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545 — The Best Blond in the World
🕑 Added 2025-09-25 16:11:11 +0000 UTC“Who… who are you people?”
Kurokawa Toyomasa finally gave up struggling.
With all the preparation these men had made, it was impossible that they’d come just to kill his annoying little dog.
There was no way he would walk out alive today.
The only thing left for him was to leave behind as many clues as possible for the police to solve his case.
Thankfully, he had three hidden cameras installed in his living room—one beneath the TV, another behind a picture frame above the sofa, and the last tucked inside a flowerpot.
Even if these thugs killed him and tried to clean everything up, it was unlikely they’d find them all.
Of course, that assumed they wouldn’t go insane and torch the whole house, making it look like a suicide.
Still, arson wasn’t a common way to fake a suicide in Japan—most people preferred charcoal-burning, since setting fire to your own home risked taking the neighbors with you, and that would just be inconsiderate.
And why three cameras in the living room? Simple—he was a mystery writer.
Isn’t that basic precaution? Three in the living room, and four in the master bedroom!
It wasn’t just about crime prevention, either.
What really terrified him was the thought of working himself to the bone writing novels to support his family, only to have his wife enjoy herself at home with someone else while he was out doing the same.
That, he could never forgive.
So he’d gone out of his way to hide the cameras where even his housekeeping-obsessed wife wouldn’t notice.
All he could do now was pray that the police investigators wouldn’t be as dense as Inspector Lestrade from Sherlock Holmes—whose greatest skill, after all, was “Go ask Holmes to solve it.”
But the very moment that thought crossed his mind, despair sank in.
The competent detectives of Japan were all busy filming TV dramas.
The ones still working the beat were either completely useless or tax-eating freeloaders.
Not a single one would think to hire a real detective.
“You asked for my name,” Kisaki Tetta said, adjusting his glasses. His golden eyes gleamed like an owl’s in the night—sharp and predatory. “Was it for the benefit of your three cameras in the living room?”
His lips curved into a smile, friendly and almost sales-like, as if he were just here to peddle home security systems.
“The one hidden in the frame above the sofa, pointing right at my face? Or maybe the one under the TV, filming my back? Or perhaps the one inside the flowerpot… the one you bought from Akin Electronics in Akihabara, yes? Quite a clever little gadget.”
Kurokawa Toyomasa froze.
With each precise guess, it was as though Kisaki was peeling away his clothes, his skin, his very flesh, until only raw bone remained.
The damp chill of the rainy night seeped into him, making his teeth chatter uncontrollably.
He can see straight into my thoughts!
‘A demon… this man is a demon!’
Kurokawa’s last shred of mental defense collapsed, and he slid helplessly off the sofa.
“Don’t—don’t kill me! I have money! I have over a hundred million yen in investments—I can mortgage my past works, anything!
Whatever you want, I’ll find a way to get it! Please, I’m begging you—don’t kill me! I have a wife and child! My son’s still in elementary school—without me, he’ll be an orphan!”
On all fours, the man crawled toward Kisaki Tetta, sobbing and drooling, clutching at his legs like a beast begging for mercy.
The image was utterly pathetic.
Physically, the middle-aged, slightly overweight Kurokawa was much larger than Kisaki—if he’d had the will, he could have bowled him over in an instant.
But now, broken and trembling, he was nothing more than a groveling wreck.
This man is finished.
‘He’ll never bare his fangs at Boss again,’ Kisaki thought coldly.
From his dramatic entrance, to the carefully chosen words that pressed down on Kurokawa step by step—every move had been meticulously planned.
Kisaki was a master of manipulating hearts.
Only those truly strong in body, mind, and soul could resist him.
And to a paper tiger like Kurokawa Toyomasa, he had a thousand ways to break him.
Staring at the sniveling man before him, Kisaki’s respect for his Boss burned even brighter.
He himself had to resort to shadow and fear to achieve his aims… but Boss?
Boss shone like the sun, crushing enemies openly, with overwhelming power.
