His mission, therefore, was clear: excavate those 'undiscovered gold mines.'
Specifically, 'hidden geniuses'—individuals blessed with high-level talents but lacking the corresponding skills or even awareness of their own gifts. Ideally, they'd already be in some form of distress, allowing Kuroha Akira to swoop in at the perfect, vulnerable moment.
His goal was to position himself not just as a benefactor, but as a deity in their origin story!
There's a saying: everyone loves to add flowers to the brocade, but few offer fuel in snowy weather. A hand extended during someone's darkest hour could forge a bond of gratitude that lasted a lifetime—an unpayable debt.
Not only am I the loyal brother who stood by you when you had nothing, but I'm also the guide who pointed you toward stardom. That kind of favorability rating would hit max level instantly.
Then, as long as the other party possessed a shred of conscience and understood the concept of repaying a drop of kindness with a gushing spring, Kuroha Akira could sit back and enjoy the freshly cooked, premium-grade 'soft rice' he had cultivated.
The question was merely one of volume. How many such 'powerful figures' would he need to latch onto to achieve his dream life of leisure?
He recalled an old saying: if every person in the world gave you one yen, you'd be a billionaire. His strategy was a refined version of this. If every successful person he helped 'discover' later gifted him, say, ten million yen… then with just ten such people, he'd have one hundred million.
Now, one hundred million yen might be a 'small target' for certain uncles, but for Kuroha Akira, it was the ultimate jackpot for a life of comfort. Crunching the numbers: 100 million RMB was roughly 2.2 billion yen. Divided among ten beneficiaries, each would need to cough up 220 million.
The average Japanese salaryman's lifetime earnings hover around 200-250 million yen. Asking for nearly a lifetime's salary was… optimistic. Even moderately successful people earning tens of millions a year were unlikely to part with such a sum so freely.
It was a well-known truth: once money got involved, even the closest bonds could sour. Brothers could become strangers over far less.
But what if 220 million yen was mere 'pocket change' to them? Chump change they could gift without a second thought?
In other words, it all depended on the caliber of the figures Kuroha Akira could attach himself to. Geniuses came in tiers.
From his observations, talent levels ranged from E (the lowest) to A (exceedingly high). There was, in fact, a tier above: S. He'd only seen it once—on television, during a broadcast of a certain prominent national figure waving to a crowd.
The words [Speech: S] had glowed on the man's palm. Reaching such heights required more than talent, of course, but an S-rank ability like that, akin to a certain dictator's charisma, was undoubtedly a colossal cheat code for amassing influence and allies.
An S-rank talent meant one could reach the absolute pinnacle of a field. Kuroha Akira didn't dare hope to encounter such a person, but he needed to aim for connections with at least B-rank or higher to make the long-term investment worthwhile.
Lower-tier talents would mean slower rises to fame and fortune, resulting in lower-quality 'soft rice' and a painfully long cooking time. Kuroha Akira wanted his life of leisure, and he wanted it soon.
The ideal scenario? Transition directly into a relaxed, funded life upon high school graduation, neatly sidestepping the whole 'unemployed graduate' dilemma.
To summarize: he needed many powerful backers. And they needed to be truly powerful.
As a fallback… just one hundred million yen would be fine, too. Stashed in a bank, the interest alone could probably fund a simple life…
So, the million-yen (or rather, hundred-million-yen) question: where does one find 'young, latent rich women' (or men) possessing high-level, undiscovered talents?
Spotting talent was the easier part. As long as he got close enough, the text would appear on their right palm. He'd yet to see anyone with so many talents they couldn't fit on one hand.
The tricky part was confirming proficiency via the left hand. Only three skill entries displayed at a time, yet even an average person learned more than three things in a lifetime. A genius like the Class President, with dozens of Lv1 skills at fifteen, required a prolonged, awkward hand-hold to scan through them all.
So, to properly vet a candidate, he needed an excuse to take their left hand and focus. This was… inconvenient.
Do I really need to set up a fortune-telling stall?
But he only wanted geniuses. If a parade of normies showed up, it would be a massive waste of time. Furthermore, he knew nothing of actual palmistry or cold reading. He wasn't a psychologist who could sweet-talk clients. He'd likely go bankrupt on opening day.
Plus, he had school. No time for a side hustle as a fraudulent mystic.
The only viable method, then, was the direct approach: spot a talent, initiate conversation, and somehow engineer a reason to inspect their left hand.
"Looks like I need to learn how to pick people up…"
While not socially anxious, Kuroha Akira was no social terrorist either. He had zero experience with cold approaches. Damn. A shy introvert forced to become a pickup artist… The barrier to entry for freeloading is surprisingly high!
In this moment, he felt another pang of envy for the naturally gifted. If he had a talent related to eloquence or charm, he'd master the art of the approach in no time.
For instance, the Class President's [Academic Ability: A] was something he coveted intensely. If that talent's 'accelerated learning' effect applied outside academia, he could swiftly become a social master. Even if it were strictly academic, it was still incredibly valuable—saving immense time and tutoring costs.
While Kuroha Akira didn't necessarily aim for a top university, better grades would at least ease Kobayakawa-sensei's worries about him, wouldn't they?