Morning light spilled into the study.
Seiji Fujiwara sat back in his chair, sipping coffee at an easy pace.
Not far away, a striking silhouette in black moved along the shelves, dusting carefully. The sheer straps of long black stockings hugged her firm, slender thighs, outlining a breathtaking curve whenever she rose onto her toes. Beneath the short skirt of her maid outfit, the glimpse of pale skin at the edge of the "absolute territory" was enough to stir dangerous thoughts.
They weren't even tights. All the normal stockings at home had been shredded by Seiji, leaving only this strappy style as a substitute.
Of course, this wasn't about turning Utaha Kasumigaoka into an actual maid. It was just… playing dress-up, for fun.
Seiji admired the view for a while, then forced his eyes back to business.
With the reprints and sales of 6 Days, 6 People, 6 Guns, his royalties had climbed to over twelve million yen.
Not a huge fortune. In big cities like Tokyo or Kyoto, elite white-collar workers could make more than ten million yen a year by the time they hit thirty.
He needed to keep pushing forward.
Index is about ready. I can submit it now, Seiji mused, taking another sip of coffee.
A Certain Magical Index—a system reward he'd drawn earlier, courtesy of Utaha.
But he hadn't just copied it.
When he received the manuscript, the system also gave him creative insight and experience. Using that, he reworked the story:
He tightened the pacing at the start, moving Touma and Index's meeting earlier so the central conflict kicked in faster.
He gave Railgun more presence in the opening volume, making sure her signature "Railgun" flashed onto the page right away.
He even polished details that might have sparked controversy down the line.
In short, this version of Index in his hands had already surpassed the original.
A perfect work—one that drew out the best of the source, stripped away its flaws, and fit the market like a glove.
His thoughts were cut off by the buzz of his phone.
The display read: "Sonoko Machida." His editor at Fushikawa Bunko.
Seiji picked up lazily. "Good morning, Editor Machida."
The voice on the other end was bright and brimming with energy. "Good morning, Warukawa-sensei! It's me, Sonoko Machida!!"
"Mhm. I figured," Seiji replied with a faint smile.
The pen name "Prince Warukawa" had originally been a throwaway joke. He hadn't expected it to become the alias of a best-selling author.
"Sensei! 6 Days, 6 People, 6 Guns has gone into its fourth reprint! It's sold out everywhere—bookstores, online, you name it! Reviews across the net are practically unanimous praise! Everyone's calling you a 'once-in-a-century genius'!"
Her voice bubbled with excitement.
"Oh." Seiji's response was flat, only a single syllable.
Something this expected couldn't stir his heart in the slightest.
Machida faltered for a beat, caught off guard by his calmness, but quickly rallied with renewed eagerness.
"Sensei, I spoke with the chief editor! We want to ride this momentum and have you do another manuscript! Same type of dark short story, same A-rank pay and royalties! What do you think?"
From her perspective, it was an offer no writer could possibly refuse.
The fame was explosive. The publisher was ready to back him hard. The readers were waiting with bated breath.
This was the perfect chance to solidify his place at the top.
But Seiji's answer blindsided her.
"No more shorts."
The words landed like ice water dumped over her head.
"Eh?!" Machida nearly shrieked. "Wh-why not, sensei? The market's eating this up! This is the best opportunity you'll ever get!"
Seiji's tone was casual, almost bored. "Short stories are dull. I'm starting a full-length novel."
"L-long… long-form?!" Machida's voice cracked in shock.
And not far away, Utaha's hand stilled mid-motion against the bookshelf. Her wine-red eyes flickered with sharp surprise at those two words.
A long novel?
This guy, who'd debuted with a brilliant short? He was actually aiming for a full-length work?
Her breathing slowed without her realizing.
As someone who'd once had ambitions in writing, Utaha knew the abyss between shorts and longs.
A short story was all about the spark of an idea, a clever structure, and a burst of talent. Seiji's 6 Days, 6 People, 6 Guns had nailed that to perfection. She admitted it—its design and execution were something she couldn't have matched.
But a long novel was another beast entirely.
It demanded a vast world, dozens or even hundreds of characters, weaving an intricate web of relationships. It demanded the skill to sustain tension and pacing across a million words or more. And above all, it demanded endurance—the grind of writing, day after day, without collapse.
That kind of work needed real depth. True mastery of logic and literature.
It couldn't be handled with a single flash of inspiration.
It needed experience—mountains of it.
In Utaha's eyes, Seiji might have talent, but it was the kind that flared like fireworks—brilliant, but fleeting.
And he thought he could carry a long novel? The odds of failure were practically guaranteed.
The corners of Utaha's lips twitched upward, the barest hint of a smile.
She found herself looking forward to it.
Looking forward to watching this bastard fall flat on his face.
She could already picture it—Seiji's long novel collapsing under shallow characters and broken plotlines, readers tearing it apart, the work axed halfway through. She imagined him lost, hollow-eyed, a pathetic wreck.
The thought made her chest lighten. Even her hands moved more briskly as she dusted, her mood lifted.
She tilted her head slightly, straining her ears. She wanted to hear how Machida would try to talk him down from his arrogance.
Sure enough, the editor's voice came back fast, urgent and full of worry.
"Sensei, please think this through! A long novel is too risky! You've just built up your brand as the 'genius short-story newcomer'! Readers are expecting another shocking dark tale from you!"
"If you rush into a long project and it fails, the damage to your reputation—and your marketability—would be devastating!"
Her tone was almost begging now.
She believed in "Prince Warukawa." She didn't want to see a talent like his waste himself on a gamble.
But Seiji didn't argue. He only said, lightly, "I want to try."
"This…" Machida faltered, words caught in her throat.
"That's all, editor," Seiji cut her off. "I'm already working on it. I'll let you know when it's ready."
And with that, he hung up. Not even one extra word.
The living room sank back into silence.
Utaha lowered her head, her lips curling in scorn.
Arrogant. Conceited. Blinded by his own pride.
Did he really think he was unstoppable?
Fine then. Go ahead.
Ignore even your editor. Go write your grand masterpiece.
I will be waiting—waiting for the day you fail.
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