Heroine in Trouble? I Take Advantage, Ch 43-44

Chapter 43 – “After School” Speeds Through the Review Board!

Inside the first-round screening room for the 56th Edogawa Ranpo Prize.

Stacks of thick manuscripts piled up like miniature mountains across the long conference table. More than a dozen junior editors sat slumped in their chairs, eyes glazed, faces shadowed with fatigue and the faint bruising of sleepless nights.

Every year, hundreds—sometimes over a thousand—entries poured in. Most of them were good. Some even brilliant. But therein lay the problem: only the ones with no weak seams could advance.

That meant line-by-line scrutiny, every paragraph dissected for flaws invisible to a casual reader. And that kind of work drained people dry.

The air was heavy with the smell of coffee, cigarettes, and desperation. Energy drink cans littered the floor. Even so, the editors kept yawning, their heads drooping toward the paper piles.

“Another one that falls apart at the end…”

A young editor rubbed his stinging eyes and tossed a manuscript into the rejected bin with a sigh. “Should’ve known not to get my hopes up. Thought it’d keep that energy through the last act.”

“Get used to it,” muttered an older editor without looking up. “A story that stays sharp from start to finish? Maybe one in fifty. Don’t set yourself up for heartbreak.”

“You’re absolutely right, senpai.” The younger man nodded vigorously.

Then—from the far corner—

“Huh?!”

A startled yelp cut through the dead quiet. Every head turned.

Editor Takahashi was hunched over a manuscript, practically glued to the pages. The dull, lifeless mask he’d worn for hours had vanished, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief and… exhilaration.

“Takahashi, what’s got you so worked up?” one of the veterans teased.

No reply. His breathing quickened. Sweat beaded across his forehead.

The whole room went still.

When he finally turned the last page, Takahashi exhaled shakily, leaning back as if all strength had drained out of him. “A monster,” he whispered. “An absolute monster…”

“Hey, stop being dramatic—what is it?” someone complained.

Wordlessly, Takahashi held up the manuscript, his voice trembling with awe. “I think… we’ve just found this year’s winner.”

The statement hit like a thunderclap.

“You serious?”

“It’s way too early to call that.”

“Yeah, this is only the first day of screening!”

Grumbles rose all around, but Takahashi ignored them. He handed the manuscript to the oldest senior in the room. “Please. Just read it.”

The veteran took it with a skeptical look.

And then—history repeated itself.

As the old man read, his expression shifted: disbelief → curiosity → grim focus → shock. His fingers trembled; his mouth moved soundlessly.

“What the—what is this?” he finally breathed.

The other editors surged forward, demanding a look.

“Let us see!”

“What’s it about?”

“It can’t be that good!”

Pages began passing from hand to hand. Within minutes, the air filled with gasps, whispers, and the hiss of sharp intakes of breath.

“Oh my god… that fake solution twist!”

“The author’s grasp of human darkness—this is terrifyingly precise.”

“This prose feels seasoned. Are we sure it’s not a veteran under a pen name?”

“Even Tetsuya Nishio’s work doesn’t hit this hard…”

“Now I get it, Takahashi-san. This might really be the one.”

By the time the voting ended, consensus was unanimous.

The manuscript—titled “After School”—received a historic full vote of approval, every editor marking it with the highest possible grade: S.

It was immediately forwarded to the secondary judging committee.

The second-round review panel consisted of veteran critics and senior editors—people whose names carried weight in the literary world. When they saw the attached note “Unanimous S-grade—potential grand prize winner,” they raised their brows.

“All S’s? Come on,” scoffed one bespectacled critic. “Is this Tetsuya Nishio’s entry? Even for a seeded favorite, that’s blatant bias.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said a woman seated across the table, her tone even. “We’ll read it and see.”

They opened the envelopes. Pages rustled.

Then silence.

Minutes passed. None of the critics spoke. The only sound was the soft, synchronized exhale of shock.

The man with the gold-rimmed glasses set his copy down first. He dabbed sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“...I take back everything I said earlier.” His voice was hoarse. “This manuscript deserves every S it got.”

He looked around the room, eyes gleaming with something between fear and admiration.

“The prose is masterful. The structure ingenious. The insight into human nature—chillingly deep. It reads like the work of a major author at the height of his powers.”

