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613 — The Protest March
🕑 Added 2025-10-25 18:05:38 +0000 UTCNothing is more spectacular than flames.
The fire Kyousuke had sparked only grew wilder with the help of a lot of passionate people.
By one count, the Asahi Daily’s circulation jumped by half a million copies overnight — and the Sankei Daily saw the same surge.
Even the newspapers that only argued about the work experienced boom sales.
The novel itself went viral: Eiji Publishing sent another contract and ordered an extra half-million copies.
The next day, readers who had read the book and were convinced Hojou Kyousuke had been treated unfairly by the Mystery Writers’ Association organized a protest march.
The crowd gathered in Bunkyo Ward.
The seasoned members of the “Rampaging Angels” moved with an unexpected discipline that left the officials who came to assist visibly impressed.
When asked, members of the Special Attack Unit gave the same explanation: “We train rigorously so we can better support Hojou-sensei.”
Ordinary fans reacted, “No wonder he’s Hojou-sensei — even his fans are top-notch.”
Both sides got along surprisingly well and agreed to come out and march together again when they could.
The route had been applied for and planned in advance.
Kisaki Tetta had organized full support along the way: food supplies, medics and an ambulance, banners and placards, matching outfits…
Of course, although almost everyone marching was connected to Hojou Kyousuke, the protest signs couldn’t read, “My brother was treated unfairly.”
If they’d held up banners like that it wouldn’t have boosted Hojou’s profile — it would have hurt him.
Only someone with no sense would do that.
Kyousuke didn’t possess a knack for flawless moral posturing, so his fans had to be handled with care.
Riding the wave of Writer K’s Dreams and Death, their banners demanded transparency in award judging.
That contests be open and fair so every author has a shot, and that behind-the-scenes favoritism stop.
It was a clever move.
Among authors who’d failed to win prizes in the past, resentful people were not uncommon.
Some more brazen types donated money and supplies to show their support; others took to Twitter and other social platforms to share their own experiences as nominees and hint that they, too, had been wronged.
Asahi TV, the official broadcast partner, took the best spots and followed the march all the way.
At one point a group apparently organized by Matsumoto Motohiro tried to block the march, but they were cleared out without causing the slightest ripple.
The Sankei reporters looked sour — hadn’t they all agreed to act together? Why hog the spotlight now?
The marchers reached the Mystery Writers’ Association building without incident; by then their ranks had doubled.
That was partly because it was a weekday, if it had been the weekend, even more people would have shown up.
Unfortunately for the Association, the two members on duty that day were Kurokawa Toyomasa and Naganuma Hironori — both judges known for their hard-line, socially-minded opinions.
Listening to the protests outside, Kurokawa’s face went pale.
He glanced over and saw Naganuma looking no better; his face had the blue-black pallor of someone who’d aged and grown hard around the edges.
“What do we do?” Kurokawa asked.
“What’s the chairman saying?” Naganuma replied.
“He said he’ll come back as soon as he can.”
“Come back after we’ve embarrassed ourselves and then collect the spoils?” Naganuma snorted.
Kurokawa grew angrier and swore loudly. “What the hell does Hojou Kyousuke think he’s doing? We promised we’d vote for him, we refused to publish his book, and now this—seriously, do they want to ruin us?”
Naganuma’s eyes were full of resentment, but he kept quiet.
He wasn’t a fool like Kurokawa; after whatever threats had gone around last time, would Kurokawa still blurt out things like that?
Let someone wait until a blade was by his bed before he learned to be afraid?
There was a knock at the door.
Kurokawa fell silent and looked toward the entrance.
“Director Kurokawa, Director Naganuma,” the junior secretary said, her face suddenly tense.
“The protestors say if they don’t see a responsible official they’ll storm the Association. The Conquest faction is also demanding our chairman come out and calm the crowd.”
The secretary looked terrified — who would have thought a literary association would ever face a breach?
She had no experience with anything like this; she pictured the chaos described in the very stories the Association’s members wrote, where not even a teacup survived intact.
She added, worriedly, “People inside the Association are scared. Some have already gone across the street and joined the protest. Please, make a decision quickly.”
Naganuma looked up; the sight of his sallow, harsh face frightened the secretary so much her complexion drained of color.
She hurriedly shut the door, descended the stairs, ignored questions from colleagues and the Conquest personnel, and walked straight out into the protest — took a flag that read “Fairness” and began shouting, “This damned Association!”
