"Storytelling is a natural instinct—it's something we're all born with."
With a calm smile, Kyousuke raised the mic.
His voice rang clear and fluid, every word crisp and distinct, flowing smoothly into the ears of everyone present.
You didn't even need to look at the man on stage.
Just hearing that voice was enough to conjure up the ideal image of your favorite author in your mind.
Humble. Eloquent and learned.
Radiating quiet elegance from within…
Ishida Hidenori glared at the man on stage—this young man who seemed more like a refined scholar out of a historical drama.
Even though he'd been silenced earlier by a certain thug's underhanded tricks, he wasn't about to back down so easily.
Seeing that all eyes were on him, Kyousuke continued speaking in that steady, composed tone:
"But when we speak purely from emotion, even if those words carry more sincerity, they can also come across as hasty and unpolished.
Letters become books when they're compiled. The small, everyday moments we jot down can also become books.
Just like the spirit of the Booksellers' Grand Prize—it's not about how impressive it sounds to be a 'writer.' Writing is something we all do, every day.
When you're drafting a message on your phone—picking your words.
Adjusting your tone, even timing the moment you hit 'send'—you're already participating in the act of writing.
I just… spend a little more time thinking it through. Maybe I've listened to more voices from another world, that's all."
With a gentle smile, he ended with a simple, "That's all."
Even if he hadn't become a novelist in his previous life, Kyousuke knew one thing: whether you're a writer or a voice actor, you're an actor at heart.
Whether it's the words you pen or the lines you speak, it doesn't matter if they're true or not.
What matters is delivering what the audience wants to hear.
The same principle had applied back in middle school.
At first, he used to politely respond to every greeting from his underlings.
But they were more startled than pleased—what they admired, what they wanted, was the cold, emotionless, battle-hardened "Vandal" whose eyes were like an ancient, undisturbed well and who could dismantle an entire gang solo.
Now, as a young author who found success early, Kyousuke knew what image he had to project: modest, grateful, grounded.
Say the right things, and you win people over. Readers are more likely to buy from someone they admire.
Love the job you do. That's his motto.
As a novelist of the new generation, Hojou Kyousuke took his profession seriously.
"Wow, amazing. That's exactly what I'd expect from Hojou-sensei," Yoshitoki Hirota said, bowing as he sat back down.
"I thought we'd hear some heavy-handed life philosophy, but what you said was so warm and down-to-earth. Thank you for your answer."
Honestly, he still wanted more.
'This guy's such a gentleman,' he thought. 'He could've at least talked about the struggles of writing or something, not just leave it at that…'
Applause rippled through the audience.
'Shameless! Liar!'
'You're probably dying to laugh inside, aren't you, you smug bastard? Didn't your mother teach you honesty? That kids should tell the truth?! Huh?!'
Ishida Hidenori's face was contorted into a deep shade of liver-purple, his heart boiling with rage.
He wanted nothing more than to rush the stage and show the world what true arrogance looked like.
What it means to go mad with success.
What it means to be a treacherous snake.
"Ishida-san, why aren't you clapping? You looked pretty happy earlier," Kisaki leaned forward from behind him, his voice low and cold.
He was clapping fervently—so much so he'd already decided to enshrine Kyousuke's speech as the number one "sword" in their PR arsenal.
His once-naïve boss was finally turning into the kind of bigshot worthy of leading a proper organization.
'You better clap. Loudly.'
"Heh… hehe… happy, I'm very happy—" Ishida forced a smile, but his face looked more like someone attending a funeral.
Back on stage, Amamiya Miki asked if anyone else had questions.
Down in the audience, Hojou Mikiko leaned toward her husband, eyes still fixed on their radiant son.
"I told you, didn't I? Kyousuke would've made a great lawyer."
A master of bold-faced lies—he even outclassed Ichirou.
Every word he said was technically true, but the way he strung them together? Pure fiction.
"No, no… That kid would never survive the endless red tape.
Knowing him, he'd probably threaten the opposing counsel with a knife before the first round of document exchange was done."
The former top lawyer of Tokyo summarized his entire career in three words: endless, boring, complicated.
Still, Ichirou couldn't help but stare at his son with pride.
Then, his gaze shifted—to a man in a red suit, seated near the front, sandwiched between two others.
With partners like these, Kyousuke might actually earn himself a fearsome title like "The Undefeated Lawyer."
He could corner every major corporate contract in the country and run a law firm that sent chills down the spines of anyone who heard its name.
Looking up at the massive banner hanging over the stage—"2015 Booksellers' Grand Prize Ceremony"—Ichirou thought:
'Perfect. He's found a job that's faster and easier than robbing people.'
"Hahaha, what are you saying? Kyousuke's not that kind of kid," Mikiko said with a laugh, giving her husband a playful punch in the arm.
