The lounge called Kinkei was an interesting blend of styles.
The murals on the walls were distinctly Japanese, but the chandelier and polished wooden floor screamed Western banquet hall.
Just like the burst of golden light that greeted them when the doors first opened, the whole room could only be described as extravagant.
Kyousuke now fully understood why this lounge was only rented out for special events and never for weddings—this was clearly the real centerpiece of the venue.
After exchanging a few brief pleasantries, Hamamoto Shigeru led the two newly arrived award winners back to the area where he'd been sitting.
The editors and Kisaki all drifted off to find their respective circles.
"Mr. Mashiro, Mr. Misaki—these are the authors I mentioned earlier, Hojou Kyousuke and Osaka Gou," Hamamoto introduced with a polite smile.
Upon hearing their names, the two seated men quickly stood, returning the greeting with warm smiles and outstretched hands.
Mashiro Masashi had won for his heartwarming novel "The Little Devils of Futako-Tamagawa", a simple but touching story about three elementary school kids spending their summer vacation in the Futako-Tamagawa area.
Misaki Megaku, on the other hand, was the author of "The Grim Reaper Came to My House", another warm tale—this time about a death god with an intense love for cola.
Before delivering judgment upon the dying, this reaper always asked one simple question: "Do you like cola?"
The book never explicitly stated that the answer influenced the judgment... but in interviews, the author hinted that it very much did.
Kyousuke remembered all of this because Kisaki had given him a cheat sheet on the way here specifically for moments like this.
And so, as if he'd known them for years, Kyousuke smoothly greeted them both by name and immediately started praising their work.
Within minutes, the four of them were deep in lively conversation—no awkwardness, no polite stiffness. Like old friends reunited.
Beside him, Osaka Gou could only watch in stunned silence.
'What the hell...?'
In his mind, Kyousuke was the kind of guy who couldn't even bother to collect his own award, let alone bother remembering industry gossip.
If it weren't for the times when he and Chairman Konno personally dealt with him, Osaka might've believed the rumors: that Kyousuke was some arrogant, spoiled genius who looked down on everyone.
But now? Osaka himself had read up on the other winners in advance, but before he could recall a single detail from memory, Hojou had already charmed them into easy conversation.
'Maybe this guy just doesn't like hanging around old married men like me and Konno-san...' Osaka thought bitterly, glancing sideways at the other two authors across the table.
Neither of them was exactly handsome, but at least they didn't have—
He looked down at his own thick beard and growing beer belly.
'Ah well... signs of a happy married life, right? Besides... who could feel confident standing next to Hojou Kyousuke, anyway?'
Just then, a voice cut in from the side.
"Ah, Hamamoto-san, so this is where you've been hiding. I've been looking all over for you."
Hamamoto quickly stood and turned.
The newcomer was a man in a deep red suit with a sharply trimmed triangle-shaped goatee.
"Ishida-sensei! Is there something you need?" Hamamoto asked politely, stealing a quick glance at Hojou.
After all, it was Ishida Hidenori who'd called Hojou arrogant earlier.
Clearly, there was some history between them.
"Oh, nothing serious," Ishida said, waving a hand with casual flourish. "Just confirming the details for tomorrow's award ceremony. Wanted to check if there's anything I need to prepare myself."
Even that simple gesture seemed overly theatrical thanks to his ridiculous red suit and thin mustache.
'Honestly,' Osaka thought, 'other than nightclub hosts, who could possibly pull off that outfit?'
"Prepare? For what—your acceptance speech?" Hamamoto wondered aloud with a puzzled shake of the head.
"Please don't worry, Ishida-sensei. Everything's perfectly arranged. The ceremony will go off without a hitch."
"Good, good." Ishida nodded in satisfaction before turning toward the table.
"Let me introduce everyone. This is Hojou Kyousuke, author of 'The Devotion of Suspect X', and Osaka Gou, author of 'Memories at Night'," Hamamoto gestured smoothly.
"Ah! Osaka-san! I've been looking forward to meeting you for so long!" Ishida exclaimed, reaching out eagerly to shake hands.
Osaka blinked, surprised.
'Wait... where have I heard that line before?'
'Oh right—at the entrance to the memorial hall, that beautiful woman said the exact same thing to Hojou.'
'I take back what I thought, Ishida. You may dress like a clown, but you've got good taste.'
