No soul... no feeling...
Eriri froze, her whole body stiff, unable to speak.
Sonoko Machida was right.
In her desperation to "go professional," she had deliberately abandoned her old style and techniques, forcing herself to imitate the so-called "commercial art style."
But it was all form without spirit.
Her drawings looked polished—yet lifeless. Not something that could ever be published.
"...I understand." Eriri stood up and bowed to Sonoko Machida. "Thank you for your time, Chief Editor Machida."
"Don't be discouraged. You're still young. Take your time." Machida stood as well, offering a few kind words of comfort.
In her eyes, this sixteen-year-old girl was already producing work at an incredible level—her future potential was limitless.
But to Eriri, those words only deepened her bitterness.
Take my time? I don't have that luxury.
"Yes, thank you." She forced a polite smile, hiding the turmoil in her chest.
When she stepped out of Fushikawa Bunko, the sky had already turned gray. The wind whipped dead leaves across her face, biting cold against her skin.
Eriri sighed as she walked home, the weight of failure crashing down on her like a tide.
Just then, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out, and her eyes widened when she saw the name on the screen—Utaha Kasumigaoka.
[Utaha-senpai: Eriri! Great news! The short story I submitted got accepted!]
At the end of the message was Utaha's usual impish emoji—a smiley face with little devil wings.
The moment Eriri saw it, her chest tightened.
Her friend's success was something to celebrate, of course.
But her own failure only made it sting more.
Worse still, she couldn't escape the gnawing guilt inside her—she had slept with Utaha's boyfriend, Seiji Fujiwara.
If Utaha ever found out the truth, what kind of disgusted look would she give her?
Eriri didn't dare think about it. She hurriedly typed a reply.
It was the first time in days Utaha had messaged her.
[Eriri: Wow! That's amazing, Utaha-senpai! Congrats!! 🎉🎉]
Utaha sent a quick thanks—and nothing more.
Eriri sighed, turned off her screen, and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
When she returned to the villa, she froze in surprise.
Seiji Fujiwara was already sitting in the living room.
He was lounging on the sofa, flipping through an artbook like he owned the place.
Eriri blinked.
Today's not even rent day...
"What are you doing here?" she frowned.
Seiji didn't answer right away. He just glanced up at her and said, "What's wrong? You look like the world just abandoned you."
"I—I do not!" she snapped back, flustered, turning away.
But before she could leave, Seiji stood and blocked her path.
"Got rejected?" he asked flatly.
Eriri stiffened, eyes wide. "How do you know?!"
"Machida told me," he said calmly. "I was the one who introduced you to her, after all."
The words pricked like a needle.
Damn it! Even this chance was because of him?
"So? Want me to help?" Seiji asked lightly. "I can call a few second- and third-tier writers at Fushikawa and have them collaborate with you. With my influence, that's one phone call."
"No!"
Eriri shot him down immediately, frowning hard. "That would only hurt those writers. As an artist, I need to be recognized for my own work."
"Is that so? What a shame." Seiji shrugged, as if he'd expected that answer.
Then he smirked. "If illustration's not working out, why not go back to what you're best at?"
"...What do you mean?" Eriri narrowed her eyes.
His lips curved into an amused smile. "You're the legendary Kashiwagi Eri, aren't you?"
Eriri froze.
"Selling doujin at Comiket makes money fast," Seiji continued lazily. "And to draw that kind of thing, you only need sensuality, not coloring. Way easier, don't you think?"
Zap.
The name Kashiwagi Eri hit her like lightning.
Once, that alias had made waves in the underground scene.
But she'd buried it after her family issues.
Now hearing it from Seiji's mouth made her skin crawl.
"H-how do you know about Kashiwagi Eri?!" she stammered, instinctively stepping back.
"You told Utaha, didn't you?" Seiji said casually. "And Utaha told me."
Utaha...
Eriri bit her lip hard.
"Heh... haha..." She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Even if I am Kashiwagi Eri, so what? You think drawing hentai is that easy?"
"Isn't it?" Seiji asked.
"Of course not!"
She glared at him. "You need to be an adult to apply for a booth at Comiket! I used to ask my parents to handle that, but that's impossible now.
"And I'm a girl—going alone to a massive event to sell R18 books? That's dangerous.
"Most importantly," she sighed, pointing at her head, "I've been focusing on commercial art for so long, I'm rusty at drawing that kind of thing."
"Those are easy problems." Seiji folded his arms thoughtfully.
"First, the booth application." He pointed to himself. "I'm an adult. I can handle all the paperwork."
"Second, safety. I'll be there that day, helping you sell. No one will dare bother you."
"And third..." His gaze met her wide blue eyes, a faint smile curling his lips. "Your drawing. I can help you with that too."
"You? Help me?" Eriri gave a disbelieving laugh. "The first two, fine—but the third? You're a novelist, not an artist."
"Whether I know or not, you'll see soon enough."
Without arguing, Seiji walked toward her studio, gesturing toward the large drawing desk.
"I can show you right now."
His tone was calm—commanding, almost like a master to a pupil.
"You're serious?" she asked suspiciously.
"Of course."
"Don't lie to me. If you're messing around, I'll—" Eriri bared her small fangs, glaring at him, then stomped into the studio.
Seiji followed, amused. She looked less threatening and more adorably fierce.