A punch with the force of tenderized meat.
"Hehe…" Ichirou grinned without flinching.
He knew—Kyousuke didn't have time for anything but what he loved.
As the applause died down, the reporters' hunger was still palpable.
After all, this was no ordinary prodigy.
Kyousuke had just shattered three Booksellers' Grand Prize records. Every outlet wanted a piece of him.
Even in the digital age, Japan remained one of the top consumers of printed newspapers in the world.
That was a blessing for the media—they still had jobs, and some of them even dared dream about retirement benefits.
Maybe their kids could join the company too.
But high expectations came with the territory.
For someone like Kyousuke—who'd only published one book, yet already captured the nation's imagination—winning this kind of award wasn't just literary news.
It was national news.
If a paper didn't cover it, angry readers would flood the phones, demanding answers.
Receptionists would get bombarded with "drop dead" calls, and have to keep apologizing nonstop.
Reporters weren't much better off—fail to get the scoop, and you could be packing your bags for cow-herding duty in the snowy fields of rural Hokkaido.
"Next, we have Mr. Kawaguchi from Yomiuri Shimbun," Amamiya Miki announced, scanning the list.
Yomiuri Shimbun—the most widely circulated newspaper in Japan, even the world.
Known not just for hard news, but for serializing novels to attract and retain readers. Many of modern Japan's literary classics were first published on its pages.
"Thank you. First of all, congratulations to Hojou-sensei for winning the Grand Prize,"
Kawaguchi Jouichi stood up, gave the customary bow, and was already lining up a few flowery compliments—hoping to lull his subject into letting something juicy slip.
Seeing the name of the paper, Kyousuke quickly searched his memory.
Even though he knew any outlet invited today had to be committee-approved, he still wanted to recall how Yomiuri had covered him in the past.
Kyousuke searched his memory.
'Hmm... Yomiuri Shimbun had only ever reported on him winning the Japan Math Olympiad Gold Medal and placing first in the National Kendo Championships.'
'Nothing related to literature.'
'So, at the very least—they were neutral. Maybe even friendly.'
He smiled politely and replied, "Thank you. I look forward to your continued support."
Kawaguchi continued, "We all know Hojou-sensei is the youngest recipient of the Booksellers' Grand Prize.
But what many people might not realize is that aside from his literary accomplishments, he's also excelled in numerous other areas."
And with that, the audience was taken on a highlight reel—like reliving a legend's career in fast-forward.
From a fresh angle, they were once again reminded just how ridiculously impressive Kyousuke was.
Of course, it was Yomiuri, Japan's largest-circulation newspaper—they had done their homework.
Not only did they list every competition Kyousuke had ever entered, but they even dug up the fact that, during middle school, he had served as an instructor for the high school kendo club.
They even mentioned how a few delinquent students under his guidance had turned their lives around, gotten into college, and were now training to become teachers themselves.
At that point, Kyousuke couldn't help but suspect that Onizuka had gone and sold another story to the press for a quick paycheck.
But then he remembered: way back in middle school, Onizuka had been interviewed by Weekly Bunshun and thanked Kyousuke, saying something like, "Now I can finally become a high school teacher and marry a 17-year-old JK!"
He even promised to… ahem, well, it's probably best not to repeat that part.
Let's just say, if Onizuka does end up teaching, Kyousuke might need to invest in a chastity belt—for the safety of the entire student body.
Back on stage, Kawaguchi was now listing Kyousuke's accolades year by year, each one introduced with the words "record-breaking."
Most consecutive wins in the Dare to Challenge Tournament.
Highest score in the Math Olympiad. On and on.
————————————————————————
"He's too powerful! No wonder they call him Tokyo's #1 Kendo Master!"
The shout was so loud that Hikigaya Hachiman involuntarily flinched and tried to scoot away.
But there was no escape.
The room was small, dimly lit, and Zaimokuza's enormous frame took up half of it like a bear in a cage.
"Seriously, why are we watching this in the dark?" Hachiman muttered.
He was in Zaimokuza's room, leaning against the bed, watching Hojou's award ceremony on TV.
Sure, it was an event he respected—Hojou-senpai had earned it.
And yes, he had planned to watch it.
But of all the ways to spend a perfect Saturday, this was not how he wanted it to go down.
Saturday, man.
It wasn't Friday, when school sucked the soul out of you and every glance at the clock stretched time into torture.
It wasn't Sunday, when you had to finish homework and stress about Monday morning, walking into school pretending you had an exciting weekend even though no one asked.
No, Saturday was perfect.
And if anyone had asked, Hachiman would've happily gone full Hojou-mode and spun a dazzling tale about how he'd spent the weekend alone, embracing Zen.
