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1

One of these days, we’ll probably find a simple job even Yoshiteru Zaimokuza can handle.

As everyone on this planet knows, winters in Chiba don’t mean much snow, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not cold. Obviously, winters get chilly. In fact, I think it might get colder than some random snowy countries.

Most importantly, I’ve never spent time away from Chiba from late January to February, so I can’t say for sure.

The only real point of comparison is the number on the thermometer, but even when the weather report announces it’s below freezing, it’s hard to tell exactly how cold it is without experiencing it.

So it could be true that the numbers on the thermometer don’t translate to how cold it is in Chiba.

There’s this term called apparent temperature.

Only through experience, perception, and education do you get a real feeling of what it is for the first time.

So if we take the above example…there was some dissonance between the numbers on the thermometer hanging on the wall of the clubroom and how it currently felt to me.

The main reason was the boy sitting in front of me.

Even though we were smack-dab in the middle of winter, he was sweating profusely, his mouth twisted up as he mopped his forehead with the back of one fingerless glove.

“…Mgh,” he muttered solemnly. Yoshiteru Zaimokuza let his head hang.

In this posture, his neck was completely buried in his favorite trench coat, making him almost look like an avant-garde monument. Just the kind of thing installed at the entrance to a high-rise apartment building around Musashi-Kosugi with pretensions of being upper crust.

Zaimokuza refused to elaborate on that particular utterance, and the Service Club room was once again filled with silence.

There were supposedly others occupying the room besides myself and Zaimokuza, but they were either holding a cup of black tea and reading a book, deliberately oblivious to everything; scarfing down snacks and doing who-knows-what on their phone; or studying a compact mirror and finger-combing their bangs.

“…Mnghh,” Zaimokuza groaned once more and looked up at the ceiling. This time, a greater sense of despair filled his voice. Still, nobody responded.

Though no one made as much as a stir, Zaimokuza continued to moan—over and over.

When the others finally reached their breaking point, I heard a little sigh come from the table diagonal to mine.

I peeked over at the captain of the Service Club, Yukino Yukinoshita, who set her teacup down on her saucer and pressed her temple. She flicked her gaze toward Zaimokuza, then straight at me. “…Maybe we should ask what he has to say?”

“Do we have to…? But even if we do ask, Snowflake is only gonna talk to Hikki,” Yui Yuigahama replied lazily as she crunched on a rice cracker. Flopping over the desk, she rolled her head toward me.

Even though it took them some time to acknowledge Zaimokuza’s presence, I thought they were being pretty nice to someone who’d just barged into the room.

The problem here was Iroha Isshiki, who was straight-up ignoring Zaimokuza as she made faces at her mirror. And why was she even here? Well, whatever. I won’t ask.

Without even a glance in his direction, she finished checking her bangs, pulled some hand cream out of her pouch and then, humming, began to moisturize her hands. Her slim fingers slowly worked the cream into her skin, introducing a citrusy scent to the air around us.

Oh yeah, Isshiki and Zaimokuza don’t know each other, huh? From her behavior, it was hard to believe she’d speak with Zaimokuza, even if they had been acquainted. Of course, the same could be said for the reverse.

So then…, I was thinking when Yuigahama interjected from her desk without sitting up.

“Why don’t you ask him, Hikki?”

Her remark prompted a nod from Yukinoshita, as if that was obvious. “…You’re right. This is Hikigaya’s responsibility, after all.”

“Don’t foist this on me…”

I was only liable for Totsuka—down to the tiniest details. Call me “Tiny Tots” for short. Everyone knew I was a hard-core Totsuka stan. If he had concerts, I’d bring a homemade fan with his name on it. You know, “Tiny Tots” is kinda cute.

Anyway, I was the only one in this clubroom who could communicate with Zaimokuza. Though my gut told me this was going to be a hassle, I knew he was never going to leave if I didn’t speak to him.

Steeling myself, I said, “Why are you here, Zaimokuza…?”

His head jerked up, and he smiled at me with some visible relief. “Oh-ho, if it isn’t Hachiman! What a coincidence!”

“Can we skip the theatrics, please…?”

“Hapumf, so be it. Well, I’ve found myself in something of a conundrum…” He paused there. He adjusted his posture in his seat, gathering himself, and I automatically straightened up, too. “Have we already discussed the fact that I’ve been considering becoming an editor?”

“Nope. This is news to me.” There he goes, spewing his nonsense again…, I thought.

Yuigahama, sitting to the side, muttered, “I thought you wanted to be a light something-or-other…?”

She was so generous to actually humor to him. The other two were largely ignoring him. Though Yukinoshita had paid attention to him for a moment, she was back to flipping a page in her paperback with a cool expression, deeming the conversation one not worth listening to. Isshiki had never given a damn at all, wearing a look of mild disgust as she mushed her lashes with an eyelash curler.

Yuigahama’s objection was right. I’d thought Zaimokuza’s dream was to be a light-novel author. At one point, he’d said he would be a game writer, but he’d immediately switched back to his original goal. His constant flip-flopping suggested to me that he might be best suited for a career in politics.

Anyway, when I glanced at Zaimokuza to question his change of heart, I saw him with arms folded, his expression solemn.

“Herm, well, a light-novel author is the bottom feeder of the entertainment world. ’Tis a job one can begin with nothing at all. Anyone can do it. Frankly, no one is jealous of those with this career, and the words light novel alone will have you treated like garbage…” His expression was leaden at first, but then his eyes flared wide. “…So I had a realization.”

“Wh-what…?” Though I could sense something unpleasant behind the glint of his glasses, I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

With a loud scrape of his chair, he got to his feet. “If you write, you’ll just get canceled eventually! Take a break, and you’ll disappear into oblivion! A rock by the side of the road in the industry! Is there any value in doing this job?!”

His voice pealed through the clubroom, ringing in my head. When the echo subsided, he sat himself down again, and a tranquil atmosphere settled over us once more.

Despite his volume, he received the same cold reception. I realized even Yuigahama, who had been kindly listening to him, was now scrolling on her phone.

Now, the only one listening to him talk was me. I was used to being alone, but this feeling of isolation stung.

“U-uh-huh…you know a lot about this…,” I said without much thought, not knowing how to respond. It was hard to comment on.

Zaimokuza smirked. “I saw it online.”

Wow. The World Wide Web sure was something. You could find just about anything on there.

That little exchange was enough for me to be quite done with this conversation, but Zaimokuza’s opining yet continued. “But in that realm, an editor is admired! Not only have they a stable career, ’tis a creative job—one that might even be close to working at an animation studio! Which means I might be able to marry a voice actress! Fwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“Someone get this guy a Happy Meal. Do they make a Slaphappy Meal…?”

