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558 – That Irresistible Charm
🕑 Added 2025-09-30 16:09:41 +0000 UTCKyousuke lifted his eyelids and instantly counted the people in the hall: fifty-six.
That was five more than the number Kisaki’s report had listed.
Among them, the most familiar faces belonged to Kinokuniya, a major bookstore chain he had worked with several times.
Of course, the company president wouldn’t show up in person for something like this; instead, they sent employees from the department in charge of new book acquisitions.
The owners of smaller bookstores were no less important—they usually came as representatives of local bookstore associations.
Most of these groups, though, strayed far from their original mission of protecting members’ interests, and instead became tools for squeezing the weak to protect the leaders’ profits.
Still, it was undeniable that such associations had their uses.
Take new book purchases, for example.
Small, unknown bookstores were at a disadvantage when negotiating with publishers.
Normally, royalties were split 10% for the author, 40% each for the publisher and distributor, with the remaining 10% going to delivery costs.
For someone like Kyousuke, who commanded a 15% royalty, that extra had to come out of someone else’s share.
Small bookstores suffered even more—without association backing, they had no choice but to buy stock at steep prices from publishers or distributors.
By joining an association, though, bookstores could sometimes win extra perks: promotional materials, merchandise, or even author book-signings.
Of course, the average member rarely saw such benefits.
Take Kyousuke’s last signing event—it had almost exclusively been hosted at shops run by association leaders or committee members.
In short: big stores bully associations, associations bully small stores.
Publishers need bookstores to pay up, bookstores need publishers to provide fresh titles.
Both sides want more profit, and it always comes down to who’s stronger and who can be pushed around.
So, while there were only fifty-odd people in this room, securing their support meant almost all of the first print run—half a million copies—could be sold in advance.
The association reps confirmed their numbers on the spot, and the bookstores they represented would follow up with orders through the usual publisher channels.
Bookstore owners greeted Kyousuke warmly, and he responded with equal warmth—calling everyone by name without hesitation, even asking after clerks he’d met in their shops before.
He wasn’t exactly humble, but he carried himself like an old friend.
The bookstore owners, used to polite but empty small talk, found themselves genuinely surprised. Some even began to wonder—“Were we actually this close with him?”
“Ah, Amemiya just got promoted? Congratulations! I’ll have to make sure to send her a gift. She’s helped me out far too many times in the past…” Kyousuke said cheerfully, clasping the hand of a man in a gray suit.
In just a few minutes, he had become the center of the room.
His sharp memory and smooth social skills left everyone impressed.
Those who had met him before felt a pleasant swell of pride—'he still remembers me after all this time!’
Meanwhile, those meeting him for the first time were quickly disarmed by his easy humor, already plotting how to convince him to hold a signing at their store.
Writers, after all, were a polarizing bunch.
Some were withdrawn and socially awkward, leaving people to wonder if the deranged killers in their novels were based on themselves.
Others craved the spotlight, always rushing to comment on the latest hot topic in the media.
If authors in other countries reflected their personalities in their works, then Japanese authors often reflected theirs in their deaths.
Some quietly swallowed handfuls of sleeping pills on rainy days, seeking eternal silence.
Others, dramatists to the end, died like one of their plays—slashing their stomachs open, only to be struck down three more times before their heads could be severed.
Readers’ tastes were fickle, and every kind of writer could find an audience.
But to bookstore owners—businessmen at heart—what mattered most was someone like Kyousuke: a refined, socially adept professional.
Even if they hadn’t read a single page of his work, being around him sparked curiosity: ‘What kind of stories would a man like this write?’
A dazzling exterior might sometimes hide rot within, but in the end—he was charming.
Haven’t you seen it before?
Books with nonsensical titles, written by authors selling themselves more than their writing, still managing to rope in crowds of buyers.
For bookstore owners, depth didn’t matter. What mattered was sales.
And in just a short while—without even mentioning his novel once—Hojou Kyousuke’s personal charisma alone gave bookstore owners and distributors enormous confidence.
