Heroine in Trouble? I Take Advantage, Ch 45-46

Chapter 45 – The Era Belongs to Seiji Fujiwara!

“Holy crap! It’s real! I’m shaking so hard I dropped my phone! Who still dares say light novel readers have no taste?!”

“The times have changed, old man! Seiji Fujiwara is the god of a new era!”

“Let’s be rational—talent has nothing to do with format. If he could build the massive world of A Certain Magical Index, writing a classic mystery like After School must’ve been easy for him!”

“Exactly. Real geniuses shine no matter what genre they touch!”

“When the book drops, I’m buying ten copies!”

But on the other side of the internet, the traditional literary elite—critics, professors, and self-proclaimed “serious readers”—were fuming.

They felt insulted.

And their outrage flooded in like a tidal wave.

“The decline of civilization is complete. A gaudy showman has stepped into the sacred hall of literature! I pity the old masters who guarded its gates.”

“This has to be corruption! Kodansha and Fushikawa Bunko must’ve struck a dirty deal!”

“Pathetic! For the sake of hype and clicks, they’ve trashed a hundred years of prestige!”

“Ugh! From now on, just rename the Ranpo Prize the ‘Toilet Paper Award’! I’ve read that guy’s light novels—childish drivel! If he can write a mystery, I’ll eat my keyboard!”

“Have the judges gone senile? He won because he’s handsome? What’s next, idols winning literary awards? Japanese literature is dead!”

“Ridiculous. Light novels are disposable fast food; proper mysteries demand logic and precision. I’ll never accept this result!”

“Same here. I’m not buying After School—ever.”

Amid the storm of public outrage, three figures emerged as the vanguard of the counterattack—

Tetsuya Nishio, Professor Watanabe, and Editor Onizuka.

Their defeat was inevitable.

But none of them could accept it.

If they could drag both “Seiji Fujiwara” and the “Edogawa Ranpo Prize” down together—

turn this whole event into a scandal—

then they could transform from losers into “heroes defending the purity of literature.”

They met in secret and moved quickly.

The next morning, Tetsuya Nishio updated his social blog.

He didn’t attack Seiji directly.

Instead, he posted a long entry titled “Confession of an Idealist at Fifteen.”

Every word dripped with sorrow and resentment.

“Last night, I couldn’t sleep. It’s not that I can’t accept failure—I just can’t understand how the sacred realm of mystery fiction, which I’ve devoted ten years of my life to, feels so alien to me now.”

“I still remember what Professor Watanabe once taught me: true literature requires time, introspection, and reverence for language itself. I’ve lived by that belief.”

“But maybe… I was wrong.”

“In this age where popularity reigns supreme, ten years of hard work can’t compete with one well-crafted marketing campaign. I’m tired. Exhausted. I don’t know if I still have the courage to keep writing for an ‘ideal’ that no longer exists…”

The post struck a chord.

He painted himself as a martyr for literature—earning a flood of sympathy from traditional readers.

“Nishio-sensei, don’t cry! We’re with you!”

“You’re not the problem—it’s this filthy era! That trashy light novelist doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you!”

“The judges must be blind! Sacrificing a real author like you to promote some pretty-boy idol—what a disgrace to literature!”

“Please don’t give up, Nishio-sensei! You’re the true, uncrowned king in our hearts!”

While Nishio’s post stirred up waves of sympathy, his mentor, Professor Watanabe, appeared on TVS Television for an interview.

Speaking as a supposedly “neutral academic,” he launched into a scathing critique.

Host: “Professor Watanabe, do you think a light novel author could produce a great mystery novel?”

Professor Watanabe (solemnly): “Absolutely not. Lowbrow commercial entertainment can’t be compared to serious literature.”

He looked straight into the camera.

“The thought process behind the two genres is entirely different.

Light novels chase instant emotional gratification and rely on shallow, archetypal characters.

True mysteries demand logical precision and cleverly crafted tricks—it’s a completely different kind of mind.”

“Then there’s knowledge. A good mystery writer must understand forensics, psychology, criminology.