He was happier than if Christmas, New Year’s, and his birthday came on the same day. Maybe even Halloween and Valentine’s Day. Totally unrelated, but why do we wish other people “Happy Halloween” and “Happy Valentine’s Day” in English? What was there to be so happy about? I mean, Valentine’s Day is the anniversary of Saint Valentine’s death… Who knows? Maybe it won’t be long until we start wishing each other “Happy April Fool’s Day,” too.

Zaimokuza was basically the personification of the modern trend of tacking happy onto every holiday—like, that was crazy! How is it crazy, you ask? It just was.

For starters, his end goal of marrying a voice actress was already crazy.

Marriage rates were already on the decline! A random light-novel author had no chance of marrying a voice actress! Forget it!

I didn’t really give a damn if Zaimokuza refused to get his head out of the clouds and ended up wasting the rest of his life, but I just had to make sure to educate him on one thing. This was just an act of kindness from a classmate.

“Zaimokuza.”

“Wh-what…?”

Zaimokuza sat up in his seat and looked me dead in the eye—maybe because I had unconsciously pitched my voice lower or let myself sound more forceful.

I spoke slowly. “When you were a middle schooler, did you ever think you’d automatically find a girlfriend once you were in high school?”

“Ngh!” I must have hit the nail on the head. He said nothing, greasy sweat beading on his forehead.

I followed up with another blow. “And I bet you’re thinking you’ll automatically find a girlfriend once you’re in college now!”

“Nghhhhh! H-how did you know…?!”

He didn’t even need to ask. The answer was obvious.

“Because everyone follows the same path…” My voice cracked from emotion.

There was once a time when I’d thought that, too. When you’re a wee little kid, you just don’t know your place—you’re ignorant to the ways of the world. You think you’ll be married with kids at twenty-five. As you go through middle and high school, you start to get a better grip on society, and you begin to lower your standards so they’re more realistic. In a world like ours, where you can’t even have little dreams…

As I was mulling over these matters, a cold, dry chuckle slipped out of me. In a moment of synchrony, Zaimokuza blew a heavy, ice-cold sigh.

I heard someone quietly clear their throat before making a peep. “Everyone, huh? …I see.”

“Hmm…”

When I looked over, Yukinoshita was peeking at me, no longer focused on the book she had been reading. When our eyes met, she quickly turned away. Meanwhile, Yuigahama had her fingers hovering over her phone, her expression frozen in a strained look.

And then the clubroom went silent.

Huh? Why’s it all quiet…?

The uncomfortable vibe was making me fidget. Isshiki looked up from her compact mirror to glance over at us before letting out a short sigh. “…Not like I care, but is it easy to get into a publishing firm?”

She’d been totally ignoring us, so I was certain she hadn’t been listening, but apparently, she’d heard our conversation.

That remark defrosted the air. Though Isshiki hadn’t directed her question at anyone in particular, Yukinoshita cocked her head in response. “I think I recall hearing publishing houses have a high barrier for entry…”

“Ohhh, okay. Sounds tough.” From the way Yuigahama replied, it was fairly dubious if she got this.

Does she even understand what sort of work a publishing house does…?

Leaving Yuigahama aside for the moment, what Yukinoshita was saying was true. I also remembered hearing from my dad that getting into the media industry wasn’t easy. All right, what does Zaimokuza think about taking up this challenge…? I wondered, returning my attention to him and finding him surprisingly composed.

“Aye. I have also researched online, and they say ’tis an arduous trial.” Zaimokuza folded his arms and tilted his head, groaning. “But how inscrutable… Just what’s so difficult about it…? Editing a light novel is so simple, one could do it while asleep. It’s a simple job anyone can do. You just need to read the finished drafts. Or send an e-mail to whoever’s ranked at the top on Let’s Do a Novelist and offer them a publishing deal, right?”

“Uh… Uh-huh…”

Hard to believe he’d once aspired to be a light-novel author himself. Well, no one really knows what these authors do, so maybe this sort of misunderstanding was inevitable.

Obviously, being a light-novel editor had to be hard work. I mean, just having to deal with dumbass authors like Zaimokuza alone would be enough to give you nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea? Pepto-Bismol! I bet bad light-novel authors made the editors shoulder the blame for their mistakes.

“Well, you won’t know until you try getting hired,” I said.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Zaimokuza clicked his tongue as he waved his finger. He was so obnoxious… “I have, of course, come up with a plan to get employed.”

“Oh…? I’m listening.”

“’Tis true that it’s difficult to get hired straight out of university. But changing jobs is another matter! When you’re on my level, you can slip into an editing agency or smaller publisher and get hired at a better company after you have sufficient experience,” Zaimokuza said with the utmost arrogance, a cocky smile on his face as he leaned back, chuckling to himself.

Mysteriously enough, his confidence almost made me believe him.

“Ohhh, you’ve actually considered this…” Yuigahama, meanwhile, just fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

“Uh, but how do you manage to complete step one…?” I said. He certainly had a picture of a career plan—a picture that essentially amounted to a poorly drawn cartoon.

It seemed Yukinoshita also realized this fact instantly, as her eyebrows came together in a serious look. “I believe smaller publishers don’t actively recruit…”

However, Zaimokuza’s eardrums refused to let in anything that didn’t align with his agenda. “And so it struck me: If I could get editing experience while I’m a student, then I could get insta-hired at Gagaga Bunko, at least…”

“Have a little more respect for Gagaga…”

Say what you will, Shogakukan was still one of the Big Three… The way he determinedly shrugged off reality was almost a fresh take, but that was beside the point.

The issue was his statement after that.

“And I was thinking, in order to build editing experience, how about trying to compose a doujinshi?”

“Huhhh. Well, good luck,” I said.

“Aye… However, I lack a true partner who would make a doujinshi with me… A true partner who could see and hear the same things as I…”

“Uh… Uh-huh…”

That phrase was giving me the chills… Why is he repeating it? I have a bad feeling about this…

As I was shaking, Zaimokuza clapped a hand on my shoulder as if to stop my trembling.

He flashed me a smile so bright, it could practically illuminate the whole world. “So I was thinking…Hachiman, let’s make one together!”

“No. And we’re not friends.”

You couldn’t illuminate my world with that kind of enthusiasm! He might as well have been calling out to me, like, Isono, let’s play ball! I was permanently banishing myself from this party. I might be inclined to help him out if he was willing to pay me to stay.

“Hachimaaaan! I thought we were friends forever! Why are you so mean?!” Zaimokuza wailed. “Meanie, meanie!”

