The meeting in the main building of Red Violet Literature had already moved beyond the point where numbers were just numbers.
After the report confirming the early release of the collected volumes of 'Ao Haru Ride' and 'The Light of Yesterday's Stars', the meeting room became a place of low voices, whispers between chairs, and glances exchanged over tablets and notebooks.
Because, for those who work with serialized publication, there was a kind of "right time" for everything. And what Red Violet had just announced seemed… too early.
"Why publish these two novels as standalone volumes so early? There isn't much serialized content yet. Wouldn't it be better to wait for their popularity to increase a bit before publishing them as standalone volumes?"
"Exactly. Although these two new novels are truly impressive, they are only being serialized in 'Momentary Blossoms' magazine. Isn't that a bit excessive for the publisher?"
"Actually, there's nothing wrong with that. Publishing them early won't cause major problems."
"It just seems a little strange."
"Perhaps the publishing house directors have seen several new novelists gain prominence in recent years and, therefore, want to strongly promote our publishing house's ability to cultivate new talent? These two high school students are truly very talented."
"If they are promoted properly, this could easily establish the impression in the Southern Province's literary scene that Red Violet Literature values young people and doesn't cling to antiquity."
At the center of the table, in the most prominent place, sat Yuki Hashimoto.
She wasn't the type to dominate the room with theatricality. Her power came from control: the way she sat upright in her chair, the way she waited for the room to finish buzzing before speaking, the almost cold patience of someone who had seen many bursts of enthusiasm turn into disappointment.
Yuki Hashimoto observed for a few seconds. When she realized the comments wouldn't stop on their own, sitting at the head of the conference room, she broke the silence and offered another explanation.
"I understand the strangeness," she said. "And I understand the concern about the timing. So I'll explain the logic behind this decision."
The conversations subsided, and the pens returned to their places on the paper. The silence didn't come suddenly; it came in layers, as if each person decided, one by one, to pay attention.
"Starting in the second half of the year, the biennial 'Rise of the New God' light novel contest will begin. Although it's only March, these two young people meet the requirements of age, qualifications, and potential."
"The publisher is giving them some resources, slightly increasing the promotion of their respective novels to broaden their influence. We also intend for them to represent Red Violet Literature in the contest. So that, when the nominations start to form, they will already have enough 'weight' to be considered."
She spoke of "giving some resources" carefully, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. But everyone there knew what it meant: a better cover, more elaborate illustrations, promotion in select bookstores, banners on the website, maybe even a small event with an autograph session, even if very discreet since they were minors.
Upon hearing Yuki's explanation, the editors immediately understood the publisher's intentions.
"I really didn't expect this. But it's been two years already!"
"But even though this literary contest, promoted jointly by several of China's leading publishers, only starts in the second half of the year, why do these publishers have so much confidence in newcomers like Daiki Watanabe and Mizuki Ito?"
"These two have been in the industry for less than a month, and the publisher already has such high expectations for them?"
An older editor let out a dry, innocent chuckle.
"It's not that the publisher truly trusts them, but rather that we haven't seen any young talent emerge in the last two years. This 'Rise of the New God' award is specifically for novelists who debuted in the last two years and are under 24 years old. And, come to think of it, few writers from our publishing house meet both of those criteria."
"So, why did we nominate them...?"
"We've already released individual volumes of their novels, hoping for better sales. We're wondering if they have any connection or chance of qualifying for the competition?"
"That's true. Our publishing house hasn't had a new novelist under contract who qualifies for this competition in the last six years."
"I think it's unlikely. These two are too new. They don't have enough clout to be selected to represent our Southern Province in this award."
"Forget it, our publishing house hasn't launched any new young novelists in the last two years. Even if they nominated them, they probably wouldn't be selected. It's a last resort."
"The Rise of the New God"; the name sounds impressive, but it's actually not an award for selecting top-tier novelists.
It's an awards competition launched jointly by several large publishing houses with enormous influence throughout the country to select promising new novelists.
