(A Declaration Forged in Ambition!)
Her lack of desire for an art university meant she had time. Her burning passion for drawing had already transmuted her talent into those rare, precious design proficiencies.
In other words, she was the perfect candidate to be the illustrator for a light novel.
If Kuroha Akira went at it alone, even attempting to 'borrow' stories from his past life, the journey would be rocky at best. The core issue was an old, stubborn wall he kept hitting: the barrier of language.
Though he'd spent half a year diligently practicing, listening, speaking, and reading posed no problems. But writing? The chasm between him and a native speaker was a vast, yawning gorge. If he were writing in Chinese, Akira was confident he could mine his first pot of gold through novels. But asking him to craft prose in Japanese? The result would likely be something akin to a grammatically correct, yet painfully stiff, elementary school composition.
After all, with [Japanese lv1] glaring back at him from his own status, expecting eloquent, flowing sentences was pure fantasy. Even if a brilliant line sparked in his mind, it had to undergo a clumsy mental translation. If he couldn't achieve faithfulness, expressiveness, and elegance—the holy trinity of translation—the final text would inevitably feel lacking, like a masterpiece viewed through foggy glass.
However! A light novel was not high literature. Its soul wasn't in lyrical prose or philosophical depth, but in the gimmick, the pacing of the story, and—critically—in character designs that etched themselves into a reader's heart.
Yet, even for a light novel, crafting an immersive reading experience required a baseline level of writing skill. A skill Kuroha Akira currently… did not possess.
But. If paired with exquisite, captivating illustrations? That weakness could not only be compensated for, but could actually create a canyon-sized gap between his work and others in the current market!
Because, in this world, the age of light novels was still in its dawn. It hadn't yet reached the era of mass-produced, homogenized fantasy series. Looking at those early pioneering works, one could see the illustration quality was often… functional. Initially, pictures were mere supplements, providing a basic character reference. The writing was primary; art, secondary.
But in his past world, publishers and editors had made a revolutionary discovery: exquisite illustrations could single-handedly rocket sales. That's why light novel art became a fiercely competitive battlefield, even to the point of role reversal—leading to the industry joke about "buying the illustrations and getting toilet paper [the novel] for free." The content sometimes became secondary; if the art was stunning enough, readers would open their wallets.
Therefore, if Kuroha Akira could secure a talented, long-term illustrator to breathe life into his narratively solid but prose-clumsy stories… it would be nothing less than a dimensionality reduction attack on the current light novel landscape!
This was the crux of it. This was why he had to seize Aizono Moe now, the moment her potential was confirmed.
However, his impulsive action—grabbing her hands with the fervor of a battlefield declaration—delivered a seismic shock to the naturally timid girl.
"Fweh?!"
Her face flushed a spectacular, sunset crimson. Her eyes lost all focus, swirling in panicked confusion. For a second, it seemed her very soul might float right out of her body and phase through the clubroom ceiling.
"What on earth are you saying so suddenly?!"
It was Shirai Shiori's sharp, clear voice that acted as an anchor, pulling Aizono Moe's spirit back to earth. Regaining a sliver of composure, Moe looked down shyly, her voice a tiny whisper. "U-um… Kuroha-san… your hands… your hands…"
"Ah, my apologies. I got carried away," Kuroha Akira said, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.
But he did not let go.
He maintained his grip, his tone shifting into one of breathtaking, unwavering sincerity. "But my feelings are genuine! I truly, earnestly hope you will be the one to illustrate my novel!"
This opportunity… I'm seizing it with both hands! Literally!
"Of course, I'm not asking for free work. Once the novel is published, aside from the standard illustration fees, I'll split the royalties with you fifty-fifty. How does that sound?"
While illustrators were typically paid a set fee, Akira didn't mind offering more. It was a strategic investment—all to firmly bind this rare talent to his fledgling ship. Where else would he find an artist of this caliber just sitting in a high school literary club? She was a hidden gem, a treasure chest waiting to be opened!
Though Aizono Moe had little concept of industry remuneration, she understood the core meaning: the drawing she'd always done as a mere hobby was now being passionately sought after. The intensity of his request short-circuited her usual reflex to refuse. Her only worry was a practical one: Could she actually draw light novel illustrations? She'd never tried before.
"U-uhm… Y-you want me to draw… l-light novel illustrations…?"