There was no way I was going to babysit Zaimokuza. As I was ignoring his whining, I heard a compact mirror snapping shut.

I looked over to see Isshiki, who had finished with her little grooming routine—or fixing herself or whatever—and was now tucking her mirror away in her pouch. Then she stuck up her index finger, put it against her chin, and tilted her head contemplatively. “Ummm, what’s a doujinshi?”

“Well,” I explained, “basically, it’s a self-published book. You draw a manga or whatnot yourself, and make a book out of it.”

“…Huhhh.” I could almost see the question mark floating above Isshiki’s head. I was no expert, so I didn’t really know how to get it across to her.

While I was searching for another way to explain, Yuigahama shot up her hand, looking like she wanted someone to call on her.

“I know about the thing—Comiket, right? You draw manga yourself. I think Hina was talking about it recently.”

“You barely understand it at all, and Ebina’s hobbies are…a little unique, but, well, you got the gist of it,” I said.

This time, Yukinoshita was the one to tilt her head, looking unconvinced. “It doesn’t have to be manga. Personally, my impression of it leans more in the literary direction.”

“Oh yeah, there’s that, too.”

If you traced it back to its roots, I was pretty sure it was something done by literary giants and big-time authors. Things like Shirakaba and Garakuta Bunko were in textbooks.

It was true that doujinshi covered a wide range of publications—not only manga, but essays and meta on various subjects, or photo collections. Even within each genre, you could find a whole range of content.

“Meta-analysis” is a simple term, but it could cover everything from a critique of military affairs to a general review of the past anime season, or even on how to win a game of rock-paper-scissors that followed a Sunday anime. In the broader classification of doujinshi, there could be cosplay, animation, music, drama CDs made by independent creators, and character merch—everything but the kitchen sink.

After I carefully selected examples for my summary, Isshiki nodded. “Ohhh, Comiket, huh…? I’ve heard of it before.”

Did you know, Raiden? Well, the event was picked up for TV specials, so it wasn’t unusual.

However, it seemed Isshiki’s knowledge on the subject was somewhat biased. “You can make a boatload of money, right?” she asked as she leaned forward, deep interest in her sparkling, puppy-dog eyes.

Though her body language was that of a pure, innocent, and chaste maiden, what she was saying was the worst…

“Uh, not necessarily. I’m told they’re not doing it for the money.”

For starters, the assumption is that creators make them for content, not for profit. Not that I would know. I’ve heard these groups break even at best—and after expenses, they’re usually in the red.

“…You do it…even when it doesn’t make you money?” Isshiki said, then groaned, taking her head in her hands. She was really struggling to make sense of this…

“It means this falls in the realm of hobbies.” Yukinoshita nodded firmly.

Well, it seems like she throws down a fair amount of money on her hobbies, like tea or Ginnie the Grue or cat merch or whatever, so maybe that sort of thing actually sits well with her.

“It’s kind of amazing, though.”

The way Yuigahama was munching on her snacks, she didn’t seem especially impressed, but maybe she was in her own way. She offered some oohs and aahs regardless.

“It isn’t really all that uncommon,” I said. “I mean, wanting to make a book isn’t reserved for geeks.”

“Really?” Isshiki replied, sounding rather doubtful.

It seemed she still wasn’t convinced. It wasn’t surprising she should feel that way, since this was so distant from her own life.

But if we were going with similar examples, there were others. “There’s the free magazines that university students often make, right? Look, it’s like that,” I said.

Yuigahama clapped her hands. “The things they hand out at school festivals.”

“…Ohhh, I know that.” Isshiki nodded, apparently following us.

“Right? In other words, a free magazine is doujinshi for your pretentious types.”

“It sounds a lot cruder when you put it like that, but that description is oddly fitting…” Yukinoshita seemed to be remembering something unpleasant, fingers pressed against her temple.

What a coincidence. I started dissociating while I was saying it.

“But regardless,” I said, “though I may have inspired some bias regarding free magazines, I believe we’ve managed to attain a definite alignment on this matter. Of course, discussion of a free magazine necessitates operating on a case-by-case basis, so in light of that fact, in order to reach actionable agreeance, moving forward, as thought leaders, we have no choice but to commit to results through repeat iteration.”

“What are you talking about…?” Isshiki was weirded out. It looked as if her chair had retreated a few centimeters.

“Ah, sorry. I got a little self-conscious for a moment there…”

“Unconscious would have been preferable…” Yukinoshita sighed in exasperation.

Anyway, these two activities had something in common: They were both hobbies. Not much distinguishes creators of free magazines from doujinshi circles. In other words, they are a subgenre of otaku known as the “pretentious type.”

To put it another way: There are as many doujinshi out there as there are genres, as there are people.

“So what kind of book are you planning to make?” I asked Zaimokuza.

He lost himself in deep thought for a while, and when he looked up again, his eyes were piercing. “Herm. I thought perhaps a novel after all… Since I’m not particularly knowledgeable about anything, and I can’t draw.”

Yikes, that rationale was just pathetic.

Could we please put an end to the trope of a bad artist becoming a light-novel author? I wish people would at least go for it based on a legitimate reason, like the fact that they can’t get a real job.

“So it all comes back to light novels, huh…?” I said. “If you want to write one, then you can advertise it on the Internet. Like on that site you mentioned earlier, Let’s Do a Novelist. In fact, wouldn’t you have higher chances of making your big break there?”

Huh, that’s weird—I had given Zaimokuza some actual constructive criticism.

But his reaction was lacking enthusiasm. “Herm… I have no fondness for such things.”

“Why not? It’s a good idea. And the isekai reincarnation OP harem thing is really hot right now.”

“…What?” Isshiki made a low noise like What the heck is he talking about…?

What’s with that look? …Did I just say something weird?

It seemed I had after all.

Chairs scraped as the girls gathered their seats together for a hushed conference.

“I…seka? O—what? What did he just say…?” Yukinoshita pondered.

“What’s…opie harem?”

“Isn’t that, like, a brand of gummy bears?”

Going old school there, Isshiki.

An isekai reincarnation OP harem story is where the protagonist is reborn in another world with some power that makes him invincible, and builds a gang of girls. Crap, explaining it makes it sound more absurd.

Well, as long the people who like that stuff are reading it. Don’t like it? Don’t read it. It’s not exactly begging for mainstream acceptance.

With isekai OP reincarnation stories—and light novels, and all that sort of thing to begin with—they just have to please their fans.

Well, this isn’t limited to light novels.

It’s true with anything. With words, or with feelings.

It’s enough if it reaches the person you want to make happy or communicate to.

