This wasn't just a routine interview question. Mori Katsuma genuinely wanted to know.
Kuroha Akira's writing speed had already sealed the deal in Mori's mind. This was an author he had to lock down, no matter what it took. Whether the kid was exaggerating or not would be confirmed soon enough by his actual output speed. But even if he couldn't maintain one volume a week—honestly, one volume a month would still be ridiculously fast. The publishing house might not even be able to keep up with that pace.
Still, Mori's curiosity burned. Why did someone so young, yet already so seasoned, decide to write light novels? The answer, when it came, was as direct as everything else about Kuroha Akira.
"Sales, I suppose."
Mori's eyes lit up. He leaned in, hungry for more. "Oh? Kuroha-kun, what makes you say that?"
"It's fundamental, isn't it? If you can't even put food on the table, what's the point of writing novels?"
"…!"
A beat of silence, then a laugh burst from Mori's chest. "Haha… Exactly! It's fundamental! This is fundamental!"
He'd asked countless authors that same question over the years. The answers he got always left him vaguely disappointed. They'd circle around creation itself, throwing out "standard answers" like inspiration, characters, settings. They couldn't shed the halo of "author" as some sacred calling. None of them ever considered the mundane, unglamorous question of how do I make a living doing this?
But in modern literature, sales came first. The author's personal expression came second. No matter how brilliant a work was, if it didn't sell, the author couldn't eat.
Mori had always believed it was an editor's job—no, duty—to help authors make a living from their writing. There was no shame in that. Even the great painters spent their pre-fame days hawking their work everywhere, practically begging to sell their entire catalogues.
No sales, no food.
A work's value came from people. Time would wash away the mediocre and leave behind the ones worth remembering. But even a mediocre work—if it brought its author wealth, even temporarily—had value. Because then that author could say with pride: I supported myself with my own work. This is my only profession. I didn't need anything else.
Mori thought he'd finally found an author who understood reality, who aligned with his own philosophy. Then Kuroha Akira kept talking, and Mori realized he'd underestimated the kid entirely.
"Hmm… but just saying 'sales' feels a bit vague, doesn't it?" Kuroha tilted his head. "Let me rephrase. The most important thing should be increasing sales, and the way to do that is through manga and anime adaptations."
Mori's breath caught.
"The value of a light novel is in its IP development. From novel to manga to anime, then radiating outward into merchandise. If you can get a game adaptation too, that's even better. You build a top-down industrial chain, and eventually, it feeds back into the original novel. The IP becomes widely recognized."
"In that scenario, even a mediocre work—one with clichéd plots and recycled settings—can be crowned with the glorious title of 'masterpiece' just by riding a wave of massive popularity. For an author, isn't that the ultimate success?"
Masterpiece wall, Mori thought. That's what the industry called it. Mediocre stories that somehow hit the zeitgeist—usually a fan-service harem mecha show—and became runaway hits, suddenly the benchmark for market trends.
Mori covered his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. A laugh escaped, raw and genuine. "Haha… Kuroha-kun, I really… I really like you."
Only someone with serious experience—someone who'd seen the industry from the inside—could articulate such sharp, incisive views. This wasn't about understanding creation. This was about understanding exactly what a light novel was in the modern market.
In front of this kid, readers were practically naked. He had them completely figured out.
"As long as you're satisfied." Kuroha's tone remained casual. "Seems like we can work together long-term. This is just one of my concepts, you know. I can come up with more interesting stuff."
"Based on that answer alone, I believe everything you say."
"Good. I don't really consider myself an author anyway. I'm just a merchant selling interesting content. So I've got some experience in how to move product."
"Excellent! A merchant!"
The alignment of their values hit Mori like Newtype telepathy—instant, undeniable, electric.
Which led him to do something he'd never done before. He extended an invitation no editor in their right mind offered to a debut author.
"Kuroha-kun, have you considered joining Hurricane Publishing after graduation? I'd be happy to personally mentor you…"
He genuinely felt it would be a shame to limit their relationship to editor and author. For the first time in his career, Mori Katsuma wanted to cultivate a successor.
"Not interested."
The rejection came so fast it practically left skid marks on the table.