Watching this exchange with keen interest, Asato Hitomi chose this moment to step closer. With a serene smile, she placed her own hands over theirs, creating a peculiar, layered sandwich of hands in the middle of the table—a strange tableau that looked like a group prayer or a peculiar cheer.
The Class President's seemingly gentle grasp was deceptively firm, effectively trapping Kuroha Akira's hands in the middle, making withdrawal impossible without a concerted effort.
"My, my," Hitomi chimed in, her voice dripping with innocent curiosity. "I know about those. Light novels are those illustrated paperbacks that have become quite trendy lately, right? Because they're bunko-bon, they're so wonderfully portable."
Her understanding reflected that of the average person in this world. Bunko-bon referred to the small-format, A6-sized paperbacks that emerged in the Showa era—compact, lightweight, and perfect for a commute. Originally, they were often reprints of existing hardcovers, aimed at popularization and cost-saving.
But since the turn of the century, the rise of this new, accessible genre—stories anyone could easily enjoy—had rebirthed the bunko-bon. Their ease of reading and literal 'lightness' perfectly embodied the term 'light novel,' making the formats almost synonymous.
"Um, Hitomi-chan, I do know what light novels are…" Aizono Moe mumbled, a faint spark of otaku pride flickering through her embarrassment. As a consumer of manga and anime, she was naturally drawn to their cousin medium and had a shelf of popular titles at home. Her favorite genre was school romance; those sweet, slightly cliché interactions between boys and girls were the kind of fantasies she secretly adored.
She'd always believed such scenarios were confined to the pages of fiction… until today, when a boy actually held her hands, and she realized…
A boy's hands are so much larger… and stronger than they look…And so warm… It's like slipping them under a kotatsu in winter…
No! Bad brain! This is no time for such delusions!
Aizono Moe gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head, physically dispelling the fantasy. She tried to sound composed. "I… I just don't really understand. Why is Kuroha-san so set on me drawing them? You haven't even seen my art…"
"I read palms," Kuroha Akira stated, his confidence unshakable. "By looking at your hands, I know. Aizono-san, you are absolutely capable of this."
"Mmm…"
Being trusted so completely, without condition or evidence, filled Moe with a confusing cocktail of elation and anxiety. Her lack of confidence warred with the warmth of his faith.
"B-but… I've never drawn professional illustrations before…"
"That's fine! I'll guide you on what's needed! Aizono-san, you possess immense talent. You'll master the style quickly, and you'll draw them more beautifully than anyone else!"
"Th-then… should I… give it a try…?"
Aizono Moe was on the verge of being completely swept away. Seeking an anchor, her eyes darted toward her two best friends for guidance.
But before the Class President could offer her measured opinion, Kuroha Akira struck first, pivoting his argument with tactical precision.
"The Class President mentioned earlier that the Literary Club lacks substantial activities," he began, his voice adopting a tone of strategic solemnity. "If we use this project as our core activity and produce a tangible result—like a published novel—then even with low membership, the Student Council would have no grounds for disbanding us. Furthermore, we could use this achievement to elevate the club's profile and attract new members."
He was deploying the ultimate weapon: the continued existence of the Literary Club itself. Even if manuscript fees or royalties didn't sway her, as a member, the responsibility to save her club would be a powerful motivator. Simultaneously, this line of reasoning was sure to win Asato Hitomi's tacit approval.
A flawless strategy, Akira thought.
But those very words acted as a spark to gasoline for Shirai Shiori. She could no longer maintain her silent vigil.
It's all a ploy! The palm reading, the sweet talk—it's all just a pretext to pull the innocent Moe into his orbit! I see right through you!
She could not stand by. She would not let his calculated charm succeed!
But a glance at Hitomi confirmed her friend was already subtly aligned with Kuroha Akira's momentum. To counter him, she had to attack the foundation of his absurd proposal head-on.
"Hmph… Publishing a novel? You say it so easily." Her voice was cool, laced with pointed skepticism. "Aren't you looking down on professional authors a bit too much?"
To this dismissive, challenging remark, Kuroha Akira did not flinch. He met her gaze, and a profound, unshakable certainty settled within him, a quiet truth from a life once lived.
Looking down on professionals?No.I have no intention of looking down on them.
Because…
"I am a professional."
The statement hung in the air, simple, direct, and utterly audacious. It wasn't delivered with arrogance, but with the calm, factual weight of someone stating the color of the sky. In that moment, the atmosphere in the quiet Literary Club room shifted once more, charged with a new, unexplored tension. The game had just been raised, and the stakes were now crystal clear.