“Compared to this,” another judge murmured, “everything else this year feels like fireflies against the full moon.”

No one disagreed.

“The quality is too high—perfection, almost. I can’t think of a single revision note.”

Another judge nodded firmly. “This has to be our frontrunner. No contest.”

When the votes were tallied, “After School” once again achieved a perfect score, sailing straight into the final round of judging.

Although submissions for the Edogawa Ranpo Prize were anonymous and the review process confidential, the committee always leaked a few “teasers” to stir up buzz.

The day after the second review, headlines hit the web:

Breaking: A Mysterious Dark Horse Dominates the Edogawa Ranpo Prize—Unanimous Approval from Judges!

The news spread like wildfire.

“A dark horse? Seriously?”

“It’s been years since we had one of those!”

“They say it crushed the entire field?”

“This year’s mystery awards just got exciting.”

The literary world—and the wider public—was instantly hooked.

But for one man, the report felt like a knife twist.

Tetsuya Nishio stared at his screen, his face hardening.

“A mysterious dark horse?”

As the widely acknowledged favorite to win, he knew the phrase couldn’t possibly refer to him. And if the committee leaked it, it meant the rumor was grounded in truth.

Which meant: a powerful rival had emerged from nowhere.

His pulse quickened. He’d invested everything into this year’s contest—money, connections, favors owed. Losing was not an option.

He began pacing, thinking furiously, before making two calls.

One to his editor at Harukawa Publishing—Onizuka.

The other to his old university mentor, the influential literary critic Professor Watanabe.

Half an hour later, inside a private room of an upscale teahouse, the three sat facing one another.

Onizuka’s sharp eyes glinted. “The committee’s sealed tight. All we know is that it’s a high-quality manuscript, supposedly from a newcomer—submitted outside the usual channels.”

“Newcomer?” Watanabe snorted. “Every year someone tries to stage a ‘miracle.’ Nonsense.”

He and Nishio had long since formed a mutual-benefit alliance: the professor lent his prestige; Nishio’s success, in turn, elevated Watanabe’s reputation. Onizuka’s career prospects also rose or fell with Nishio’s achievements.

“So what do we do?” Nishio asked tensely.

“We fight back,” Onizuka said. His gaze was cold. “Whether this dark horse is real or fabricated, we shape the narrative. Public opinion can move mountains.”

Professor Watanabe nodded. “Exactly. Even judges are human. If the literary community rallies behind Nishio as the rightful heir of the mystery tradition, the pressure will be immense.”

Nishio bowed deeply. “I’ll leave it to you both.”

The next day, the counterattack began.

Watanabe and Onizuka appeared on every major talk show and panel they could book.

Prime-time TV interview.

Host: “Professor Watanabe, as one of the leading scholars of modern mystery fiction, how would you describe your former student Nishio’s writing?”

Watanabe (serious): “Tetsuya Nishio possesses a rare combination of insight and discipline. Even in his university days, his stories dissected the human condition and social structures with remarkable maturity. I believe his latest work will resonate far beyond genre fans.”

Host (to Onizuka): “Editor Onizuka, you have a reputation for being extremely strict. What makes Nishio’s work stand out?”

Onizuka (nodding): “In twenty years of editing, I’ve never seen anyone merge literary craftsmanship with mainstream appeal so naturally. His novel isn’t just art—it’s accessible art. I trust the Ranpo judges will recognize that.”

Within days, the internet was flooded with commentary championing Nishio as the rightful successor to Japan’s mystery tradition—and warning against “unproven upstarts.”

Meanwhile, in Seiji Fujiwara’s apartment.

Utaha Kasumigaoka scrolled through the trending articles, her delicate brows knitting tighter.

“He’s in trouble,” she murmured, glancing toward the sofa.

Seiji lay sprawled out, casually tapping away on his phone.

“Hey, Seiji,” she said hesitantly. “Did you see the news?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t look up.

“You’re… not worried? The opposition’s pulling a lot of strings.”

He finally turned his head, meeting her gaze with a calm, almost amused smile. “He’s got his tricks outside the ring. I’ve got mine.”

Utaha blinked. “You have something planned?”

He gave no further explanation—just went back to his screen, the faint curve of a smirk on his lips.