Secretly delighted that Ishida had ignored Hojou to greet him first, Osaka quickly took the offered hand.
Except... once their hands clasped, Ishida wouldn't let go.
Osaka expected a quick polite shake, but instead the man kept rambling on and on for a solid minute.
Hamamoto's smile grew stiff.
The other two authors glanced uneasily toward Hojou, wondering how he'd react.
But Hojou simply stood there, wearing the same pleasant, flawless smile as before—calm, courteous, not a flicker of annoyance.
'Impressive,' Hamamoto thought.
'It's easy to smile at compliments... but to endure such an obvious snub and keep your composure?'
'That takes real discipline. And not even a hint of strain—what a face, it's downright charming even to a man like me.'
Finally, Osaka wrestled his hand free, wiping the clammy sweat from his palm.
He may have been a grown man used to this world, but even he felt a nervous shiver.
Still, it was so absurd he almost wanted to laugh—How will Hojou react to this one?
He glanced sideways—and froze.
Hojou's smile hadn't changed a bit. Still dazzling. Still unbothered.
But unlike Hamamoto, Osaka knew the truth behind that expression.
After all, under Chairman Konno's insistence, he'd once been forced to sit and watch old videos of Kyousuke's middle school kendo matches.
Even back then, when opponents taunted him before a fight... he'd worn that exact same smile.
And then—on the mat—he'd drive his bamboo sword straight into their throat, sending the poor fool flying.
The replay showed the opponent's face swollen and purple as the medics rushed in, an ambulance waiting outside.
A perfect strike.
Clean, decisive, brutal.
Even Konno-sensei cheered when the footage played.
But to Osaka, who knew nothing of kendo, the scene was chilling. He was certain that opponent regretted ever provoking Hojou Kyousuke.
And now... here was that same smile.
"Oh, Hojou... you're the one they say is already guaranteed to win this year's grand prize?"
Ishida finally turned his lazy ass, disinterested gaze toward Kyousuke, extending a limp hand like some bored European noblewoman.
Hamamoto and the other authors tensed, watching to see how Kyousuke would respond.
But Kyousuke simply clapped a hand on Osaka's shoulder, suddenly serious.
"Osaka, you idiot. Quit the solo comedy act and go wash your hands before they rot off."
"O-Oh... right, right! Will do!"
Just recalling the fierce look on Hojou Kyousuke's face made Osaka instinctively respond without thinking.
It wasn't that he was timid—it was just that the man's words carried a strangely persuasive weight.
Much like what Ishida Hidenori had done moments ago, Hojou Kyousuke completely ignored him.
Hamamoto Shigeru silently cheered—what a graceful counterattack!
As for Ishida Hidenori, who had been smugly basking in his moment of triumph just seconds ago, his face now turned a deep shade of liver red.
Osaka couldn't help but be reminded of that poor soul lying on the floor earlier, waiting for a stretcher.
Hearing their exchange, Mashiro Masashi let out a sudden chuckle. When he noticed Ishida shooting him a sharp glare, he quickly waved his hand to explain.
"Sorry, sorry. I just got excited thinking about winning the award tomorrow."
"Hahaha, me too. I can't help but feel thrilled," chimed in Misaki Megaku, slapping Mashiro's shoulder with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"It's truly an honor to win alongside you, Mashiro-san."
"Likewise, likewise."
Their playful back-and-forth lightened the mood, even drawing a laugh from Osaka.
The only ones not smiling were Ishida and Hamamoto—though when the latter noticed the sour look growing on Ishida's face, even he couldn't help but chuckle.
"Ahem… excuse me. I was just so overjoyed at seeing so many outstanding works nominated this year," Hamamoto said with a polite cough.
"All thanks to you and the committee's hard work, Hamamoto-san," Kyousuke added with a raised teacup, already seated comfortably with his legs crossed.
"Indeed, indeed. Speaking of which, this is actually my first time at the Meiji Memorial Hall. I never expected Tokyo to have such a place," remarked Misaki, a Kyoto native.
"Apologies for having such fine architecture out here in the countryside," Hojou replied with a grin.
Being from a Kyoto family himself, he was well aware of the old joke about everywhere outside Kyoto being considered "the sticks."
"Hey, hey, you can't say stuff like that in a place like this!"
"Oh, so this is how you Kyoto folk secretly badmouth us Tokyo people, huh?" Osaka joined in the banter.