“Let’s go…” Kurokawa sighed, smoothed his trousers, and prepared himself to prostrate in apology.
Naganuma said nothing. He planted his feet and rose slowly.
The two men stepped outside and, under the protection of the Rampaging Angels members, stood before the crowd.
“I…” Kurokawa opened his mouth to offer some conciliatory words, but the protesters cut him off.
“Director Kurokawa,” Kisaki Tetta asked, “what exactly are the Association’s award criteria? Are winners chosen by your personal tastes, or by a writer’s sincerity?”
Kisaki interrupted him bluntly — without Kisaki’s nod, the microphone in front of Kurokawa would remain dead.
Then Kisaki dramatically unfolded a huge poster listing recent winners of the Mystery Association Prize alongside winners of other major literary awards.
The lists barely overlapped.
“So what you’re saying is: the works you award get no recognition from other prizes, not even the Bookstore Award. Is it that the reading public has poor taste? Or that your standards never touch the ground?”
Kisaki’s speechmaking skills, honed by watching countless debates and rallies, were razor-sharp; every sentence dripped with provocation.
If the setting had been different, the Rampaging Angels would have shouted for a mic check.
Kurokawa the one Naganuma had privately called an idiot — apparently drew courage from the crowd.
Maybe he thought Kisaki wouldn’t dare humiliate him in public, or perhaps old wounds had faded.
He snatched the microphone and tried to speak, but it emitted no sound.
Furious, he slapped at it, then started yelling at the top of his lungs, but how could he compete with Kisaki’s professional sound system?
Naganuma shook his head and felt utterly disappointed in his ally.
‘This man is an idiot,’ he thought bitterly.
Looking at the scene in front of him, he takes a deep breath to gather some courage.
Once the microphone came on, he would spill the dirty water on Konno Kenzō — declare that he couldn’t decide who to vote for.
That if they were all going down they were going down together, and no one was to step on him to climb up.
The TV reporters around practically vibrated with excitement; their cameras craned greedily toward Kisaki’s face.
This was gold.
And still, they thought, it wasn’t enough — weren’t there plenty of muscle guys in the crowd? If a brawl broke out, the story would be even bigger.
Kisaki Tetta had generously given Kurokawa Toyomasa two chances to speak, but before the poor man could even string a proper sentence together, the mic went dead again.
In just that short time, the protest crowd had grown even larger.
Curious passersby, drawn by Kisaki’s passionate speech, joined in, chanting and cursing the Mystery Writers’ Association for its supposed corruption.
When Kisaki caught the signal from one of his people, he finally lowered the mic.
Behind him, the protestors—many of whom had taken leave from work to attend—were hyped to the max, ready to charge forward at a single command.
Kurokawa’s expression had gone rigid, like he’d forgotten how to move his face entirely.
Naganuma seized the chance, grabbing the mic and preparing to shift the blame—only to be shoved aside as someone walked straight onto the platform.
‘Oh, come on. Of all times to show up—now?’!
Naganuma’s eyes widened.
The newcomer was none other than the Association’s chairman, Konno Kenzo.
As Konno raised his mic, Naganuma shouted into his own—only to realize it had no power. Again.
And to his horror, Konno Kenzo somehow had a working microphone.
Without a word, Konno bowed deeply—an immaculate ninety-degree bend, posture straight as a ruler.
It was the kind of bow that only someone trained in politics, or in surviving scandals, could pull off.
“I apologize. We have disappointed everyone. As chairman, I take full responsibility for the Association’s current state. I—”
His words made Kurokawa and Naganuma’s faces darken even further.
‘This bastard! ‘
Not only was he not defusing the situation, he was throwing them both under the bus and nailing the coffin shut.
Konno’s string of apologies sounded humble and sincere, which only made Kisaki Tetta’s job easier.
Smiling, Kisaki responded graciously, saying he was willing to believe in the chairman’s promise to reform.
With that, the protest gradually dispersed.
As the crowd left, Kisaki was invited inside as a “representative of the demonstrators” to discuss how the Association could improve.
“Ha ha ha! Kisaki-kun, things seem to be going well with Hojou’s side, right? I heard the book’s already sold another five hundred thousand copies! Incredible.
To think something written in just two days could be that good—it’s terrifying for us old-timers.”
In the Association’s office, Konno Kenzo laughed heartily, personally pouring tea for Kisaki.
Kisaki returned the gesture with a polite smile. “We should really thank Chairman Konno for your support.”
