The Edogawa Ranpo Award is a literary prize established to honor the legendary Edogawa Ranpo.
It is widely regarded as the highest honor in Japanese detective fiction.
The award's prestige, recognition, and influence make it one of the most important literary prizes not just in Japan but worldwide.
Winning it doesn't just bring honor; it also opens doors to contracts with major publishing companies, giving both recognition and financial reward.
Depending on the success of the winning novel, there can also be opportunities for IP development and licensing—radio dramas, stage plays, live-action adaptations—profitable collaborations that can come knocking even while you stay at home.
In short, winning first place in this award proves both talent and signals a serious step toward becoming a professional mystery novelist.
As such a highly respected and closely watched prize, winning it is no easy feat.
Every year, the selection process for the hundreds of submissions can generally be divided into three stages.
The first stage involves initial review by editors experienced in literary work.
Some years see over five hundred submissions. These editors skim through, filtering out novels whose quality is clearly insufficient.
The second stage is far more rigorous.
At this point, the Edogawa Ranpo Selection Committee takes over.
Comprising six to over ten members, the committee generally includes famous mystery critics, university professors, literature researchers, and established mystery writers. Their expertise and judgment are beyond doubt.
They read the surviving manuscripts carefully and select the ten most outstanding works.
Finally comes the last stage of final review.
After discussion and usually following the "majority rules" tradition, the committee selects one novel as the winner.
At this very moment, one member of the committee—Shin Kunidake, now an emeritus professor at Okei University and enjoying a second career as a literary critic—was visibly overwhelmed.
He stood, unable to contain his excitement, immediately drawing the attention of others in the review room.
An assistant approached quietly, "Professor Kunidake, are you alright?"
But Kunidake remained entranced, clutching the manuscript of Astrology Murder Magic, his expression utterly fervent.
The moment the murder trick was revealed, he had been shocked to his core.
Even his normally composed mind trembled!
In recent years, mystery novels had gradually waned—not just in market share, but also in cultural prominence.
Genres like romance, fantasy, and the recent boom in light novels had eroded their audience.
But the real reason wasn't just changing tastes among Japan's younger generation.
The root cause lay in mystery fiction itself.
Weapons, tricks, cryptic codes, alibis, locked rooms… everything had been explored exhaustively over the decades.
This made it exceedingly difficult for new works to introduce genuinely fresh ideas.
Occasionally a promising work would appear, but too often it fizzled at the end—the resolution felt contrived or nonsensical, no matter how compelling the puzzles seemed.
Consequently, mystery fiction had splintered into subgenres:
The classical school, focused on pure deduction.
The social school, reflecting society through the story.
The suspense school, emphasizing atmospheric tension and unexpected twists, keeping readers guessing until the final reveal.
The classical approach had been exhausted by previous masters; now, even diehard fans often found it repetitive. Writers had no choice but to innovate within these sub-branches.
And now… everything had changed.
"…This novel is definitely the best this year. I don't even need to read further; it's simply unmatched!"
Kunidake clutched the manuscript tightly, even as other committee members approached.
When they looked at the manuscript in his hands, Kunidake suddenly turned to the staff member assisting them.
"Oyama, who is the author of this novel? One of last year's rejected contestants?"
The staff member hesitated, unsure how to reply.
Other committee members quickly intervened:
"Professor Kunidake, we really shouldn't ask that."
Years earlier, a literary prize scandal had erupted: bribing judges to secure awards. The author fled abroad, changed citizenship, and the publishing house behind the scheme suffered immensely.
That incident served as a stark warning to other literary associations.
The Edogawa Ranpo Award had since tightened its selection process.
Previously, final judges received copies of submissions at home, read them individually, and later discussed to select winners.
Now, the revised system is strict:
Judges cannot know the author's identity.
They stay in the same hotel during deliberation.
Movement is restricted; private outings are discouraged until a winner is chosen.
It's almost like grading a major exam, but it maximizes fairness and prevents corruption.
Kunidake nodded knowingly.
Though he wanted desperately to speak with the author, to understand the genius behind such a clever trick, he restrained himself—for the fairness of the competition and the sake of the author.