At the same time, in the top-floor boardroom of Fushikawa Group, the atmosphere couldn’t have been more different.

“Hah. Looks like Watanabe and Onizuka are panicking already.” A director chuckled, scrolling through headlines on his tablet.

Ryuji Aida stood at the head of the room, giving his report. “Yes, sir. According to our intel, ‘After School’ dominated the second-round evaluations. Nishio’s camp is getting restless.”

“As they should.” The chairman leaned back with a calm, knowing smile. “They think a few critics and editors can sway the outcome? Naïve.”

He turned to Aida. “Move up the schedule. Begin the next phase.”

“Understood.”

Quietly, discreetly, a series of “friendly meetings” began behind closed doors.

Fushikawa Group executives reached out to the five final judges of the Edogawa Ranpo Prize—not with pressure, but with conversation.

No bribes, no overt persuasion. Just two simple facts, dropped with deliberate casualness:

First: The mysterious author of After School was none other than Seiji Fujiwara—the same young man ruling the light-novel world under his pen name, Prince Warukawa.

Second: His A Certain Magical Index series had already become a commercial phenomenon, with only two volumes released and sales numbers so explosive they left every publisher envious.

The judges sat back, stunned.

If true, then this wasn’t just a brilliant mystery—it was a bridge between worlds.

A literary award joined to a cultural juggernaut.

The potential prestige and profit shimmered before their eyes like a golden mirage.

And slowly, one by one, their expressions changed.

The Edogawa Ranpo Prize might soon break free of its niche—and make history.

Chapter 44 – Seiji Fujiwara Wins the Prize! The Whole Room Erupts!

But more importantly—

the sheer quality of After School towered over every other entry that year, even Tetsuya Nishio’s The Cry of the Void.

No one could object to giving it the award. Not the committee, not the sponsors, not even the critics.

That meant they could safely share in the enormous prestige and publicity—

all they had to do was hand the Edogawa Ranpo Prize to After School.

A simple choice, really.

The day of the final judging arrived.

And something unprecedented happened.

When the organizers and Kodansha staff distributed the two finalist manuscripts, everyone expected a fierce debate.

But there was none.

The five judges flipped through the pages only out of formality—

and then went straight to voting.

“I vote for After School.”

“After School, one vote.”

“Seconded.”

“Seconded.”

“Seconded.”

...

“Unanimous decision. After School, by Seiji Fujiwara, is the winner of the 61st Edogawa Ranpo Prize.”

The entire process was over in less than ten minutes.

The much-hyped The Cry of the Void by Tetsuya Nishio—once considered the sure favorite—was dismissed without even a single serious comment.

The organizers and Kodansha representatives sat frozen, exchanging bewildered glances.

At exactly 4:00 p.m.,

everyone in Japan with even a passing interest in literature—readers, writers, editors, journalists—held their breath.

All eyes turned to the homepage of the Edogawa Ranpo Prize.

A bright red countdown ticked down to zero.

3…

2…

1…

Refresh.

The results appeared.

[Winning Work: After School]

[Winner: Seiji Fujiwara]

Just two lines of text—

and the entire internet exploded.

For a moment, people simply froze, brains refusing to process what they’d just seen.

Then came the tidal roar.

“What the hell?! Seiji Fujiwara?! Who even is that?!”

“What about Tetsuya Nishio?! My man Nishio lost?!”

“This has to be rigged! Total insider deal!”

“The dark horse actually won?! That mysterious rumor was real?!”

“Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

“Seiji Fujiwara… I’ll remember that name.”

“When After School gets published, I’m buying it day one!”

Within hours, comment sections and message boards went nuclear.

Kodansha released its official congratulations, buying full-page ads across major platforms.

Since the Ranpo Prize was managed by Kodansha, the winning novel would, as always, be published under their banner—

and After School was no exception.

Meanwhile, in Seiji Fujiwara’s apartment, the atmosphere couldn’t have been more different—quiet, almost serene.

On the huge flat-screen TV, the live broadcast of the Ranpo Prize ceremony reached its climax.

The host’s excited voice echoed through the room:

“Let us congratulate the winner of this year’s Edogawa Ranpo Prize—Seiji Fujiwara! For his work, After School!”

Applause thundered through the speakers.

