The next morning arrived with the kind of crisp, ordinary sunlight that filtered through Tokyo's skyline without ceremony. Kuroha Akira had already finished the manuscripts by Sunday morning, working through the weekend with the kind of focus that made time blur at the edges. He borrowed Hijikata-san's printing machine—a bulky, well-used thing that hummed with the patience of office equipment long past its prime—and printed out every page, binding them together into a clean, respectable stack.
Shinomiya handled the remaining funds from the previous period, and Kuroha, with a cheekiness that bordered on artful, talked her into sparing a little extra for postage. The package needed to reach Hurricane Publishing, and since their headquarters sat within the twenty-three wards of Tokyo, same-city mail would likely arrive before the day's end.
Editors typically set aside one day each week to sort through the submissions that had piled up over the previous days. That meant the manuscript he'd just sent out would likely see results as early as next week. Japanese publishing houses, for all their rigid structures, still operated with a certain courtesy: even if the submission was utter garbage, the editorial department would send a polite reply, maybe even a few encouraging words. It was a long game, cultivating potential writers.
In other words, by next Friday at the latest, he'd know.
As for Shirai Shiori's progress—well, there was no way she was moving faster than he was. She had to read through mountains of light novels first, observing, learning, absorbing the style. That took time. Meanwhile, his manuscript was already in transit. If the editor picked it up, the victory would be decided before she even crossed the starting line.
That said, Kuroha Akira genuinely hoped his manuscript would be accepted. The whole "seeing Shirai Shiori take off her clothes" part was just bonus content—an extra reward flag at the end of a quest chain. The real prize was the manuscript fee.
That first pot of gold changed everything. Once royalties started coming in, the financial constraints that had been quietly strangling so many of his plans would finally loosen. Shinomiya's development roadmap, the excavation of other latent geniuses scattered across the city, all of it would stop being theoretical dreams and start becoming actionable steps.
The kept-man lifestyle? Accelerating.
...
Mori Katsuma, deputy editor-in-chief of Hurricane Publishing, was now in his eighth year in the industry. In that time, dozens of rising stars had passed through his hands. Dozens of promising new books. Seven bestsellers that had come to define segments of the light novel market.
Of course, more than half of those works had since become the kind of novels you'd find languishing in secondhand bookstore bargain bins, spines cracked, pages yellowed, no one bothering to even flip through them. Most of those promising newcomers had vanished just as quickly—meteoric, brief, then gone.
None of that changed the fact that his efficiency made other editors look like they were standing still.
For a typical editor, discovering one promising new author and pushing out two new works in a year was considered above and beyond. Most new editors didn't even need to discover talent; they inherited resources from their seniors and coasted.
But Mori Katsuma? This guy churned out seven or eight hit works every single year. He pulled in four or five newcomers annually—people who'd never written a novel before, lured from God knows where—and somehow made them productive. His willingness to take risks with untested authors would make even the most reckless football manager wince.
cough.. Pep... Cough
But there was a price. His ruthlessness with authors who couldn't keep up was legendary. He was widely resented, called "the cruelest editor" behind his back without a shred of exaggeration. Seventy percent of the works under his watch were axed after a single volume—no proper ending, no graceful exit. Just cut. Many of those authors never got a second chance anywhere else. Their careers ended faster than shooting stars.
Of the remaining thirty percent, twenty percent managed to dodge the one-volume death sentence, but they still got forced to wrap things up within five volumes.
Non-negotiable.
Iron fist, velvet glove?
No. Just iron fist.
But here's the twist: many of those authors went on to produce genuinely good work after transferring to other editors or other publishing houses. Some even became the backbone of the light novel industry. So while Mori's methods were brutal, the results—eventually, for some—paid off.
A ninety percent cancellation rate. Even in the notoriously merciless manga industry, that number would raise eyebrows. In the novel industry, it was practically unheard of. Unique, yes. But not exactly the kind of uniqueness you'd brag about at parties.
The remaining ten percent? Those were the seven major hits that had become Hurricane Publishing's crown jewels, including the former flagship series, Unfortunate Fortuneteller, Don't Cry.
But despite his terrifying reputation, no one in the editorial department resented Mori Katsuma. Not a single complaint. Why? Because the man was absurdly generous. Every author he personally cultivated—even the strong ones who'd become industry mainstays—he handed over to other editors without hesitation. No hoarding. No territorial-ism.
That's why people in the industry called him half angel, half devil. The angel side was for his fellow editors—patient, giving, almost absurdly kind. The devil side was reserved exclusively for authors.