However, for some reason, this was not at all getting through to Mr. Zaimokuza.

He was continuing to ignore our conversation, flailing around his arms and legs as he desperately tried to make his appeal. “Nuooo! This is about nothing of the sort! It’s not about popularity or sales or anything like that! I care naught for such things!! It’s just, uh, well… You know! I just loathe being forced into the framework of a ranking or a list! I simply do not wish my works to be judged before they’re displayed!”

For a second there, I’d gotten deluded into thinking he was saying something cool, but the word choices caught my attention. And from that arose but one answer.

“Oooh. Stories get ranked on that site, huh? Well, I guess it’s a little tough to face the unpopularity of your work.”

“Nay! Nay, I say! I am not in the least concerned with ranking or placing or numbers or reviews! Rankings are naught but a rough yardstick! The rest, one makes up for with courage!” Zaimokuza raved with enthusiastic zeal.

But some deficiencies can’t be supplemented with courage alone. It was beyond transparent what he was worried about here—I can see right through you!

“…Ohhh. So you actually did post, and it broke your spirit.”

“That’s quite some progress,” said Yukinoshita. “You would have to steel yourself to place that in public.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s courageous!” Yuigahama added.

Both of them complimented him like they were half-surprised and half-impressed. At least, I think they were complimenting him. Right? Whew! And here I thought they were coming in with some sarcasm! Well, I guess it doesn’t take much to detect it in Yukinoshita.

I felt like I could give the guy a compliment.

Even if it was just online, this guy who hadn’t even been able to complete a manuscript before—never mind applying for a newcomer’s award—had uploaded his work where it could be seen. It really warmed my heart to think that now there would be people aside from me who would read it and suffer. Everyone should suffer more. If everyone were to suffer, then surely we would have peace in the world.

Or so I thought, but Zaimokuza was waving his hands, like Nah. “No, I submitted not. The thought merely occurred to me after I saw other stories that got slammed.”

“Oh, I see…”

It seems world peace is yet distant.

As expected of Zaimokuza. They don’t call him a useless wannabe for nothing. Well, from another angle, you could say his ability to observe other people’s work being trashed and sympathize with them to this degree meant he possessed a high level of empathy. Hmm, he might be more suited to being a writer than you’d think…

However, I personally believe the thing most necessary to write a light novel is not empathy. It’s not even good prose. It’s not even a grasp of story structure or a rich imagination.

I think what you need is mental fortitude.

You have to be someone who doesn’t give in to other people’s opinions, whose spirit won’t break even when the books don’t sell, who won’t spill the tea on a blog or Twitter, who remains humble even if the books do well, who doesn’t get discouraged even when derided by important people, who won’t strike back over some drama, who won’t be too focused by some random dumpster fire, who won’t develop an ego, who never even believed in themselves in the first place, who doesn’t worry about the future or retirement even though they constantly loom overhead, who might be in tears on a lonely night, who will never get their hopes up from good news, who doesn’t compare themselves with other authors, who won’t abandon their project just because they can’t write anymore, who won’t run away from an impending deadline, and who won’t forget to be grateful to others.

These “16 No-Nos” were necessary to be a light-novel author.

Mental fortitude. That’s the most important thing. I seem to recall that the author of the light novel A Sister’s All You Need wrote something like that in a book. Maybe? Probably not.

But Zaimokuza wasn’t a pro, and I knew full well that he had no guts, so I had to guide him in a direction that reduced hassle for me as much as possible! Zaimokuza’s mental state was as fragile as tofu. I would recommend tossing it in a stew at this time of year.

I straightened myself in my seat and cleared my throat. I assumed a somewhat calmer tone than usual. “Zaimokuza, I don’t think your doujinshi will sell a single copy. Isn’t facing that reality painful enough on its own?”

It seemed he could imagine such a scenario vividly, as he choked up. Enduring the heat and cold in the summer and the winter as he patiently remained on standby alone at his table, hearing the voices of the popular cosplayers at the table beside him being friendly with each other, gazing at the people in the winding line for another booth on the other side, desperately staring into the air to avoid looking at his untouched stack of books… Would Zaimokuza be able to survive such a situation? Nay. Nay, I say.

Eventually, his shoulders slumped. “…You have a point,” he rasped.

“If you’re trying to be an editor, then don’t make a doujinshi. It’d be more constructive to think up some other way,” I said, verbally kicking him while he was down.

“Herm… I see…,” Zaimokuza agreed meekly. It seemed I had successfully broken his spirit.

Nice. Now I won’t be forced into making one with him…

Now that Zaimokuza had quieted his booming voice, the clubroom was suddenly still again.

I was sighing in relief, figuring we’d reached the end of that, when there came the crunch of a rice cracker. “But, like, how do you become an editor?” Yuigahama asked, munching away.

Zaimokuza’s head jerked up with a gasp. “Aye, indeed…”

Now that she mentioned it, it made me a little curious, too. “Guess I’ll give it a quick search…”

As Zaimokuza had said, everything was on the Internet. Including things I wished weren’t there.

“Yukinoshita, let me use the laptop,” I said.

“…This isn’t a computer room,” she grumbled, but she got up, pulled out the laptop, and briskly set it up for me.

Figuring I’d just start asking Professor Google, I sat down in front of the laptop. As I did, I heard a scrape as a chair was pulled up beside me.

Looking over, I found Yukinoshita sitting to my right, cheerfully pulling her glasses from her bag. She swept back her glossy black hair with a gentle hand, then slowly slid the glasses onto her face with the care of a coronation. Her thin, graceful fingertips slowly came away from the frames. Her eyelashes were so long that when she blinked, it looked as if they would just about touch the lenses. Once she was ready, she gave a little nod to no one in particular, then quietly scooted her chair closer to peer at the laptop.

Her hair swished, smelling of soap.

She’s so close…

It made me so antsy for her to breach my personal space, I shifted my chair slightly to the left—whereupon the faint scent of citrusy perfume tickled my nose.

I hadn’t even noticed Yuigahama circling around to my left side.

When she slumped forward to lean her chin on the desk, her elbow bumped into mine, and our glances flickered back and forth, silently offering the spot to each other. Right when I was thinking maybe she’d let me take the space, she looked away, refusing to budge an inch. So then I was getting ready to move, but I felt my blazer cuff rubbing against Yuigahama’s skirt, and I couldn’t do anything anymore.

…So close.

And then I sensed something behind me.

The rubber squeak of indoor shoes sounded on the floor.

Turning just my head, I saw Isshiki standing behind me. She popped her face over my shoulder, peering at the computer screen. She was leaning a bit of her body weight on me—the feel and heat of her small hand on my shoulder caught my attention. I could hear her shallow breathing, too. It made something like a shiver run down my spine.

