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534 – Turn All Those Judges Into Doujin Characters!
🕑 Added 2025-09-21 15:00:15 +0000 UTCWeekly Shounen High was a manga magazine, but its parent company, Eishusha, had its hands in every corner of publishing—novels, textbooks, children’s books, and of course, mystery fiction.
Hojou Kyousuke’s own The Devotion of Suspect X aside, the novelist Eishūsha introduced him to, Osaka Gou, was a veteran mystery author who had been tied to the company for years.
But this time, instead of consulting Osaka Gou about his mystery-themed project, Shimomura Tetsuya went to another mystery novelist.
Somehow, the rough outline of Kyousuke’s manga leaked.
There wouldn’t be any legal issues—Japan’s copyright laws were strict.
Even snapping a few photos of manga pages with a smartphone in a bookstore was considered “digital theft,” let alone leaking the work of a star author from a major publisher.
Still, while the leak wasn’t widespread, it was enough to cause Kyousuke headaches.
The Mystery Writers Association of Japan Prize was judged by a panel of five.
Osaka Gou, firmly in Kyousuke’s camp, had been lobbying the other judges from the start.
He gave up on two votes: one from the henkaku avant-garde school, and another from the shin honkaku new orthodoxy—both impossible to sway.
Instead, he focused on the two remaining shakai-ha (social school) judges.
Why were the first two impossible?
The avant-garde supporter had already backed a finalist: Osaki Katari, a two-time nominee, with his acclaimed work Under the Edge.
Its story: a lonely old man is targeted by a malicious intruder, only to kill the man and bury him under the corridor beside his house.
Every day, the detective and police literally walked over the corpse, yet failed to notice, all thanks to the old man’s clumsy but oddly effective setup.
Though not as commercially successful as Kyousuke’s novel, its tricks, plot, and characters were excellent.
Naturally, its nominator, Ogawa Tetsu, wasn’t about to hand over his vote—and even tried to sway Osaka Gou the other way.
As for the new orthodoxy judge, Nishizawa Nao—he and Osaka Gou couldn’t stand each other.
During prize discussions, they’d bicker constantly, Gou saying one thing, Nishizawa instantly shooting back the opposite.
In truth, the so-called “selection” was nothing more than backroom deals.
Kyousuke’s side had made progress, though.
Thanks to Naitou Akifumi, a police inspector who’d thrown in his support, the two social school judges had softened.
All it would take was Konno Kenzou hosting a banquet where Kyousuke gave them face with a few kind words, and those two votes would be in the bag.
But then came the manga problem.
If Kyousuke had pitched something like Undead Shuuichi, the hit detective manga running in rival magazine Shōnen Magic—a proper puzzle series where the hero solved mysteries by risking his own life to test each trick.
It wouldn’t have been a problem.
That was serious mystery fare.
But Kyousuke’s outline?
It started fine—an alleged yakuza deal.
Hard-boiled crime was common enough; one of the social school judges, Kurokawa Toyomasa, was famous for yakuza novels.
But then the story went off the rails: the protagonist, a high school detective, suddenly shrank into an elementary schooler.
Then came tranquilizer darts, puppet stand-ins for crime scenes… and despite his body shrinking, his lecherous streak remained intact.
“Ran will always be mine!” he declared, all while soaking in the admiration of grade-school classmates and flirting with the mad scientist who shrank him.
Was it mystery? Romance? Action? Spy drama? Sci-fi?
It was a hodgepodge, pure chaos. No wonder Shimomura Tetsuya was anxious—could a manga like that really be any good?
Then again, Hojou-sensei’s last two works had been anything but “orthodox” manga, and both were runaway successes.
One Punch Man: not your typical hero series, no level-grinding, no endless monster fights.
The strongest man in the universe spent his days haggling with housewives over supermarket discounts—and usually losing.
It wasn’t some grand commentary on what power does to an ordinary man; it was just goofy comedy with a shot of adrenaline. Its success wasn’t a fluke.
Attack on Titan: its world and setting were practically heretical, the very first chapter alone alienating half the audience. But the protagonist was fiery, the story gripping, the characters superbly drawn.
Of course, those insights only came after both titles had already succeeded.
With those two gems behind him, Kyousuke’s new “Death God Elementary Student” felt… baffling.
Who wouldn’t worry?
Sure enough, the two social school judges who got wind of the project frowned so hard you could’ve fit a fly in the crease of their brows.
This was “mystery”? A shrinking pill? Why not just invent a “truth serum pill” and hand one to every suspect—case closed!
High school detectives were one thing; Japan’s reputation for precocious teens in fiction was practically a meme.
But an elementary schooler bossing around cops? Ridiculous! A former First Division detective shot with tranquilizers every day, never once catching on, still basking in the media’s praise? Unbelievable!
It wasn’t just nitpicking.
Even though the nominated work was The Devotion of Suspect X, giving the prize meant acknowledging Kyousuke as a representative of Japanese mystery writing.
If that same author put out a “romance–sci-fi–action–spy–comedy–mystery manga,” wouldn’t it undermine the association’s credibility?
Absolutely not.
Better vote for “old man kills intruder” than hand it to “death god elementary schooler”!
Osaka Gou also told Kyousuke the judges knew because someone had deliberately leaked it.
The motive was obvious: targeting Kyousuke.
He was too successful, too fast—anyone would be jealous.
