"…Interesting!"
The moment he finished the prologue, Mori Katsuma couldn't help but let his first assessment slip out.
The prologue did everything right. It laid out the core premise, delivered some thrilling fan service content, and—most strikingly—threw the sister character directly into the brother's most mortifying moment. Pure drama. The kind of dramatic irony that hooks readers by the throat and doesn't let go.
Mori's editor instincts were already tingling. He could smell the faint, unmistakable scent of a potential hit wafting off the pages. This had all the makings of the best submission he'd seen all year.
But what really caught his professional eye was something deeper: even in just this prologue, the work radiated a powerful "sense of imagery."
Making a novel feel visually vivid wasn't something you could fake. That kind of craft usually came from experience—seasoned authors who'd learned to paint scenes with words rather than just describe them. Some writers could spend paragraphs on meticulous details and still leave readers struggling to picture anything. Others, with far fewer words, could make the scene crystal clear.
For traditional literature, maybe that wasn't the highest priority. But for light novels? It was everything.
Because light novels were, first and foremost, the genre most suited for adaptation—into manga, into anime, into the kind of multimedia franchises that defined the industry landscape.
Mori had watched the definition of "light novel" shift and evolve over the years since he first entered the field. But one thing remained constant in his mind: the most important question was always, "Is this novel adaptable?"
Manga and anime adaptations had the power to send original novel sales into the stratosphere. In a country with Japan's animation infrastructure, that collaboration wasn't just helpful—it was the ultimate combo move.
Light novels already had the built-in advantage of illustrations and character designs. And yet, so many authors completely missed this point. They chased literary depth and thematic meaning while neglecting the visual experience their novels could offer.
To hell with literary merit! Mori thought, not for the first time. If you want to write literature, go submit to a traditional publishing house! You've come to the wrong building!
This author, though? They clearly understood the assignment.
Mori's expectations climbed another notch. He wanted to dive straight into the next chapter—but found something unexpected waiting for him. Instead of the main text following the prologue, there were character introductions and descriptions.
Reading this first might spoil things… I'll just skip—hmm?
He'd intended to breeze past, but his eyes snagged on something: a dialogue box. On a character introduction page. That didn't make sense.
He looked closer. His eyes widened.
This wasn't a character introduction at all.
"This is… a placeholder page for color illustrations!"
After each character's name was a single line of dialogue—a snippet perfectly tailored to highlight that character's personality. And there were four female leads listed. Four. The novel was clearly built around them as its central selling point.
The text below wasn't a character description either. It was direction notes for an illustrator. A postscript explained that the illustrations would normally go at the very front of the book, but had been placed after the prologue specifically for the editor to "preview" the concept.
Mori understood immediately. If a submission opened with illustrations, he'd have dismissed it as a rookie trying too hard to be flashy. But after reading the prologue first, he'd already judged the content on its own merits. The author had predicted exactly how an editor's mind would work—and structured the submission accordingly.
And the fact that they'd already mapped out exactly which scenes deserved illustrations showed just how intentional this all was.
His curiosity ignited. In what contexts did those dialogue lines appear? What situations prompted those perfectly chosen words?
He read on.
Four hours slipped by like water through fingers. The morning work session vanished entirely while Mori remained glued to the pages, lunch forgotten, his tea growing cold on the desk.
When he finally turned the last page of the complete volume, he leaned back and exhaled a single word.
"Amazing…"
But he wasn't just marveling at the author's talent. What struck him was how thorough the author had been. Every angle, every contingency—covered.
This was already a "complete light novel."
Most submissions to the editorial department were fragments: an opening chapter with an outline attached, sent in the hopes of getting feedback. Sending an entire completed volume signaled confidence. Serious confidence.
And in this case, that confidence was justified—because the submission had already done all the pre-publication legwork.
Publishing a light novel in bunko format normally took two to three months. The author had to produce the manuscript. Then, after submission, editors needed one to two weeks for adjustments—content revisions, word count trimming, layout formatting. Then came illustration commissions, printing, distribution, and finally, placement on bookstore shelves across the country.
This submission? It had nothing left for an editor to adjust. The length was perfect. The word count was dialed in. All it needed was an illustrator to execute the already-planned artwork, and it could go straight to printing.
In his entire editorial career, Mori had never seen a submission with this level of completeness. It told him one thing clearly: this person understood publishing houses from the inside out.
For a moment, he even wondered if this was a well-known author using a new pen name to mess with him. He had to fight the urge to hunt down the sender's address and name just to confirm.
The content itself was airtight. Everything that needed to be there was there—and then some. Things he hadn't even thought to expect were present, and executed just as compellingly as the core material.
Even within the chapter text, the author had embedded illustration placeholder pages similar to the opening, complete with detailed direction notes. And those illustrations were placed at the exact moments where Mori's own mind had naturally generated vivid images. They highlighted the heroines' most charming moments, the protagonist's coolest beats—everything perfectly complementing the prose.
If the title and opening illustration pages had only signaled that this author understood selling points, now Mori could confirm something deeper. This author was intentionally crafting a visual experience. They were paving the way for adaptation.
The only minor flaw? The writing style itself was relatively immature.
But in the light novel genre, style mattered far less than readability. Smooth, clear prose was king.
And this author? They clearly knew that writing style wasn't their strongest suit. So instead of trying to flex, they kept things simple—clean vocabulary, crisp sentences, no wasted movement.
The result? Effortless to read. Honestly, even a grade-schooler could tear through this and have an absolute blast doing it.
And yet, the emotional beats landed without a single misstep.
Perfect. This is perfect. This author has real potential—moldable, coachable, the whole package.
Mori Katsuma's biggest headache had always been authors with zero self-awareness. The ones who stumbled through the creative maze like headless chickens, crashing into walls, blind to their own weaknesses until they inevitably painted themselves into a corner and couldn't write their way out.
But at least those types could be salvaged with proper editorial guidance.
What really made his blood boil were the arrogant, unrepentant ones. The authors who insisted their work was flawless even as sales tanked, who blamed readers for "not understanding their genius." Those literary orphans? He'd toss them aside without a second thought.
By now, this submission was so impressive that Mori wanted to reach out to the author immediately. The phone was practically calling his name.
But he was a seasoned deputy editor-in-chief. He had other angles to consider.
Namely: sustainability.
This volume's story was airtight. But it could also be a one-hit wonder—a flash of brilliance that fizzled out afterward. He had no idea how the follow-up arcs would shape up.
Plus, achieving this level of completeness took time. How long had the author spent polishing this? Months? Over a year?
In the professional writing world, speed and consistency were everything. You had to keep delivering quality content, volume after volume, or the industry would chew you up and spit you out.
Only superstar authors got manuscript delay privileges. Publishing houses turned a blind eye for them.
Mori had seen too many promising series start strong, only to unravel in later volumes. He'd had no choice but to pull the plug on countless projects. He wanted those authors to succeed—but if he could already see sales cratering ahead, why force garbage onto readers?
In any case, first contact was necessary. He needed to understand how long this author spent writing, how they plotted the story, whether they had the stamina to keep going.
Mori had already decided: this submission was more than worth his time. As deputy editor-in-chief, he'd personally invite the author to a meal. If the follow-up plots could maintain this standard, this would become a bestseller—no question.
Then he noticed something. The submission wasn't done.
He pinched the remaining pages. There was still a substantial chunk left.
Wait. Could it be… the second volume is already written too?
He turned the page.
What greeted him was:
Outline of Subsequent Content.
Mori Katsuma couldn't help it. A laugh burst out of him right there in his editorial cubicle.
"Haha! Very perceptive!"
So even my reaction as an editor was within your calculations, huh?
Good kid… You're the one.