…I said you’re too close.

With both sides and behind me occupied, I had no choice but to lean forward.

But even the space before me was blocked.

Zaimokuza came over to hover right in front of me, his head thrusting down from above like one of those bald, long-necked youkai as he looked down upon the laptop.

 

 

 

 


Too close. Back off.

Under this weird pressure from virtually every direction, I tried to make myself as small as possible and typed out the keywords that came to mind. Instantly, countless search results were displayed. “Job searching sites and message boards… Huh. There’s a prep school for people seeking employment in publishing… All sorts of stuff…”

“Oh, Hikki! What about this?” As I was skimming over the items that seemed noteworthy, Yuigahama leaned forward to point at the screen.

Yukinoshita tilted her head toward me as well, reading aloud the item pointed out to me. “‘A Success Story’… It seems like this is from the blog of someone who managed to get employed at a publishing house. That might be good.”

“Go on, go on.” Isshiki tapped on my shoulder, urging me along.

Seriously, you’re too close. It’s making my back all sweaty, so if you could please back up like six inches…

When I glanced at Zaimokuza in front of me to get his input, he gave me a big nod. “Aye, it seems a fine choice!”

“…All right, then let’s take a look.” Clicking on the link, I went to the home page of this so-called success story.

On the header in a big font was a title that read The Best or Bust! Kenken’s Journal to Get That Top-Class Publishing Job Offer!

“…Hey, what does top-class job offer mean?” I asked. “How do they decide the rankings for job offers?”

“Wait a moment,” Yukinoshita said, suddenly reaching out from the side to open up a new tab and search for this “top offer” thing. As she did, her long black hair kept touching my hand and then moving away again, and it was ticklish. I reflexively drew my hand back and laid it on my lap politely.

Once the search results came up, her finger pointed to the screen. “It seems that, though it’s not publicized, there is an internal ranking of candidates at companies. The highest on that list is the top offer. From the moment of their hire, that person is treated as a candidate for management and is at an advantage during assignments…according to this.”

“Hmm…the words candidate for management alone make me uneasy…”

This sounded like a corrupt workplace. That phrase unsettled me as much as “we’re like family here” or “a great place for young people to take the lead!” It made me concerned for the fate of Mr. Kenken.

All right, while we’re sating our thirst for horror, let’s trace this Mr. kenken guy’s path of glory and see whether he did succeed in getting his top offer and became a corporate slave at a publishing company.

I decided to scroll on down the screen and read his entries in order.

The Best or Bust! Kenken’s Journal to Get That Top-Class Publishing Job Offer!

On this blog, I will be chronicling events on my way to getting a good offer from a publishing company!

All rights reserved. ©kenken

1: Fill out an application form.

Or, in common parlance, a job app (lol).

Aside from the standard stuff like a summary, your work history, and the reason for your application, each company will have their unique prompts on this form, including an essay section, three subjects for an impromptu story the applicant must create, a news story that’s recently caught your interest, three people you have your eye on right now, a story of your greatest embarrassment or a failure, etc.… Some sections may be a little odd, such as a blank half page that says, “Please use this space freely to brag about yourself.”

Sometimes the career center at your school will hold on to samples of old forms, so it also may be worth asking older students from your classes or clubs to show you theirs!

Regarding your resume…

These days, it’s becoming more common on applications to not have to fill in the name of your university, so it’s not necessarily the case that you will be at a disadvantage based on the prestige of your institution. In fact, I’m personally skeptical that such a bias exists at all—in fact, I believe the fact that many students who receive offers from major companies are from prestigious universities is not due to the power of the university brand, but perhaps just that people with the capacity to be selected attend prestigious universities.

It’s my belief that moving forward, many companies will venture to evaluate candidates on a personal and individual basis, more equally and without bias.

And conversely, job hunters should also not judge companies by their brand or established reputation. The secret to success may be the awareness that just as we are chosen by the company, we are also in the position of choosing a company.

And I will offer you these words:

“When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

—Nietzsche 

Oh-ho… Just at a glance, it looks like he’s saying some fairly legitimate stuff. But hey, I had to get that secondhand from kenken? I wish I could have heard it straight from Nietzsche instead!

Yukinoshita had been gazing at the screen along with me, hmming as she read along.

But Yuigahama and Isshiki were both looking meh and seemed a bit put off. “Too wordy…,” Yuigahama muttered.

Hey, if that discourages you, you’ll never be able to finish, Case Closed. When you’re hooked, you’re hooked, no matter what the word count is!

I felt an irritated tapping on my shoulder. “This guy gets on my nerves…,” Isshiki said with unconcealed annoyance as her finger continued to tap my shoulder.

Uh-huh. Could you stop taking it out on me?

I could sympathize—this piece was weirdly aggravating.

Who knows why it was so snooty, but maybe a pretentious university student would talk this way. Thinking about those types makes me not want to go to university…

Anyway, this kenken guy sure was champing at the bit. If the rest of the entries were gonna be this enthusiastic, it’d make me lose the urge to keep reading. About the only people with this much energy have got to be the Kinki Kids, or Yoshida Terumi.

“Herm…I see. Let’s read the next one, Hachiman!”

I was doubtful Zaimokuza actually understood this, but I nodded back at him and clicked on the next page.

2: The written exam.

Many companies will post general commonsense questions, but there is the rare occasion when a company will make you take the SPI. They sell books with example problems, so make sure to prepare for that beforehand. The SPI is essential for most businesses. Furthermore, even those transferring from a different job rather than applying straight from university will sometimes have to take the test, so there’s no harm in being prepared. When it comes to the written exam, my personal feeling is that Shu sha and Ko sha set standard questions that probe examinees more broadly, while I get the impression Ka wa Shoten’s exam has more trick questions designed to make you fail. Be very careful if you’re taking the Ka wa Shoten test!

This guy trying to play it cool while oozing resentment toward K-shoten… I could infer this kenken guy had failed that particular written exam.

“What’s an SPI, Hachiman? A spy?” Zaimokuza’s voice came down from above.

“Wasn’t it some kinda magazine?” Yuigahama responded. “Maybe it’s reading material, ’cause this is a publishing company?”

“You’re talking about SPA!…”

What the heck is a SPA! exam? Do they have questions like “Name the top thirty best gyoza restaurants in Shinbashi”? But I feel like the written exam at a publishing company would give you questions like something from a TV show, so I can’t necessarily deny it, scarily enough.

