Chapter 883

The publishing house late at night.

The time quietly slid toward seven o'clock in the evening.

Editor-in-chief Sosuke Kitahara finally slowly put down the thick and precious photocopy of "Snow Country" in his hand.

He took off the old reading glasses that had accompanied him for many years, rubbed his sore brow with his fingertips, and then closed his eyes.

However, the closed eyelids did not bring darkness.

Replacing it was still that expanse of pure white snowfield.

The illusory beauty of Komako's reflection in the mirror under the dim light of the hot spring inn, Yoko's clear and sorrowful voice that seemed to come from the other shore, Shimamura's futile pursuit, Komako's futile writing and love...

Those images and emotions, wrapped in the extreme atmosphere of "mono no aware" and "nothingness," still carried the cold, crisp fragrance unique to the text, whistling and circling in the corridors of his consciousness, refusing to dissipate for a long time.

He felt a deep, almost exhausting shock, unable to recover for a long time.

From the lowest-level proofreader, he climbed step by step to the position of editor-in-chief of this branch, which took him a full forty-five years.

His editorial career had spanned almost the better part of his known life.

In these years, long enough to witness several changes in the industry, the manuscripts Sosuke Kitahara had read, if piled up, could probably fill a small warehouse.

The fog of mystery and suspense, the profound artistic conception of pure literature, the magnificent imagination of science fiction, the sharp criticism of social literature... all kinds of stories and texts with different styles passed through his review like flowing water.

He had a precise scale in his heart.

What was true gold that could withstand the test of time, what was fleeting foam, and what was pure literary waste—he only needed a few pages to weigh it out with reasonable accuracy.

And this "Snow Country" in his hand...

When he reopened those eyes that had seen everything and were no longer young, the depths of his pupils still retained the shock that had not yet dissipated.

He couldn't help but look down again, his gaze falling on the manuscript, his eyes complex and difficult to fathom.

This novel, on the scale in his heart, had already steadily and indisputably taken the throne of the number one pure literature on his list.

The refinement of its language, the profoundness of its artistic conception, and the depth and purity of its emotional core reached a peak rare in his career.

Just the opening scene of the snow country that suddenly opened up after passing through the long tunnel possessed a magic that could instantly draw the reader's mind into that crystalline and lonely world.

Those words, purified through the strictest refinement, were stripped of all vanity, leaving only skeletal lines and the luster of jade.

They were not images "described," but imagery "condensed" directly from a void of extreme cold.

Snow-capped mountains, hot springs, reflections in the mirror, night fires... under the author's extremely restrained brush, they came to life on their own, rushing toward him with a tragic, fragile, and fleeting phantom beauty.

Even more heart-stopping was the cold undercurrent running through the entire text, named "futility."

The heat of love was weak and futile in the world of ice and snow, and beneath the vivid texture of life was the cold echo of all things eventually returning to silence.

This "sense of nothingness" deeply rooted in Japanese aesthetics was effortlessly incorporated by Chikage Natsume into a snowflake, a sigh, and a fleeting firelight.

Sosuke Kitahara even felt that a stone had been thrown into the lake of his heart, which had been through so much at his age, causing ripples of sorrow about "whether life is equally futile."

And being able to trigger such deep resonance and philosophical thinking was the supreme proof of a great work of pure literature.

What made him feel even more "outrageous" and even "horrified" was—

The author of this "Snow Country," which was enough to be recorded in literary history, Chikage Natsume, had just recently ignited the book market with a mystery masterpiece, "The Devotion of Suspect X," which had a delicate structure, surging logic, and fiery emotions.

Based on "Suspect X" alone, sixteen-year-old Chikage Natsume was already an unquestionable mystery genius.

But how long had it been since then?

This boy had actually turned around and produced an icy literary peak like "Snow Country" in the completely opposite field of pure literature?

Now, even as the editor-in-chief of a mystery publishing house, he was absolutely certain—once this "Snow Country" was released, it would surely cause a sensation in the literary world and become another phenomenal classic.

Thinking of this, Sosuke Kitahara's heart couldn't help but surge with the same strong regret and heartbreak as Section Chief Miyagi and Editor Takahashi.

Such a masterpiece, yet due to the limitations of the publishing house's positioning, it could not be pushed to the market by his own hands!

This feeling of watching a treasure having to be handed over to others was like a thin thorn stuck in his heart.

But he was the editor-in-chief after all, having experienced more storms and being more practical.