Seiji leaned lazily back on the couch, his expression calm—almost bored, as if the award had gone to someone else.

Beside him, Utaha Kasumigaoka stared wide-eyed at the TV, her wine-red pupils fixed on the giant image of his name splashed across the screen.

Her mind went blank.

The world around her—sound, breath, heartbeat—seemed to fade into silence.

“He… actually won?” she murmured. “He really won… the Edogawa Ranpo Prize?”

Utaha felt her thoughts jam, a surreal haze washing over her.

That prize—the highest honor in Japan’s mystery fiction—had been taken by Seiji Fujiwara.

And he was only eighteen.

Barely a year since his debut. Practically a nobody.

It felt unreal.

And yet, despite herself, she felt a surge of awe and admiration—

even if she still thought he was a shameless bastard.

A brilliant bastard was hard to hate.

Over at the Fushikawa Bunko editorial office—

“We did it!!”

Sonoko Machida literally jumped out of her chair.

“He won! He really won! Fujiwara-sensei just took the Ranpo Prize!”

She twirled and cheered, too ecstatic to care how unprofessional she looked.

No one scolded her—because Ryuji Aida, her boss, was grinning ear to ear, equally unable to contain himself.

“Genius? No… this is divine!”

“Fujiwara-sensei is a god descended into our era!”

He clenched a fist in triumph before spinning to his team.

“Quick! Call him and congratulate him—and move to the next phase of our plan!”

“Yes, sir!”

Machida fumbled for her phone, dialing Seiji’s number with trembling fingers.

“Hello? Fujiwara-sensei? It’s me, Machida! Congratulations! You were amazing! We—”

Elsewhere, in a private tea room—

Tetsuya Nishio, Editor Onizuka, and Professor Watanabe sipped tea, their expressions composed and confident, waiting for good news.

Then Nishio’s phone lit up.

He unlocked it casually—

and froze.

“No way…”

He shot to his feet, face draining of color.

“Nishio-kun? What’s wrong?” Watanabe asked, startled.

Nishio didn’t answer. He hurled his phone at the floor.

CRACK!

The screen shattered.

“This is impossible! There’s no way I lost! That nobody—winning my prize?! There’s corruption here, there has to be!”

Onizuka and Watanabe stiffened, panic flickering in their eyes.

Quickly, they checked their own phones.

The name Seiji Fujiwara and the title After School stared back at them in black and white.

Both men went rigid.

Onizuka’s face turned pale. “We… actually lost?” he muttered.

Watanabe slammed his palm on the table, his face flushed an ugly red. “Outrageous! Those senile fools on the judging panel—are they blind?!”

At Fushikawa Group headquarters, on the top floor—

the mood was the polar opposite.

“Ha! We did it!”

“What a clean win—beautifully played!”

The boardroom burst into applause.

The chairman himself was smiling as he picked up the internal line.

“Ryuji,” he said into the receiver, “congratulations.”

“Chairman!” came Aida’s voice, brimming with excitement. “It’s all thanks to Fujiwara-sensei!”

“Well done. The results are out—make sure the next stage goes just as smoothly.”

He paused, then added, “Every bit of our marketing, PR, and distribution muscle goes to Fujiwara-sensei alone. Understood?”

“Yes, sir! I’ll see to it personally.”

Back at Seiji’s apartment—

He ended Machida’s call, only for his phone to ring again.

This time, it was Ryuji Aida.

“Hello, Chief Editor?” Seiji answered.

“Fujiwara-sensei, congratulations once again,” Aida said, his tone calm but his excitement unmistakable. “The Ranpo committee just sent over the invitation. The award ceremony’s next Friday. And about your acceptance speech—”

“Don’t worry,” Seiji chuckled. “We’ll stick to the plan.”

He leaned back, voice casual yet deliberate. “At the ceremony, I’ll publicly announce that I’m Warukawa.”

It was a move they’d coordinated long ago, beneficial to both sides.

Seiji wasn’t about to break the deal.

“Hahaha, of course! As expected of you, Fujiwara-sensei. Shall I arrange a car from Fushikawa to escort you there?”

“No need. I’ll drive myself.”

“Then I’ll be there personally to meet you.”

Friday night. Tokyo Imperial Hotel.