I didn’t really know anything about this SPI exam myself. Given that I was at a loss as to how to reply, Yukinoshita quietly reached for the computer. Opening up yet another tab, she started to search for the SPI.

When she eventually found the page she was looking for, she stroked her chin and nodded.

“Simply put, the SPI refers to an aptitude test. It seems to be a sort of analysis of your overall profile by testing on logical thinking and mathematical and linguistic ability, as well as a personality test,” Yukinoshita summarized as she pushed her glasses up with her middle finger.

Yuigahama’s jaw was slack with confusion. “Huhhh… Oh, so it’s kind of like those little flowchart tests in the magazines? I can get that!” she said brightly, cocking her head a bit as she turned toward Yukinoshita.

Yukinoshita’s head turned the opposite way, as if resigning herself. “…Sure. I suppose that’s close enough.”

“No, it’s really not,” I objected.

“Please don’t give up trying to explain, Yukinoshita…,” Isshiki said.

That seemed to make Yukinoshita reconsider, and she closed her eyes and began to ponder the matter. “A-all right. If I come up with the right way to put it, it should get through to Yuigahama, shouldn’t it? A way for Yuigahama to get it… A way for Yuigahama to get it…,” Yukinoshita muttered quietly to herself as she considered with utmost earnestness.

Yuigahama watched her, shoulders slumping. “Y-your kindness kinda hurts, Yukinon…”

Well, explaining an exam you’ve never taken is bound to be hard, as would be understanding that explanation. This is something you’d have to experience for yourself to get. I was sure we’d understand once we started to eventually look for jobs—whether we liked it or not. Agh, I really didn’t want to look for a job…

But, well, a written exam is something you can prepare for, so you could say that’s on the better side.

The hard part of job hunting is the interview that comes after.

Now then, how did our kenken make it through this challenge? I decided to forge ahead. Show me what you’ve got.

3: The first interview.

Sometimes you’ll have interviews as a group.

That guy from K  University was constantly interrupting, and it annoyed the shit out of me. It’s his fault I blew it. I hope he rots in hell.

That was the only thing written in the third entry. Your explanations have suddenly gotten sloppy, huh, kenken? But then your complaints about this guy are the one thing you made sure to put in.

There really wasn’t much there, but Zaimokuza closely scrutinized the screen, looking over it a number of times. “Hooom? Is there naught else written here, Hachiman?”

“Looks like. I’m going to the next one.”

There wasn’t much to say with so little information.

I got the okay from the girls to proceed, then moved the mouse and clicked to the next page.

4: The second interview.

That guy from a certain F sha who stirred shit up saying, “Oh, well said.” I think he was probably editor-in-chief level. He can go to hell, too.

There was hardly any explanation here at all anymore. He was just venting.

As we read along through kenken’s job-hunting journal, which quickly took a turn for the worse, a humorless laugh escaped me.

From beside me, I heard a sigh slip from Yukinoshita. “It seems there’s less and less specific information here, hmm?”

“It’s actually getting more specific, but in all the wrong ways…” Isshiki made a face, looking exasperated.

As the two said, the content was clearly thinning out. Maybe this kenken guy was getting a little discouraged at this point. I was getting a little discouraged reading it. Job hunting seems rough…

But we were only at the second interview. This journal still had more to go.

I stretched out to get ready, then moved on to the next entry in the journal.

5: The third interview.

A high-pressure interview. There were about ten higher-ups from Ko sha all in a row. It was bad. Maybe even twenty. It was bad.

This wasn’t even venting anymore. Kenken’s initial spirit had evaporated, and he was already on his last legs. In fact, content aside, I could even compliment his mental fortitude in making the effort to actually write this out.

Since he’d expressly stated it was a high-pressure interview, it must have been tremendously stressful. Even in such a short entry, you could keenly sense the terror and despair.

Though this was something we could only imagine, an interview in front of the company executives seemed super-tough. A line of important older men with fancy titles like board member or executive or director in black suits—that’s practically like Seele. That’s beyond impact; that’s Second Impact.

“That seems kinda brutal…,” Yuigahama murmured, her voice filled with sympathy and sorrow. Even I was feeling a little bit pained right then.

“There’s still more…,” Yukinoshita said with some difficulty. Depending on how you took her tone, it could even come off like she was pushing us to stop looking at this now.

But since we’d come this far, I would see it to the end. No, I had a duty. With a trembling hand, I moved the cursor and clicked on the final entry.

6: The final interview.

To the assholes from mass-ken who lied and said the last interview is just to confirm your interest so you can’t get dropped—you’re full of shit. You do just get dropped.

The journal ended there.

Just what on earth had become of kenken? Thinking about his fate made my heart ache.

And it seemed I wasn’t the only one. We were all breathing deep sighs.

I was sure it was partly out of guilt from having gotten a glimpse of a microcosm of one man’s life, and the misery of being witness to the harshness at the front lines of a job hunt.

I think more than anything else, the greatest sentiment was that we really didn’t want to work with a guy who would write a journal like this, either. I mean, he was all into it at first, but then for the latter half, it was mostly resentment and complaints…

“Um…but heeey, this guy wasn’t accepted, right?” Isshiki said hesitantly.

Yuigahama seemed to have that sudden realization as well, and she did a double take at the screen. “…You’re right! Even though it says it’s a success story!”

“Ah, well, it’s like… With this sort of thing, you just go ahead and write success when you start. It’s like the law of attraction. A visualization exercise for pretentious types.”

“I believe that’s not quite visualization so much as a type of self-help, though…,” Yukinoshita said, pressing her temple.

Yeah, but job hunting does have a sort of self-improvement element to it, right…? I mean, just from what we’d been seeing here with this net surfing, it was stacked with shiny new words like self-analysis, self-promotion, and desire for growth. I’m sure what businesses want is energetic, unbending, unyielding employees with mental stability, so maybe that’s inevitable, but the way they’re all trying to show off this same cheerful character is so unnatural, it’s scary.

At any rate, there doesn’t seem to be a field for me…, I was thinking, my desire-to-work meter plummeting, when Zaimokuza, standing in front of me, said quietly, “Hachiman, what’s a mass-ken? Is it like Chiba-ken?”

“Uh, they’re nothing alike. Come on, do you even know what Chiba-ken is when you say that?”

Chiba-ken is the mascot character of the Chiba Prefecture Environment Foundation, and its design is the shape of Chiba prefecture made into a dog. When I say that, you might think it’s exactly the same as Chiiba-kun, but this is shockingly different. For something that has the “dog” kanji in its name, it’s incredibly undoglike. In fact, Chiiba-kun, which claims to be a mysterious animal that just looks like a dog, is much more doglike. Seriously, what is the deal with Chiba’s taste? This prefecture is really weird sometimes, man.

