Kuroha Akira suddenly regretted everything. If he'd known it would come to this, he should have just skipped the Literary Club today. Let the storm pass without him. But hindsight was a cruel mistress, and here he was, standing in the middle of a disaster he'd helped create.
But wait—Shirai Shiori's submission really got rejected? That didn't track. It shouldn't have happened.
He'd considered the possibility, sure, but only briefly before dismissing it as unlikely. Authors from traditional literature dipping their toes into light novels usually came to dominate. There was always the risk of poor adaptation—arrogant authors who looked down on the genre tended to produce self-important garbage that ignored market realities—but that didn't sound like Shirai Shiori.
The current light novel environment in this world was still relatively forgiving, too. Not hyper-focused on gimmicks. Even if she'd written something niche, there should have been a market for it.
More importantly, if the editorial department had recognized her name—youngest short story award winner, beautiful JK author—they'd have tripped over themselves to sign her. That kind of marketing potential didn't grow on trees. Just being her was enough to guarantee baseline sales.
And she'd put in the work. Kuroha had seen it firsthand: Shirai Shiori buried in light novels every single day, maintaining that fierce passion for creation. He'd watched her grind.
He hadn't been able to gauge her talent directly—she always wore those white gloves, blocking his observation—but he'd read her award-winning short story recently. Leaving aside whether it was interesting, the character work and prose alone put her miles ahead of most authors. She had to have A-level talent at minimum. Maybe even S-rank.
So what had she written that got her rejected? Had she crossed some dangerous line?
...
While Kuroha was busy mentally dissecting the reasons for her failure, Shirai Shiori remained trapped in the wreckage of her own defeat.
"I lost… I lost completely…"
"Shirai-san—"
"Don't pity me!" Her voice cracked, sharp and raw. "Don't comfort me! Just do it already—mock me, insult me, whatever! Get it over with!"
She was spiraling. Completely giving up on herself. Kuroha had no idea how to handle this.
When he didn't immediately respond, Shirai let out a hollow, bitter laugh.
"Heh… Right. You don't need to say anything. You'll see the most humiliating moment of my life soon enough anyway." Her jaw tightened. "I'll honor the bet. I'm a good loser."
She'd already made peace with it—or at least convinced herself she had.
Turning to Aizono Moe, who stood frozen with worry, she said flatly, "Moe. Go home."
"Shiori…"
"Go home."
Aizono Moe flinched at the sharpness in her friend's voice. She hugged her school bag tighter, shoulders curling inward. She knew staying would only make things worse. The worst part wasn't being yelled at—it was watching her best friend walk toward humiliation and being completely powerless to stop it. She didn't even have the right to witness it. Shiori wouldn't want her there for the most pathetic moment of her life.
As she passed Kuroha on her way out, Aizono Moe looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. Her lips parted, like she wanted to say something—beg, plead, something—but no words came. She just bit her lower lip and hurried out, her footsteps fading quickly down the hall.
Kuroha sighed.
In Aizono Moe's eyes now, he was officially the villain who'd bullied her best friend into the dirt.
Great. That's going to make future collaboration real smooth.
The door clicked shut. Silence settled over the club room like a funeral shroud. Just Kuroha and Shirai Shiori, standing on opposite sides of an invisible line neither of them knew how to cross.
Kuroha's brain kicked into overdrive. He needed an exit strategy. Something graceful. Something that let her walk away with at least a shred of dignity.
Maybe he could start with her submission. Find some external factor to blame.
Oh, Shirai-san, you submitted to the wrong publisher—they don't even publish light novels!
Something to make her feel like the rejection wasn't about her ability, just bad luck or circumstance.
Think. There has to be an angle.
He picked up the rejection letter, scanning it for ammunition. Hurricane Publishing. Same as his. The responding editor? Mori Katsuma. Of course it was. The man handled new submissions personally.
Mori's letter was… actually more encouraging than crushing. Writing isn't bad, but the subject matter feels distant from current market trends. Publication is possible, but projected sales aren't strong. Then came the part that explained everything: I've heard of Shirai Shiori's reputation and greatly admire her talent. Publishing this work would, in my assessment, harm rather than help your career. For that reason, I must regretfully decline.
Followed by the usual encouragement—honored she'd chosen Hurricane, hope to chat in person, looking forward to even better work from her in the future.
Kuroha understood immediately. Mori was playing the long game. He wanted to protect the "genius" label, keep Shirai Shiori's halo intact for a bigger, more impactful debut. Releasing a mediocre work now would kill the golden goose before it could lay any eggs. Any other editor would have published her just for the name recognition. But Mori thought ahead.
Her reputation worked against her.
The higher the expectations, the harder the fall.
"Look, Shirai-san," Kuroha started, holding up the letter. "This editor said you're already at publishing level. This time was just bad luck—"
"I spoke with Editor-Mori on the phone." Her voice was ice. "He mentioned another author around my age who submitted something impressive. Said it would be published in November. Told me I could use it as a reference."
She stared at him, unblinking.
"That person was you. Wasn't it."
Kuroha's eye twitched. Mori. You talked too much.
But honestly, this outcome was inevitable. Two young genius authors submitting to the same publishing house? Of course Mori would compare them. It was his job.
"Uh," Kuroha tried, looking anywhere but at her, "it's not necessarily me, is it? Lots of students submit light novels…"
"I asked if this author had requested a specific illustrator." Her voice was eerily calm. "He said—'How did you know? Do you know Kuroha-kun? Are you two classmates?' That's how I confirmed it."
Damn. She'd phished him. That was actually clever.
"Both of us submitted to the same publisher. Your work was praised. Mine was called 'average.'" She took a step closer. "Is there any room for argument?"
Kuroha opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
What was he supposed to say?
Sorry, the bet was a joke?
Sorry, I didn't think you'd actually lose?
Sorry, I never actually planned to make you strip?
None of that would land right. She was too far gone, too locked into her own narrative of defeat. Anything he said now would sound like pity or mockery. The only way out was through.
Do I really have to let her do it? His stomach turned. Maybe a compromise. Just the dogeza. No stripping.
Shirai Shiori walked toward him. Her expression was unreadable—shame, anger, resolve, all tangled together in a knot she was clearly struggling to hold.
She stopped directly in front of him. Looked up.
"You." Her voice wavered, just slightly. "Come home with me."
"Oh." Kuroha blinked. The words took a second to process. "…Huh?"