Regret was regret, but the benefits that should be fought for must not be less.

Such an excellent "Snow Country" must not be given to the headquarters for nothing.

He must fight for the greatest benefits for the branch and for the editors who discovered it.

Sosuke Kitahara took a deep breath and suppressed his mixed emotions.

He picked up the mobile phone on the table, searched his contacts with steady movements, and his fingertips paused on a name labeled "Headquarters - Shin-Ei Sha - Editor-in-Chief of Literature Department."

After a brief exchange, steady and forceful communication.

A moment later, he put down the phone, a hint of imperceptible satisfaction belonging to a negotiator appearing on his face.

The conditions were settled.

Then, he picked up the internal phone on the table, preparing to call Atsushi Takahashi over to explain the matters.

However, what came from the receiver was a continuous "beep-beep" busy signal.

Sosuke Kitahara was stunned for a moment, then understood.

He smiled helplessly, put down the receiver, supported the table with both hands, and slowly stood up.

Picking up the jujube wood cane leaning against the table, he walked out of the editor-in-chief's office with a slightly slow but steady gait.

The lights in the corridor stretched his shadow very long.

Pushing open the heavy door of the editorial department, a wave of noise with heat, different from usual, rushed toward him.

Quite different from the silence after work, the open office area was brightly lit at this moment, and almost every editor's workstation was busy.

Especially conspicuous were the continuous telephone rings and the raised, apologetic, and soothing voices of the editors when answering the phones.

"... Yes, yes, thank you very much for your love and support for 'The Devotion of Suspect X'!"

"We have already arranged the second printing on the fastest schedule. Please pay attention to our official website announcement for the specific distribution time..."

"Fifty thousand copies, yes, this printing is fifty thousand copies! We will try our best to meet market demand!"

"Please wait patiently, we are really sorry..."

Sosuke Kitahara stood at the door, his gaze sweeping over this busy scene, the wrinkles on his face seeming to smooth out a bit, carrying a kind of complex emotion.

Of course he knew the reason.

Chikage Natsume's "The Devotion of Suspect X" was like dropping a deep-sea bomb in the pond of mystery novels.

Not only did the first printing of five thousand copies sell out in a very short time, but the word-of-mouth effect and discussion craze it triggered were fermenting and spreading through the internet and readers' word of mouth at an unprecedented speed.

At this moment, these continuous incoming calls were mostly from anxious readers, urging for the progress of the reprint and expressing their impatience to read it.

This kind of "phenomenal" consultation craze triggered by a single work was rare in his many years as editor-in-chief.

Only a "blockbuster among blockbusters" that truly touched the nerves of the market and triggered the desire for national reading could possess such magic.

Sosuke Kitahara leaned on his cane and slowly paced through the busy office area, his shoe soles making rhythmic light sounds on the floor, finally stopping at the workstation of Atsushi Takahashi in the second editorial group.

Atsushi Takahashi was holding the receiver in one hand and recording quickly on a memo with the other, his tone urgent but trying to remain professional:

"... I understand your feelings, please rest assured, we will definitely do it as quickly as possible..."

His forehead was slightly sweaty, his suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he was immersed in his work, not even noticing the arrival of the editor-in-chief immediately.

Sosuke Kitahara observed him quietly for a few seconds.

He keenly noticed that this Atsushi Takahashi, who had always been evaluated as "a bit spineless" and "lacking sharpness," seemed to have undergone some subtle changes.

The sense of shrinking under long-term performance pressure had faded a lot, and although he was tired between his brows, he revealed a long-lost focus ignited by a major project and a faint... confidence?

It was as if a plant that had lacked light for a long time had suddenly been moved into the sun and began to try to stretch its branches and leaves.

Sosuke Kitahara sighed secretly in his heart, and at the same time felt awed again by the terrifying energy contained in the young writer Chikage Natsume.

Sixteen years old, debut work, just the initial burst of performance light was enough to illuminate and change the professional state of a senior editor.

Wasn't this another kind of "terrible" in another sense?

"Editor Takahashi."

Sosuke Kitahara used the bottom of his cane to tap the floor next to Atsushi Takahashi's workstation, not too light and not too heavy, making a dull and clear "thud-thud" sound.

Atsushi Takahashi was startled, as if he had been violently pulled back from the world of the phone.

He quickly said a few closing remarks to the other end of the phone, hung up, and then stood up almost as if bouncing, with busyness and a hint of nervousness that had not yet completely faded on his face: