Asi Hell - Capítulo 9
It seems that the publication of my standalone book has been a done deal without me even realizing it.
After leaving the temple, the editor from before brought in the man who had been standing at the door. Yamazaki and Koizumi stood up to welcome him, and I followed suit.
Yamazaki greeted the man. His entire body leaned forward from the waist up, making it more of a bow than a nod.
"Oh, you've come at the perfect time. We truly don't know how to thank you for accepting our impolite request—"
"No, please don't take it to heart. I'm just a newcomer, so please feel free to ask me for these kinds of small things. By the way, Editor-in-Chief, who is this?"
"Yes, yes, let me introduce you. This is Mr. Sekiguchi, and this is Mr. Kubo Shunko, a leading figure in the new generation of fantasy literature. This is Mr. Sekiguchi Tatsumi."
"Changxing Pass".
I answered listlessly, as always. Despite being a scholar, I remain estranged from the literary world, and to this day, I don't have a single novelist friend I'm truly close to; even if introduced, we can't maintain a continuous relationship. To all novelists except myself, I'm just an ordinary reader. But—I don't recall ever hearing the name of this writer, Kubo Shunko.
"I think you've heard about it too. Kubo-sensei's debut work, 'The Garden of Collectors,' published at the end of last year, won the Honcho Fantasy Newcomer Award sponsored by Bunka Arts Publishing House. She's a highly anticipated newcomer. To be honest, the next issue was originally scheduled to feature Arakawa-sensei's new work, but unfortunately, she suffered a stroke the day before yesterday, so we had to urgently ask Kubo-sensei to fill in for her."
"It's just for filling in the numbers."
"Absolutely not," Yamazaki exaggeratedly denied.
"—I had long hoped that the teacher could serialize it in our magazine, and this is a good opportunity."
"It's alright. As long as it's published in your magazine, whatever the reason, it's fine."
Kubo interrupted Yamazaki again with a smile.
It seems like he's the kind of person I don't really like.
His slender eyebrows looked like they'd been groomed with eyebrow gel, perfectly neat and defined. His eyes were sharp and cold. His face was long and thin, making him quite handsome. His hair was neatly styled, seemingly proclaiming the owner's daily effort in grooming, while also exuding the scent of hairspray. His attire gave off a gentlemanly impression, a stark contrast to my own sweaty and disheveled appearance. Only one thing struck me as unbelievable: in this sweltering heat, Kubo was still wearing white gloves. Of course, not for warmth, but the thin gloves photographers wear—still quite bizarre, to say the least.
Kubo turned to me, his smile fading, and said:
"Mr. Sekiguchi, it is fate that we meet here today. As your reader, I have a question I would like to ask you."
"Well."
"First, may I ask if you have read my work?"
"I'm sorry—because..."
"Don't worry about it. I'm just a newcomer, so it's natural that I haven't read your work. But I have read all of your works. Of course, if you publish your work in magazines other than Modern Literature, then I might have missed some."
"Hmm, thank you. I haven't published it in any other magazines, so what you've read should be all of it!"
"I see. Then I'd like to ask you, if I may, is that kind of broken style a matter of technique? Or something else?"
"Huh?"
"On the one hand, your articles give the impression of a skillful writer with a beautiful style, but on the other hand, they all fall apart. That's the impression your work gives. Is that acceptable? Or is it just genuine naivety? That's what I want to know most. Of course, since you make a living by writing, it can't be something you wrote by chance, so it would be really rude of you to doubt it like that."
A mocking glint appeared in his eyes.
"No, well..."
It was truly written by chance—I can't bring myself to say that. There were certainly intentional mistakes, but many parts simply fell apart naturally as I wrote. Constantly getting bogged down in word choice or sentence structure resulted in grammatical flaws. In short, the style of writing varied from instance to instance due to different circumstances and reasons, making generalizations impossible. In this light, it seems more like chance than technique. If we follow the arguments of this up-and-coming writer, I suppose I'm rather naive.
"A secret, is that so? I suppose so. I wouldn't want to answer such a question either. Hmph, or perhaps I can't answer it even if I wanted to? No. The reason I'm asking you today is because, Mr. Sekiguchi, the only reason your fantasy novels are considered fantasy novels is, in my opinion, simply because of that flawed writing style. Without that style, your novels would just be ordinary personal novels written by a novice."
"Uh... I..."
I never considered what I wrote to be fantasy fiction—that was the answer I wanted to give, but I swallowed the words back. Regardless of my own opinion, public opinion seems to be increasingly converging in that direction, so there's really no need to deliberately deny it. Besides, if I were to deny this assessment, my work—as he said—would just be a novice's personal novel, so not clearing up this misunderstanding would be for my own good.
Seeing my hesitation, Kubo's gaze became even more ruthless.
At this point, Yamazaki interjected:
"Oh, Mr. Kubo, this October issue, the one that was released this time, yes, the one with Mr. Sekiguchi's new work in it is a first-rate masterpiece. Of course, I will send you a copy later, please be sure to take a look."
Yamazaki instructed the editor, who had been standing there dumbfounded, to bring over a copy of the October issue, then turned to me and said:
"It's less of a fantasy and more of an avant-garde concept. Isn't that right?"
Just like what was said inside the temple, it's probably because they considered my feelings.
But thinking about it this way, the description "avant-garde" is just another way of saying something clumsy, which makes me a little angry, so I deliberately used different words to refute it.
