Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Chapter 214 The Ministry of Finance's Attack

In this deafening roar that could shatter the night, boundless clamor is frantically washing over every corner of Tokyo.

In her apartment in the port area, Izumi Sakai suddenly covered her lips, then turned to look at Iwata Kitahara sitting in a chair. Tears welled up in her eyes instantly, and her voice trembled with overwhelming joy: "Iwa-kun—it's you! It really is you!"

Meanwhile, beneath the giant screen in Shinjuku, deafening cheers drowned out all other noises.

"Long live!!!"

"Long live Kitahara-sensei!"

A college student gripped the shoulder of the person next to him tightly, his voice cracking, "It's Kitahara! I heard it! It really is Professor Kitahara!"

The izakayas in Shinbashi had already become a sea of ​​excitement.

"Cheers! Cheers to Kitahara-sensei!"

The middle-aged men, who had been looking worried because of bankruptcy and layoffs, all jumped onto the chairs with red eyes.

The usually cautious employees loosened their ties, gulped down their draft beer, and roared in hoarse voices, "Did you hear what the Swedes said?! Who said this country is doomed? As long as Kitahara-sensei is here, Japan hasn't been completely wiped out!"

"Boss, all the drinks are on me tonight! Drink up! Drink as much as you want!"

Glasses clattered wildly, spilling drinks all over the floor, and the cheers nearly shattered the izakaya's windows.

At the same time, in the newspaper's editorial department, a chilling collective scream erupted.

"We won!! It's on the front page! Quick!"

The editor-in-chief grabbed the internal phone and roared into the underground printing plant, "Cancel the backup version! Replace it with the award-winning manuscript! Get it on the machine immediately!"

"Give me the title in the largest bold font possible! Maximize the font size, make it as big as you want!"

"Print it! Print it to the death! Tomorrow morning, even the homeless in Tokyo Bay must see this newspaper!"

Inside the underground workshop, the rotary machines roared deafeningly.

The prepared layout was immediately put into printing.

Kitahara Iwa, the Nobel Prize laureate in Literature!

A 27-year-old Japanese writer reaches the pinnacle of world literature.

The Man Who Stove a Spark in the Ruins

And in the jazz bar in Qingshan.

With a loud crash, the glass in Murakami Ryu's hand slammed onto the bar, shattering ice and liquor all over the floor.

He stared intently at the television screen on the wall, completely unaware that his expensive trousers were soaked through.

"We really won!"

Murakami Ryu, who usually loves to joke around, was so excited that his eyes turned red.

Haruki Murakami, who was sitting next to him, was taken aback for a moment, then couldn't help but shake his head with a smile.

He then recalled what Kitahara Iwa had said to him the previous evening, and raised his whiskey, raising a toast to the screen across the void.

"A 27-year-old Nobel laureate in literature—he really is a monster that leaves you speechless."

Haruki Murakami tilted his head back and downed the strong liquor in one gulp, then laughed heartily: "Looks like I really need to pick out a better pair of running shoes and start practicing marathons early."

Meanwhile, the entire publishing industry in Japan is experiencing an unprecedented late-night earthquake.

The president of Kinokuniya Bookstore, Tokyo’s largest bookstore chain, was jolted awake from his sleep by a dozen urgent phone calls.

"President! The shutters of our Shinjuku main store and Shibuya branch are practically falling apart from all the pounding! Hundreds, even thousands, of people are blocking the streets, demanding we open immediately. They want to buy Kitahara-sensei's book tonight!"

The logistics centers of major publishers turned on their lights overnight, making it as bright as day.

The managers in charge of dispatching were yelling into the phone, their voices hoarse: "Forget about nighttime noise regulations! Get all the trucks out there! Empty all the printing plants' warehouses! Any book with the words 'Kitahara Iwa' printed on it, even a single torn page, must fill the shelves throughout Tokyo before dawn!"

That night, it wasn't just the words that went wild, but the entire society that had been suppressed to its limit.

In this harsh winter of bursting bubbles, plummeting stock markets, and many people not even seeing "tomorrow," Kitahara Iwa completely ignited the country's long, dark night.

Kitahara Iwao has never received just one literary honor.

Instead, he used his pen to carve out a crack in this island that was sinking in despair, a crack that allowed everyone to catch their breath.

Inside the government building in Kasumigaseki, two completely opposite extreme scenes unfolded.