As the others slipped naturally into casual conversation, Hamamoto stood awkwardly nearby, nervously scratching his toe with his shoe.
Internally, he cursed Ishida Hidenori.
'This guy has no sense of atmosphere at all… and with lungs like those, he can keep arguing forever. But me? Not a chance!'
"Ishida-sensei, why don't I introduce you to some of the editors over there?" As the event organizer, Hamamoto had no choice but to steel himself and try to smooth things over.
"Hmph… As expected of a once-in-five-thousand-light-years genius. At least that arrogance of yours is the real deal," Ishida muttered, standing stiff like a carrot stuck in the dirt, his dried, reddish-yellow "leaves" trembling as he spoke.
"Osaka-san, did you know that 'light-years' are actually a unit of distance?" Kyousuke said casually.
"Huh? Really?" Osaka blinked in surprise.
With the way newspapers always used the term, he'd started thinking it was a unit of time.
Even Ishida froze for a moment.
He'd only picked up the nickname from some article.
But after a brief mental scramble, he quickly spun it back in his favor:
"What I meant was—of all the galaxies five thousand light-years away, there's only one genius like you in the whole universe."
"Ohhh, thank you for the flattery, Ishida-sensei. But please, let's keep such praise private. Here, we're all equals," Kyousuke replied with a mock-scolding wave of his hand and a face that clearly said 'Don't do that again.'
When it came to sly sarcasm, he wouldn't lose to anyone.
"You little—!"
Ishida made a sudden move as if to lunge forward, and Hojou's heart leapt, half ready to stand.
Osaka, meanwhile, had already braced himself to retreat.
"Hahaha! Ishida-san, the editors over there have been waiting a while," Hamamoto said hurriedly, catching him by the arm.
"Tomorrow… when I'm on stage giving my acceptance speech, I hope you can still manage that smug smile of yours,"
Ishida sneered, leaving that sharp remark behind as Hamamoto finally managed to drag the "red carrot" away—though Ishida kept muttering all the while.
"Hamamoto-san, your committee really needs to be more careful when selecting nominees in the future…"
Kyousuke raised an eyebrow, wondering where Ishida's confidence came from.
He glanced at Osaka, silently asking for clarification.
"Ahem... Well, see, mystery novels rarely win this award," Osaka said as he took a sip of water.
Kyousuke recalled some background information—right, Ishida's nominated work was titled 'Memories of Fourteen,' obviously a coming-of-age story about teens.
As for the other three finalists at the table, their works could all be summed up with a single word: "heartwarming."
'Ah. I get it now… No wonder this award is called the symbol of Japanese popular literature. The public loves feel-good, comforting novels best.'
"To be honest, almost no pure mystery novels have ever won the grand prize in previous years," Osaka added.
"But I will win the grand prize," Kyousuke said firmly.
The certainty in his voice finally made Mashiro and Misaki realize the quiet pride this genius carried.
Yet they nodded along, fully convinced.
'So what if it's a 'popular literature' award? Fans voting because they love the author is perfectly valid, right?!'
Even if the novel was ghostwritten garbage, as long as the author looked good, people would blindly support it.
Not that this applied to Kyousuke—his novels were genuinely, ridiculously good.
"To be honest… after seeing the huge turnout at Hojou-san's Kinokuniya book signing, I begged my publisher to arrange a signing for me there too," Mashiro confessed with a wry smile.
"Haha, Mashiro-san, you clearly underestimated Hojou-sensei," Misaki teased.
"Yeah, I was kind of mad the bookstore didn't reserve their event hall for me, but once I saw the actual crowd size…"
"I was secretly relieved. Good thing the bookstore and publisher did their research—otherwise I'd have made a complete fool of myself."
Mashiro sighed.
In the photos circulating online and on TV, the line behind Hojou's promotional stand stretched two whole blocks—filled entirely with teenage girls.
So many pretty girls in Shinjuku... even if I fall a bit short... he had thought bitterly at the time.
"And the worst part was, while I was in the bathroom, I accidentally overheard—"
"'Accidentally'?" Misaki grinned.
"Of course it was! Anyway, I overheard the staff talking about who they'd vote for."
"Hahaha, no need to say—I bet they all picked Hojou, right?" Osaka laughed. No one here knew better than he did.
