His words cut straight through her confusion—like a scalpel peeling back fog to reveal truth.
Utaha froze, eyes wide in astonishment.
Editor Machida's advice had come from professional experience. But Seiji Fujiwara's analysis... it was on another level entirely.
He spoke like a commander surveying the whole battlefield—breaking everything down into market logic, creative theory, and personal branding.
Every word was orderly, decisive, visionary.
It felt as though he was already standing at the summit, calmly looking down at the world below.
—
On the other side of the bookshelf, Professor Kenji Yamada and Shizuka Hiratsuka were both stunned.
Shizuka was impressed by the clarity and logic of his explanation. It was articulate and convincing, not the reckless boasting of some overconfident teen.
But Yamada's shock went far deeper.
As a Tokyo University professor who occasionally advised major publishers, he knew the weight behind what Seiji had just said.
This boy didn't just understand writing—he understood the business of literature.
And the way he articulated it—strategic, structured, and precise—wasn't something you'd hear from an amateur. It was the voice of a master dissecting the craft.
Who was this kid?
"Now," Seiji said softly, pulling Utaha back from her daze, "tell me exactly where you got stuck."
"Ah… right…" Utaha blinked rapidly, her voice suddenly shy. "It's the confession scene. I want the heroine's emotions to feel 'unexpected yet inevitable'—shy and happy—but no matter how I write it, it either comes out too flat or too fake."
Seiji nodded knowingly. "The problem isn't the confession scene itself—it's the buildup."
His tone was calm, confident, cutting straight to the heart.
"You focused on their banter and witty exchanges, but you forgot the emotional progression underneath. The reader never feels the heroine's gradual awakening, so when the confession hits, it lacks emotional resonance."
He leaned back slightly, then offered examples off the top of his head.
"For instance, during a casual conversation, let the boy say something that quietly strikes a chord deep inside her. Then, describe her fleeting daze—her pulse quickening for no reason she can name."
"Or maybe after a school trip, when the boy falls asleep from exhaustion, she finds herself watching his peaceful face. Her hand lifts unconsciously, wanting to brush his hair—but just before touching him, she pulls back like she's been shocked. That moment of 'wanting to touch but not daring to' speaks louder than a hundred inner monologues saying 'I love him.'"
He smiled faintly. "A confession isn't a battle cry—it's a victory march. If the groundwork is solid, the confession itself is just breaking the thin paper barrier. The heroine's shyness, joy, even a hint of playful scolding—'You finally said it'—all come naturally."
Boom.
Utaha's mind exploded like fireworks.
Suddenly everything clicked.
She'd been obsessing over the result, not realizing she'd never planted the cause.
In just a few sentences, Seiji had cleared away the fog in her heart.
She looked at him with new eyes—half awe, half disbelief.
This guy…
How could he possibly understand this so well?
He wrote battle novels, for crying out loud! How could he be this good at romance?
Seiji chuckled at her stunned expression. "I told you—when it comes to light novels, there's nothing I can't solve."
*Genius-Level Literary Conception, indeed.*
—
Behind the shelf, Professor Yamada was no longer just impressed—he was shaken to the core.
An expert can recognize another with a single move.
That explanation about emotional buildup and layering… it had already transcended technique. That was pure creative philosophy.
Something most writers could chase for a lifetime and never fully grasp.
And this boy—this voice that couldn't be older than twenty—spoke it as casually as breathing?
Impossible.
Unbelievable!
Yamada felt his decades of literary pride tremble.
"Actually, Utaha," Seiji continued, his tone calm but commanding, "you've got real talent. But don't limit yourself to the tiny world of light novels."
"Start with this short story. Win a newcomer award. Build your readership. In two or three years, shift toward mainstream literature—still romantic short stories, but with deeper emotional weight. By then, your audience will be large enough, your craft mature enough, that the transition will be seamless."
"Then, after five to seven years of steady growth, when you've made your name in popular literature—aim for the Naoki Prize."
His words were neither loud nor hurried, but they hit like thunder.
Every phase. Every milestone. Every goal—laid out like a roadmap to glory.
Utaha's heart pounded, her cheeks flushed pink.
It was a vision so clear, so achievable, it felt inevitable.
A shining road stretching toward the peak of the literary world—paved by his voice alone.
For a moment, she felt dizzy.
Suddenly, her mother's words echoed in her head.
She finally understood why her mother had said meeting Seiji Fujiwara was her greatest luck.
This man didn't treat her like a caged songbird.
He was raising her to fly.
Utaha looked at him again, her eyes now brimming with pure affection and admiration.
—
Behind the shelf, Yamada and Shizuka were both frozen in disbelief.
With their experience, they could tell that Seiji's plan was solid.
The vision, the precision—it was the kind of career trajectory only someone with immense insight could design.
If such a speech came from a sixty-year-old literary titan, they would've nodded and called it wisdom.
But from a teenager?
Their brains practically short-circuited from the contradiction.
They couldn't hold back any longer.
Yamada straightened his kimono, exchanged a look with Shizuka, and stepped out from behind the shelf.
They had to meet this boy.
—
Footsteps broke the quiet around the fireplace.
Yamada and Shizuka emerged from the shadows.
Seiji and Utaha both turned toward the sound.
An elderly man with kind eyes and a composed smile. A black-haired woman with sharp, dignified energy.
Seiji's gaze lingered on the woman briefly.
Hiratsuka Shizuka.
Sobu High's "Iron-Fist Teacher."
Straight out of the Oregairu world.