Inside the studio, Eriri sat at the desk, sketch tools ready.
"What do you want me to draw?" she asked, her voice laced with skepticism.
"Draw a girl on all fours on a bed, looking back over her shoulder—eyes hazy, lost in the moment," Seiji said from behind her.
Eriri's cheeks flushed crimson.
That pose... she'd drawn it countless times before. It was one of the classics—perfect for showing a woman's curves and sensuality.
This guy just wants to use my drawings to get off, doesn't he?
She shot him a sharp look.
"What's wrong? Not starting?" Seiji asked mildly.
"Hmph, nothing."
She huffed and began sketching.
The pencil danced swiftly across the page—shhhk, shhhk, shhhk.
Even in her frazzled state, her fundamentals were impeccable.
Within minutes, the sketch took shape: a girl kneeling on a soft bed, back arched, hips high, forming a perfect, alluring curve.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders as she turned to look back, eyes glazed with longing and invitation.
The proportions, the anatomy, the perspective—all flawless.
"Done." Eriri set down her pencil, unable to hide a flicker of pride.
Seiji walked over, leaning in to examine the drawing.
His breath brushed against her ear, warm and ticklish, sending shivers through her.
She fidgeted, trying to lean away, but he didn't move.
"Not bad," he finally said, sounding genuinely impressed.
A hint of satisfaction bloomed in her chest—until he added,
"But the same old problem... it's formulaic." He shook his head, tone regretful. "No life. No soul."
"What do you know, you amateur?!" she snapped.
"Am I?" Seiji murmured. "Let's test that."
Before she could react, he reached out and took the pencil from her hand—then did something completely unexpected.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind.
His chest pressed against her back, his left hand covered her left hand resting on the desk, and his right hand clasped her right, guiding the pencil back into her grip.
Then, his hand enveloped hers completely.
He held her close—like a lover.
"W-what are you doing?!" Eriri's mind went blank.
She could feel his firm, warm chest against her back. His scent filled her senses, dizzying. His hand around hers was steady, confident—too close, too real.
Shame, anger, and a confusing rush of panic tangled inside her chest.
"Don't move," Seiji whispered, voice low and commanding. "Watch carefully. Feel it. I'll show you how to give your drawing a soul."
The room fell silent.
Eriri's face was burning red, her heart pounding like crazy.
She wanted to pull away, but his arms held her firmly in place.
Then—shhhk, shhhk.
The pencil touched paper again.
Her gaze followed the moving tip, her focus caught in the rhythm of his strokes.
Seiji didn't erase her lines. Instead, he built upon them, correcting them with terrifying precision.
Three strokes. That was all it took.
The first—he adjusted the curve of the girl's spine. The shift was subtle, the pressure of the line rising and falling like breath. Suddenly, the pose wasn't posing anymore—it was reacting, trembling in pleasure. The girl's body looked alive, caught in a moment of pure, involuntary motion.
The second—he changed the shape of her lips, adding a glimmer of moisture at the corner of her mouth. That tiny detail transformed the image—it wasn't just lust; it was a story. You could feel what was happening outside the frame.
The third—he altered her eyes. No longer looking straight at the viewer, but downward, pupils trembling, shame and desire swirling together in that fleeting, fragile gaze.
Boom.
Eriri's heart nearly stopped.
Before, her drawing had been a perfect photograph—a model posing erotically.
Now, after his three lines, it was a living moment—filled with emotion, tension, and raw, human desire.
The sketch had come alive.
It had a soul.
"This... can't be..."
Her hand trembled in his grasp.
She'd spent over ten years perfecting her craft in the doujin world—yet Seiji shattered her pride with three strokes.
The gap between them felt insurmountable.
"Still not enough," Seiji said calmly. "You'll never draw something with soul if all you do is imagine. You need firsthand observation. Experience."
"E-experience?" she stammered, still dazed.
"Exactly. Without practice, Kashiwagi Eri-sensei will never draw anything but flat chests."
"I—I just like flat chests!" she yelped, like a cat with its tail stepped on.
"Sure, sure. You hate big ones," Seiji said dismissively, pulling out his phone.
The sudden loss of warmth made Eriri's body jolt. A strange emptiness welled up in her chest before she quickly shook it off. Don't drop your guard. He's a scumbag, remember?
"Utaha? It's me," Seiji said into the phone. "Come to Eriri's place. I need your help for a... live demonstration."
Eriri's eyes widened. "You—what? Why are you calling Utaha-senpai?!"
Seiji hung up, turning toward her with a devilish grin.
"Obviously—to do some hands-on teaching."
A chill ran down her spine.
Less than twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Utaha arrived, elegant as ever, gliding into the studio.
Her calm gaze swept over the room—Eriri fidgeting nervously, the sketch on the easel filled with heat and desire—and a knowing glint flashed in her eyes.
"Oh my," Utaha murmured, her lips curling. "So our great novelist finally couldn't resist making a move on his cute junior."
Her tone carried no jealousy, no anger—only a teasing, dangerous amusement.
Eriri froze, staring at her in disbelief.
At that moment, she finally realized—Utaha knew far more than she'd ever dared to imagine.
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200 p.s for extra chapter
You can read up to chapter 100 on patreon.com/NiaXD.