The high-level conference room of the Metropolitan Police Department was deathly silent, like a tomb.

Upon hearing the news of the award, several high-ranking police officials turned deathly pale.

Their first reaction was deep fear.

From this moment on, Kitahara Iwa was completely beyond their control.

A 27-year-old Nobel laureate, a name that has been elevated to a pedestal in the eyes of the world's media and the public.

If he were to bring up the Ginza attack, which was officially classified as an "attempted robbery," the Metropolitan Police Department would be mercilessly nailed to the judgment rack of world opinion.

However, just across the street in the Ministry of Finance and the Imperial Household Department, the atmosphere was incredibly excited.

Upon hearing the name "Kitahara Iwa," several senior officials in the conference room breathed a sigh of relief.

"He actually succeeded—"

A high-ranking official from the Ministry of Finance leaned back in his chair, loosened his tie with a sigh of relief, and said with a shrewd smile, "It seems the gods haven't completely abandoned Japan's economy. Notify the Cabinet and the Ministry of Education to immediately activate the highest-level contingency plan!"

The meeting room instantly erupted into a flurry of activity.

"Has the congratulatory message from the Prime Minister's official residence been drafted?"

Another politician strode to the fax machine and shouted, "Send this to all the major newspapers immediately! Tomorrow morning's front page must feature the Prime Minister's name alongside Kitahara Iwao!"

"Sir, the draft of the congratulatory telegram is here."

A subordinate handed over a document, quickly reading aloud the congratulatory message: "We have proposed several titles: 'Pride of Japanese Literature,' 'Symbol of National Spirit,' and 'A Clear Voice of Japan to the World' — What do you think?"

When these words came out of the bureaucrats' mouths, even the secretaries next to them found them somewhat jarring.

After all, just a few months ago, it was the people in this very room who were tacitly approving the ban on Kitahara Iwa and the tax investigation.

But the higher-ups didn't even blink, and without hesitation banged on the table: "Add one more sentence: a concentrated embodiment of cultural achievements. The people outside are suffering too much right now; we must package Kitahara Iwa as the most potent painkiller."

"But sir—"

A younger official wiped his sweat and asked hesitantly, "Professor Kitahara criticized us harshly in 'The Collapsing Tower.' What if Western media ask about our previous 'favors' towards him?"

"madness!"

The high-ranking official sneered, looking at him as if he were an idiot, and said, "Now that he's won the Nobel Prize tonight, everything that happened in the past wasn't suppression, but rather 'the nation's stringent expectations of geniuses'!"

"Next, after he receives the congratulatory telegram from the cabinet, he will shake hands with the prime minister in front of the cameras, and then naturally pin the Order of Culture to his chest —"

The high-ranking official's gaze swept over everyone present, his voice brimming with self-righteousness: "Then all his sharp edges can be repackaged! 'The Collapsing Tower' is no longer a knife aimed at us, but a great testament to Japanese society's self-reflection and democratic inclusiveness!"

"Then, we can smile and say to the world's media: Look, this is Japan. A great nation that can give birth to Kitahara Iwa, and also infinitely embrace and respect it!"

The bureaucrats in Xiaguan were extremely quick and shameless in their calculations.

In this economic winter that they themselves brought to a standstill, since Kitahara Iwa has already unstoppably ascended to the world literary altar, they will use Kitahara Iwa as a fig leaf to divert attention from domestic problems.

"Don't just stand there!"

The higher-ups slammed their fists on the table and issued an ultimatum: "Send the awarding order immediately, before the Western media swarm in!"

Less than an hour after the Nobel Prize announcement, the Imperial Household Agency had already urgently conveyed its intention to award the Order of Culture to the Shinchosha through special channels.

The notice stated that, in recognition of Kitahara Iwa's outstanding contributions to the field of literature, the government will immediately proceed with the awarding of the Order of Culture and plans to arrange for the Prime Minister to meet with him in person.

Half an hour earlier, an urgent internal call from Shinchosha president Taro Murata went directly to Kenichi Sato's office.

"Sato, leave the magazine matter to the deputy editor. You go downstairs immediately and drive to Minato Ward, right now! We absolutely cannot let Kitahara-sensei deal with the situation alone!"

On the phone, Taro Murata's voice was unusually grave.

"President, what happened?" Kenichi Sato's heart skipped a beat.

"I just got some top-secret information from an old acquaintance in the Inner Palace."