"Exactly!" Mashiro ground his teeth.
"I even heard something similar in a Kyoto bookstore," Misaki groaned. "The staff said if Hojou wins this year, maybe he'll do a signing in Kyoto next year."
"Unbelievable. They should be voting based on 'which book they want to sell'—not 'which author they want to meet'!" he grumbled.
"Hahaha… such is the boundless charm of literature," Hojou chuckled.
"You bastard! That's not what literary charm means!"
"Isn't it? When they read a book, they imagine a man like Ishigami passionately in love with them. Their reading experience instantly becomes three times better. That's what immersion in fiction is all about."
"So what—you're saying every author should get plastic surgery so readers don't have their fantasies shattered?" Osaka retorted.
'If that were the case, rough-looking guys like me writing romance novels from a woman's perspective would just make readers break out in goosebumps…'
After joking around for a while, the conversation finally circled back to Ishida Hidenori.
"Seriously, what's that guy's problem with Hojou? Don't tell me his wife left him because she fell for Hojou or something?"
As a close friend, Osaka Gou had no intention of sugarcoating his words.
Just because Ishida held him in some regard didn't mean he was going to change his stance.
He wasn't stupid—he knew perfectly well he was just being used as a pawn again. Besides, he was a proud mystery novelist.
Sure, his books weren't popular with the Best Bookstore Awards crowd, but in literary circles, his status far outstripped Ishida's.
"Hey now, don't say that. Can you even imagine the kind of woman who'd go for that guy? Just think about it for a second." Hojou Kyousuke gave a start.
One look at himself, and anyone could tell what kind of lovely, refined women his family had raised.
Now look at that shriveled red radish of a man—Ishida's home life couldn't possibly compare.
If Naoka ever caught him dressed like that, she'd probably faint on the spot.
"Hahaha, Hojou-san, you really don't pull your punches," Misaki chuckled.
"Lucky for him this place is crowded," Osaka muttered with a sneer.
"Oh? Why's that?" Misaki leaned in, curious.
"You haven't heard? They say the strongest in Tokyo—ugh, cough, cough! Let go, Hojou! I can't breathe!"
"You idiot. Next time I see Chairman Konno, I'm going to suggest starting a kendo club at the association and drag you into it. Maybe then we can 'train' together more often."
Hojou released Osaka's neck and adjusted his jacket. Close call—his nickname almost slipped out.
"Mercy, please! I meant to say the 'Sword Demon King'!"
With that, their conversation veered into a discussion of Hojou Kyousuke's rumored kendo prowess. They all agreed to visit the family dojo together once Konno Kenzo brought someone over.
"Well, looks like there'll be a real show tomorrow. I just hope Ishida Hidenori's face doesn't turn too awful when he's clapping for you during your acceptance speech—or I might not be able to hold my laughter," Misaki said, lifting his teacup with a grin.
The thought of Ishida's pig-liver colored face from earlier was almost enough to make him burst out laughing.
The man really had no grace at all.
Compared to him, Hojou was like a regal pheasant perched elegantly on the wall.
"No worries—laugh all you want. It's a happy occasion, after all," Misaki chuckled, though whether he meant their own upcoming awards or Ishida losing out was anyone's guess.
Writers were competitive by nature—pretending otherwise was a lie.
Still, they'd all suffered verbal blows from bookstore staff before even meeting, so they'd assumed they'd hate each other in person.
Unexpectedly, they got along quite well, especially when there was someone they all genuinely disliked.
Amazing how one unlikeable person could unite a whole group.
As they chatted on, Amemiya Miki returned to let Kyousuke know that dinner was ready. It was only then he remembered—oh right, they'd planned to invite Shimomura's son for dinner too.
But teasing Ishida with the others had been too much fun, and he'd completely forgotten.
He glanced at the food the waitstaff brought out: a steamed silver salmon set, chestnut cream dorayaki, and Mitarashi dango.
After tasting them, he quickly messaged Kisaki.
Of course, he wasn't going to drag Masao Shimomura here now—it was too late for that.
Instead, he asked Kisaki to buy a few more servings to take home as snacks for later.
Dorayaki and dango—perfect for movie night.
They were the usual snacks they'd eat while watching films.
"Well then, see you tomorrow, Hojou-san."
"See you."
After parting ways, Kyousuke headed home, carefully storing most of the treats in the fridge.