Finally, Kisaki allowed a faint look of disdain to flash across his face before smoothing it into something kind, even respectful.
“Kurokawa-sensei, whatever are you saying? When did I ever say I came here to kill you?”
His tone was mild, almost confused, carrying even a trace of reverence.
“I’ll… I’ll earn money for you, I’ll contribute to you, just don’t—huh?”
Kurokawa’s tear-streaked, mucus-covered face lifted in confusion.
How ugly. This pig. And yet the fate of whether Boss wins his award rests in the hands of such filth?
Kisaki sneered inwardly.
In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to seize the entire Mystery Writers’ Association in his grasp.
All it would take was a bit of blackmail—dig up some skeletons, gather some dirt.
Sure, the public was tolerant of their private vices, but everyone had their limits.
And Kisaki was far too skilled at pushing people past them.
“We had an appointment, didn’t we? Do you not remember?” Kisaki said gently, even using honorifics as he reached out to help Kurokawa back up.
“...An appointment?”
Some lucidity returned to the writer’s eyes.
“Yes. Chairman Konno Kenzo should have called you, right?” Kisaki’s smile was warm, almost friendly.
At that, Kurokawa’s memory finally caught up. Right—that bastard Konno had asked him to “mentor some juniors.”
That’s why these people were here.
Otherwise, he’d be living it up in Tokyo tonight instead of trapped at home.
‘Juniors…?’
His sluggish mind tried to piece it together.
These three menacing figures, more terrifying than yakuza… they were the juniors he was supposed to guide?
He wasn’t entirely sure, but Kisaki didn’t bother clarifying. Let him stew in confusion—that was the whole point.
After a long silence, with the three black-suited men still unmoving, showing no intent to wrap a noose around his neck, Kurokawa finally straightened himself up a little.
“You… you wrote a novel? And you want my guidance?” he asked, voice faltering like a child learning to speak.
“Not my work,” Kisaki corrected with a polite smile. “And not guidance, either. We just want you to take a look.”
With that, he leaned sideways and picked up a briefcase from the tatami floor.
Ah… so it wasn’t filled with gloves and nylon rope after all.
Realization struck Kurokawa—and his back straightened almost instinctively.
Damn bastards… If you wanted my help, couldn’t you just knock on the door like normal people?
Was all this really necessary? You call this asking for guidance?
No, something’s not right. Why did this guy investigate me in such detail?
Even if you’re looking for a reliable teacher, you don’t go that far, do you?
He knows how much I spent on my dog, where I bought my cameras… What’s the real purpose here?
Could it be he doesn’t actually want my advice at all, but instead wants to blackmail me into writing a book for him to make money?
But if that’s the case…
A thousand messy thoughts piled up in Kurokawa Toyomasa’s head like a tangled knot of string.
That’s how it is with people who lack inner strength.
Collapse comes easily, and recovery comes quickly too—but it’s nothing but a castle in the air.
You don’t even need someone to shove it down; the slightest breeze is enough to bring it all crashing down.
His eyes flickered, but he decided against questioning the man in front of him.
Better to confirm he was safe first.
Forget calling the police—too much risk of retaliation.
But he would definitely make a furious call later… to curse out that bastard Konno Kenzou.
“…Where is the manuscript?”
He reached out a hand, determined to muster every ounce of skill he had to guide this lunatic properly.
By then, the blond had already pulled a thick stack of A4 pages from his briefcase.
“Do you really think it’s appropriate for your filthy hands to touch our leader’s work?”
Kisaki’s voice was still soft, polite even, but his eyes glinted with a cold, predatory light that nearly made Kurokawa leap out of his skin.
Of course—he is a psycho! Thank god I didn’t actually touch it, or he’d probably have chopped off my hand on the spot!
“Y-yes, of course! My dirty hands are unworthy to touch our Leader’s masterpiece!”
Shouting as he scrambled backward on all fours, the despairing memory of earlier came rushing back to him.
These guys weren’t the kind of meek juniors from the literary world he could push around.