Murata Taro gritted his teeth, his voice tinged with anger, and said, "Those politicians in Kasumigaseki are going crazy! They're preparing to initiate the awarding process for the Order of Culture overnight, and not only that, the Prime Minister wants to meet with them personally. The letter of intent to award the medal is already on its way to the port area!"

Kenichi Sato's expression changed instantly: "The Order of Culture? They were just suppressing it, and now they want to—"

"Yes! That's exactly what you think! They want to forcibly take over Kitahara before the whole world!"

Murata Taro said sternly, "They want to use the highest national honor as bait to forcibly package Kitahara-sensei from a critic who exposes the system into a facade for whitewashing the truth!"

"You must tell him about these implications before the authorities officially come to pressure you. Don't fall into the trap set by these politicians!"

After hanging up the phone, Kenichi Sato sped off towards the port area like a madman.

When he arrived at the apartment building in Kitahara-iwa, it was already surrounded by a media frenzy that had swept across Japan.

The broadcast vans of various television stations blocked the streets, and reporters frantically crowded outside the police cordon at the gate. Microphones, cameras, and flashes blended into a dazzling daylight in the night.

In a dark street corner not far away, several unmarked black luxury cars were parked quietly.

The car was filled with politicians from the Cabinet Office, the Ministry of Education, and the Agency for Cultural Affairs.

They didn't get out of the car; they simply rolled up the tinted windows and stared intently at the lights on the top floor of the apartment building, like a pack of hyenas patiently waiting for their prey to fall into their trap.

Kenichi Sato, sweating profusely, pushed open the car door and struggled through the crowd of reporters.

However, before he could even step into the apartment, two Imperial Household officials in dark suits precisely blocked his way.

"Editor-in-Chief Sato, I've been waiting for you."

One of them, with a fake professional smile on his face, shoved a thick, gold-embossed document into his hands without a word: "This is a letter of intent for awarding honors, issued overnight by the Imperial Household Agency. Professor Kitahara just received a major award tonight and probably doesn't want to be overly disturbed by the outside world. Editor-in-Chief Sato is his most trusted editor, so it's most appropriate for you to deliver it."

Kenichi Sato gripped the document, his palms gradually becoming sweaty. He then took a deep breath and said, "Gentlemen, it's probably against protocol for a publisher like me to forward such a national-level document, isn't it?"

Another official stepped forward, ignoring Kenichi Sato's refusals, and said, half pressuring and half enticing, "This is a national honor personally approved by the Prime Minister."

"Please urge Mr. Kitahara to seriously consider the country's goodwill."

Another official stepped forward and lowered his voice, saying, "There have been some misunderstandings in the past, which can be gradually cleared up. The government will also remember the contributions Shinchosha has made to Japanese culture over the years."

He then patted Sato Kenichi on the shoulder, his eyes deep, and said, "I think Editor-in-Chief Sato is a smart man who knows how to assess the situation; he should know how to persuade the teacher, right?"

Faced with this blatant attack and threat, Kenichi Sato gritted his teeth and remained silent.

Seeing Sato Kenichi's appearance, the two officials did not press him further, but instead tacitly stepped back half a step, clearing the passage to the apartment lobby.

Under the watchful eyes of two people, Kenichi Sato gripped the documents in his hand, strode through the access control, and almost fled as he pressed the button to go up.

Only after entering the private elevator and the heavy metal doors slowly closing, completely blocking the view of politicians and reporters, did he suddenly breathe a sigh of relief and lean against the elevator wall as if all his strength had been drained.

As the elevator slowly ascended, Kenichi Sato looked down at the heavy letter of intent in his hand, sweat gradually sliding down his forehead.

He understood better than anyone the significance of the Order of Culture in Japan.

For many cultural figures, that is the highest national honor they can attain in their lifetime.

Simply by nodding in acceptance, one's family, hometown, alma mater, and even the entire publishing house will be enveloped in this immense glory. It would be difficult for any ordinary citizen to refuse such a national endorsement.

But Kenichi Sato knew even better that this document contained a knife that could be cut without bloodshed.

This was not a simple congratulation, but a condescending "political co-optation".

These bureaucrats are trying to use a dazzling medal as bait to silence me, forcibly pushing Kitahara Iwa back into the exquisite packaging of "Japan's national cultural achievements" from the perspective of a "rebellious writer who pierced the system".