Several had already pledged their order quantities, vowing to display his book in the most prominent spots in their stores.
From the corner of the hall, Kisaki Tetta watched, eyes glowing with pride.
This was the man he had chosen to follow for life—powerful, flawless, unstoppable.
No matter how impossible the task, Kyousuke could always pull it off with ease.
If Kisaki himself had come here instead, things would have been very different.
His approach would’ve been: behead Kurokawa Toyomasa’s beloved dog and leave the head on his pillow, then gift him a new puppy while the shock still lingered—using fear of death to put a leash around his neck.
As for bookstore promotion? Simpler still.
He’d send his men to flood every shop with crates of books, stand guard at the doors, and make sure every customer walked out with a copy.
“Hojou-sensei’s work? If anyone knows, I do. Forget just the new generation—there hasn’t been a writer as brilliant as you in the past twenty years!”
A modest-looking shop owner, flustered from Kyousuke’s gentle praise, blurted out the compliment with a flushed face.
“Haha, you flatter me. I still have much to learn.” Kyousuke stopped on his way to the podium, turned, and bowed lightly in gratitude.
Today’s publisher was clearly pressed for time.
Employees were rushing around, and even the promotional event itself felt hurried.
The people in the audience weren’t holding finished copies of the book, but rough stacks of printed manuscript pages.
Yet none of that dulled the atmosphere.
The moment Kyousuke stepped onto the stage, the room burst into enthusiastic applause.
He smiled and bowed.
He had never experienced something like this before, but he understood one thing clearly: whether it was a promotional event or anything else in this society, it all came down to people.
And when it came to dealing with people, no one was more skilled than him.
If he could handle a room full of women with ease, why should a room full of men be any different?
The room finally quieted down, and Kyousuke began with a simple introduction to his novel.
Though sample copies had already been distributed, he figured most people hadn’t actually read them—after all, these recommendation meetings doubled as networking events.
For many of the bookstore owners, catching up mattered more than the new release itself.
He went on to share the inspiration behind the story, sprinkling in a few interesting plot points and colorful characters.
His humor kept the audience entertained, drawing bursts of applause.
Clearly, everyone was enjoying themselves.
In the middle of the cheerful atmosphere, Akamatsu gave a signal.
A publishing staff member walked in carrying a stack of forms and handed them out to the bookstore owners.
These were the order sheets.
Of course, unsold stock could always be returned to the publisher later—but if too many were returned, the penalty fees often outweighed the profit.
The plainspoken shop owner from earlier was about to jot down his order without hesitation when another voice cut through the chatter.
“Excuse me, Hojou-sensei, may I ask a question?”
A man in a dark gray suit raised his hand.
“Ah, Mr. Yano from Shimayama Bookstore,” Kyousuke replied smoothly. “Please, go ahead.”
Though his speech had been interrupted, Kyousuke’s smile didn’t falter.
Everyone knew that anyone daring to break the pleasant mood at a time like this was likely about to stir trouble—but his attitude remained calm and welcoming.
The bookstore owners turned their heads.
It was indeed Toshiyuki Yano.
He had always been known for his integrity. Earlier, while everyone was busy chatting, he had been one of the few to keep his head down, carefully reading.
As an executive at the headquarters of Japan’s fourth-largest bookstore chain, he had a reputation for being ruthlessly strict about literary quality.
Writers often dreaded his questions at such meetings.
Even publishers struggled to smooth things over when he started grilling someone, and there had even been cases where he left without ordering a single copy.
He was considered an oddity in the publishing world—but his sales record was terrifying.
Any book he approved and signed off on was guaranteed to become at least a bestseller, if not a phenomenon.
With that in mind, the humble shop owner who had already written down his store name paused, pen hovering over the “quantity” column.
He wanted to hear what this veteran had to say.
Kyousuke’s charm was undeniable—everyone in the room was a master at reading the atmosphere, and most would rather follow the flow than disrupt it.
That Yano dared to raise his hand at all proved he was no ordinary man.
