After chatting casually with a group of friends and promising to write blurbs for their new works or reprints.
Kyousuke, under the guidance of Editor Akamatsu, exchanged a few words with several mainstream dia reporters—dropping a few half-truths and playful teasers along the way.
In this context, "mainstream dia" referred to nationally circulated newspapers and magazines.
For example, in the Asahi network alone, both The Asahi Shimbun and Weekly Asahi had sent reporters.
Though under the sa publishing umbrella, the kind of content they could print differed greatly.
Newspapers were often restrained by the rules of the "kisha club"—press clubs tightly knit with governnt agencies.
To maintain access and avoid being shut out of press briefings, reporters frequently had to tailor their coverage to suit the preferences of officials.
In other words, in Japan, "freedom of the press" often translated to "the freedom not to report."
Magazines, on the other hand, were a different beast entirely.
General interest weeklies—a format pioneered by Weekly Asahi's forr editor-in-chief Sogaya Masazo during the Showa era—weren't beholden to governnt institutions.
In fact, being shut out by the establishnt gave them even more freedom.
Political scandals, corporate secrets, celebrity gossip—anything that could boost circulation was fair ga.
In Japan's dia world, there was a saying:
"Magazine reporters know the value of a story. Newspaper reporters don't need to."
This wasn't ant to mock cushy newspaper journalists, but to highlight how profit-driven magazine journalism could be.
So the people swarming around Kyousuke now were not just from the traditional dailies.
There were also independent magazine reporters, eager to sink their teeth into a rising star.
While many tabloids freely splashed gossip, sex scandals, and even full nudity across their pages, Weekly Asahi, by virtue of carrying the "Asahi" na, had to exercise far more restraint.
Once a leader that carved a path for others, it now found itself slipping into irrelevance—especially compared to the hot-blooded Weekly Bunshun, which had aggressively transford its image by glamorizing young writers like Kyousuke.
Watching Bunshun reposition itself from a scandal rag into a "cultured magazine" just by hyping up a rising literary star made Asahi grind its teeth in envy.
'If Bunshun could cash in on Hojou's fa—why couldn't we?'
'If they could milk this cash cow, so could we!'
Even so tiny regional publications from Hokkaido had sent people here today.
For Weekly Asahi, this was a matter of survival.
For reporter Hodaka Yoichi, this was the last, desperate gamble of his career.
"Hojou-sensei! I've already reserved a restaurant to celebrate your win—please, you must honor us with your presence!"
Hodaka Yoichi pushed forward, trying to elbow aside reporters from other magazines and the local Hokkaido dia.
Seeing Kyousuke's massive entourage of nearly thirty friends and family was enough to make Hodaka's knees wobble with fear, but he clung to hope: surely Hojou wouldn't bring everyone to dinner, right?
Compared to the thods used by Weekly Bunshun—who ran literal surveillance teams, crashed politician's mahjong tables, or even dressed up as club waiters to dig through garbage and find used condoms—offering dinner was still a respectable tactic.
"Dinner?" Kyousuke blinked, glancing left and right at his almost thirty-person support squad.
He had to admire Hodaka's guts for even making the offer.
A reporter from Hokkaido Shimbun blinked in surprise too.
A fad author from Hokkaido was a rarity—he had planned to cozy up to Hojou for an exclusive.
That was the whole reason he'd traveled all the way from the north; most of their local news was scraped from the web or bought from freelance writers anyway.
"Hojou-sensei, I know a lovely izakaya that specializes in Hokkaido-style cuisine! It's perfect for a gathering like this!" the man blurted.
"Izakaya? But Hojou-sensei's not even legally of age yet!" barked Hirota Yoshitoki from Weekly Bunshun. "I've already booked a sushi restaurant that can fit forty people comfortably!"
"This kind of celebration shouldn't co at your expense! The publisher's already arranged a banquet," soone else chid in.
And just like that, a dia scrum had devolved into a shouting match over restaurant reservations.