Light novel writers spend their time pandering to market tastes—do they really have the time or ability for that?”

“I’m not attacking Seiji Fujiwara personally,” he concluded. “But as a scholar, I have to question whether this year’s result was influenced by factors outside literature.”

His “professional” analysis was dangerously persuasive.

For countless skeptics, it provided the academic justification they’d been waiting for.

The final blow came from Editor Onizuka.

Using his credentials as a “senior mystery editor at Harukawa Publishing,” he posted on the country’s largest mystery forum, Mystery Gate.

“As a twenty-year veteran of the field, I’m shocked by this year’s Ranpo Prize results.”

“I respect every judge on the panel, but I also believe in the integrity of this industry. Everyone knows Kodansha is the Ranpo Prize’s designated publisher—yet the winner, Seiji Fujiwara, is signed with Fushikawa Bunko.”

“We all know the corporations behind Fushikawa and Kodansha have strong business ties… Could there be an undisclosed financial arrangement behind this?”

“I won’t speculate further. I simply ask the committee to release the full details of the selection process—to prove their fairness.”

That post hit harder than any artistic critique.

Money scandals always did.

The entire publishing industry buzzed with suspicion, and public opinion swung sharply against Seiji.

But Fushikawa Bunko wasn’t going to stay silent.

Their first counterattack targeted Professor Watanabe’s “academic criticism.”

At a press conference, Professor Munakata, chairman of the judging committee, spoke before a room packed with reporters.

“I’ve heard Watanabe’s remarks,” he said. “They sound logical—but his entire premise is wrong.”

“He treats literature as if it could be defined by formula.”

His voice rang out like steel.

“Talent cannot be measured by rules. True genius exists to break them.”

“Enough talk!” He scanned the reporters like a blade.

“The Edogawa Ranpo Prize has stood for sixty years. We guarantee with our reputation that After School deserves the honor.

Don’t believe us? Wait for publication.”

His words hit the news cycle like thunder.

Meanwhile, Kodansha held its own emergency press conference.

The spokesperson faced a barrage of cameras and questions, smiling calmly.

“Kodansha is a commercial company,” she said. “Our goal is simple: to deliver the best works to readers—and profit from them.”

“The reason we chose After School is simple—it deserves it.”

“We believe this book will bring us returns far greater than what we invested.”

“The market will prove us right.”

That confidence was disarming—and contagious.

Then came Fushikawa Bunko’s turn.

They didn’t argue. They posted.

On their official account, they uploaded a single image.

Two book covers side by side.

On the left—Kodansha’s After School.

On the right—Fushikawa’s A Certain Magical Index, Volume 2.

Below them, a single, arrogant line of text:

“Did the era choose the genius, or did the genius create the era?”

“—The era of Seiji Fujiwara has only just begun.”

Pity Nishio’s tragic fall? Doubt Seiji’s talent?

Forget it.

This man didn’t care about their doubts.

His sheer confidence—bordering on arrogance—ignited something deep in the Japanese psyche.

Even conspiracy theorists began to quiet down.

Fushikawa’s bold move completely reversed the tide.

But the clash only grew fiercer.

Supporters and critics now stood on opposite ends of a widening gulf.

All arguments, all tension, condensed into one question:

How good is After School, really?

Two weeks later—

Under immense anticipation, the 61st Edogawa Ranpo Prize winner, After School, finally hit the shelves nationwide through Kodansha.

The entire literary world—and the country’s readers—exploded.

By sunrise, lines already stretched outside every major bookstore.

Outside Kinokuniya in Shinjuku—

Diehard fans waved homemade signs: “Seiji Fujiwara—Forever Our God!”

“Brothers! Today’s the holy war!”

“Three copies minimum! Ten if you can!”

“Let’s bury those old fossils with sales! The god’s talent can’t be stained by prejudice!”

“Ohhhhh!!” the crowd roared.

A few cynics smirked from the line.

“Idiots, all of them. Totally brainwashed.”

