystery Writers Association Awards officially closed.
And the total number of votes? Over five hundred thousand.
An absolutely staggering, record-shattering figure.
The Japan Mystery Writers Association Award was the oldest and most prestigious—award in the nation’s mystery fiction world.
Its reputation and influence went far beyond what most people could imagine.
To put it simply: if a book had the label “Winner of the Japan Mystery Writers Association Award – Best Novel” on its cover, it would be considered a classic even fifty years later.
The awarded works might not be to everyone’s taste, but never once had there been a “fraudulent” or “mediocre” winner.
Since 1948, the award’s legacy had been built upon one masterpiece after another, creating a true pantheon of detective fiction.
Every mystery writer in Japan dreamed of earning that honor—just once, since each author could only win it a single time in their life.
Yet now, this historic award had decided to change the rules.
A half-century-old tradition was suddenly hurled into uncharted territory.
The oldest literary prize had merged with the trendiest form of technology.
It was like taking a coffin lid and carving it into a mechanical keyboard.
As one veteran mystery novelist put it bluntly in a newspaper column:
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“If Edogawa Rampo were alive to see this, he’d rise from his grave just to beat you over the head with his pipe!”
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Similar comments flooded the press.
The unprecedented buzz around this year’s awards didn’t stop the entire literary world from mercilessly roasting the change.
But the man in charge, Kenzo Konno, wasn’t one to back down easily.
He published a bold rebuttal:
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“Edogawa Rampo is the father of Japanese mystery fiction—a pioneer of innovation. If any of you can carry word of my reforms across the River Sanzu and tell him, I’m sure he’d adopt me as his successor.”
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The man delivered this whole pompous speech, shamelessly dragging the late Edogawa Rampo into the argument as his imaginary backer and calling himself “Rampo’s successor.”
Every line oozed with eloquence—and audacity.
Of course, such flair could only come from one place: Hojou Kyousuke.
In fact, that fiery editorial had been ghostwritten by Kyousuke himself.
The two men were now firmly on the same side—anyone attacking Konno or the Mystery Writers Association was automatically Kyousuke’s enemy.
Naturally, he still charged a fee for the job.
Years of chairmanship had left Konno with an enviable collection of rare literary treasures—including handwritten manuscripts by both Matsumoto Seicho and Edogawa Rampo.
Kyousuke made sure to acquire a few as “payment.”
That shameless response only further enraged the old guard.
It wasn’t just the mystery novelists—mainstream literary figures and long-time judges of the Naoki and Akutagawa Prizes also took to newspapers and talk shows to denounce Konno’s “disrespect for tradition.”
For Japan’s media, it was a golden era.
Newspapers and weekly magazines were practically throwing parties—sales spiked every day, and the editorial staff were living in bliss.
The smarter publications even started increasing the pay for authors joining the brawl.
After all, it didn’t matter whether the writing was highbrow or trashy—if it sold papers, it paid.
Ah, the simple joy of being a Japanese writer.
Readers nationwide, who had thought the earlier feud between Matsumoto Motohiro and Futami Jiraiya over Kyousuke’s work was wild enough, were now rolling with laughter watching Kyousuke threaten people on live TV.
But that was just the prelude.
Because somehow, this “rookie” writer—Hojou Kyousuke—had single-handedly dragged a lineup of literary titans into an all-out flame war.
A spectacle where everyone threw away their dignity and went for each other’s throats.
Japan had seen its share of shameless moments, but this? This was peak entertainment.
And if you think this was just some internal drama among mystery writers, think again.
In this country, tradition and established systems were sacred.
Why do people still cling to lifetime employment despite how suffocating it is? Because it’s part of the structure—the comfort of the familiar.
So when the Mystery Writers Association dared to bring public voting into a historic award, some saw it as the beginning of chaos.
“If we let the public vote today, will they livestream the burning of Parliament tomorrow?”
The “fire of reform” had to be extinguished before it spread.
The Association’s revitalization was like holding up a mirror—one that reflected how outdated and stagnant the other traditional awards had become.
Organizers of those prizes were panicking.
Sure, their funding didn’t rely on public donations, but their partner publishers and magazines did rely on readers.
And now those readers were flooding them with calls and letters asking, “Will you open public voting too? If so, let us know—we want to vote for Hojou Kyousuke!”
Of course, Kyousuke and Konno weren’t fighting alone.
Upstart awards like the Bookstore Grand Prize seized the opportunity to promote themselves, championing “modern, reader-first” ideals—and the PR move worked brilliantly.
Art for art’s sake, or art for the people—that old debate had returned once again.
Just like the word “sensei.”
In Japan, anyone from manga artists to voice actors can be called “sensei,” yet in front of “serious literary authors,” those same people wouldn’t dare to use the title.
The literary snobs would laugh them off the stage.
Meanwhile, Weekly Shōnen High—the magazine that first discovered Kyousuke—wasn’t about to miss its chance either.
Known for its audience-driven voting system, it proudly announced its embrace of “the new era,” subtly hinting that after the awards ceremony.
They would debut a new mystery manga series.
They didn’t even have to say it outright—everyone understood what they meant:
The Mystery Award’s champion, Hojou Kyousuke, was ready with his next project. All that was left was for him to claim the trophy.
And so, under nationwide attention, the online voting officially closed.
Over 500,000 votes were cast.
Unsurprisingly, The Devotion of Suspect X came in first—with 320,000 votes, more than all four of the other finalists combined.
