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552 – Already Burning Through the Next Lifetime’s Lifespan
🕑 Added 2025-09-28 17:58:10 +0000 UTC————————————————————————
[Isn’t the Mystery Writers’ Award ceremony coming up soon?]
[Yeah, I can’t wait. Why can’t time move a little faster?]
[They’ll probably reprint his books after the award, right? I missed out on the reprint after the Bookstore Grand Prize last time because I was stuck in the countryside. Orz. This time, no matter what, I have to buy it for my collection.]
[wwww, I managed to grab one in the third round! Didn’t win Hojou-sensei’s restaurant voucher, but I did get to chat with him for ages at the signing.]
[So jealous (•ิ_•ิ).]
[Of course there’ll be a reprint. The real question is whether Hojou-sensei will hold another signing event.]
[Signings, huh… He holds so few of those. I’m so envious of the people who got a signed copy.]
[After the Bookstore Grand Prize, I thought for sure he’d ride the momentum with tons of signing events. I even worked part-time to save money for it. Such a letdown…]
[Um… is it possible that… Hojou-sensei might not win?]
[!!?]
[Blasphemy!]
[I just put down my lunch but I’m still holding my fork. Explain yourself—clearly and in detail.]
[I swear! It’s not that I don’t love Hojou-sensei’s work. Nobody wants him to win more than I do! But… usually, these literary awards don’t like giving prizes to bestsellers. And the Bookstore Grand Prize winners almost never get these awards…]
[If popularity disqualifies someone, then what’s the point of the award existing at all?]
[Yeah! Are a few judges’ opinions really more valid than the tens or even hundreds of thousands of readers?]
[Anyway, I’ve already decided I’ll be there in person. It’s at the Dai-ichi Hotel Tokyo in Shimbashi, right?]
[That’s what the website says, but without an invitation, you can’t get in.]
[Then I’ll just wait at the entrance. I’ve already ordered a bouquet to give Hojou-sensei as his first congratulatory fan.]
[And if he doesn’t win?]
[Then I’ll smash the bouquet over the judges’ heads. I’ll just say it’s a flower offering.]
[Better prepare two bouquets. One of them should be roses—untrimmed thorns.]
[Nice idea. I like it.]
[Let’s all go together! The more of us there are, the happier Hojou-sensei will be.]
[If it’s invitations you want, I might be able to get one. My uncle works at a newspaper. I’ll ask if he can pull some strings.]
[In that case, my dad also—]
[……]
————————————————————————
The topic of whether Hojou Kyousuke would win soon faded, and the chat devolved into how many fans were planning to show up at the final judging venue to cheer for their beloved Hojou-sensei.
Someone posted the link to a new chatroom.
People poured in, boasting about their connections to sneak into the hall, offering flowers, homemade cakes, even themselves as “gifts.”
Kurokawa Toyomasa scrolled through, sweat pouring down his face.
No matter how many times he dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, he couldn’t wipe it dry.
These are… fans? You’re telling me these are supposed to be fans?!
The old man’s throat went dry. Just from the sign-ups he’d seen, over three hundred people had pledged to show up at the venue.
Thanks to the forum’s thread layout, it was easy to keep count.
Some even brazenly dropped the names of their relatives to prove they could get invitations.
To his horror, a few of them were people he actually recognized from the industry.
That confirmed it—these brats weren’t joking.
And if they weren’t joking… did that mean the roses with thorns were real too?!
His handkerchief slipped over his thinning crown as he wiped.
Just how much more torment was this weathered old head supposed to endure?
This is why serious literature should never be entangled with the masses!!
The site he was reading now was the one that blond brat Kisaki Tetta had left him with.
“Maybe you’ve got a few admirers,” Kisaki had told him, “but you need to understand—the Boss and you live in completely different worlds.”
For most readers, even a powerful, moving scene might be remembered for life, yet the protagonist’s name is often forgotten the moment the book closes.
As for the author? Nobody cares—unless the book pissed them off enough to make them want to crack the writer’s skull.
Only a select few, with shelves of works to their name and reputations like brands, wield true influence.
But Hojou Kyousuke was different.