Yukinoshita tilted her head. “Well, I’m sure it’s a nickname for a mass media research club.”

“Research… Sounds like they’d do some real cool things, like experiments and stuff,” Yuigahama muttered, gazing vacantly into space.

The word research was probably making her imagine all sorts of things. But I think Miss Gahama’s impression of wearing white coats and waving flasks and beakers around might not be quite right!

But it’s true enough that from just the term research, it’s difficult to picture specifically what they do. If it were science and technology or history, then you could imagine something, even if only vaguely. But for research on mass media, I couldn’t quite come up with anything.

“…While we’re at this, how about we look up these mass-ken things,” I suggested.

“Aye. Do as you must!” Zaimokuza emphatically agreed with a dramatic flutter of his coat like William Smith Clark, so I decided to immediately seek education from Professor Google. I typed in the name of some random university, hit Space, then added mass-ken.

And there they came pouring out: a parade of pretentious statements. There were self-introductions with photos of themselves in suits, personal mottos, and shameless plugs, and along with that, a ton of supportive comments from their friends.

On top of that, with their photos of everything from traveling in India and climbing Mount Fuji to BBQ at an employment seminar camp, I had no idea what it was they were researching.

It was unbearable to look at directly, so I squinted to skim over it and basically got the idea.

Essentially, this was a club where people who sought to get hired at TV stations, newspapers, and publishing companies would get together to exchange information and teach each other how to successfully get a job.

“H-hey, Hachiman. Do you need to get into one of these mass-ken things to get into a publisher? Definitely? Really?” Seeing the photos of people having fun posted on the home page, Zaimokuza started to panic.

“Well, I doubt it’s absolutely necessary. In fact, based on what I’m seeing, I even get the feeling it would be better to not join…”

I’m sure many of these clubs that call themselves media research societies or advertisement research societies are actually doing that.

But when I hear that ring of pretention, I can’t help but imagine the face of that Mr. Tamanawa, student council president of Kaihin High School, and it does not give me a good vibe.

What’s more, looking at this site, I discovered a concerning line of text. “…I don’t think you could get in with these guys anyway, Zaimokuza.”

“Herm? Why not?”

I pointed to a corner of the screen at the caption Exam for entrance. It said, Written exam with general common knowledge questions, plus interview by the club captain and some members.

“Apparently, in order to get into this club, there’s a written exam and an interview.”

When I tapped my finger to indicate the relevant spots, Isshiki popped in from behind to peer at it with a disinterested hmm. “Ahhh, then he’s got no chance, huhhh?”

“Ngh… Hachiman. I am mildly unskilled in interviews…”

“I know.”

I knew it well… Well, it’s not like I’m any good at interviews, either. I’d failed interviews for trivial part-time jobs without batting an eye, so never mind flaking out of a job—I’ve even ditched the interview before.

As my heart was dwelling on such personal failures to make the Hachiman of bygone days rapt with adoration, Isshiki reached all the way forward to do something on the laptop and made an ahhh sort of sound of understanding.

When I gave her a look that asked, Was there something? she gave me a little nod. “So then wouldn’t that mean Yui would get in easy?”

“Huh? Why? I’m really bad at tests and stuff…” Yuigahama seemed surprised to hear her own name come up so suddenly. Blinking her big eyes, she looked at Isshiki.

Isshiki scrolled on down the screen. “Ah, no. The impression I get from the pictures on the site is that they let in folks looking to have a good time and meet hot girls, so I figure you’d get in easy.”

“Oh, that does make sense,” I said, nodding in response to Isshiki’s remark. Written test aside, the interview seemed like something Yuigahama would be good at. She’d be able to establish rapport with that kind of party crowd, too.

Yuigahama appeared surprised to get a positive evaluation, as she blushed a little, smooshing her bun as she flicked glances over at me. “Y-you think?”

“Yeah, I bet you’d pick up on their annoying vibe real quick.”

“That’s your reason?! I take it back…” Yuigahama’s shoulders dropped, and she jerked her face away.

Ah, not saying you’re not cute! Please don’t get it wrong. I just thought you would be able to keep up with these hype college students. It’s just, I dunno. I think it may not be the best idea to blend into this particular crowd!

“Well, look. I mean, I’m sure they’d appreciate your looks, but it’s what’s on the inside that counts, you know… In fact, it’s best not to join a club that decides its members based on looks and energy, probably. Not like I know.”

“Huh? Hmm, well. That’s. Yeah…” Yuigahama didn’t seem quite convinced, but she reluctantly nodded, turning back to me.

Isshiki had been listening to the whole exchange. “You’re really bad at backpedaling…,” she said in exasperation.

Leave me alone. At least I can backpedal my way out of interviews for part-time jobs.

“What’s on the inside, hmm…? If that’s what we’re talking about, what good would come from a gathering of people who all share the same opinion? You can’t expect to grow in such a uniform, exclusive, and closed social situation…” Yukinoshita had been listening from the side, sounding skeptical as she gave the site a look.

Zaimokuza clapped his hands. “…Hpumf. So in other words, to make a comparison, it’s like how a certain publishing giant monopolizes game magazines, making it hard for games created by other companies to get promoted, so the producer of a certain company refused to make a series into a game, citing this reason while simultaneously making a deal to make a game out of a different series from another publisher, which was a total flop…right?”

“That’s too hard for me to understand, and I think you’re talking about something completely different, but that’s probably right.” I went along with what he was saying, like, Gotcha—which is short for I’ve got no idea what you’re chattering on about, and Zaimokuza gave me a solemn nod.

“I knew it! The Internet is where truth is found!”

Really? The Internet is so amazing. What kind of search do you have to do to reach that conclusion? What a search master. But I do feel that in the coming age, search experts will be needed. That’s a modern sort of talent. I was actually impressed, in a way.

For some reason, a fiery fighting spirit was blazing up within Zaimokuza. “…Those fiends! So the fact that my talent lies undiscovered, that my debut was thwarted, was indeed the fault of that Empire of Evil, that certain publishing giant monopolizing the market!”

“Yeah, no.”

Listen, just write it first, okay?

After breaking for a debriefing, we once again gathered in front of the laptop.

Since The Best or Bust! Kenken’s Journal to Get That Top-Class Publishing Job Offer! had not been very useful, we decided to try searching for something else that seemed good.

Of the various options, the job search websites had some pretty helpful information, like comments from people who were actually employed, plus selection criteria for companies and stuff.

And there, we found some shocking numbers.

“The acceptance rate at major publishers is insane…,” I said. “Thousands of people apply and something like fifteen get in…?”

