A faint, unbidden heat rose in Kasumigaoka Utaha's cheeks as she stared at her phone screen. The creative knot that had been strangling her for months—the one that made every sentence feel like pulling teeth—had loosened. Under Leo's guidance, the path forward wasn't just clear; it was paved.
The crushing weight of Love Metronome's failure, the shadow that had been dogging her career, suddenly felt manageable. Leo hadn't just offered empty platitudes. He was like a sudden break in the storm clouds, dragging her career back from the edge of the cliff with sheer, brute competence.
There's an old saying: "Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime."
Aki Tomoya had given her a fish. His advice on volumes three through five had been a band-aid—a temporary fix that kept the series on life support. But Leo? Leo was teaching her the mechanics of the rod and reel. He was showing her the core architecture of storytelling so she wouldn't have to rely on anyone else ever again.
In her mind, the hierarchy had shifted. Leo wasn't just a junior or a wealthy eccentric anymore. He was the mentor who had saved her.
Her thumbs flew across the virtual keyboard, her usual aloof persona melting away into the digital ether.
(Utaha): [Leo-kun, you said Volume 1 is done. When are you planning to pull the trigger on submission? (´・ω・`)]
(Leo): [Probably in a day or two. I want to give it one final polish before I throw it to the wolves.]
(Utaha): [If you're aiming for Shinazugawa Bunko, let me handle the introduction. I can bypass the slush pile and get it directly to an editor. ξ(＊＞◡＜) ]
(Leo): [That would be huge. Thanks, Senior.]
(Utaha): [Don't mention it. I'll make the call tonight so you don't have to trek down to the office. If you're ready, I can set up a meeting ASAP.]
(Leo): [Appreciate it. It's past ten, though. You should get some sleep.]
Leo smiled as he read the last message. He could feel the genuine warmth radiating through the text. The "editor" she was talking about had to be Machida Sonoko—the sharp-tongued, thirty-something single woman who managed Utaha's career.
After sending a quick "goodnight" sticker, Leo closed the LINE client on his desktop. Sleep wasn't on the agenda, though. His brain was still humming with energy, and he wasn't in the mood to game. He cracked his knuckles and reopened his manuscript. He was going to spend the night combing through every line of Volume 1, hunting for typos and pacing issues like a sniper.
Across the city, Utaha sat on her balcony, the cool night wind tugging at her hair. She didn't live with her parents; she rented a small, chic apartment in the city to focus on her writing. The view of the Tokyo skyline, a glittering grid of lights stretching to the horizon, had always been her primary source of inspiration.
She scrolled through her contacts until she landed on a specific name: "Thirty-Year-Old Single Big Sis."
She hit dial and leaned against the railing, listening to the rhythmic ringing tone.
"Hello?" A lazy, slightly husky voice crackled through the speaker. "Utaha-chan? Why are you calling your big sister this late? Did the world end? Or did you finally finish the outline for the new series?"
Machida Sonoko's voice was magnetic—mature, intellectual, the kind of voice that belonged to a high-powered career woman. And she was, technically. But Utaha knew the truth. Sonoko was single for a reason.
"Sonoko-san," Utaha said, her tone light and teasing. "I've got good news and bad news. Which one do you want first?"
"Ugh, give me the bad news. I need another drink for this, don't I?"
In the background, Utaha could hear the distinct sounds of an izakaya—the clinking of glass, the roar of drunk salarymen, and the sizzling of meat on a grill. Sonoko was clearly enjoying her off-hours.
"The bad news," Utaha said, looking out at the city lights, "is that my new series is going to be delayed. Probably about two months."
"Hah?" Sonoko sounded like she'd just choked on a chicken skewer. "Why? We agreed the concept was locked! The deadline—"
"I have a new idea," Utaha cut in, her voice firm. "And if I can pull this off, Sonoko-san, this series won't have the same structural flaws as my debut. I'm not aiming for a safe 50,000 copies this time. I'm aiming for a million."
There was a silence on the other end, followed by the sound of a beer glass being set down heavily.
"A million, huh?" Sonoko's voice shifted. The laziness evaporated, replaced by professional curiosity. "That's a hell of a claim, Utaha. It's good to be confident, but you know the market isn't kind. Alright... you've successfully terrified me. What's the good news?"
"The good news," Utaha said, a smile touching her lips, "is that I've found a monster."
"A monster?"
"A light novel author. He's a rookie—still in high school—but his work has terrifying potential. I'm not exaggerating when I say he could be the next big thing. Millions of copies."
"Oh?" Sonoko sounded skeptical but intrigued. She knew Utaha was proud. Utaha didn't heap praise on others easily. If she was calling someone a "monster," the kid had to be a freak of nature. "What's his genre?"
"Fantasy adventure," Utaha said. "Dark, epic fantasy. And Sonoko-san... our library doesn't have a flagship hit in that genre, does it? We're getting crushed by the other publishers. I think we need to bet on this guy."
On the other end of the line, Sonoko went quiet.
Fantasy Adventure was the heavyweight division of light novels. It was the most mainstream, lucrative genre, but also the most competitive. Shinazugawa Bunko, the publishing house Sonoko worked for, was gasping for air in that arena.
A decade ago, Shinazugawa had been a titan. But a series of disastrous executive decisions had sent them into a slow, agonizing tailspin. They had slipped from the top tier to a struggling second-tier label. The executives responsible were long gone, but the damage was done. They were bleeding relevance.
It was a vicious cycle. Top-tier authors wanted to sign with the biggest publishers, so Shinazugawa got the leftovers. Because they published leftovers, they couldn't produce hits. Because they didn't have hits, they couldn't attract top talent.
"We're in a tight spot, Utaha," Sonoko admitted, her voice low. "If we could actually unearth a flagship fantasy title... it would be a lifeline. It would be a declaration of war."
"Exactly," Utaha said. "He's the weapon we need. Trust me on this."
"Bring him in," Sonoko said, the sound of her lighting a cigarette crackling in the background. "If he's half as good as you say, I'll clear the schedule."