Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

three days later.

Shincho-sha, Literature and Art Department Office.

"They're here! They're here!!"

Machida waved a still-heating thermal fax paper in his hand and burst through the editor-in-chief's office door like a 100-meter sprinter, so excited that he forgot to knock.

"Editor-in-chief! Professor Hiroshi Aramata's reply has arrived!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato, who was drinking tea, was startled by Machida's sudden voice, causing his hand to tremble and spill a few drops of tea onto his trousers. But he didn't bother wiping it off; he abruptly stood up: "Read it quickly!"

All the editors in the office stopped what they were doing and listened intently to Machida's voice.

Feeling the gazes of everyone, Machida took a deep breath, looked at the contents of the fax paper, and excitedly said, "Professor Aramata sent two messages!"

"The first paragraph was for our internal editorial team. He said he was deeply impressed after reading the outline of 'Spiral,' praising Kitahara Iwa as 'a monster who perfectly blends the mystical and the scientific.' And the second paragraph..."

Machida swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he read aloud the public endorsement that would soon be printed on the book jacket: "I retract my statement that 'horror novels are dead'."

"Traditional ghost stories often stop at the level of emotion, but this novel uses the cold rationality of a scalpel to dissect the texture of the 'curse'."

"It's not the kind of low-brow horror that suddenly gives you a fright in the middle of the night, but a perfectly closed-loop 'logic trap.' Once you turn the first page, you've already become part of the trap."

"This is the most breathtaking masterpiece of the first year of the Heisei era. Before reading, please make sure your heart is healthy."

"—Hiroshi Aramata (author of The Imperial Capital)"

Quiet.

After a deathly silence, the entire editorial department erupted in thunderous cheers.

Editor-in-Chief Sato quickly took the fax paper, and upon reading the comments on it, he couldn't help but let his lips curl into a wide smile.

"Hahaha! Great! That's fantastic!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato burst into laughter, slamming his hand on the table: "Logical trap! As expected of Aramata-sensei, that word is used so precisely!"

"This is a million times better than Kijima, that mediocre writer who only talks shallow nonsense! This is a true literary master!"

With the endorsement of Hiroshi Aramata, the pope of mysticism, "The Ring" instantly shed its label as cheap, low-brow literature and leaped directly to become a masterpiece of high-IQ psychological horror.

"Print this message immediately in the most prominent position on the waistband!"

Editor-in-Chief Sato waved his hand, his eyes gleaming with ambition, and said, "To coincide with the news about the printing press curse, I want all of Tokyo to know that not reading this book means falling behind the times!"

……

Early March.

Tokyo is experiencing a fluctuating temperature, with warm weather followed by chilly skies.

The cold rain, mixed with the lingering chill of late winter, pattered down on the gray city.

The sky was as gloomy as a lead plate, and the air was filled with a damp chill that seemed to seep into your bones, as if even your breath could freeze in your lungs.

This was the worst weather ever, but it was also the perfect breeding ground for "The Ring".

Shinjuku, Kinokuniya Bookstore Main Store.

Despite the torrential rain outside, a long queue had formed in front of the bookstore, which was quite astonishing.

Colorful umbrellas snaked their way through the gloomy rain, stretching all the way to the subway station entrance.

Kitahara Iwa, wearing a black baseball cap and with his trench coat collar turned up, mingled among the passersby, quietly observing the scene.

In the most prominent display window of the bookstore, a tower of books containing "The Ring" has already been erected.

The poster adopts a minimalist style designed by Kitahara Iwao himself: on a completely black background, there is only a line of red text that looks like bloodstains or a warning.

[Warning: Not for the faint of heart. Those who have read it, please do not tell others about the ending.]

[Special thanks to Hiroshi Aramata for his excellent recommendation... "This is a perfect logical trap"]

Next to the poster, there was also a clipping from a gossip magazine, with a shocking headline: "The book that terrifies the printing plant! Even the workers refuse to print it."

"Hey, isn't 'The Ring' that cursed book?"

A couple in the queue were excitedly discussing something.

"I heard it's really weird; that printing factory in Saitama Prefecture still hasn't reopened."