“I just wanna see how bad this overhyped ‘Toilet Paper King’ really is.”

“Yeah, I’ve got my 2ch post drafted already—title: ‘After School: The Great Literary Delusion.’ I’m gonna roast him alive.”

They were there to hate.

Then there were the curious bystanders.

“Hey, who do you think’s gonna win this?”

“No clue. But either way, this is gonna be fun.”

At 10 a.m. sharp, the doors opened.

The crowd surged in like a wave.

Front and center, After School gleamed under the lights.

The title was bold and powerful, the author’s name—Seiji Fujiwara—engraved beneath.

Fans, haters, and casual readers all opened their copies at once.

And then—silence.

“Whoa… this opening feels so real! Totally unlike a light novel.”

“No way. This prose—it’s sharp, clean, surgical. Are we sure that guy wrote this?”

“Holy crap! The trick! I thought I had it figured out halfway through, but the twist—he was five layers ahead!”

“The ending twist gave me chills. My heart’s still racing!”

Even the loudest hater froze at the last page, trembling.

“This… can’t be… this can’t be real…”

His entire hate-filled speech evaporated.

You couldn’t mock something that good.

His friend nudged him. “Hey, weren’t you gonna post that thread?”

The hater twitched.

“Post my ass! How the hell am I supposed to roast this?!”

Praise spread like wildfire.

On 2ch, the very same debate thread turned into a flood of apologies.

“I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“Seiji-sensei, I take everything back!”

“My deepest apologies for doubting you—you’re a true genius!”

“This isn’t just the best mystery of the decade—it’s the best in twenty years!”

“Hey, Watanabe’s disciples, how’s your ‘theory of creation’ holding up now?”

And once the tide turned, retribution followed.

At TVS Television, Professor Watanabe sat in the lounge before his next interview when his assistant burst in.

“Professor! Bad news! Your Twitter’s been flooded! TVS’s website crashed!”

“What?!”

He snatched up his phone—and froze.

Thousands of furious comments flooded his feed.

“@WatanabeOldDog Where’s your ‘theory of creativity’ now, huh?!”

“You corrupt hack! You sided with that failed student for money?!”

“TVS should investigate how much Nishio paid this old fossil!”

“I’ve already filed a complaint to Kyoto University’s ethics board. Enjoy unemployment, grandpa!”

His phone rang again—Kyoto University President.

“President, I—”

“Professor Watanabe,” the voice sighed, “your recent comments have damaged the university’s reputation.

Effective next semester, all your research funding and graduate supervision privileges are revoked.”

Click.

The call ended.

He sat frozen, phone slipping from his fingers.

Without funding or students, he was finished—just another lecturer.

He slumped into his chair, suddenly decades older.

Meanwhile, Tetsuya Nishio’s blog—once filled with sympathy—turned into a storm of rage.

“Fraud! Your ‘idealism’ was just bullying a genius to boost yourself!”

“Your Cry of the Void isn’t fit to polish After School’s shoes!”

“Quit the industry already! You’re done!”

The insults piled endlessly.

Crushed by the backlash, Nishio deleted all his accounts that very day—and disappeared without a trace.

The era of Seiji Fujiwara had truly begun.

Chapter 46 – Three Hundred Million in Royalties!!

In the editor-in-chief’s office at Harukawa Publishing, Editor Onizuka was being chewed out so hard his ears were ringing.

“You idiot! You should’ve figured out who you were up against before making a move!”

“Now look what’s happened! You three just buried yourselves—and you’ve dragged the company into a disaster while you were at it!”

“I... I just wanted to—”

“You just wanted to stand up for your author?” The editor-in-chief sneered. “What’s the point of excuses now? Losers don’t get to justify anything.”

“Tomorrow, report to the Kamakura branch. There’s no place for you here anymore.”

From star editor to exile in one sentence.

Onizuka’s vision went black. He nearly fainted.

Meanwhile, the victors were celebrating.

Everyone who had stood by Seiji Fujiwara was now reaping massive rewards.