One of the city’s most luxurious venues—

and the site of the 61st Edogawa Ranpo Prize award ceremony.

It was tradition.

Every major cultural award, from literature to art to Go, chose an elite hotel for its gala.

The banquet hall glittered with lights and laughter, champagne flutes clinking.

Editors, authors, critics, reporters—every major figure in Japan’s literary world was there.

And every one of them was talking about one thing:

the mysterious newcomer, the dark horse—Seiji Fujiwara.

“Anyone seen what he looks like?”

“Nope. Still a total mystery.”

“Maybe he’s just an old veteran using a pseudonym?”

“Who knows. Nishio’s here too, though. Look at that face—like he swallowed a bug.”

“Hah, serves him right. Losing his prize to a kid must sting.”

Suddenly—

Click.

The hall went dark.

A single spotlight hit the stage.

The host stepped up, voice ringing clear:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming the winner of the 61st Edogawa Ranpo Prize—Mr. Seiji Fujiwara!”

Every gaze turned toward the aisle.

And then they saw him.

A tall, striking young man in a tailored suit, walking toward the stage with calm, effortless poise.

“Wait, that’s him?!”

“No way—he’s that young? Eighteen, maybe nineteen?”

“And that face… he could be an idol!”

“Unreal. Looks, talent—this guy’s cheating at life!”

The hall erupted in applause that rolled like thunder.

Nishio’s eyes burned with envy as he glared at the man who’d taken everything from him.

Seiji climbed the stage, smiling faintly, accepting the trophy from Professor Munakata, the head judge.

When he stepped to the microphone, the applause surged again before slowly fading.

“Thank you to the committee, to Kodansha, and to everyone who supported me,” he said, bowing politely. His voice carried evenly through the hall.

“The inspiration for After School came from a factory.”

It was a simple, formal statement—exactly what people expected.

Many of the senior attendees nodded approvingly.

A calm, composed young winner. Mature beyond his years.

But then—

“Oh, right. I almost forgot—I have another bit of news to share.”

His tone shifted, lips curling into a faintly mischievous smile.

The room fell silent. Cameras tilted forward, ready.

“I also go by another pen name,” Seiji said slowly, scanning the crowd. “One I used when I wrote light novels.”

A ripple ran through the audience.

Light novels?

The word alone raised eyebrows. That genre wasn’t exactly “respectable” among literary circles.

But the Fushikawa staff watching from the side smiled knowingly.

Here it comes.

“That pen name,” Seiji continued, “is Prince Warukawa. Under it, I published the short story collection 6 People, 6 Days, 6 Guns, and the series A Certain Magical Index—two volumes so far.”

BOOM.

It was as if lightning had struck the hall.

“What—?!”

“He’s that Prince Warukawa?!”

“The author of Index, the one dominating the light novel charts?!”

“No way! Impossible!”

The entire venue erupted into chaos.

Reporters surged forward like sharks scenting blood, flashes blazing from every direction.

Even the older critics who’d never read a light novel in their lives knew that name.

Prince Warukawa—the newcomer who’d sold over a million copies in just half a year.

The reigning king of the light novel world.

The uproar was volcanic.

They might have looked down on the genre—but in sheer cultural and commercial impact, Fujiwara’s achievement was beyond dispute.

“I apologize for taking up your time,” Seiji said lightly, bowing again. “That concludes my speech.”

He stepped off the stage with calm composure, handing the trophy to Machida waiting below.

From here, Fushikawa would handle the media frenzy, using that trophy to fan the flames higher—and shield him from the noise.

“Right this way, Fujiwara-sensei,” said the staff member guiding him backstage.

But the tremors he’d triggered were already spreading across Japan.

That very night, the phrase “Light novel author wins the Edogawa Ranpo Prize” dominated every news site and social platform.

Yahoo News, 2ch forums, Twitter—

all flooded with his name.

Public opinion split clean down the middle.

Half were ecstatic—fans of Prince Warukawa and young readers cheering the fall of old literary barriers.

[Breaking News] Prince Warukawa Ascends the Throne! Edogawa Ranpo Prize Secured!

And the legend of Seiji Fujiwara—the boy who conquered both pop culture and high literature—had only just begun.

====
Sorry for only two chapters, I'll upload a lot soon.