Writer K lost all his savings, had his manuscripts stolen, and was even forced to marry a 372-pound sumo-sized wife.
Watching this unfold, Kurokawa Toyomasa couldn't help but grit his teeth in sympathy—after all, hadn't he clawed his way through life just the same?
Being a writer wasn't just about talent or literary accumulation.
That only worked for geniuses.
For the average man, the only way forward was to apprentice under a master: haul baggage, run errands, and once the teacher was full and in good spirits, maybe—just maybe—be drip-fed a lesson or two.
Even if your writing was mediocre, as long as you had your mentor's connections, you could slap some glowing endorsements on the book jacket and fool the masses into buying it.
Do that enough times and even an idiot could become a writer.
That was the essence of Japan's apprentice system—hierarchies, seniority, endless chains of juniors suffering in silence until it was their turn to grind the next generation into dust.
Push someone that far down, and of course they'll rebound, right?
Kurokawa thought so.
That was how stories worked: suppression first, then catharsis.
The sorrowful atmosphere was only meaningful if it built toward reversal.
Otherwise, it was just empty whining.
And this novel? It nailed the structure perfectly.
The buildup, the rhythm, the way it carried the reader straight into the next stage at the height of their emotional investment—flawless.
Wait—no rebound?
Instead, the story slid smoothly into an award ceremony.
Kurokawa blinked.
He had assumed the "Death and Dreams" in the title referred to Writer K burying his old self, his dreams suffocated by the rules of the system.
Yet here he was, still trudging along. Surprised but curious, Kurokawa kept reading.
What?!
No prize?!
That was outrageous!
Taking bribes and still failing to deliver—what happened to protecting your seniors' dignity?!
Kurokawa fumed. This broke the unspoken rules.
How was anyone supposed to lead their juniors like this?!
Oh… someone else offered more money.
Never mind then. Rules upheld.
The highest bidder wins, as it should be.
That was what made these awards prestigious, wasn't it?
He was feeling smug about his insight when suddenly a bold string of characters leapt out from the page:
"KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL!!"
"I'M GOING TO SLAUGHTER YOU SCUM!!"
Kurokawa nearly jumped out of his seat.
What the hell?! Not the protagonist dying—but the judges?!
This… seemed a little off.
Snapping out of his immersion, he cautiously darted his eyes toward the blond man.
"Focus."
"Yes! Of course, Blond-sama!!"
The middle-aged writer, whose spine had been curling under the weight of dread, shot ramrod straight and dutifully fixed his gaze back on the page.
And what he saw next blew his mind.
This was a mystery novel?!
Up until now, he'd thought it was just an exposé of the dark underbelly of the Mystery Writers' Association.
But no—the buildup hadn't peaked yet. The climax was here, in the killing itself.
No wonder…
Kurokawa's doubt dissolved into awe.
Where he had expected the story to rebound at the lobbying stage, the author had instead dragged the protagonist deeper into darkness.
Now that Writer K was finally shedding blood, it all made sense.
Since the days of Matsumoto Seichō—the godfather of social-school mysteries—the point was never the trick or the puzzle.
That was the playground of the honkaku purists.
Social mysteries dug into the killer—the reason they killed.
These novels rarely depicted thrill-killers or lunatics, and passion crimes were rare.
Every murderer had a heavy, layered motive.
Because murder was never simple.
Whether suicide or homicide, it meant embracing the most primal evil.
The crushing weight of taking a life wasn't something a normal person could bear without reason.
Why, then, did someone accept that suffocating burden and still drench their hands in blood?
Take Writer K. Did he ever think about the families of the judges he butchered?
That killing a father meant leaving a child behind, or a family dog being sold because no one could afford to keep it?
Or imagine himself: if he were killed here, now, no number of security cameras would stop his wife from finding a lover once he was gone.
The motive had to be solid.
Without it, the story would collapse into nonsense.
Readers would scoff—Really? He killed for that? What a joke.
That was the difference between social and honkaku mysteries.
Honkaku only dragged out motive when it propped up a trick. Social mysteries lived and breathed it.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!
'I have to bring this author into the fold. I'll be his sponsor!'
Kurokawa's hands shook as he devoured the text, trembling with excitement.
For the first time, he was ready to forgive these black-suited intruders for breaking into his home.
To write something this masterful, of course you'd have your eccentricities.
And then—Writer K started killing for real.
Elegant.
Utterly elegant.
This wasn't just clever—it was exquisite.
Murder plans polished to perfection, intricate yet natural.
From his eye perspective as a reader, Kurokawa marveled—as expected of a mystery writer. If one of us ever turned to murder, this is how it would be done.
Even he, a veteran writer, admitted that if he were killed this way, no one would ever catch the culprit.
His death would be in vain.
'This is amazing! If a genius like this joins the social-school, we could reshape the whole Association in our image!'
The middle-aged man quivered with ecstasy.
His earlier fear had melted away entirely, leaving only visions of a glorious future.
Kurokawa Toyomasa's whole body trembled like a leaf in the wind, and Kisaki Tetta frowned slightly.
Had this guy realized he was the model for the murdered judge in the story?
Impossible. Up until now, he shouldn't even know this was an boss's work.