And there was another problem with these two-story wooden houses: aside from being freezing in winter and suffocating in summer, only the first floor had a bathroom.
If you wanted to use the toilet, you had to go downstairs—and the stairs were steep and narrow.
Every year, hundreds of half-asleep people ended up tumbling down them in the middle of the night. Anime wasn’t exaggerating.
The Kurokawa family’s bathroom was right next to the entranceway.
Which meant if he wanted to wash his hands, he had to walk right past the man whose clothes were still damp—the one who had killed his dog.
Heart pounding, Kurokawa crept past.
When the man shifted slightly, Kurokawa nearly fainted from fright.
Luckily, the man only turned to block the front door completely instead of attacking him.
Still keeping me from escaping, huh?
He ducked into the bathroom, but instead of washing up right away, he pulled out his phone under the running tap.
“No service.”
So that’s why the TV signal had been dead all evening.
Signal jammers? These guys had signal jammers?! Professional killers, for sure!
Abandoning the idea of calling for help, he quickly unzipped and relieved himself—his underwear was already soaked through, but there was no time to change.
He washed his hands thoroughly, then even put on a pair of his wife’s disposable cleaning gloves before returning.
Back in the living room, the manuscript had been placed neatly on the coffee table.
Everything else on it had been shoved carelessly onto the floor, leaving only that stack of papers in the center like an offering.
Seeing this setup, Kurokawa dropped to his knees at the doorway and crawled on all fours to the table.
“May I begin reading?” he asked respectfully.
After seeing the blond nod, he bowed deeply—twice—his forehead touching the floor.
Only then did he dare open the manuscript.
“The Dreams and Death of Author K”
The title alone nearly scared the soul out of him.
Suppressing the urge to glance at the blond’s face, he carefully flipped the page.
Oh, thank god… it really is just a novel, not some death threat.
He skimmed a few lines and exhaled in relief.
At that moment, Kurokawa finally understood why novels were indispensable to human society.
If the story was gripping enough, even with a gun pointed at your forehead, you could momentarily forget your fear of death.
And this story was good.
His expression grew more focused by the second—sometimes frowning, sometimes even chuckling.
The protagonist, Author K, was vividly drawn in just a few strokes: a miserable corporate drone, yet still clinging to his dream of writing. Even as a veteran writer himself, Kurokawa couldn’t help but be drawn in.
When the story shifted to Author K winning an award and spiraling into manic joy, Kurokawa almost cheered.
The pacing was perfect—the release of tension from earlier hardships, the editor’s encouragement pushing the reader’s excitement higher.
And what then? With money in hand, surely he’d quit the company, buy a mansion, get a sports car, chase after that pretty woman from the mixer…
But no—the protagonist chose another battlefield: chasing a grand literary prize.
Yes—that was what novels were about.
Grounded in reality, yet rising above it.
Doing what ordinary readers couldn’t, but in a way that made them believe they almost could, if only they had the same perseverance and drive.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Kurokawa was enthralled. The prize name in the story seemed a little odd, but he didn’t dwell on it.
He just wanted to see what happened next.
As Author K was met with endless obstacles from the judges, a knowing smile crept across Kurokawa’s face.
That’s right—this was reality.
You think just writing a good book is enough to win? As if! Ask Van Gogh if that ever worked!
An award challenge, huh? He knew all about those. Wasn’t Hojou Kyousuke gunning for one right now?
If that brat had humbled himself like this protagonist, crawling to Kurokawa’s feet for guidance, maybe—maybe—he’d have shown some mercy.
Taught him what made a real novel, what Japanese society truly needed from its writers, and how they’d built their place at the top.
But instead, the brat had been arrogant! Just because his books sold well, he thought he could look down on his seniors?
Having friends in the police force meant nothing! And now he was dabbling in some ridiculous mystery manga?
Kurokawa remembered: when Kyousuke’s first novel came out, the literary crowd had told him to go back to drawing picture books for kids.
And maybe they were right after all.
“What are you daydreaming about?! Focus!!”
“Y-yes, Blond-sama! At once, Blond-sama!”
