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The hierarchy of Japanese society is a rigid, vertical structure. At the summit sit the doctors and lawyers—professions that guarantee not just wealth, but unquestionable social standing. Men in white coats or with bar association badges never lack for female admirers; they are the "safe bets," the golden tickets.
But sitting in the smoky haze of the yakitori shop, watching Kasumigaoka Utaha sip her mango juice, Leo mused on the strange anomaly that was the Light Novel Author.
It was a polarized profession. The bottom 90% starved, their dreams dying in the slush piles of editors like Machida. But the top? The top earners rivaled the medical elite.
Take Kamachi Kazuma, Leo thought, running the numbers in his head as he chewed on a skewer of grilled chicken skin. In the real world, the 'Index' franchise moved something like 30 million copies. At a standard price of 600 yen and a 10% royalty, that's... 1.8 billion yen. That's over 100 million RMB.
It was "small goal" money to a billionaire like Wang Jianlin, but for a writer? It was astronomical.
Even Utaha, sitting right here in a school uniform, was quietly wealthy. Love Metronome had sold half a million copies. That was 30 million yen in revenue. She was a high school girl with a bank account that would make most salarymen weep. She didn't have to worry about the price of skewers. She didn't have to worry about anything.
"You're staring again, Leo-kun," Utaha said, breaking his train of thought.
"Just doing the math," Leo admitted with a grin. "Realizing that my Senior is actually a rich woman. I should have ordered the premium beef."
Utaha chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "Don't push your luck. But yes... the industry is lucrative if you survive the culling. That's why so many people throw themselves into the grinder."
They fell into a comfortable rhythm of conversation. They dissected literature, trading insights like boxers trading jabs.
"I'm surprised," Leo noted, leaning forward. "Your knowledge of pure literature is deep. Mishima, Dazai, Soseki... you've read them all. It's a pity you don't write literary fiction. The market here respects it far more than in Korea or the West."
"I should be the one thanking you," Utaha countered, her eyes wide with genuine admiration. "Your knowledge base... it doesn't match your age. You reference the Dark Ages, the Five Barbarians, the collapse of the Ming Dynasty... and you weave it all into a fantasy narrative effortlessly. How is your brain structured? It's practically a human library."
Leo tapped his temple. "I just read. A lot."
It was a half-truth. Thanks to the NZT-48 and his cultivation, his brain had evolved into a biological supercomputer. His memory wasn't just good; it was perfect. He could recall the texture of a page he read ten years ago. He was stitching his novel together from the bloody tapestry of human history—the cruelty of the Roman wars, the absurdity of medieval indulgences, the chaos of the Warring States. He was a Paradox Interactive player treating history as a mechanic.
"It's not just reading," Utaha murmured, looking at him as if he were a puzzle she couldn't quite solve. "It's synthesis. You take the dry dust of history and turn it into a dark joke. It's... intoxicating."
She looked at the clock on the wall. The hands had crept past ten.
"It's late," she sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed. "I didn't realize time had passed so quickly. It's been... pleasant, Leo-kun."
"I'll walk you to the station," Leo said, signaling for the check.
They left the warm, smoky cocoon of the shop and stepped back into the cool night air. The transition from the Showa-era alleyway back to the modern street felt jarring.
"Where are you staying?" Utaha asked as they fell into step.
"Shibuya Ward. Rented a high-end apartment," Leo replied. "You?"
"Setagaya," she said. "I live alone, too. It's quiet. Good for writing."
They reached the station platform, the overhead lights buzzing. The rush hour crowd had thinned out, leaving only the tired late-shifters and drunk office workers.
"We go separate ways here," Leo said, stopping at the junction for his line.
Utaha turned to him. The wind from an approaching train whipped her hair around her face.
"Leo-kun," she said suddenly. "You mentioned you play games. Besides RPGs... do you play anything else?"
"A bit of everything," Leo shrugged. "Why?"
"I've been getting into naval warfare sims lately," Utaha admitted, looking away shyly. "World of Warships."
Leo blinked. He stared at the elegant, literary beauty in front of him. "You play WoWs? What do you main? Battleships? Cruisers?"
Utaha smirked, a dark, sadistic glint returning to her eyes. "Aircraft Carriers. I like controlling the battlefield from a distance. Sending out planes to ruin someone's day while I stay safe... it appeals to me."
Leo felt a chill run down his spine. Of course. Of course she was a CV main. The class everyone hated. The class that grieved players from across the map with impunity. It fit her personality—the controlling, observing, slightly sadistic mastermind—perfectly.
"You really are full of surprises," Leo laughed, shaking his head. "A hidden otaku and a Carrier main. I'm terrified."
"Good night, Leo-kun," she said, stepping onto her train as the doors hissed open. "Don't let the grind get to you."
Leo watched the train pull away, the red tail lights disappearing into the dark tunnel.
He stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets.
I admit it, Leo thought, turning toward his own platform. My attitude has changed.
Before, Utaha was just a target—a beautiful asset to be acquired for the team. A pretty face with a nice figure. But now?
A pretty face is a dime a dozen. You could find a hundred girls in Akihabara who looked good in a uniform. But an interesting soul? A girl who could quote Dazai Osamu one minute and discuss torpedo bomber drop patterns the next? That was one in a million.
She's like Umaru-chan, Leo mused, stepping onto the Shibuya-bound train. A perfect, aloof beauty on the outside, and a degenerate gamer on the inside. An interesting soul, indeed.
He sat down, watching the city blur past the window. The game was getting more fun by the minute.