He exhaled slowly and sat down.
But the others in the office all remained standing.
After all, these were the most devoted mystery aficionados in the country. Seeing Kunidake so moved—so shaken that he almost forgot the rules—signaled one thing: this was no ordinary novel.
Perhaps even a masterpiece.
One committee member stepped closer: "Professor Kunidake, may I read the manuscript after you?"
Another interjected: "No, Nitta-kun, the one in your hands isn't finished yet. Let me read mine first; I just finished The Solitary Village Mermaid Case. Its method of crime was impressive; I recommend you check it first."
A playful argument broke out:
"The fake alibi timetable trick? High-level? Come on, Tomoda-san…"
—
Meanwhile, Minamoto Senya had no idea his manuscript was being eagerly passed around the selection committee.
At the start of the new semester, he was immersed in everyday school life.
During lunch break, accompanied by Saeko, no longer the kendo club captain, he visited the kendo club.
Then—
"Minamoto-kun! Everyone in the kendo club, all forty-two of us, ask you—please lead us to victory again, for Kawaran's honor!"
The new kendo captain led the group in a synchronized bow the moment Senya entered the dojo.
Senya paused, slightly taken aback. Even Saeko looked surprised.
"Wait, what are you all doing?"
The captain's commanding voice explained: "The Gyokuryu Cup starts at the end of March. We want you, Minamoto-kun, to lead us again!"
Senya nodded: "Fine, we'll participate. But you don't need to kneel—stand up already."
The captain blinked: "Eh? So you're agreeing?"
"Yes, I was planning to participate anyway," Senya said casually.
He didn't care about school or team honor; he only wanted to shine in his own way, to achieve something remarkable for his future.
As he finished speaking, the captain was still frozen, but the others erupted in cheers.
After all, they had all witnessed Senya single-handedly take on forty-seven people; having him lead them again practically guaranteed victory.
Later, as they left the dojo and walked toward the school courtyard, Saeko explained:
"I think they assumed you weren't participating this year. You didn't come to the dojo during the break, and I didn't make you captain—it probably looked like you weren't interested."
Senya nodded, finding her reasoning plausible.
By the bulletin board, they checked their entrance exam results.
As usual, Senya ranked first in the grade, a position he had maintained steadily for years.
Saeko's results had improved, now seventh in the grade. Without extra club duties, she had more time to study, making her progress natural.
If she maintained this, the entrance exam for Soubu High in two months would be no problem.
The two exchanged satisfied smiles.
"I brought lunch today too. Let's eat at our usual spot," Saeko said, carrying her bento box, smiling brightly.
Hearing "usual spot," Senya's heart raced. His gaze drifted to her soft, pink lips.
Since their hot spring trip, when they had shared a private, intimate moment under a blanket, they had confirmed their relationship in secret.
Now, in private moments, she seemed bolder.
They were ostensibly eating lunch, but once in the secluded courtyard, bento boxes aside, Saeko melted into Senya's arms like water.
Like young lovers, more concerned with each other than the food.
Meanwhile, on the school rooftop:
Rikka and Eriri sat together.
Eriri frowned despite the delicious homemade lunch.
"Rikka, don't you think Saeko and Senya haven't really been hanging out with us since the semester started?"
Seizing the moment, Rikka slyly stole a fishball from Eriri's bento.
"They have bigger things to focus on—Saeko with entrance exams, and Senya, you know, an unreasonably talented genius. We shouldn't disturb them now."
It was Senya's subtle way of explaining why he and Saeko were acting independently.
Unfortunately, both girls believed it.
"Eh… I hope Saeko succeeds," Eriri sighed, feeling a tinge of melancholy.
When she went to resume eating, half her bento had vanished. She realized Rikka's cheeks were puffed out like a goldfish.
Eriri fumed, and the two began playfully wrestling.
January 23:
The Edogawa Ranpo Award officially announced that this year's winning novel had been determined.
The results would be revealed the next day at 9 a.m., via television and online livestream.
The following Saturday, Utaha Kasumino, Eriri Zaimura, and Saeko Dojima arrived early at Senya's home to interrupt him.