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Leo found a secluded table near the back entrance of the clubroom, as far away from the central chatter as possible. He knew that while his mechanical keyboard felt like typing on clouds, it sounded like a hailstorm on a tin roof. He didn't want to get kicked out on his first day for being a noise nuisance.
Directly opposite him, silhouetted against the large window at the far end of the room, sat Kasumigaoka Utaha. They were like two bookends in the library of the Literature Department, each occupying their own corner of the world.
He pulled his laptop from his bag—a sturdy, slightly battered machine he'd owned since his early days back in Seattle. It was a tank of a computer, its specs bordering on ancient by modern standards. It couldn't dream of running a 3A title or high-end rendering software, but for word processing and 2D illustration, it was his "old reliable."
He'd tweaked it over the years, of course. A bit of the "Ship of Theseus" logic applied here; he'd swapped the hard drive for a high-capacity SSD and boosted the RAM as much as the motherboard would allow. Apart from the original shell, the internals were a patchwork of upgrades.
"Laptops," Leo mused silently as he plugged in his matte-black mechanical keyboard. "They're like a bad relationship. You can try to change them on the inside, but eventually, the frame just can't support the weight of your expectations."
Just as the screen flickered to life, Rin returned, a single sheet of paper in her hand. She placed it on the desk next to his mousepad.
"Official business," she said with that same sunflower smile. "Fill this out, and you're legally one of us. But... wow, are you starting on a project already?"
She leaned in slightly, her eyes widening as she saw the interface on his screen. Leo wasn't using a standard Word document. He was using a distraction-free writing suite—a "Little Black Room" setup where the screen was nothing but a void of darkness and glowing white text.
"Just a little something to pass the time," Leo said, his voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial murmur. "Writing for my own amusement, mostly."
Rin nodded, her braids swaying. She was curious, he could tell, but she was too polite to pry into a writer's "sacred" first draft. She gave him a final, encouraging pat on the shoulder and walked back to the front of the room.
Leo watched her go, then refocused. He wasn't just writing for fun. He was preparing to drop a tactical nuke on the local light novel industry.
He knew the market. The big publishers—Kadokawa, Dengeki, and the world-specific giants like Shinazugawa—were in a constant arms race. The competition in this world was fiercer than the one he remembered from home. The quality was higher, but the tropes were getting stale.
Japanese authors have the technique, Leo thought as he adjusted his headphones. But they lack the 'wild' factor. Back in the States, web novelists have imaginations that are practically feral. They don't have the same cultural filters. They don't care about 'standards.' They just care about the thrill.
He clicked into the dark screen. He'd decided to write something inspired by OVERLORD, but with a much darker, more Western edge. Instead of a protagonist who clung to his humanity, Leo's lead was going to be a cold, calculating anti-human entity from word one—a leader who wasn't "evil" for the sake of it, but simply viewed the rest of the world as resources to be managed.
He started typing.
Clack-clack-clack-clack.
The sound was rhythmic, relentless, and incredibly fast. Back in the States, Leo had been a prolific writer, but now? With NZT-48 and Qi-enhanced motor skills, he wasn't just typing; he was a human printer. He didn't look at the keys. He didn't even look at the screen half the time. He just stared into the middle distance, his fingers a blur of motion, the prose flowing directly from his brain to the digital void.
The noise eventually drew eyes. The kids at the front stopped their debating, glancing back at the new American student who looked like he was trying to break a world record. After a minute of watching him, they realized he wasn't just smashing keys; he was focused, his expression intense and unreadable. They eventually turned back to their own work, assuming he was just another "eccentric genius" like the girl in the other corner.
Utaha, however, couldn't ignore it.
The sound had broken her "zone." It was a continuous, percussive intrusion that made her suspect he was just typing gibberish to look busy. But every time she glanced up, she saw his face—composed, sharp, and terrifyingly focused.
A newbie? she wondered, her brow furrowing. No newbie has that kind of cadence.
Driven by a mix of irritation and genuine curiosity, she stood up. She moved with a silent, feline grace, tiptoeing across the room until she was standing directly behind him.
Up close, she was struck by the sheer physicality of him. She'd seen handsome boys before—the school was full of "pretty boys" who looked like they'd melt in the rain. But Leo was different. He was built like a classic superhero, with broad shoulders and the kind of muscle definition that even a loose school uniform couldn't hide. His profile reminded her of a Greek sculpture—masculine, mature, and dangerously elegant.
She leaned in, her eyes scanning the screen over his shoulder.
She expected amateurish fluff. Instead, she found herself falling into a nightmare.
The prose was... haunting. It was a light novel, technically, but the writing style was more sophisticated than anything she'd seen from her peers. It was visceral, blood-stained, and deeply unsettling. The way he described the protagonist's total lack of empathy wasn't just "edgy"—it felt authentic.
My God, she thought, a faint chill running down her spine. How can someone who looks like a literal god write something this... twisted?
She felt a sudden, sharp pang of envy. Every writer lived in fear of the "Wall"—that moment where the inspiration dried up and the words felt like lead. But Leo looked like he was tapped into a direct vein of pure, unfiltered narrative. He was writing with a "flow" that she hadn't felt in months.
She watched the words scroll by, the contrast between the handsome, calm boy and the horrific content of his story making her head spin.
They say a novel is a mirror of the author's soul, Utaha mused, her gaze shifting from the screen to the back of Leo's neck. Is he like Yoshikage Kira? A perfect, elegant gentleman on the surface, but something monstrous underneath?
Leo didn't stop. He knew she was there—he could smell the faint, expensive scent of her perfume and hear the slight catch in her breathing—but he kept his eyes on the void.
Almost there, Utaha, he thought, his fingers never missing a beat. Take a good look. This is the guy who's going to take your crown.
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