Japan had a light novel and serialized fiction culture that spanned generations: magazines, platforms, clubs, events, local awards, regional rankings. Every year, various prefectures, associations, and smaller publishers organize awards for "breakthrough author," "best debut," "best student novel," and so on. However, these are mostly regional events with limited influence.
"The Rise of the New God" was different because it was national and not organized by a single publisher trying to appear big.
Only three qualified new novelists compete within their own province to secure a spot as a provincial representative.
It was orchestrated by a consortium of giants: imprints with massive distribution, partner bookstore networks, and a reach spanning from the north to the south of the country. Among them were names that, even if fictitious to the outside public, were references within the market, and other literary conglomerates that circulated millions of copies and dominated the windows of entire neighborhoods. Red Violet was not small, on the contrary, but in that ecosystem it was not "the center of the world." It competed with giants.
The selection process is simple: publish a new serialized novel.
First, each region of the country selected eligible names. It wasn't just talent that mattered: performance, growth, audience reaction, consistency of delivery, influence on social media, and reprint requests mattered.
Then came the part that made everyone scramble: the award's own magazine.
Selected new novelists from each province publish their latest short stories or medium-length stories in a magazine called "The Rise of the New God," published jointly by several major publishing houses.
After the serial publication is complete, readers vote and rate the stories, ultimately deciding the winner.
The major publishing houses have sales channels that cover the entire country and even enjoy considerable sales in many foreign countries. This contest for new novelists, organized jointly by them, practically guarantees that there will be no problems in terms of promotion and sales.
Even works by debut authors can achieve millions in sales per edition during serial publication, thanks to the combined efforts of sales channels and advertising departments of major publishers.
This award is undoubtedly a golden opportunity for new authors from various provinces. It allows their works to transcend the limitations of their provinces' serial publication platforms and reach novel readers across the country.
Furthermore, novelists who achieve exceptional results in this competition may even attract the attention of major publishers, potentially changing their entire literary career.
Historically, many novelists who achieved exceptional results in the "Rise of the New God" novel competition in previous years are now at the forefront of the light novel scene.
But there was a catch: for a publisher that hadn't even entered anyone in the competition for years, the award became a wound.
And Red Violet carried that wound.
Red Violet Literature hadn't anticipated the exceptional performance that Ren Yamamoto and Shiori Haruki could achieve in the "Rise of the New God" novel competition.
For six consecutive years, across three different competitions, Red Violet Literature failed to secure a single spot for any of its new authors in this award, not even a spot to represent the Southern Prefecture.
Six years, three competitions; that's nine spots!
Now, other publishers in the Southern Prefecture are mocking Red Violet Literature for its inability to cultivate new talent.
The word "ridicule" wasn't used because it wasn't elegant, but it was implied in their glances. Those snickers at events, the fake congratulations at market meetings, the "innocent" comments like "Wow, you guys are having trouble finding fresh blood, aren't you?". All of that existed. And, in an industry that thrived on image, it was corrosive.
Now that two talented new novelists have emerged from the publishing house, Yuki's intention is clear: allocate resources appropriately and see if, in the next six months, they can expand their influence and, hopefully, one of them can secure a position.
She wasn't "betting the future" on Ren and Shiori. She was trying, at the very least, to break the streak of humiliations.
An editor raised his hand cautiously.
"Director Hashimoto… with all due respect. The market changes quickly. If we push them now and they can't sustain it later… doesn't that damage our image?"
Yuki looked at the man without aggression.
"That's why I said: it's a preventative plan," she replied. "If in six months their performance isn't at the expected level, the publishing house will support other names to compete for the regional positions. No one is committing to a single possibility."
She paused, just long enough to give weight to her next words.
"Six months isn't a long time, but it's not a short time either. The market can change completely in that period," Yuki told the audience, after glancing at Miyuki.
"I'm just being cautious. If their performance isn't as good as we expect, the publisher will recommend other authors to compete for the three main spots in the Southern Province."
"But is it also possible that these two will become famous in six months? After all, their novels were published serially so recently, and yet they've already gained a considerable number of fans. Who knows what will happen in six months?"