Whether they managed to block him or not, they’d be satisfied just by making trouble.
And sure enough, seeing Eriri’s worried expression left Kyousuke in a foul mood.
But the strangest part?
The leak had been tightly contained. Eriri shouldn’t even know about it.
“Don’t worry,” Kyousuke said with a smile. “It’s nothing as bad as you’re imagining, Eriri. Just a small matter. I’ll take care of it soon.”
“Who said I was worried about you? I just don’t want to see you bawling like a baby if you lose—that would be embarrassing for me as your assistant.
I only happened to hear it. My dad’s been golfing a lot lately with Kitamura Kazuo, one of the board members on that awards committee. I don’t care about any of it, I just keep overhearing things!”
Eriri murmured, pretending the chores didn’t bother her, while secretly pestering her father for information.
If she actually admitted she was anxious, Hojou would puff up with pride and be insufferable.
“O-oh—so it was a coincidence, huh?” Kyousuke teased, drawing the words out.
The moment he said “coincidence,” the blonde girl flashed back to being cornered by Megumi in the restaurant and got instantly furious.
‘You idiot, Kyousuke. I’m worrying about you right now, and you mock me? Die twice!’
Her little mouth opened and a sharp glint flashed from her tiny fang.
“Gah!”
“You’ll die twice!” she mumbled through a mouthful of Kyousuke’s arm—her bite muffled but fierce.
Kyousuke kept his muscle loose so he wouldn’t crush his princess’s teeth.
It didn’t really hurt; he could feel the tip of the fang.
Compared to Utaha, Mitsuha, Sakura, and Shouko, Eriri’s fang was definitely sharper—dangerous, and oddly fun.
He could even feel her drool dampening his shirt—cola-flavored, probably.
Their teasing didn’t stop them from walking; Eriri was practically hanging off his arm.
As the crowd grew near the next subway stop, she finally let go.
She produced a handkerchief from her pocket and delicately wiped at her mouth.
She’d never been one for makeup—otherwise she’d probably have retouched her lipstick now—but even simple gestures like that made her look aristocratic.
No wonder the naïve boys and girls in Toyonozaki called her the perfect young lady.
After tidying her hair, she tried to hook her arm through his again like nothing had happened.
But as soon as she got close, she froze.
“Ew!”
“Drool! Gross!”
She scrubbed at her face in a panic, then turned and linked her other arm around his.
“If it’s really a problem, my father can step in anytime—just like when he dealt with Kosaka Akane last time.” Her chin tilted up; her big eyes shone with sincerity.
She didn’t whine that his losing would embarrass her anymore.
If diplomacy didn’t work, her father, an English aristocratic diplomat, could always endorse Kyousuke’s novel in the papers.
“Know Sherlock Holmes? Know Conan Doyle? That’s our Great Britain, you know! If even the British ambassador says every English person loves this novel and reads it three times a day with their fish and chips, how could you not give him the prize?”
When Eriri had heard her father mention the committee the night before, she’d run through a dozen contingency plans in her head.
Kyousuke pictured Mr. Spencer—the awkwardly polite man he’d met in the “Tansan” lounge.
He could imagine Spencer doing anything because his precious daughter asked him to, however undignified.
“Okay, okay—spare poor Robin-uncle,” Kyousuke laughed, squeezing Eriri’s small hand.
He believed she could make that call and that Spencer might actually help—but it would be undignified.
More importantly: accepting help like that would weaken his own ability to argue later.
“You come to me with your family tree when you’re in trouble, huh? And tell me the person you like isn’t only my daughter?”
Nobody, not even thick-skinned Kyousuke, could handle that.
“It’s nothing serious. When The Devotion of Suspect X first released, people ragged on me too. Those voices are meaningless—results are what matter. Don’t you trust me?” he said with a smile.
“Smile my ass! You’re always laughing—if there’s nothing wrong, tell me earlier, geez, you made me worry for ages!”
Eriri, relieved and exuberant, tried to bite him again in celebration.
Thinking it would be awkward if both of them were soaked in drool, she instead rammed her forehead into his arm.
She put real force into it; Kyousuke swayed, and she swayed with him.
‘Of course I know you knew about this already.’ Kyousuke thought.
This idiot had been quietly agonizing over the doujin she’d put together for the next convention—most of the “pain” came during the post-anime, chip-eating, enlightened moments—but even this carefree dummy fretted about Hojou’s prize chances.
“I’ll tell you first thing next time!” he promised.
Most fights came from poor communication after all.
“Remember that!” she said. “Mm!”
Would it all work out? Kyousuke didn’t know.
As far as he was concerned, the manga was a done deal—this was the sort of cash cow that had run from the Heisei era into Reiwa.
Call it a manga; call it a printing press.
Even if it wasn’t exactly a mystery manga by textbook standards, could it at least become a flag for Japanese comics? He didn’t know.
Maybe Detective Conan wouldn’t keep selling like it did in its original run in another world and time, but he chose to trust Aoyama-sensei.
Other creators worried that a flop could hurt their brand, but Kyousuke didn’t care—if one fail, then make another.
“Your award dress was finished two weeks ago. If you don’t get to wear it and stroll into the ceremony smiling, I won’t forgive you!”
Eriri issued her final death threat.
She’d spent so much time and energy on this—if Kyousuke didn’t win, she vowed to draw all those judges into her next doujin.