The decisive vote seemed all but locked in even before the judges met, and Kyousuke’s fans were already celebrating.
The Mystery Writers Association itself was celebrating too.
The organization had two major awards—the Edogawa Rampo Prize for new authors, and the Mystery Writers Association Award for established writers.
Both had long-standing traditions of public participation.
Before the internet age, they had announced the ceremonies in newspapers, asking those who wanted to attend to mail in their names.
The Association would then send out free invitations.
Now, things were simpler—just send an email.
The old ways might be dying, but the excitement was just beginning.
There had always been a rule for the event: when sign-ups got too many, they’d use a lottery.
Back when staff were mailing out paper invitations, the job was easy.
This time, though, just counting the entries gave the organizer a headache — they had to call in the tech team for help.
The flood of responses was unbelievable: among the entries were people listing addresses in Korea, Taiwan, China, USA, Uk… even further abroad.
At first the organizers assumed prank entries, but after verifying a few letters they discovered they were real.
Some fans even asked if they could just pay for tickets outright — they didn’t want to miss the chance to witness Kyousuke’s victory in person.
Diplomacy is never trivial — much less an event that puts your country’s face on the line.
In countries with a weaker sense of national prestige, there’s often a tendency to fawn over anything foreign.
That trait is painfully obvious in nations that were occupied or colonized; Japan, having endured the Emperor’s surrender broadcast and then rebuilt under American occupation, wore that particular complex with special intensity.
If there aren’t any foreign attendees at a big event, organizers will sometimes hire extras to pose as foreign fans just to boost the prestige.
Actual foreign fans in the audience?
That’s a whole other level — proof that the Mystery Writers Association’s influence had gone global.
Previously, the Association’s reach had been respectable — foreign publishers (mainly in neighboring Asian, sinic-influenced markets) often snapped up translated finalists — but it hadn’t enjoyed the same spread in the West.
This time, though, the presence of genuine overseas fans meant something different entirely.
When the chairman, Kenzo Konno, heard the report he issued an immediate order: prioritize tickets for foreign residents — actual foreigners living abroad, not gaijin working in Japan.
That way, any TV interviews would look more authentic, and Hojou Kyousuke’s win would gain extra clout.
Even without this surprise, Konno had other plans to cement his authority.
Just as Kyousuke helped the Association by helping himself, Konno helping Hojou would serve Konno’s own branding.
He intended to show that the Association’s authority had strengthened, not weakened, under his reforms.
Even Matsumoto Motohiro and the other elders who’d been mocking Hojou began to sound as if they’d already seen Hojou on the podium.
Desperate, they made dramatic public apologies one old-timer even knelt on a Fuji TV show, sobbing that he’d failed to protect the legacy of Matsumoto Seicho, begging the late master’s spirit to possess him and carry off Hojou.
On one hand, tradition is treated as sacred: family rules hung on walls, recited morning and night.
On the other, those ancestors are pulled out as rhetorical weapons whenever convenient — Edogawa Rampo yesterday, Matsumoto Seicho today; next might as well be Edgar Allan Poe joining the fray.
Kyousuke found the whole spectacle laughable.
The absurdity had the whole room in stitches.
Kyousuke wasn’t going to take the flak passively, though.
If the elders used their ancestors, why not use them too?
He turned the controversy into cash: he wrote a pugnacious piece and earned a tidy article fee, leaving the Asahi Shimbun editors positively gushing with thanks.
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“Seicho Matsumoto’s social mysteries brought detective fiction to the masses and gave the genre its present status.
If I were some demon or apostate, then what does that make Master Matsumoto? A lot of my readers aren’t pure mystery fans.
Yes, I lowered the barrier to entry for mystery readers. But am I really so different from Matsumoto Seicho?”
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Bold. Brash. Unapologetic.
Kyousuke had abandoned the flowery rants and embraced a confident, even cocky tone — the kind of youthful arrogance that crackled off the page.
That final line carried an infectious self-belief that made everyone who read it take a sharp intake of breath.
“Preposterous! Arrogant!” the old man cried out.
He dared to compare himself to Matsumoto Seicho — utterly shameless.
Whether critic or jealous rival, everyone who’d been aiming at Kyousuke’s throat was stunned by his audacity — and then retaliated even more fiercely.
Some even vowed to protest at the awards ceremony in person.
Kyousuke didn’t respond with more words.
Instead he reposted the footage of him on TV — the “chop-chop-chop” dramatic performance everyone had been laughing about and added a single picture.
It was a katana: a lacquered black saya with faint brown streaks like lightning, a round tsuba carved with maple leaves. The handle fittings and other accents were silver.
The caption read: the blade’s name is Shirogane (“Silver”), a gift from my friend Lily; forged by the artisan Gassan Sadakazu; polished day and night without rest.
The implication was painfully obvious to the old-school authors who’d yet to learn the internet’s subtleties and had to hear the news through their nephews and disciples.
He might be joking, but the message was clear — “Do anything to ruin my work and I’ll cut you down.”
This wasn’t a prop sword this time.
Kenzo Konno and Osaka Gou howled with laughter — if Kyousuke terrified those elders to death, the youngster would have some explaining to do.
“Friend Lily” meanwhile hid in her room and laughed like a pig — pleased as punch, because the poster used her stage name.
There was, however, one small problem: her assistant still hadn’t come home that night.
