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Leo leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Back in the States, I spent a lot of time with the classics—Hemingway, Steinbeck, the whole 'Lost Generation' vibe," he started, his voice casual. "I've dabbled in world literature too. I'm pretty familiar with the big hitters from the East, though I'll admit I never quite finished Dream of the Red Chamber. Too many characters to keep track of without a spreadsheet. But writing? Yeah, I've got some miles under my belt."
Before the System had "reforged" him, Leo's writing had been a grind. He'd pumped out millions of words of fanfiction, mostly just to see if he could. It hadn't been Shakespeare, but it had given him something most amateurs lacked: stamina. He knew how to structure a scene, how to pace a reveal, and how to keep a reader's attention. Now, with the NZT-48 modification humming in the background of his mind, those millions of words felt like raw material waiting for a master builder.
He wasn't a novice anymore. He was a seasoned veteran with a super-powered engine.
Rin nodded, her slender fingers idly twirling a strand of her hair. She had a clean, oval face and wore her hair in two simple braids—a look that should have felt "small-town" or "rustic," but on her, it just felt... comfortable. She wasn't a showstopper like the girls in the magazines, but she had a gentle, enduring charm. She was the kind of person you could sit in silence with for hours without it feeling weird.
Then there was Utaha, still tapping away in the corner. Her beauty was a different animal entirely. It was sharp, cold, and intimidating. She was the kind of girl who made ordinary guys feel like they needed to apologize just for breathing the same air. She had an "aura" of someone destined for the top of a bestseller list, a queen who didn't have time for the peasants.
Leo, however, didn't feel a shred of inferiority. He had his own aura now—a refined, easy-going confidence that was mostly an act. Inside, he was still the guy who would spend three hours in a heated Reddit argument using 90-word-per-minute typing speed to make his opponent delete their account out of pure frustration.
"Western classics are great, but the Eastern stuff has a different soul," Rin said with a small smile. "It's a shame about Dream of the Red Chamber, though. It's a personal favorite of mine. Still, if you're ready, I'd like to give you that test now."
"Lay it on me," Leo said.
Rin slid a notebook and a sleek ballpoint pen across the desk toward him. "Simple prompt: Write a short essay, three hundred words minimum. The topic? Anyone currently in this room. Any style you want."
Leo glanced around. He could see a couple of the club members whispering, and he could see the back of Utaha's head. Then he looked back at the girl with the gentle braids.
"Anyone?" Leo asked, a playful glint in his eyes.
"Anyone," Rin confirmed, her smile never wavering. "It's just a test. Don't overthink it."
Leo picked up the pen. The weight of it felt perfect in his hand. He didn't even have to pause to think. With the NZT processing and his Qi-enhanced focus, the words were already forming a perfect, cascading waterfall in his mind.
He began to write.
His handwriting was a sight to behold—strong, elegant strokes that looked more like calligraphy than notes. Writing in Japanese was usually a pain for foreigners because of the hiragana and katakana, but Leo's hand moved with a precision that was almost surgical. He didn't write about the "Ice Queen" in the corner or the nervous kids at the other table. He wrote about the girl sitting right in front of him.
He didn't use flowery, romantic junk. He used the clinical, high-definition observation skills of a master artist. He described the way the afternoon light caught the stray hairs of her braids, the calm steadiness in her eyes that reminded him of a quiet lake, and the way her presence seemed to anchor the chaotic energy of the room. He turned the "ordinary" charm of Takashiro Rin into something profound and vivid.
After about ten minutes, the scratching of his pen stopped. Leo exhaled, a faint cloud of heat leaving his lungs. "Done."
Rin picked up the notebook, still wearing that sunny expression. But as her eyes scanned the first few lines, her smile faltered. Then, a faint pink hue began to creep up her neck. By the time she reached the second paragraph, her ears were bright red.
"Ahem..." She cleared her throat, her hand instinctively coming up to touch her cheek, which was noticeably warm. "Leo... I have to admit, your descriptive work is... extremely vivid. But maybe next time, don't use the club president as your subject? It's a bit... much."
The essay wasn't flirtatious—not exactly. It was just so perceptive that it felt intimate. It was the writing of someone who had seen every tiny detail she tried to hide.
Leo just grinned. "Hey, you said anyone. And beautiful things are always easier to describe than the boring stuff, right?"
Rin gave him a helpless, flustered look. She quickly tore the page out of the notebook, folded it with trembling fingers, and tucked it into her bag. "You're dangerous, you know that? Your prose is easily on par with Utaha-san's, and she's a professional. You're overqualified for this club, honestly."
"Does that mean I'm in?"
"Of course you're in," Rin said, regaining her composure and handing him a membership form. "The Literature Department is lucky to have a talent like yours. Though, I should warn you, we're pretty hands-off here. Unless the school forces us into a competition, you're free to use the room however you want. No mandatory meetings, no busy work."
Leo nodded, filling out the form with a few quick, elegant strokes. This was exactly what he wanted. He didn't want a boss; he wanted a base of operations. He wanted a place where he could sit in the same room as Utaha and slowly, methodically, weave himself into her world.
He didn't care about "club activities." He cared about the fact that he was now officially part of the inner circle.
"Sounds perfect to me," Leo said, capping his pen. He glanced over at the corner where Utaha was still typing, though he noticed she was hitting the keys a little harder than before.
He'd made his mark. Now, it was just a matter of time before the pieces of his plan started falling into place.
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