During his signing events, girls passing by would spot his standee illustration and unconsciously step into line.
They even had to assign guards to stop the standees from being stolen.
He was a walking aphrodisiac, a merciless lady-killer, and his fans… well, let’s just say “abnormal” was putting it kindly.
This wasn’t just his devastating good looks and extraordinary traits at work.
It was also the result of Kisaki Tetta’s long-term scheming.
From the very start of One Punch Man’s serialization, that brilliant strategist had begun a unique kind of marketing—deploying a specialized “worker squad” online, leaking “candid photos,” leveraging Hojou’s delinquent reputation to stir up buzz.
Later, he milked everything: Hojou’s math competition victories, his kendo championships—nothing escaped being spun into PR fodder.
Short of warming his boss’s bed, Kisaki had done everything a right-hand man could possibly do.
With Kisaki leading intimidation campaigns in person, and the fan frenzy raging online, Kurokawa Toyomasa now fully understood exactly what would happen if he didn’t cast his vote for Hojou Kyousuke.
‘…Maybe I should ask Ohsaka-san to check with Hojou-sensei about writing me a blurb for my new book.’
Toyomasa rubbed his chin.
No, better yet—why not grab a newspaper column and hype him?
No, one paper wouldn’t be enough—several would be better.
Plenty of outlets had been sniffing around for interviews about the award’s “behind-the-scenes.” He’d been playing coy before, too dignified to accept.
But now? Now he could rake in some interview fees.
“Excuse me, are you done reading?”
“GYAAAH!!?”
The voice came out of nowhere, echoing through the room like a ghost.
Toyomasa, deep in thought as he stared at his tablet, yelped and stumbled backward, bracing himself on the floor as he crawled away.
What the hell?!
Heart pounding, he scrambled until his back hit the wall. Only then did he dare lift his eyes.
A figure sat cross-legged before him.
Him. The very man who had haunted his thoughts.
Hojou Kyousuke.
Dressed in a tailored suit, he sat with unhurried grace, relaxed and at ease, his features as flawless as carved jade, his expression gentle.
A moment ago, Toyomasa had been scoffing at those fools online for their obsession.
But now, seeing Hojou Kyousuke in the flesh, he understood everything instantly.
Toyomasa prided himself on being well-read, yet in that instant.
His mind leapt to the pure, untarnished Hikaru Genji of infancy, to the legendary beauty Mori Ranmaru, to every fabled handsome man across fifty million light-years of history—none of them could compare to the one before him.
Why the hell is someone this handsome even bothering to write books? Shouldn’t he be a host in Kabukichō or something?! Bastard!
And yet this breathtaking man—whose looks alone were enough to carve his name into history—commanded ruthless subordinates who tossed around death threats like candy, and an army of rabid fans.
Surrounded by such people, how could Hojou Kyousuke not be some kind of dangerous, violent madman?!
“Y-You… when did you get here? No—how did you even get inside?”
Kurokawa Toyomasa’s voice cracked in terror.
Could it be that Kisaki Tetta and his thugs were just a distraction, and that Hojou himself had come to finish the job?!
“I’ve been here for a little while. You looked so focused that I didn’t want to interrupt,” Kyousuke replied smoothly.
Didn’t want to interrupt?!
At least knock before breaking into someone’s house, damn it! Kurokawa screamed silently in his mind.
Seeing how calm and composed Hojou was, he could only conclude that this man was a seasoned burglar—or worse, a serial home-invader turned killer.
How else could he be so relaxed?!
“Oh, right. I did ring the doorbell a few times, even called out. But no one answered, and the door was open. I got worried something might’ve happened to you, so I let myself in. Sorry about that.”
Ah—come to think of it, he had heard a noise earlier.
And just like that, hearing the sincerity in Hojou’s voice, Kurokawa’s suspicion melted away completely.
He was convinced.
As for the unlocked door, he remembered now.
After Kisaki Tetta and the others left, he’d rushed outside to check on his little dog.
He figured if the dog had actually died, he might’ve had some leverage against Hojou.
But unfortunately, when he shook the pup a couple of times, the stubborn thing woke up just fine.
Terrifying. Truly terrifying.
