The Literature Club was, in a word, stuck.
Whether it was trying to recruit new members to avoid being disbanded, or addressing the long-standing conflict with the "traitorous" Journalism Club, none of it could be resolved overnight. It would take time, strategy, and more than a little luck.
For now, there was nothing much to do. At least the Service Club had actual requests to fulfill.
At this point, the Literature Club's role felt more like the SOS Brigade—its existence more symbolic than practical, running solely on the will of Anri Hitomi.
But even the SOS Brigade got pulled into all sorts of supernatural events thanks to their unusual leader. The class rep might be Akira's personal goddess, but she wasn't a real one.
What were they supposed to do—play Go every day? That would just make them the Game Club.
Might as well go home and keep working on Shiginomiya's voice actress training...
Still, ditching right after showing up felt a little rude. Akira decided he'd at least finish his cup of tea.
"So, what do you guys usually do here? Just… chat?"
The class rep poured tea for the other two and began setting out snacks as she replied.
"Well, it is the Literature Club, so we do still do some literary things. We talk about writing and share ideas sometimes. Shiori's dream is to become a professional author, after all."
"Hitomi! That's… don't just say that out loud!"
Even someone as cool and aloof as Shirai Shiori couldn't hide her embarrassment after her best friend aired her secrets like that. A blush crept across her cheeks, like someone had just flipped open her diary in front of everyone.
For someone who hadn't shared that part of herself before, letting others know she wrote novels was definitely… exposing.
People who write fiction as a hobby tend to fall into two camps. One kind wants no one to read their work—it's purely a means of self-expression. Kafka, for instance, never published a single novel while alive. On his deathbed, he begged a friend to burn his manuscripts. Like someone asking a friend to destroy their hard drive. But that friend read the work and went, "Holy crap, this stuff is amazing," and published it instead. And now it's world literature canon. Probably Kafka's worst nightmare.
The other type wants readers. They'll shove half-finished drafts in front of anyone who'll look, eager for feedback. What they're chasing is emotional validation, a sense of recognition. But if the feedback is too negative—or if there's none at all—they often lose motivation and quit entirely.
As for Shirai Shiori dreaming of becoming a novelist… Akira didn't find that strange in the least. People who love reading inevitably develop the urge to write.
Because at the end of reading lies writing. Once you've read enough amazing works, it's only natural to want to create something of your own.
Akira knew that feeling well. He'd been there himself.
Seeing that he didn't laugh or scoff, and even nodded with a thoughtful expression, Shiori's embarrassment slowly melted away.
He might be a bit lecherous, but Kuroba Akira didn't seem like a shallow guy.
If someone like Anri Hitomi had taken an interest in him, then even if her judgment was clouded by feelings, it still said something about his depth.
Warming up slightly to him, Shiori's expression returned to its usual calm. Seeing that, the class rep smiled and made another suggestion.
"Shiori, why don't you show him some of your work? We're just readers, so we can't really give you constructive feedback—but Kuroba-kun writes novels too. He might have a different perspective as a fellow writer."
"Uhh…"
Now Akira looked uncomfortable.
He had been writing in the library before—mainly to practice his language skills and, to some extent, to prep for future "plagiarism projects."
After all, memories fade. He wasn't sure how long he'd remember the stories and plots stored in his head. For all he knew, they'd vanish in a few years.
But since he'd unlocked his "talent-copying" cheat ability, the whole book-copying plan had been shelved. Who wanted to spend ages writing books for pennies when better options existed?
Akira didn't care about fame—he cared about profit.
The world bustles for profit, and all come and go in pursuit of gain.
Besides, even if he did copy bestselling novels from his past life, there was no guarantee they'd take off here.
This was another world, after all.
Different trends. Different culture. Different history. Different tastes and values.
Even in his old world, the gap between what was popular a decade ago and now was enormous. Some stories that once trended hard looked mediocre in hindsight.
And the reverse happened too—how many artists died poor, only for their work to become priceless posthumously?
Creative work was always subject to the whims of the era and the masses.
And Kuroba Akira, six months into his transmigration, barely knew this world. What could he possibly understand about its culture?
"I mean… my stuff's not really worth showing anyone. But I'd be happy to take a look at yours."
Akira's hobby had always been consuming stories—in all forms. Novels, manga, anime, films, dramas—if it was interesting, he'd watch or read it.
Shirai hesitated. She wanted to hear his opinion… but also didn't feel ready to show a near-stranger her writing.
In the end, caution won out.
"I didn't bring my manuscript today. Maybe next time."
"Alright."
Akira didn't press. Whether it was a genuine reason or just an excuse, he let it go.
Still, the fact that she referred to it as a "manuscript" showed that she already saw herself as a writer. It was probably something she'd put real effort into.
With no novel to read, Akira's attention drifted back to the two girls he'd just met.
He'd already appreciated their exteriors.
Now it was time to explore what was inside.
Don't misunderstand—it wasn't that kind of "inside." He meant their inner potential—their talents.
"So… nothing else going on, huh? Want me to read your palms?"
He trotted out the same old line. Girls were generally more receptive to fortune-telling.
Shirai immediately frowned. Palm reading?
Only shallow people believed in that kind of unscientific nonsense. Those "eerily accurate" fortune tellers just used basic psychology tricks.
And this guy—doing this right in front of Hitomi, no less—was clearly trying to use palm reading as an excuse to flirt.
It was obvious to anyone with half a brain: He just wants to touch girls' hands!
His true intentions were as plain as day!
Over my dead body, you perv!