Or… was it simply that this man had made too many enemies in his life, and had already accepted that revenge was bound to come knocking one day?
To be honest, ever since receiving this manuscript from his boss, Kisaki had been shaken to the core.
He'd never imagined that killing could be described with such precision—that even as the most obvious suspect, the killer could still make it impossible for anyone to catch him.
Compared to this, his own schemes from the past felt childishly crude.
He admitted it: there had been a brief moment where he truly wanted to follow the book's methods, to wipe out every piece of trash that dared oppose his boss.
But that thought was fleeting.
Their lives weren't worth even a fraction of the value of this masterpiece.
If killing them could be used to hype up the book, that'd be another story—headlines like "Prophecy or Copycat?" or "Every person mentioned in the novel winds up dead!" would practically sell themselves.
For now, though, making them crawl and serve as dogs for his boss… that was plenty satisfying.
"Ahem."
"Focus!"
"Yes, Blond-sama!!"
Kurokawa obeyed, though his tone was nowhere near as groveling as before.
In his mind, he was no longer a hostage—he was one of them now.
Sure, the introduction had been rough, but that didn't matter.
Blond-sama had the talent, and he had the resources.
A perfect match made in heaven!
As he read on, watching the judges die one after another, each murder more brilliant than the last, Kurokawa grew more and more ecstatic.
The crueler their deaths, the happier he became.
"This time… are you satisfied with my trick?"
The phrase repeated again and again throughout the manuscript, and each time it struck like lightning.
It wasn't just the protagonist speaking—it was the release of all the readers' pent-up frustrations.
Satisfied? Oh, more than satisfied!
If Konoya Kenzo hadn't sworn this was a rookie's work, Kurokawa would've believed the legendary Matsumoto Seichō himself had risen from the grave.
"This is amazing!! A truly great work! An unmatched masterpiece!"
He couldn't hold back. Shouting, he lifted the manuscript high, eyes shining with feverish excitement.
"Once this is published, it'll cause a social earthquake! Ordinary readers will be swept away by the protagonist's suffering and the genius of the tricks—but the mid- and lower-tier authors, they'll feel this in their bones! The moment they join the discussion, their fanbases will follow, and then—then the waves will surge beyond control!"
He waved the papers wildly, spittle flying, carried away by his own vision of glory.
"This is amazing!, This is amazing!…"
He kept chanting, because who better than him knew the bitterness of the struggling authors?
They didn't lose awards because they lacked talent—no, it was because the associations were rotten, archaic, dominated by fossils like him.
The only way for literature to bloom again was to sweep away the remnants of the old era—sweep away himself!
The common reader might only take the politics of the literary world as entertainment, but once the small authors joined in, the debates would explode.
Their fans would learn their beloved writers had suffered this same injustice and would rise up in outrage.
The public might feel powerless against politicians—but against writers, "the teachers of the nation"? Oh, they could lash out all they wanted.
Taxes, they couldn't choose. But buying books? That was easy. Without readers, what were "national teachers" worth?
The moment literature caught fire, the entertainment industry—those bottom-feeders—would swarm over like flies. And then? A tidal wave of social upheaval.
Kurokawa's head was already full of beautiful visions of the future.
"Hm?"
Watching this man nearly convulsing with excitement, even Kisaki Tetta, whose IQ was said to top 200, couldn't quite figure him out.
Had the precision of boss's murder tricks actually scared him stupid?
Sure, in theory, this was the best-case scenario: the novel igniting exactly the kind of storm Kurokawa described.
But who was he? Kisaki Tetta, boss's number-one underling. And who was Kurokawa Toyomasa? The very first to die in the novel. The ultimate villain.
If things really blew up like this, the first target of stones through windows would be Kurokawa himself.
And in his wooden house, a single night of rock-throwing would be enough to bring the whole place down.
The Japanese loved bullying.
just in schools—everywhere. Once a target was chosen, moving house was the only way out.
Otherwise? Broken windows.
"Accidentally" mixing forbidden trash into your garbage.
Kids getting mocked with cruel chants on their way home.
That was why parents drilled "Don't cause trouble for others" into their kids' skulls—because if you did, others would treat you as the problem to be erased.
And apologies wouldn't save you.
"Kurokawa-sensei… aren't you worried at all?" Kisaki asked sincerely.
Curiosity had always been one of his strengths.
After all, even in the novel, before killing Judge A, the protagonist humbly asked whether his trick had any flaws.
If boss set that example, his top disciple couldn't do less.
Kurokawa blinked. "Worried? About what?"
Worried the novel wasn't as brilliant as he claimed? No way.
Blond had been treating it with reverence from the start.
Worried things wouldn't unfold the way he envisioned? Or perhaps…
No matter how he racked his brain, he couldn't think of a single thing worth worrying about. The future was bright—blindingly so!
"You're a judge, aren't you? Won't you be the first one to take the hit?" Kisaki pressed.
"Ah… hahahaha. You mean that."
Kurokawa's face cleared, then he shook his head with a chuckle.
Naïve. Far too young. Clearly all his time had been spent polishing his yakuza skills, with no eye for the real world.
Kurokawa sighed, straightened his back, and adopted the posture of a true "sensei."
"You're mistaken about one very important thing…"
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