Yet even he hesitated slightly when he met Kyousuke’s warm, disarming smile.
Against his will, he recalled their earlier, friendly conversation.
Still, as a senior executive of a major bookstore chain, he forced himself to put on a stern face and asked:
“Hojou-sensei, as far as I know, you’re the leading candidate to win this year’s Mystery Writers of Japan Award. At such a critical moment, why would you choose to release a work like this—especially in such a rushed manner?”
He lifted the manuscript in his hand—little more than a stapled draft—as he spoke. His tone sharpened:
“Forgive my bluntness, but this feels less like a novel and more like a hastily thrown-together Molotov cocktail.”
‘Molotov cocktail?’ Kyousuke chuckled inwardly.
A strange comparison, yet oddly fitting.
Yes, wasn’t that the obvious concern? Wouldn’t a book like this anger the association?
Wasn’t he afraid of jeopardizing his chances at the award?
Why not wait until after winning, then ride the momentum for even greater sales?
Many of those present had come precisely because of the massive success of Kyousuke’s last book—and because of his reputation as the frontrunner for the prize.
Now, Yano’s words were like a splash of cold water.
Suddenly freed from Kyousuke’s intoxicating charisma, doubts flooded their minds.
“That’s right, Hojou-sensei,” the plainspoken shop owner added, “I was going to ask what your reprint plans would be if The Devotion of Suspect X wins the award.”
One after another, others joined in with their questions.
Standing at the side of the podium, Akamatsu’s smile faded.
He instinctively stepped forward to defend his author—but Kisaki Tetta caught his arm and stopped him.
“What are you doing?” Akamatsu’s eyes asked silently.
Kisaki’s gaze darkened—not at Yano, but at the editor beside him.
‘Trying to steal boss’s spotlight? Don’t you know that it’s exactly in moments like this when his true charisma shines brightest? Stand back.’
‘Watch. Learn. The only thing you should be doing is giving him your admiration and applause.’
Though it looked like Kyousuke was being buried under questions, Kisaki didn’t feel the slightest worry.
Because everything… was already part of his boss’s plan.
Kyousuke’s smile didn’t waver.
He raised a hand, gently pressing down to signal everyone to calm.
“Why release the book now? Why not wait until after the award? There are many reasons—but the biggest one is simple: I just couldn’t hold it in.” His eyes sparkled.
“When a story like this takes shape in my mind, I can’t restrain the urge to share it with the world.
My selfishness has caused trouble for Editor Akamatsu and everyone at the publishing house, and for that, I must thank them for their support.”
He lightened the mood by recounting a few amusing little incidents he’d seen earlier at the publisher’s office.
The audience laughed, though Yano still stood rigid, unmoved.
Kyousuke knew his answer hadn’t satisfied him—but that was fine.
He knew exactly what Yano truly cared about.
“Everyone, please look here.” He gestured toward Kisaki, who stepped forward to operate the projector.
The plainspoken shop owner looked up—and the big screen lit up with two news articles.
“I know what you’re all really wondering: Can I win the award? I’m sure you’re all familiar with Kurokawa Toyomasa sensei and Naganuma Hiroki sensei.
They’re both senior figures in the association who have looked after me greatly. Without their guidance, I couldn’t have written this novel.”
Kyousuke smiled as the articles filled the screen.
To call them “articles” was generous—they were practically glowing tributes to him.
Yesterday’s effort had paid off.
Those two judges hadn’t just been cowed by his pressure.
In the way he had subtly given and withheld, they had become like obedient lapdogs.
Without him even asking, they’d gone out of their way to publish favorable pieces in major magazines—within mere hours.
Yano’s brow furrowed as he read quickly, his expression growing more perplexed the longer he stared.
If he remembered correctly, hadn’t that same Kurokawa written a scathing column just three days ago?
A full-length essay denouncing Kyousuke as a parasite in the mystery world, warning that disaster was inevitable if he wasn’t expelled from the scene.
So why now…?