She didn't say this part aloud. She kept it to herself, because admitting it would be admitting a risk: the risk that Red Violet would, for the first time in a long time, be facing something it didn't control.
Red Violet Publishing is truly taking a risky gamble.
First, the three spots for the competition in the Southern Province are determined by the editorial departments of the province's five major publishing houses, based on the overall performance of emerging novelists who have excelled in the region over the past two years.
The person most impacted by that conversation, however, wasn't speaking. Miyuki, sitting a little further away, kept a neutral face, but inside was an uncomfortable mix of surprise and responsibility.
She was the editor directly in charge of the two, so that meant that if the company really set its sights on them as potential representatives for a national award, a good portion of the operational burden would fall on her shoulders: schedules, alignments, revisions, crisis management, tone adjustments, cover negotiations, conversations with illustrators, public relations guidance.
Ren and Shiori may have potential, but they've been in the industry for less than a month! Is Yuki Publishing really eyeing these two?
"This is… desperate," Miyuki thought, and the word came with a sincerity that even made her feel guilty.
Miyuki looked at her hands resting on her notebook and tried to organize her thoughts.
The main problem was the method for choosing the regional "seeds." In practice, the spots weren't given by a single number of votes. They were discussed by committees: editors from the five largest publishing houses in the region, evaluating authors who had emerged in the last two years.
And then came the absurd part.
Ren and Shiori had less than a month of "official career."
Even with their explosive performance, they were still newcomers to the point that it seemed unfair to put them at the same table as authors who had been building an audience for a year or more. But, at the same time, Miyuki knew that the market wasn't fair. The market was hungry.
It didn't ask "does this make sense." It asked "does this sell?" And Ren, with 'Ao Haru Ride,' was selling attention. It was attracting fans from other series. It was changing the rankings. This was the kind of force a committee wouldn't ignore for long, even if they turned up their noses.
Shiori, with 'The Light of Yesterday's Stars', was another weapon: consistency, emotional build-up, a smaller but firm base, a growth that seemed more "natural" and therefore more reliable.
Miyuki realized she was doing mental calculations and stopped. She forced herself to take a deep breath.
Around her, the meeting was drawing to a close. The prize issue had been "explained," the announcement of the early release was on record, and the corporate machine was already starting to push the matter to the next item on the agenda.
But, for Miyuki, it wasn't over. It had just begun.
When the meeting was formally closed, people stood up with typical discipline: chairs put away, papers organized, screens turned off. The murmur returned, this time with a more calculated tone, as if each editor was now thinking about how to position themselves.
Miyuki gathered her documents and left the auditorium with measured steps. In the hallway, the white lights made the floor seem colder than it was. She walked to the glass window overlooking the city: Minami stretched out like a web of concrete, indifferent to the anxieties of any editor.
She thought of Ren writing by hand in the classroom, the way he treated it as a mixture of obligation and fun, as if the world hadn't yet shown her how much success could cost.
She thought of Shiori, who seemed perfect on the outside, but inside was a storm about to explode.
"If you only knew…" Miyuki thought. "If you only understood what the word 'award' means when a company has been struggling for six years…"
Red Violet's plan was clear: push the two of them into the spotlight and see if, in six months, their image would grow enough to convince a regional committee to give them one of the positions.
Not because they believed they would win 'The Rise of the New God.'
The stark truth was different: Red Violet just wanted, at least once, to have someone back on stage, even if it meant falling early. Any public fall was less humiliating than not being invited to enter.
Miyuki felt a discreet irritation, as if it were unfair to Ren and Shiori. And it was.
She walked to the elevator and when the doors closed, her reflection in the metal showed a face too serene for what she was feeling.
Six months.
At the top of the company, that was a schedule. For Miyuki, it was a taut thread. A thin and dangerous thread, over an abyss.
And, somewhere in the city, two teenagers continued living as if the next week would be the same as the last, unaware that, for the publisher, they had already become a gamble, a hope, and a shield all at once.
End of chapter 28