The boy lowered his voice and said, though he said it was weird, his face was full of excitement and a desire for thrills.

"Really? Should we buy it and see if there are any problems?"

The girl shrank back and gripped her boyfriend's arm tightly.

"What's there to be afraid of! Even Hiroshi Aramata recommended it, saying it's the most suffocating masterpiece of the Heisei era. If I don't watch it, I won't be able to chat with my friends at school tomorrow!"

Such conversations echoed throughout the group.

The more something is forbidden, the more tempting it becomes.

The more dangerous something is, the more people flock to it.

This is a weakness of human nature.

Just one hour after the store opened.

"We are very sorry, everyone! Today's entire order is sold out!"

As the clerk, sweating profusely, hung the sign that read "Sold Out" in front of the empty book tower, the crowd that had been shivering in the cold wind while queuing instantly erupted in excitement.

"Huh? Are you kidding me!"

"I specifically took a day off to come here!"

Wails and complaints rose and fell.

But the more difficult it is to buy, the more fervent the desire in people's eyes becomes.

"Hey, clerk! When can I pick up my order if I order now?"

A young man who hadn't managed to buy one eagerly clung to the counter, his face full of frustration. "Whether it's really cursed or not, if I go to school tomorrow without having read this book, those guys will definitely laugh at me for being an outdated coward!"

"Yeah, everyone says that finishing this book is proof of being a hero... Damn it, I should have lined up in the middle of the night!"

"Shop assistant, are you really out of stock? I'm willing to pay extra!"

"Exactly, I'll add 400 yuan to buy a copy of The Ring!"

"I'll offer 600!"

Seeing this, Kitahara Iwa, who was standing in the corner, lowered the brim of his hat and a satisfied smile appeared on his lips.

He knew very well that for this nation that was extremely concerned about reading the air, what was more terrifying than the evil spirit named "Sadako" was actually the fear of not being able to integrate into the group.

At the same time.

Shimokitazawa.

Compared to the hustle and bustle of Shinjuku, Shimokitazawa seemed rather deserted on a rainy night.

Sachiko Kamachi, carrying an old guitar covered in stickers, had just finished a four-hour solo practice session in a self-service karaoke booth.

These days, Sachiko Kamachi has been practicing the singing style that Kitahara Iwao described as "no longer trying to please anyone" over and over again in the cramped tin box.

Although forcibly changing the way he spoke made his vocal cords swell and ache as if he had swallowed hot coals, his eyes were much clearer than before.

At that moment, Sachiko Kamachi was taking shelter from the rain in the convenience store when she casually picked up an evening newspaper from the shelf.

The bold, black text on the entertainment section's headline immediately caught my eye:

"The Most Dangerous Logic Trap of the Heisei Era—Monster Rookie Kitahara Iwao Receives Highest Praise from Mystic Pope Aramata Hiroshi!"

Although the photo only showed a blurry profile, Sachiko Kamachi recognized Kitahara Iwao at a glance.

"That's amazing..."

As Sachiko Kamachi looked at the headline, her breath condensed into a cloud of white mist in the cold air.

My fingers gently traced the familiar name on the newspaper, and a complex mix of emotions welled up inside me.

Just two weeks ago, they were eating expired bento boxes together in that musty video store, worrying about their hourly wages of a few hundred yen, and joking with each other about who would be the first to succumb to the cruelty of Tokyo.

And now, it's only been a blink of an eye.

Kitahara Iwa has broken through the quagmire of the past and stood in the spotlight of the times, using his words to make the whole of Tokyo tremble.

Meanwhile, I am still groping in the dark for the so-called debut.

"I can't lose either..."

Sachiko Kamachi took a deep breath of the damp, chilly air, bought the newspaper, carefully folded it, and put it in her bag.

She looked down at her faded jeans and simple white shirt, the battle attire Kitahara Iwa made her wear.

Although there are no audience members yet, and although there is no applause yet.

But at least, I've found my direction.

"Kitahara-kun is already ahead."

Sachiko Kamachi opened her transparent umbrella and stepped into the cold rain, her fingers tightening slightly on the guitar strap: "I need to quicken my pace and catch up with him!"