Kyousuke, seeing even his two editors had joined the fray, finally exhaled in relief.
He had already said too much nonsense today—dealing with this circus would be exhausting.
As the voices bickered and buzzed around him, he found himself wondering how he used to handle these situations so smoothly.
Ah, right—it was always Kisaki.
That flawless assistant would normally be the one to gently deflect unimportant dia, arrange interviews by priority, and prevent chaotic scenes like this from ever forming.
He'd even interrupt interviews on cue to save Hojou from uncomfortable questions.
With Kisaki around, press conferences felt like pleasant chats.
So... where was Kisaki now?
Scanning the crowd, Kyousuke quickly spotted Kisaki Tetta standing near Ishida Hidenori, eyes locked on him with the desperate longing of a loyal retainer watching his liege being mobbed by commoners.
Kisaki practically vibrated with impatience, ready to charge in, hand out business cards, jot down notes, and bring order back to the chaos.
Why was Ishida Hidenori still here?
Was Kisaki planning to keep him locked up until the last Chūō Line train left the station before letting him go?
Tokyo's web of aboveground and underground transit lines was vast, but none were more popular with suicidal commuters than the east-west-running Chūō Line.
Unfortunately, that line ran right past the iji morial Hall—barely a three-minute walk to Shinanomachi Station.
Two hundred yen could buy a weary salaryman a trip ho or a ticket to despair, filling the city's izakayas and internet cafes with those seeking distraction.
Sure, if Kisaki's delaying tactic led to fewer suicides, that could be chalked up as a public service.
But it would also ss up their dinner plans.
That wouldn't do.
Good. Very good, Kisaki. Nice work.
That said, Ishida Hidenori's bitter, hateful expression as he glared at Kyousuke was undeniably unpleasant to look at.
Still… why did the two n holding him on either side look so unfamiliar?
Kyousuke stared at them.
They were looking his way, too.
He didn't really keep up with the affairs of the "Rampaging Angels" anymore, but if there had been any new recruits, Kisaki would've made sure he knew about it.
In front of him, the guys were going off on tangents.
What started as a comparison of cheap bars had devolved into which hostess clubs had the prettiest girls and which soaplands offered better service.
Makki Hojou was the most animated of the bunch.
College life had clearly taught him a lot.
Kyousuke threw a glance at his mother and the other won nearby and quickly cut in.
"No need for everyone to go out of their way for today. I've already taken care of all the arrangents. All you need to do is eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves."
Even though Kisaki wasn't physically there, there was no doubt he had already handled everything.
"Indeed. Kyousuke made a reservation at an izakaya near Akasaka. Thank you all for your kind intentions," Utaha said with a gentle smile, bowing slightly as she stepped forward.
She was the one who'd secretly invited all these people to surprise Kyousuke.
With her ticulous nature, of course she had thought everything through.
The dinner party, lodging—she even had that covered.
If Kyousuke had wanted to entertain friends at ho, she would've opened up one of her Tokyo properties and brought in a hotel chef.
If he preferred sothing more high-end, she had a dozen luxury restaurants in Roppongi on speed dial.
But knowing the vibe of Kyousuke's friends and today's event, she figured a cozy izakaya would be best.
The one she chose was called "Ōtori" (Phoenix).
Not exactly upscale, but it was close to the iji morial Hall and had a massive private room that could seat forty.
She even picked it because it matched the naming aesthetic of things like "Ruyi Dorm" and Okudera Miki's shop, which Kyousuke had funded and nad using kanji.
He'd probably appreciate this place too.
"Haha, that's right," Kyousuke nodded without hesitation, then flashed Utaha-senpai a smile.
'Yep… This is the kind of secretary I need. Soone like Utaha-senpai.'
She wears black stockings, can book hotels, take ho, plan surprises, and even help manage my family drama.
Utaha looked up at him, her face glowing with a satisfied smile.