"My work, that's right, my work is illogical novels."
"It's unreasonable. The original water is like this, it's indeed unreasonable. It's not his own work, he understands it very well."
Kubo said cheerfully, while quickly flipping through the magazine he had just received.
I noticed his flipping through the book was a bit odd, and soon I understood why. His fingers seemed to have a problem. I guessed he was probably missing a few fingers; no wonder he was wearing gloves to cover me.
My anger waned rapidly, and my aversion to Kubo lessened somewhat.
It was truly astonishing, but Kubo continued speaking, oblivious to my changing feelings:
"Well then, I will read this new work as if it were the kind of illogical novel you mentioned. Also, Master Sekiguchi, perhaps I am being nosy about this matter. But I just wanted to inform you."
This time, he clearly addressed me in a mocking tone.
"Here's the thing, I've always paid attention to your writing style, Master. It seems there are others who admire you just as much as I do. Recently, a guy has emerged who completely imitates your style. Fortunately, he only writes mediocre articles for boring, low-quality magazines; he shouldn't be able to break into the core of the literary world—"
"Imitate—my style?"
"—That's right. Let me think, it's a strange pen name, I remember it's—Ketsuki… Oh right. I think it's Chuki Itsuki. This guy's writing style is really similar to yours, it made me think he might be the master himself. Of course, a master like you, Sekiguchi Tatsumi, wouldn't write for a third-rate magazine. So, Mr. Sekiguchi, you'd better be careful, lest your writing style be imitated—"
My face suddenly turned pale and then flushed, before finally turning completely red.
I have always had blushing disorder and social anxiety.
and--
If you ask why I blushed with shame after receiving his kind advice, it's because this Chu Mu Yiji was me, and Kubo seemed to have seen through that as well.
Kubo glanced at me with a mocking look, then turned the conversation on his own.
"By the way, Editor-in-Chief, what are the required number of pages and the deadline for submission?"
Koizumi answered instead of Yamazaki:
"Yes, actually, we originally planned to ask Arakawa-sensei to write 100 pages of manuscript for the first and second parts next month and the month after next, but let's not consider next month for now..."
"No problem, I'll write it for the next two months. What's the deadline?"
"Really? If it's convenient—can it be done in a week, or even within ten days—?"
"Then let's do it on September 10th."
It seems that Kubo's personality trait is that he never wants to listen to the other person finish what they have to say.
But then again, starting to write today, and producing a hundred pages in just ten days, and agreeing to it so easily—that's truly remarkable. I doubt I'll ever reach that level in my entire life. She looks only about twenty-two or twenty-three years old; in terms of both talent and courage, a second-rate writer like myself can hardly hope to catch up.
I uselessly began to admire my young opponent.
"It's just unfortunate. I'm going on a trip the day after tomorrow. Don't worry, I'll still be writing during the trip."
Young scholars discussed these kinds of topics.
I, on the other hand, felt increasingly uneasy.
"Then, I should be about the same—"
"Alright, please bear with me this time. Take care. As for the matter we just discussed, I would appreciate your guidance, teacher."
Yamazaki's face was filled with a smile that could not be added any further—although he had been smiling since earlier—and he nodded repeatedly in greeting.
"Mr. Sekiguchi. Until we meet again."
After Kubo finished speaking, a smile appeared in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.
Upon reaching the corridor, Koizumi rushed out of the editorial office.
"Mr. Sekiguchi, I'm so sorry about that."
"Uh, no."
"That person—that's just Kubo-sensei's personality. Please don't take it too seriously."
"Hmm, I didn't take it to heart, it's okay."
The publication itself weighed heavily on my mind.
Just as I was about to tell Koizumi my thoughts, a figure rushed downstairs, suddenly looked in our direction, and shouted:
"teacher!"
It turned out to be Atsuko Chuzenji.
Atsuko changed direction with the lightness of a cat, leaping towards us with large strides. After a deft bow, she asked:
"What happened? Why is even Koizumi-senpai gathered in the corridor?"
"It's nothing. The teacher is going to publish a standalone book this time, so he was invited to the editorial office to discuss related matters."
"Oh, teacher, congratulations! We really need to celebrate!"
"Wait, Atsuko, this matter hasn't been officially decided yet."
"You're here again. Does your brother know about this? He'll be so happy."
"How could Kyogoku-do possibly be happy for me? You've been his sister for so many years, don't you know what's going on? At most, he'll just grab you and lecture you."
Atsuko's eyes gleamed with mischief as she chuckled.
"Speaking of which, Xiao Dun, why did you rush downstairs so fast? Were you going to do an interview?"
After Koizumi asked the question, Atsuko chuckled again and said:
"Because of the feet in the dismemberment case."
"Dismemberment case...you mean the wrist dismemberment found yesterday—?"
I know about this incident; I just read about it in the newspaper this morning.
It is said that the upper wrist of a young woman was found on a mountaintop in the Musashino region.
"That's right. I heard that this time it was found floating on Lake Sagami with both feet, and the locals found it. We just received a report that the police dispatched a search team this morning."
"I see. But—why would a reporter from Zhongchanji, who is considered one of the most principled in the cautious editorial department of the 'Rascal Monthly,' be so flustered and rushed out in such a shocking manner? Could it be that the editorial department's policy has changed?"
No—
"I'm not concerned with the dismemberment itself," Atsuko replied.
"you mean?"