Mori himself never thought much of the praise. In his mind, once an author was mature enough to produce work with a strong, independent voice, they didn't need him hovering over their shoulder anymore. Their sales would probably be fine. So why hoard them? His energy was finite, and he had new talent to hunt.
This was also why, after eight years of undeniable results, Mori Katsuma remained a deputy editor-in-chief. Because an editor-in-chief didn't just discover talent and crack the whip for manuscripts. They also coordinated joint campaigns with other publishers, organized author signing events, maintained relationships with printing factories, and juggled the endless logistics of manga adaptations, anime tie-ins, and all the behind-the-scenes chaos that kept a publishing house running.
Mori didn't bother with any of that. He'd already built enough undeniable achievements to prove his eye for talent, and that gave him the privilege to skip the trivialities.
In truth, his original reason for entering the editing world was disarmingly simple: he wanted to be the first reader.
When he was in junior high, Mori Katsuma was the textbook definition of a bookworm. He'd burn through popular new novels like a man possessed, always racing to be the first kid on the block to crack open the latest releases the moment they hit store shelves.
But somewhere along the way, frustration started creeping in.
Why do these authors publish so slowly?! What are the editors even doing—sitting around playing mahjong at the publishing house?! Go hunt them down! Urge for manuscripts! I NEED to read what happens next!
Then, in the agonizing limbo of waiting for sequels, it clicked.
Wait a second… isn't an editor the very first person to see a work fresh off the press?
A flash of revelation struck like lightning.
Alright! I've decided—I'm becoming an editor!
Authors! Your doomsday has officially arrived!
When I enter this industry, none of you lazy bums are gonna slack off on my watch! Even if I have to whip it into your backside, I'll drag those manuscripts out of you if it's the last thing I do!
But after actually becoming an editor, reality hit him like a cold bucket of water. Creating a work wasn't as simple and straightforward as throwing ingredients into a hotpot and dumping in seasoning packets once the water boiled.
More often than not, authors themselves had no idea what to write next. They'd struggle for three days and crank out ten characters—half of which were names and punctuation marks.
Turns out, these authors weren't trying to dodge work. They weren't being lazy. They genuinely couldn't write.
The realization left Mori disappointed. Furious, even.
Is this really all you so-called professional writers are capable of? Give me something more interesting! If you can't, I'll just have to force you to achieve enlightenment myself!
And so, riding that surge of righteous anger, Mori Katsuma launched his career as the devil editor…
That, in a nutshell, is the illustrious career of professional editor Mori Katsuma.
And now, once again, he found himself sifting through amateur submissions sent to Hurricane Publishing.
Normally, this kind of grunt work fell to the new editors—picking out the readable candidates to bring up at serialization meetings. But Mori had taken over this job himself. Besides, he held the authority to independently decide whether a work got published.
Sure, more than half of these submissions were self-indulgent middle school power fantasies, dripping with the kind of raw unfiltered chuunibyou that made even veteran editors wince. But buried in the pile, there were also genuinely interesting ideas sprinkled here and there.
Mori would jot those ideas down, reach out to the submitters, and see if they had any cultivation value. If the writing itself was truly hopeless—lacking substance, drowning in purple prose—he'd, with the submitter's consent, purchase the concept for a fee. Later, when his established authors hit writer's block, he'd feed them these ideas as breakthrough material.
The trick worked like a charm. Authors stuck in creative ruts found direction, and the submitters—who couldn't cut it as professional writers—were thrilled to see their concepts brought to life in published works.
Most of these idea submitters were students. They'd get a nice chunk of pocket money, and they got to flex to their friends: "See this plot twist? Yeah, that was MY idea!"
Mori knew full well this was exploitation—harvesting inspiration from wide-eyed students before they understood commercial value, milking their innocence for all it was worth. A pretty despicable move by any standard.
But honestly?
Who cared?
As long as the work becomes interesting, that's all that matters!
I'm an editor, after all. My mission is to make interesting works.
With that settled, he began the day's work.
....
The first submission on the pile had arrived recently. He scanned the title:
My Sister is Actually an H-Game Master?!
Mori's eyes lit up like neon signs in Akihabara.
Excellent! The title alone had already snagged his attention hook, line, and sinker. This proved the author at least knew the game—in today's light novel landscape, a strong hook was becoming increasingly crucial.
He cracked open the manuscript with genuine anticipation.
Alright then, let's see what kind of novel experience this mysterious 'insider author' has cooked up for me!