Mori blinked. He'd been turned down before, but that quickly? The kid didn't even pause to think about it.
Kuroha seemed to sense he'd been a little too blunt. Mori's appreciation was genuine, after all. He added a quick explanation.
"Don't get me wrong, Editor-Mori. It's not that I'm not interested in being an editor. I'm just not interested in the concept of working in general."
Mori's stunned expression melted into a knowing smile. "Heh heh… I see. No wonder you turned to novel writing. As long as you can produce a bestseller, you can just lie back and let the royalties roll in… Your real goal is financial independence, isn't it?"
Now it was Kuroha's turn to smile. Oh? You get it. You see my ultimate play.
"Yeah. I want to live an easy life."
"Good. I genuinely believe you have the ability to make that happen. Write two or three bestsellers, and financial freedom isn't just a dream."
"Thanks for the kind words."
"Alright, then." Mori extended his hand across the table. "On a personal level, I'm a little disappointed you're not interested in the editor track. But on behalf of Hurricane Publishing, I extend a sincere invitation: please become a resident author with our company."
Kuroha took the hand, and as they shook, he discreetly activated his talent observation.
The result appeared in his vision:
「Urge Manuscripts B」
This editor's talent… is actually Urge Manuscripts!
Kuroha kept his smile perfectly in place, but internally, alarm bells were ringing. That wasn't just any talent. That was the kind of ability that haunted authors' nightmares—the power to materialize beside your desk at 3 AM with a steaming cup of coffee and the unspoken threat of where's the next chapter?
He'd just signed a deal with the devil himself.
"Then I'll return to the office and start drafting the publication contract," Mori said, already shifting into business mode. "After that, we can discuss manuscript fees and royalties. Kuroha-kun, do you have any other requests?"
"Yeah, actually. About the illustrator—can I specify my own?"
Mori's eyebrows rose. "Oh? You already have someone in mind? That's not a problem. As long as they're willing to work with Hurricane Publishing, you're free to choose."
"She's not a professional illustrator yet. She's an acquaintance of mine."
Mori's expression grew more serious. "I don't think I need to tell you this, but you already know how important illustration quality is for a light novel."
"I know. But I have a specific candidate in mind. After she produces the illustrations, I'll send them to you for review. If you're not satisfied, we can still go with your usual illustrators. Is that acceptable?"
Kuroha hadn't collaborated with Aizono Moe before, but she was the catalyst who'd set him on this path. At the very least, he owed her the opportunity. More importantly, working with an unfamiliar illustrator meant limited revision rights. Famous artists with temperamental egos didn't tolerate endless feedback.
But someone he trained himself? She'd be completely obedient. He could ask for revisions dozens of times if needed. Looking at Aizono Moe's soft, malleable demeanor, molding her—teaching her—to draw exactly what he wanted seemed entirely possible.
He couldn't draw himself, but he'd seen enough illustrations to know what worked. With enough revisions, he could make her produce illustrations that satisfied both his standards and the market's demands.
This was his chance at a "dimensional reduction attack." The light novel illustration standards in this world hadn't caught up to his previous life yet. If Aizono Moe could produce artwork exceeding the current average, sales would skyrocket.
Everything for money.
"I see." Mori nodded slowly. "That should be fine. As long as the quality holds up, I have no objections. An illustrator who knows you personally will probably capture your character images better anyway. Our company is always happy to work with promising new talent."
"Great. That's my only request."
Mori glanced at the table, then laughed. "Look at us—we haven't even touched our food yet, and we've already finished all the business. Let's relax and enjoy the meal. The pork cutlets here are incredible. I used to come here all the time when I was younger."
With the major matters settled, Kuroha could finally dig into the crispy, golden tonkatsu with a clear conscience.
And as for the showdown with Shirai Shiori? It was already decided.
He'd taken just over a week to fulfill the condition of getting his novel published. Which meant…
The Naked-man permit was officially his.
***
The Naked Man is a reference to HOW i MET YOUR MOTHER's character, Barney. In his art of seduction, when you take a girl home, her home, and ask to come in for whatever reason, then quickly undress when she's not looking, chances of getting laid are very high when she turns around.
Otherwise, it'd probably make the most awkward night of your life.
Until we meet again!