Then, with a couple dorayaki in hand, he made his way to school.
The timing was just right—he'd arrive before the first afternoon class started.
————————————————————————
At Sobu High School, First Year Class F...
Hikigaya Hachiman stared blankly at his math test, his expression dead as stone.
His answer sheet was covered in tiny circles, surrounded by spears of failure.
Factorization? Cross multiplication? Nested radicals?
What the hell kind of names were these? What, was he supposed to learn this and suddenly gain the power to break apart matter and grasp the secrets of the universe?
Had the teachers been infected by Zaimokuza's chuunibyou or something?
And what about the teacher herself? Shouting those terms aloud without shame—didn't she realize she sounded like she was acting in a stage play?
As the third... no, maybe fourth-best in Japanese language in the entire grade, Hikigaya Hachiman simply couldn't wrap his head around the chuunibyou minds of mathematicians.
He sighed, gave up, and pulled out the textbook he definitely wouldn't use in the next class, placing it over his test paper.
Leaning against the wall, he let himself relax.
"Alright, quadratic radicals—expand them all! Factor everything without fail!"
Even though it was a sleepy afternoon, Zaimokuza was oddly energetic, waving his arms around as if he were slicing invisible enemies, shouting in what he thought was a cool and heroic voice.
"Hey, Zaimokuza… don't you think this is way too chuuni?" Hikigaya called out weakly.
"Hm? Chuuni? Isn't that the whole point?" Zaimokuza grinned.
Sure, that might be fine for fantasy worlds, but if these math problems were actually battle techniques, wouldn't you be unable to use them unless you solved them correctly first?
If someone like him were transported to such a world, he'd probably die in the first episode.
Yep. Hikigaya Hachiman's dislike for these ridiculously named formulas definitely wasn't because he sucked at math—definitely not.
It was purely based on practical concerns about how useless they'd be in a real isekai world. Absolutely.
"Ah, thanks for the reminder, Hachiman! I should make a character like that in my next novel—someone who fights using math formulas!"
Zaimokuza suddenly clenched his right fist into his left palm, struck a heroic pose, and immediately whipped out his notebook, scribbling away with intense passion.
Actually… there was already a character like that in last March's anime season...
Hikigaya glanced at his friend, who was now frantically jotting down ideas, and decided to swallow the comment.
Eh, let him practice his wrist strength or whatever.
But when novels were mentioned, his gaze unconsciously drifted toward the empty seat in the bottom-right corner of the classroom.
Hojou-san…
No, wait.
Hojou Kyousuke told him not to use honorifics, didn't he?! Come on, Hachiman, stand tall.
Just because he's achieved something you could never even dream of doesn't mean you have to unconsciously respect him so much you slap on honorifics.
"The Bookstore Grand Prize... must be nice, huh? My dearest friend, when the new edition of The Devotion of Suspect X comes out, let's go buy it together," Zaimokuza said, grinning.
"Yeah, sure."
Hikigaya nodded without hesitation.
He already had a copy at home, but he knew exactly what Zaimokuza meant by "new edition"—the reprint with the "Bookstore Grand Prize" band around the cover.
As a proper follower, getting that version was only natural.
Maybe he'd give the extra copy to Komachi.
Tell her that if she prayed to the book every day, she'd receive the divine blessing of either the genius Hojou Kyousuke or the math prodigy Ishigami from the story itself—and never fail math like her hopeless big brother.
The news that Hojou Kyousuke would be attending the Bookstore Grand Prize tomorrow wasn't spread by Sakura or Shouko.
When it came to campus celebrities like him, Japan's enthusiasm could exceed all expectations.
All morning long, Hikigaya hadn't seen less than five classmates gathered around Yamauchi or Nishimiya during breaks.
He was certain that if Hojou wasn't also the captain of the kendo club, his desk would've already been stolen by some overly enthusiastic fan with a desk-fetish after school.
…Wait a second.
As the kendo club's top demonstration partner, didn't he have a legitimate reason to ask the captain to swap desks for "training purposes"? That could actually work.
Remembering all the practice matches where he had to spar with the captain first as the example for everyone else, Hikigaya puffed out his chest with rare pride.
If you round things up, you could say he'd survived more rounds against the Demon King than anyone else.
Even if all he did was barely scrape by, that had to count for something… right?
———————————————————————
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