The days that followed settled into a comfortable rhythm. Kuroha Akira kept in steady contact with Mori Katsuma, hammering out the fine print of the contract while trying not to think too hard about the editor's terrifying "Urge Manuscripts" talent lurking in the background like a patient predator.
By mid-September, the contract terms were basically finalized. Royalties came in at 10%—a surprisingly generous rate for a debut author. The industry standard typically hovered around 12% for works that hadn't yet seen magazine serialization, and 10% for those going straight to paperback format. That extra percentage point might not sound like much, but when you started talking about hundreds of thousands or millions in sales? That single digit could mean the difference between a comfortable life and a luxurious one.
The royalty range for light novels usually sat between 8% and 14%. Most new authors got stuck with the baseline 8%, since another 2% typically went to the illustrator. Mori had also made a point of mentioning that if Kuroha's self-introduced illustrator could deliver quality work, he'd push for an exceptional 3% royalty for her—and prioritize future illustration commissions her way.
In other words, if Aizono Moe could draw, she'd never have to worry about work again. A stable, long-term collaboration with a major publishing house was basically the illustrator equivalent of winning the career lottery.
With the contract sorted, the next item on the agenda was the publication timeline.
November. Mid-November, tentatively.
That gave them roughly two months to get everything in order—including the crucial matter of training Aizono Moe to produce illustrations that matched the industry's standards. Kuroha had already clocked her proficiency: Art Lv3, plus actual design proficiency. Changing her style to suit commercial illustration shouldn't be impossible.
He'd also assured Mori that while waiting for the illustrations, he'd continue polishing the first volume and start drafting the second. That promise alone seemed to calm the editor's manic energy, at least for now.
From first draft in September to publication in November—less than three months from start to finish. That pace already exceeded the industry standard of three to four books per year. If he got any faster later on, he might just challenge the legendary "typewriter" Kamachi Kazuma himself, the man who'd somehow maintained a continuous publishing record for twenty straight months.
But back at school, Kuroha made a conscious decision: no gloating.
He didn't rush to Shirai Shiori the moment the contract was signed. Didn't wave it in her face. Didn't even bring up the submission results at all. He just went about his days like nothing had happened.
Shirai Shiori never asked, either. She'd show up to the Literary Club activity room after school, check if Kuroha was there, and then leave without a word. On the rare occasions she actually sat down, she'd ignore him completely. A strange, suffocating silence hung between them—unspoken, undeniable, heavy.
Meanwhile, Aizono Moe grew visibly more anxious by the day. You'd think she was the one who'd be forced to strip if Kuroha won. The way she fidgeted, the way her eyes darted between the two of them, the way she seemed to be holding her breath every time they were in the same room… It was almost painful to watch.
Why the rush? The deadline hasn't even hit yet.
Kuroha's plan hadn't changed: wait for Shirai Shiori's submission results to come back. If by some miracle both of them got accepted, he'd just shrug and say, Wow, what a coincidence! Same day and everything! and let the whole bet dissolve into mutual embarrassment. The class monitor had told him not to push too hard, and honestly, making a teenage girl perform a full-nude dogeza felt excessive even by his standards. He wasn't that petty.
But there was another layer to it. If Shirai Shiori figured out he was going easy on her—which she absolutely would—she'd feel insulted. Humiliated, even. And then she'd hate him for it.
Which meant the class monitor's bet about how Shirai would see him afterward? That was practically locked in.
Plan Passり!
...
With his manuscript obligations temporarily on hold, Kuroha finally had time to properly dive into the stack of borrowed manga and novels. And, more importantly, to actually listen to Shinomiya's voice acting.
She'd been in an exceptionally good mood lately. The reason was simple: Kuroha's attention had drifted back toward her, and she'd noticed. What's more, Shinomiya had apparently decided to stop playing the long game and start being more… direct.
Kuroha couldn't help but notice the shift. The physical distance between them had shrunk considerably, and the incidental contact was becoming more frequent.
When he sat on the bottom bunk reading, Shinomiya would dangle her legs—those long, graceful legs wrapped in fresh white stockings—down from the top bunk and rest her feet on his shoulders, massaging the tension out with the soles of her feet like some kind of elegant, slightly unhinged personal masseuse.
During dinner, she'd sit so close their shoulders practically fused. Every time she lifted her spoon with her right hand, her shoulder brushed against his, sending little electric tingles down his arm.
When he settled into the living room couch with a book, she'd drape her calf across his thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And the foot massages? Those had gone from occasional treat to daily ritual. Twice a day—once after dinner, once before bed—like clockwork.
Shinomiya had also somehow acquired an alarming variety of new stockings. Different colors, different textures, different patterns. Every day brought a fresh pair, ensuring Kuroha's foot-rubbing experience never grew stale. It was thoughtful, really. Considerate, even. And absolutely, utterly maddening.
The result? Kuroha started dreaming about being massaged by Shinomiya's stocking-clad legs. Which led to waking up with… let's call it a "mushroom problem." The kind that required a quiet trip to the restroom before anyone else woke up.
I've been holding back too long…
His solution: morning runs. 5:30 AM sharp. Early enough to avoid any awkward cohabitation encounters.
The side benefit? Tomita Haruka was back in the picture. She'd even started running extra loops with him, accompanying him past the riverside before peeling off. More time to appreciate the thunderous gallop. His mood scores were through the roof.
The downside? Exercise was supposed to be a release valve. Instead, it seemed to be making things worse.
So Kuroha found himself engaging in a different kind of training: the abstinence challenge. Keeping his eyes locked on Tomita Haruka's face instead of drifting downward. Focusing on her words instead of the physics-defying motion happening about a foot lower.
Is this what my life has become? he wondered, not for the first time.
....
Days bled into weeks. The routine held.
Then, on the last week of September, the equilibrium finally cracked.
At lunch, Asato Hitomi mentioned she had something to do after school and wouldn't be at the activity room. But before she left, she offered a cryptic remark, delivered with that calm, knowing smile of hers.
"Kuroha-kun… it seems both bets are about to have their results."
That was enough to put him on alert.
When he arrived at the Literary Club activity room that afternoon, the atmosphere hit him like a wall.
Shirai Shiori sat in her usual spot, but her face was a mess—pale, hollow, the kind of expression that said she'd been wrestling with something heavy and losing badly. Beside her, Aizono Moe looked like she was attending a funeral. Her eyes were glassy, her posture slumped, her hands twisting in her lap like she was trying to physically wring out her anxiety.
Kuroha barely had time to process the scene before Shirai Shiori shot to her feet. Her whole body trembled, but her voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Kuroha Akira. Even if you didn't come to show off, I could tell from your attitude. You've been completely at ease this whole time—no urgency, no preparation for a new work. That means your submission was accepted, wasn't it?"
He scratched his head, staying noncommittal. "Well…"
Her jaw tightened.
"I know you've been waiting for me. I know I've already lost." She reached into her bag and pulled out a letter, her fingers gripping the edges so hard the paper wrinkled. "Last night, I got the reply from the publishing house."
She lowered her head. Her teeth ground together. Each word seemed to cost her something.
"My work… didn't pass."
Kuroha opened his mouth, then closed it.
Oh no.
This was bad. This was really, genuinely bad.
The easy out he'd been counting on—the mutual acceptance, the "what a coincidence," the graceful retreat—had just evaporated. There was no graceful retreat now. There was just Shirai Shiori, standing in front of him with her pride in tatters, waiting for the final blow.
This is going to be hard to get out of.
For both of them.