Sipping sweet milky coffee with his adorable little sister Komachi, waiting peacefully for the ceremony to begin.
It would've been a win-win. He'd get to talk.
They'd get an uplifting story. Mutual happiness. Everyone leaves with a buff to their day.
WIN. WIN.
Okay, sorry, back on track.
Saturday was sacred day.
If Hachiman had his way, every day would be Saturday.
The calendar would be cleaner.
People would be happier. And best of all, no one would ever ask, "So, what did you do this weekend?"
Anyway, just as he'd settled onto the couch, coffee in hand, waiting quietly beside Komachi, his phone rang.
"Yo, Hachiman! Didn't we agree to watch Hojou-senpai's award show together today?"
Screw you.
'I never agreed to that!'
'No way I was leaving my sweet little sister just to hang out in the dark with some delusional chuuni spouting fantasy nonsense. '
'Video games? Sure. But this?'
So why had he come over? Why was he crammed into this tiny, dark room, watching Kyousuke's ceremony?
Then his elbow brushed against something soft—and cool.
Ahhh…
Of course.
The treacherous Zaimokuza had invited Totsuka Saika.
With her here, even squeezing together in a room with barely enough space to breathe suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea.
"Oi, Zaimokuza. Scoot over. Saika doesn't have enough room to sit."
He said it with a line he'd perfected sixteen years ago.
What? He was only a baby back then? Exactly! He'd been born with this one-liner, just to say it at this very moment, to this very girl.
"Haha, it's okay, Hachiman," Saika replied with a cheerful smile. "It kind of feels more like a proper award show this way."
Her voice was like a wind chime—clear, soft, and totally disarming.
Hachiman coughed lightly.
Ahem. Focus.
Time to pay attention to Hojou-senpai's speech.
This was definitely going to be the hot topic at school next week.
Even if you were just talking about lunch one second, by the next, someone would be wondering where Kyousuke was going to celebrate his win.
"If I can't memorize the whole thing, all the friends I finally made in kendo club and in class…
They might start thinking I'm just another shut-in loser who spends weekends gaming and watching anime. They'll question my loyalty to Club leader Hojou!"
Most of all, if Goro Hatake and the others ever found out, I'd definitely get slapped with extra training!
Snapping out of his spiraling thoughts, Hikigaya turned toward Zaimokuza again, dead serious.
"Are you recording this?"
"Of course I am! I'm planning to use this in my next novel!" Zaimokuza bellowed, his voice as massive as his build—so loud it felt like the room itself trembled.
————————————————————————
Finally, Kawaguchi wrapped up his long string of praise, and amid the crowd's murmurs of awe, he posed his actual question:
"We all know that human energy is limited.
For someone to succeed in even one field is already a major feat. But that rule doesn't seem to apply to Hojou-sensei.
I think everyone's wondering: how do you manage to balance so many wildly different achievements?"
'Idiot!'
'Who cares about that kind of vague question?!'
'Just ask him straight: How does he study at school? How does he train in kendo?'
'How the hell does he even have time for all this?!'
A middle-aged woman who had just stumbled onto the TV channel fumed, shaking her head.
She was already planning to file a complaint with the newspaper the next day.
'This so-called reporter has no skills. Can't even ask a decent question!'
Next to her sat a teenage boy who'd clearly been bribed into watching with the promise of extra allowance.
He sulked on the sofa, arms crossed.
"Ugh, what's so special about this? He's just smart, that's it," the boy scoffed, rolling his eyes. Women really don't get it.
"Five hundred yen," his mother said flatly, grabbing his arm with surprising force—hands trained from years of battling crowds for supermarket discounts.
"Listen carefully. You've got to pick a high school next year. Learn from your seniors, or karma's coming for you."
"Yes Yes Yeeeees…" the boy groaned, dragging the syllables out.
————————————————————————
Meanwhile, Kyousuke was probably thinking the exact same thing as that boy.
Before Shouko gave him her "gift," he had to grind endlessly just to dream of getting into Higashi High.
But after receiving that gift—well, even Tokyo University was practically waving at him from afar.
Talent really was cruelly unfair.
As for energy?
Even if he was completely drained tonight, thanks to the "gift" from Mitsuha, tomorrow he'd bounce back like nothing happened.
Besides, with the battle-hardened body honed by Naoka's "gift," he wasn't exactly easy to push to his limit.
With that thought, Kyousuke offered a calm smile and raised the mic again.
"It's true that human energy is finite. But the thing is, we never truly know when we've actually hit our limit.
"When I felt mentally exhausted from studying at night, I began to wonder—if my body were stronger, would I be able to study just a little longer?
"That thought led me to start practicing kendo. Once I strengthened my body, my stamina naturally increased too ."
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