The two exchanging glances and smiling didn't escape the notice of the nearby reporters, who imdiately perked up.
They had already Googled "Kasumi Utako" while researching Kyousuke.
Anyone could tell—this was a juicy story.
Osaka Gou clenched his jaw in frustration.
"That bastard Kyousuke didn't prepare any of this himself. He won't even invite to his house for a al!" he thought bitterly. "That gorgeous woman definitely arranged everything!"
'Damn it. When will my wife take to a bar and pay the bill for once?!'
Osaka Gou's imagination went even further, daring to dream of places like… nightclubs. But he knew that was pure fantasy.
"Alright, let's go. It's about ti," Kyousuke raised a hand.
Although many guests were still mingling around the venue, all he wanted now was to sit down and enjoy a cold glass of cola.
When you're happy, cola bubbles turn joy into fireworks.
When you're sad, the fizz carries your sorrow right out through your mouth.
"Yesss! I'm gonna drink until I drop tonight!" Onizuka shouted the mont Kyousuke gave the signal.
He was determined to drink himself to death in celebration of his big bro.
Tanma, Hatake Gorou, and the others—well aware that Onizuka was nowhere near the legal drinking age—pretended not to notice and just joined in with equally loud cheers.
After saying a quick goodbye to his mom and the girls, Kyousuke made his way over to Hamamoto Shigeru, head of the Bookstore Awards Executive Committee, and invited him to join them.
Hamamoto was still deep in networking mode, but Kyousuke gave him the address and told him to stop by if he could.
He also extended an invite to Amamiya Miki—the staffer who'd caught him, Mitsuha, and Utaha-senpai together in the dressing room.
He expected her to decline with a cold stare, but to his surprise, she agreed through gritted teeth—like she was plotting revenge.
"Alright, let's go." Kyousuke returned to the group, and they began walking toward the exit.
As Kyousuke approached, Ishida Hidenori realized this was his last chance.
If he let it slip away, then no matter what he told the dia about Kyousuke's misdeeds, they'd dismiss it as the bitter ramblings of a loser.
Seeing Kyousuke surrounded by adoring journalists—people he himself had always dread of impressing—pushed Ishida's simring rage over the edge.
"Hojo—!"
Before he could finish shouting, the man on his left clamped a hand over his mouth.
But Ishida didn't hesitate—he opened wide and bit down hard.
"OW!" Even though the stench of Ishida's breath was probably enough to knock soone out, the man still released him with a grunt.
"HOJOU!!" Ishida bellowed as he lunged forward—but he didn't make it far.
He tripped and crashed to the ground, smacking his front teeth hard on the pavent.
"Oof. That's gotta hurt."
Kyousuke winced, and he wasn't alone—others around him visibly recoiled.
"Boss, is that one of your fans?" Onizuka asked curiously.
He'd read about crazy fanatics in books—those who'd throw themselves into puddles so celebrities wouldn't get their feet wet—but this was the first ti he'd seen it in real life.
'No wonder he's our boss. '
'Even his fans are this intense. But wait… isn't the red carpet perfectly clean?'
"Hahahaha! That's right, that's just one of Hojo's fans!" Osaka Gou laughed nastily. "As the new legend of Tokyo—the Heisei Playboy—his charm is beyond comprehension!"
Misaki gaku and the others joined in, laughing rcilessly.
This incident would surely go down in Kyousuke's history—an anecdote immortalized for all ti.
And they? They'd be part of the tale, rembered as the righteous witnesses.
"You bastards! What nonsense are you even spouting?!"
Ishida Hidenori raised his head and roared—but with his front teeth throbbing from the pain, his voice didn't carry very far.
Still, the fire in his eyes as he glared at Kyousuke could have set the whole place ablaze.
'No. Even if I die here today, I have to spill his blood—to leave behind a heroic image of Ishida Hidenori standing against evil!'
Besides, with so many reporters watching, there's no way Kyousuke would dare lay a hand on him.