He’d seen terrorists capable of knocking a man out cold, but to knock out a dog too? That was new.
“I see. I’m terribly sorry to have troubled you, Hojou-sensei.”
Finally regaining some composure, Kurokawa dropped into a full dogeza.
Ah, the third one today…
Kyousuke sighed helplessly.
If this were his previous life, this much groveling wouldn’t just shave years off his lifespan—it would eat into his next one, too.
“It’s fine. I’m just relieved to see you safe, Kurokawa-sensei.” Kyousuke smiled warmly, then cut to the chase:
“The reason I came today is because of a certain… misunderstanding between us.”
“There’s no misunderstanding! None at all! It was entirely my fault—completely one-sided!” Kurokawa blurted, cutting him off in a panic.
He launched into a storm of apologies: rambling about his shallow knowledge for failing to grasp the deeper truths in Hojou’s masterpiece, or about his supposed family history of mental illness that made him spout nonsense.
Outside, the steady patter of rain played backdrop to the bizarre scene: a “respected veteran of the industry” groveling before the “arrogant young upstart,” the two of them reaching a strangely harmonious consensus.
‘Thump—'
Kyousuke’s large black oil-paper umbrella opened with a snap.
Standing beneath it, he tilted his head back, glancing at the faint shadow of sakura blossoms painted on the canopy.
A faint smile touched his lips before he turned to the man standing at the entrance.
“The weather’s getting chilly. Please, head back inside, Kurokawa-san.” He bid farewell politely.
“No worries! After talking with you, Hojou-sensei, I feel so energized I could host the final award ceremony right this second!” Kurokawa laughed heartily.
After that, Kyousuke visited another judge, Naganuma Hiroki, who welcomed him warmly—so warmly.
In fact, that he wanted to throw a banquet on the spot and introduce Kyousuke to every single connection in his network.
Meanwhile, back at Ruyi Dormitory, the hearts of several girls were also pacing restlessly with him through the rain.
“Don’t worry, Kyousuke’s got this. You’ve gotta have more faith in him!” Sakura cheered, wrapping an arm around Eriri’s shoulders.
Her bright, bubbly voice cut through the gloom like sunlight.
“Who’s worried about him? If he can’t pass with my illustrations, then he might as well not come back at all!” Eriri puffed her cheeks, wrinkling her nose.
“Sakura, come on. Don’t pretend Eriri doesn’t trust him. She’s blindly devoted to him. What she’s anxious about is whether her part of the work holds up.” Mitsuha cut in, oddly annoyed at Sakura instead.
“Exactly, one minute she’s fretting over whether the shoes are drawn wrong, the next she’s panicking about perspective. This girl has zero confidence in herself,” Kasumigaoka Utaha teased.
She still remembered Eriri’s first doujin sale—how the poor girl trembled, clinging to Kyousuke’s hand, barely able to bow when people congratulated her.
As a creator, confidence in your own work was everything.
If you didn’t believe in what you made, how could readers possibly feel the message you wanted to convey?
“Hah? I lack confidence? Kasumigaoka Utaha, maybe stop shaking your leg before you criticize me.”
‘Me? Nervously shaking my leg? Don’t be ridiculous!’
Utaha was about to snap back when she felt a strange sensation on her thigh.
Looking down, she saw a pale, delicate hand pressing into it.
The hand squeezed.
“Hehehe just as soft as I imagined. No wonder”
Its owner, Sakura, beamed a mischievous grin, saying something outrageously ambiguous.
Utaha instantly flushed crimson.
“It’s fine. Kyousuke won’t be defeated by something so small. He’s not going to fight—he’s going to claim his victory,” Sakura teased, still pressing into her thigh.
“I-I know that! Now get your hand off me already!” Utaha stammered, her cheeks burning.
When Kyousuke touched her, she felt hot all over.
But with Sakura, it was just plain weird.
“Oh? So I’m not allowed?” Sakura pouted dramatically.
“Hmph! That’s why Kasumigaoka Utaha’s such a stingy woman. Here, Sakura—touch my leg instead!”
Eriri boldly shoved her leg across, pushing it straight into Sakura’s lap.