Indeed, the PR campaign hadn’t been his doing alone.
Konno had helped tremendously, connecting him with several famous authors and entertainment industry figures to push the hype.
After all, Konno Kenzo wasn’t like Hojou Kyousuke, who had almost no ties in show business.
Konno’s own works had been adapted into three TV dramas and four films.
His network was vast—and now he was using it to boost Hojou’s fame, even if it meant dragging the entire Association through the mud.
Kisaki knew perfectly well that Konno was using him as a pawn to eliminate his rivals—but as a fellow schemer, he found that perfectly acceptable.
As for the so-called “reform,” Konno had already planned it out: he’d add one new “public representative” to the judging panel—a so-called online voting seat.
A brilliant move.
With that, he could silence every critic calling for fairness and transparency.
After all, wasn’t that exactly what the people wanted?
Of course, the online vote wouldn’t actually affect the final results.
After this, Konno would have total control of the Association.
Five official votes against one public one—a setup even easier to manipulate than before.
———————————————————————
That evening, a popular Asahi TV talk show aired.
On screen sat four guests: Hojou Kyousuke, Diet member Yamaguchi Daisuke, literary critic Futami Jiraiya, and Mystery Writers’ Association chairman Konno Kenzo.
As each appeared, their portraits froze briefly on-screen, accompanied by a glowing name card and profile.
Hojou Kyousuke — “The Elegant Rebel of the Heisei Era.”
A writer celebrated for his artistic temperament and old-school literary flair.
Social media had even once hosted a poll to guess who his girlfriend was—there were over a dozen options.
Then came a quick montage of his works and awards.
The same treatment followed for the others—after all, how could the audience enjoy the show if they didn’t know who to root for?
TV and the media loved to stir things up—partly for entertainment, partly for ratings.
Political debates were normally dull, but if two politicians suddenly started throwing punches or if an all-out brawl broke out on set—viewership would skyrocket.
Originally, the show’s director had wanted to invite Hojou’s rival, Matsumoto Motohiro, as well.
But Matsumoto had flatly refused—and even tried to poach Hojou and Futami for a rival show on Fuji TV, owned by Sankei Daily.
Well, business is business.
Newspapers chased ad revenue; TV shows chased sponsorship deals.
Higher ratings meant higher profits.
With no rival guest available, the host had to take the lead himself—and wasted no time trying to spark a fight.
“Hojou-sensei, are you aware of the protest that happened today?”
As he spoke, footage of the protest appeared on-screen—banners waving, crowds shouting, and Konno Kenzo bowing deeply at ninety degrees.
The intention was obvious: provoke a clash between the two guests.
The host pressed further, “Did you write your new novel because you felt you were treated unfairly by the Mystery Writers’ Association?”
He didn’t even bother giving Konno a chance to save face.
But Kyousuke merely smiled, completely unbothered.
His voice was calm, his demeanor charming.
“Chairman Konno and I are good friends,” he said. “What happened today was unexpected. I don’t know the details of what’s going on inside the Association. As for me…”
He turned to face the camera, his tone turning sincere.
“Recently, I was honored to receive the Bookstore Award. But to me, titles and honors are just acknowledgments—they’re not the essence of being a writer.
My real work is to create. My greatest honor is the love of my readers. My goal has always been, and will always be, to keep writing stories worthy of their trust.”
Konno Kenzo nearly winced.
Yamaguchi Daisuke’s pupils tightened in disbelief. What a shameless bastard, he thought.
If that face weren’t so young, he’d swear the man sitting beside him was a veteran politician instead of a novelist.
After a beat, all three of them began to clap—no one could tell whether it was for his words… or for his audacity.
The host, seeing that plan fail, turned his attention to Yamaguchi.
Maybe he could stir up drama there.
But the sharp-tongued lawmaker wasn’t easy prey; with practiced charm, he redirected the topic to his political platform, turning the talk show into a mini campaign rally.
Then Konno took it even further. After talking about his “plans for reform,” he started promoting his own new book—utterly shameless.
Only Futami Jiraiya behaved himself.
Given a chance to speak, he immediately launched into a tirade against Matsumoto Motohiro and the Sankei Daily.
The host was moved to tears.
‘At least someone here’s on our side.’
The others joined in, mockingly piling on, declaring that if the opposition wasn’t satisfied, they were welcome to challenge them.
“After all,” Kyousuke said with a charming smile, “truth doesn’t fear debate.”