If he did, the tabloid vultures would pounce on the story and tear his reputation to shreds.
The guy would never be able to charm another woman again!
Pumped up by his inner monologue, Ishida plotted his move—he'd throw himself onto Hojou, sar the blood from his broken tooth all over that pristine white shirt.
But he couldn't act just yet—there were still a few people standing too close.
One wrong move and they'd grab him.
So, the "brilliant" Hidenori chose to wait.
Seeing that the main guest had arrived, Kisaki stepped back from Ishida and quietly moved to stand beside Kyousuke, whispering a few words in his ear.
The two n in black suits—clearly believing they'd failed their mission—also retreated silently, heads bowed.
They knew how terrifying their lady boss could be just from how quickly she had found Ishida earlier.
Now that they had ssed up… not even bathing in bleach would be enough to atone.
Just the thought of being dumped on the Chūō Line tracks next to Ishida made them want to strip him down and give him a bath themselves.
"Ishida-san? What happened? Why are you in such a state?" Kyousuke stepped forward, his voice smooth and relaxed.
An award in hand.
Friends gathered.
A beautiful woman beside him. A bitter rival groveling at his feet.
Each of these things on its own was enough to make a man down two liters of cola in celebration.
But all four at once? This was happiness on steroids.
The only thing missing was soone stepping up to take the bla for the ridiculous scene Ishida was making.
If soone did, Kyousuke would gladly raise a toast to them.
But no matter. He'd take that credit himself. Happily.
"You filthy scumbag! How dare you pretend not to know?!" Ishida scrambled to his feet, voice shaking with rage.
Everything he'd written in that newspaper article had been out of concern—a senior's advice to a junior.
A high school kid trying to break into the literary world? Absurd.
He should've just stuck to drawing kids' manga and making money off gullible readers.
But instead, he had the nerve to show up here, steal Ishida's Bookstore Award, take over his mont onstage to give a victory speech—and even snatch the beautiful host away from him!
'If he had just done what he was told and not written that damn novel, none of this would have happened!'
'I wouldn't be humiliated like this! I wouldn't have pissed my pants! It's all his fault!'
'And his parents, too! Raising a conniving brat like him—they're to bla as well!'
"What do you an by that?"
Kyousuke furrowed his brows—not faking it, but genuinely savoring the joy of ssing with a fool.
He didn't care at all about the nearby reporters.
Even if he had done sothing, a 'prince vs. evil' narrative would only boost his popularity.
"You little—!" Finally freed, Ishida Hidenori was flexing his wrists, eyes darting around like a rat looking for an opening.
"Ishida-san, I really don't understand. Have I wronged you sohow?" Kyousuke asked politely, wearing a puzzled expression.
In the art of provoking people, he had studied under none other than Utaha.
While he wasn't a master yet, soone like Ishida was an easy target.
Still speaking with honorifics, still looking innocently confused—this made him ten tis more infuriating to soone on the verge of a breakdown.
Kyousuke knew it.
That's why the smile behind his dark eyes was bubbling up, barely held back.
Ishida, hearing those words, lost it completely.
Forget patience. Forget planning.
His already limited intelligence flew out the window.
'Just so punk kid… You think you can ss with ? I'll—!'
Wait. No. Sothing's wrong.
Just as he was about to push off and lunge forward, Ishida's right foot froze mid-step.
He saw them. The dozen n standing silently behind Kyousuke.
Each one in a sharp black suit. Each one built like a tank.
Each one more intimidating than the last.
Kyousuke stood at a solid 180 cm—tall by any standard—but so of the guys behind him were even bigger.
One of them, in particular, was both taller and more muscular.
Black suits. Black leather shoes.
Wild hairstyles. Sinister smirks.
These n… even twenty years ago, you wouldn't find guys this dangerous in the yakuza.
This wasn't just Kyousuke being bad.
'This was a whole crew of villains.'
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