At Professor Munakata’s home, the chair of the judging committee, crowds of readers and journalists had gathered outside his door.

“Professor Munakata, you’ve got the eye of a god! You’re the one who truly upheld the dignity of literature!”

“You recognize talent beyond boundaries—that’s the real spirit of the Ranpo Prize!”

The judging committee’s prestige reached an all-time high. It became a new symbol of “merit over prejudice.”

Kodansha, the official publisher, could barely contain its joy.

The first printing of After School—500,000 copies—sold out in less than five hours, breaking two million yen in revenue before noon.

Bookstores across Japan flooded Kodansha’s distribution office with restock calls, their phones ringing nonstop.

That same night, Kodansha executives held an emergency meeting and made a bold decision.

“Reprint! Immediately—another 500,000 copies!”

The Japanese mystery market was huge.

Some bestsellers had hit five million copies before.

If Seiji hadn’t been a rookie, they’d have ordered a million without hesitation.

Over at Fushikawa Bunko, they seized the opportunity and launched a marketing blitz.

“Want to know how the King of Mystery was forged? Read his other masterpiece—the fantasy epic A Certain Magical Index by the legendary Prince Warukawa!”

“Unbelievable! The mystery prodigy’s debut was a darkly comedic gun-slinging novel—6 Days, 6 People, 6 Guns! Dive into the mind of Seiji Fujiwara himself!”

The results were explosive.

Readers who had fallen in love with After School swarmed bookstores like pilgrims, clearing out every copy of A Certain Magical Index and 6 Days, 6 People, 6 Guns.

For the first time ever, Japan’s national bestseller list looked like this:

After School

A Certain Magical Index, Volume 2

A Certain Magical Index, Volume 1

6 Days, 6 People, 6 Guns

Seiji Fujiwara had singlehandedly dominated the entire chart.

“One man, one list!” someone joked online—

and the phrase instantly went viral.

Fushikawa Bunko’s marketing campaign was a total success. Their three titles skyrocketed in sales, pulling the whole company into a second golden age.

The entire light novel industry was ecstatic.

“Holy crap, brothers—we’ve got a saint now!”

“The old literary snobs always looked down on us. Now Seiji-sensei just crushed them with their own biggest award! That’s gotta hurt!”

“From today, no one gets to say light novel writers can’t go legit. Seiji-sensei is our idol and our pride!”

“Finally! I can say it loud—I’m a light novel writer!”

Readers who were obsessed with After School were now fanatically worshiping Seiji himself.

“I’m done. I give up. How can one person master two totally different genres at the highest level?!”

“After finishing After School and going back to Index, it feels like two different authors—and yet both are brilliant!”

“Seiji-sensei is a national treasure!”

“He’s only eighteen! This can’t be his limit!”

“We’re witnessing the rise of a sun that’ll never set!”

“For the next fifty years, every writer in Japan will kneel at Seiji Fujiwara’s feet!”

A week after After School’s release, Japan was still buzzing with the name “Seiji Fujiwara.”

And inside his apartment, Seiji was feeling the weight of success—literally, in his bank account.

All royalties and prize money had been fully transferred.

The Edogawa Ranpo Prize’s one-million-yen award was just pocket change.

The real fortune came from book sales—his royalties were like a printing press running nonstop.

As the prize-winning author, his standard royalty rate should’ve been 7%.

But Kodansha, eager to show goodwill, offered him the rookie maximum—19%.

With After School priced at 1,200 yen per copy and a total print run of 1.5 million copies, his pre-tax royalties reached a staggering—

1.62 billion yen.

Meanwhile, A Certain Magical Index and 6 Days, 6 People, 6 Guns saw renewed sales under Fushikawa’s banner, bringing in another 2 billion yen in income.

To strengthen ties, Fushikawa even covered the tax on those royalties, leaving Seiji with a clean 200 million yen take-home.

In the Fushikawa Bunko headquarters, Sonoko Machida stared blankly at the royalty report the finance department had just sent over.

The number at the bottom was so long it didn’t even look real.

She counted the zeros again and again.

Ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten-thousands… billions?!

“C-Chief...” Her voice trembled as she held up the report, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

Ryuji Aida looked up from his papers and smirked. “What’s wrong? Shocked?”

“Th-this... two hundred million yen, after tax?!” Machida stammered. “And it hasn’t even been a full month!”

She knew Seiji could make money—

but this was beyond belief.

It was like he’d turned himself into a 24-hour printing press.

Aida took the report from her, scanning the figures, his expression a mix of awe and respect.

“Get used to it, Machida,” he said calmly. “With Seiji-sensei’s talent, making money really is that easy.”

At Fushikawa Group’s top-floor boardroom, the atmosphere was electric.

The CFO stood at the head of the table, addressing the board.

“In summary, thanks to Seiji Fujiwara’s explosive success, our projected quarterly profits will exceed last year’s by more than 300%.”

The entire room gasped.

Three hundred percent—

an impossible number for a corporation of their size.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

The chairman of Fushikawa Group smiled broadly, his excitement unrestrained.

He tapped the table decisively. “Effective immediately, establish the ‘Seiji Fujiwara Special Task Force.’ Ryuji Aida will lead it. Every department must cooperate fully—public relations, legal, security, whatever he needs. Treat every request with top priority.”

He looked around the room, his tone firm.

“From this day forward, Seiji Fujiwara is the most critical strategic asset of the Fushikawa Group.”

In Seiji’s apartment, he lounged lazily on the couch, scrolling through an overseas shopping app filled with odd gadgets and novelty items.

Utaha Kasumigaoka sat beside him on the floor, neatly dressed in a maid outfit, quietly peeling grapes for him one by one.

When her eyes drifted over his phone screen, her face instantly flushed red.

On the display were various... adult accessories.

Utaha’s hand froze midair, nearly crushing the grape between her fingers.

“Y-you...” Her voice trembled with anger and embarrassment. “You pervert!”

Seiji only smirked, unbothered. “What? Don’t tell me you don’t think this one would look great on you?”

“W-What are you even—!”

He chuckled, setting the phone aside. “Relax. Just a joke.”

Utaha puffed her cheeks, glaring daggers at him—but couldn’t bring herself to storm off.

After all, this was Seiji Fujiwara—the man who’d completely rewritten her world.

Finally, she sighed and leaned closer, her voice soft. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Seiji laughed quietly. “Takes one to know one.”

Their banter, teasing yet strangely intimate, filled the room like a familiar melody—

somewhere between affection and provocation, indulgence and surrender.

Utaha’s thoughts drifted.

What am I even doing…?

Somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting back.

And I’m not sure I want to anymore.

She exhaled, then leaned forward and brushed her lips against his—

a kiss that felt less like submission and more like acceptance.

Success had turned Seiji Fujiwara into the hottest name in Japan.

And the first to reach out for collaboration was his so-called alma mater—Toyonozaki High School.

In the principal’s office, an elderly man with graying hair gripped the phone with trembling hands, surrounded by equally excited board members and teachers.

“H-hello? Is this Seiji Fujiwara?”

“Yeah. This is him. Good afternoon, Principal.”

“Fujiwara-kun! Congratulations on winning the Edogawa Ranpo Prize!”

The principal’s voice overflowed with pride. “The whole school is honored—everyone here is so proud of you!”

After a round of enthusiastic flattery, he finally got to the point.

“We were wondering if you’d be willing to give a talk for the students—something about ‘dreams and perseverance.’ Would that be possible?”

“Sure,” Seiji said casually. “Just let me know when. I’ll make time.”

The principal froze. He’d expected resistance, even arrogance—but Seiji agreed without hesitation.

“T-That’s wonderful! We’ll arrange everything right away!”

As soon as the call ended, the principal slammed a hand on the table and shouted, “Fujiwara-kun said yes!”

“Fantastic!”

The entire office erupted in cheers.

The dignified old men of Toyonozaki High couldn’t stop grinning like children.

The legend of Seiji Fujiwara had only just begun.