What a small world indeed.
"I must apologize," Professor Yamada said first, bowing politely. His voice was deep and warm, filled with sincerity rather than arrogance.
"We didn't mean to eavesdrop. It's just that your conversation was so remarkable we couldn't bring ourselves to interrupt."
Shizuka bowed as well.
Seiji brushed it off with a relaxed smile. "No worries. I was just chatting casually with my girlfriend."
Yamada studied him carefully.
So young.
Too young.
That handsome face still carried traces of youth, yet his demeanor was calm, composed—like someone who'd already seen through the world.
It fascinated Yamada.
And then… recognition flickered.
That face. He'd seen it somewhere.
A spark flashed in his memory—newspapers, headlines, a photo…
Then it hit him like lightning.
His eyes went wide, and he smacked his forehead with a loud pop!
"Ah! I remember now!"
He pointed straight at Seiji, voice full of excitement.
"You're Fujiwara-kun—the one who just won the Edogawa Ranpo Prize, aren't you?!"
The words struck Shizuka like a thunderbolt.
Seiji Fujiwara?!
Her eyes widened in shock.
Of course! The young prodigy who'd just made headlines with his mystery novel After School!
Seiji smiled and nodded calmly. "That's me."
He gestured gracefully toward the empty seats. "Professor Yamada, Miss Hiratsuka—since we've met, why not sit and talk for a while?"
"Gladly!" Yamada's laughter boomed as he sat down opposite Seiji.
Shizuka, still reeling, sat beside him almost automatically.
Utaha, slipping smoothly into hostess mode, poured them both a cup of steaming tea.
"Please, help yourselves."
"Thank you, young lady," Yamada said warmly.
"Thanks," Shizuka added softly.
"Fujiwara-kun, I can't believe I ran into you here!" Yamada exclaimed, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "I've read After School three times! That ending—the insight into the darker corners of human nature—it's astounding for someone your age!"
Seiji lifted his cup, blowing lightly on the steam before taking a sip. "You flatter me, Professor. It's nothing more than idle musings unfit for serious literature."
"Hah! You're being humble now, are you?" Yamada laughed heartily, then leaned forward. "But I must say—your perspective on light novels was a revelation. I thought your strength lay solely in mystery fiction."
"Literature is universal," Seiji said with an easy smile. "Whether it's light novels, mainstream fiction, or so-called pure literature, at the core, they all explore the same thing—people. The rest is just different methods of expression."
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" Yamada slapped his thigh in delight. His eyes sparkled as if he'd found a kindred spirit.
"Then tell me, what's your take on pure literature today? Say, Mishima's pursuit of beauty and destruction—how do you see that?"
And so began a dialogue that bridged generations and status.
One, a literary giant with decades of experience.
The other, an eighteen-year-old genius blazing like a comet.
Their conversation flowed effortlessly—from the market of light novels, to the evolution of popular fiction, and finally into the philosophical heart of pure literature itself.
The more they spoke, the more Yamada was overwhelmed.
This boy's knowledge was a vast ocean. No matter how obscure a theory or reference he brought up, Seiji responded with calm insight and dazzling originality.
"…So," Seiji concluded softly, "I think Mishima sought an aesthetic of extremes—a desperate yearning to burn one's limited life into a brief, dazzling firework. But true literature shouldn't stop at destruction. It should also seek the faint sprouts of rebirth growing in the ashes. Even the smallest spark of life—that's the greatest act of defiance against the void."
Yamada fell silent, staring at him.
That level of comprehension… it was terrifying.
His graduate students, even after years of study, couldn't articulate a tenth of what this boy just said.
Beside them, Shizuka and Utaha were completely lost, unable to follow their rapid, abstract debate—but they could see the awe and respect growing in Yamada's face with every passing minute.
"Fujiwara-kun!" Yamada finally burst out, leaning forward with excitement. "Tomorrow, there's a private literary salon here—professors, authors, critics, and a few rising talents. Would you join us?"
Seiji raised a brow, smiling faintly. "Professor, that's a gathering for esteemed seniors. I write light novels—I'd be out of place."
"Nonsense!" Yamada barked, slamming his hand down with surprising vigor. The aura of an academic titan radiated off him.
"What's 'out of place'? In literature, talent is what matters most!"
He fixed Seiji with a sharp, burning gaze and declared:
"With just After School, you already have the right to sit among us!"
"And after hearing you just now—if not for your age—you'd already be our equal!"
His voice rang with conviction. "It's settled, then!"
Seiji chuckled, realizing there was no point refusing. "If you insist, Professor, then I'll gladly accept."
"That's the spirit!" Yamada laughed heartily, clapping him on the shoulder.
He checked his watch, then stood up, still grinning. "Come, it's almost dinner time! Let's continue over a good meal!"
He invited Seiji and Utaha along, and Seiji saw no reason to decline.
The four of them dined together in a private room with a view of the snowy mountains. The atmosphere was warm and lively.
Yamada shared countless stories from the literary world—humorous, scandalous, and sharp-tongued enough to make everyone laugh. Even his complaints about rival professors had Utaha covering her mouth to stifle her giggles.
After a few rounds of sake, Yamada leaned back with a satisfied sigh and asked casually,
"By the way, Fujiwara-kun, you're a third-year in high school, right? Which university are you planning to apply to?"
The question hung between them—innocent on the surface, yet brimming with curiosity about the prodigy who had just shaken the entire literary world.
====
Note: Not even 100 powerstones....
No extra chapters for you.
Now its 200 powerstones.