“The number of examinees isn’t official, so we can’t know hard numbers, but I would suppose the odds are roughly one in two to three hundred,” Yukinoshita said, giving a general estimate.

Hearing her calculations, Yuigahama let out an impressed sigh. “Ohhh, it’s tough to become an editor, huh?”

“And that’s total number of hires, so if you also take into account the other departments, the number of people who can become editors gets even smaller.”

Yukinoshita was right. Some people would be assigned to Operations or Sales, and there were different jobs within Editorial, too. There would only be one or two people assigned to the coveted light-novel editorial department in Zaimokuza’s dreams. Worst case, new employees might not even be assigned there at all.

“M-mngh…,” he moaned. “G-gnngh… So it would be easier to become a light-novel author…”

“Yeah, maybe.” If you’re talking purely about the acceptance rate, it seemed easier to debut on the writing side at Gagaga Bunko. It’s not like there’s an interview to become one.

I wanted the scoop on the acceptance rate of people debuting as light-novel authors from Gagaga Bunko, and I was reaching out to the computer to look it up when someone grabbed my hand from behind.

“H-hold on a sec there, please,” Isshiki said with a shaking voice.

“Wh-what? What’s wrong?” I asked.

With a trembling finger, looking quite desperate, she urged, “Mm! Mm!” pointing at the computer screen. “Look at this! Look!”

What…? I thought, and looking at the spot she indicated, I saw comments from employees of a certain publishing house, plus their job descriptions. It contained their universities, their daily responsibilities, an estimate of their weekly work hours and daily schedule, etc. Scanning down the list, my gaze stopped abruptly on one point.

“At age twenty-five, an annual income of a ten million yen…”

No way in hell. You’ve gotta be kidding. Wow. Publishing giants are something else… You can make that within three years of graduating? And then your income climbs, and you get it every year, right? Talk about a winner…

As I was trembling in shock, behind me, I heard a deep inhale and exhale. Glancing back, I saw Isshiki with her left hand on her cheek, a charming and cutesy smile on. “I’m going to marry an editor.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Calm down. Hold on. I’m going to marry an editor.”

“You’re the one who needs to calm down…,” Yukinoshita said, exasperated, and I gasped, snapping out of my trance.

So maybe I lost control a little. When you think about it, ten million yen isn’t that big a deal. I’m hachiman myself, a value of eighty thousand yen, so that’s roughly nothing more than 125 me’s worth. Imagine how annoying it would be to have that many of me running around. Ten million is no big deal at all! Just one me is enough, and it’s precisely because there’s one of me that I have value!

As I was nodding to myself, winning myself over with mystery logic, Yuigahama was groaning. “Editor… An editor, huh…? Hmm…”

“Wellll, it’s good to have a goal, iiisn’t it?” said Isshiki. “I mean, until just now, I’d been working hard every day toward my goal.”

“Your goal, huh…?” That wasn’t very like Isshiki, and it bothered me. Wondering what her real motive was here, I looked over at her quizzically.

She touched her index finger to her jaw and gracefully tilted her head. “Of cooourse, it’s to work for a few years before, like, quitting for marriage?”

“Just what part of that involves effort…?” Yukinoshita sighed.

Isshiki pouted huffily. “I mean, I’m not very good at school, and there isn’t particularly anything I want to do…”

“I get that. I’m that type, too…” Yuigahama’s shoulders slumped.

“Riiight?” Isshiki said. Something must have dawned on her, as her face jerked up, looking over at Yukinoshita. “Oh, but you seem like you’d work really hard.”

Yukinoshita blinked in surprise. “I…” She trailed off, apparently having failed to anticipate that the conversation would be turned to her. Mouth open, she started to say something, but then her lips immediately drew tight.

Her long eyelashes pointed downward, and her hair spilled forward, revealing just a peek of her neck. Her white skin was so startling, I found myself gulping.

Her hands, laid politely over her skirt, moved just slightly, her fingers slowly closing into loose fists. “I don’t know. I thought so before. But now…I don’t know,” she said, looking up, and then she smiled as if embarrassed.

“Well, that’s fair enough. It’s still down the road,” Isshiki said lightly, and nobody spoke after that.

I think it was probably because neither I nor Yuigahama was listening to her.

Because Yukinoshita’s answer was a little surprising.

There really aren’t many high school students who can give a clear answer about their futures. But I’d had the vague idea that Yukinoshita had a solid idea about where she was headed. Or maybe that was just a selfish opinion I’d been projecting on her, but still, a strange sense of dissonance lay heavy in my heart.

With my elbow on the desk supporting my head, I was zoning out, watching Yukinoshita out of the corner of my eye when she noticed my gaze, cocking her head slightly with curiosity.

I gave a little shake of my head to imply it was nothing. She drew her chin back slightly and nodded.

…Well, she was still in her second year of high school, too. It wasn’t strange for her to struggle to make decisions about her future. In fact, if she was avoiding making a statement precisely because of her lack of certainty, that reason made sense to me.

With that conclusion, I quelled my unease and turned my gaze forward again.

There my eyes met with Zaimokuza’s, right in front of me, his arms crossed as he groaned, “What about you, Hachiman?”

“Hmm, me?”

“I think you’re wasting your time asking Hikki…” Yuigahama gave me a chilly look.

I nodded back at her. “Yeah, you’re right. My baseline is househusband.”

“I knew it was pointless…” Yuigahama sighed, letting her head droop.

Yukinoshita closed her eyes, pressing her temple. “You should actually look up the meaning of baseline…”

Isshiki tapped my shoulder. I turned around to see her eyes sparkling, and then she cupped her hands around her mouth as if she were going to share a secret with me and whispered softly in my ear, “Becoming an editor is my recommendation for you. An editor.”

“Nooope. Not working. Not getting a job,” I answered, twisting around to escape the faint scent of Anna Sui and the tickle of her breath. “And it’s not that easy to be an editor. Well, maybe if I started making a proper effort now, things could change.”

“Hmm, must I begin now and put in years of effort…? What an arduous trial…” Zaimokuza gave a low honking moan as he held his head in his hands. But then his eyes flared wide, and he straightened his back. “…Then ’tis easiest to become a light-novel author after all! It’s always been number one! Come, Hachiman! We have no time to waste! Let us set about my new book right away!”

Before he was even done with his outburst, Zaimokuza was sprinting toward the door. He came to a sliding stop there, then whirled around back to me. “Hachimaaaan! Pick up the pace!”

As he hopped on the spot, beckoning me, Zaimokuza looked like a repulsive creep, but when there was so much glee in his eyes, I almost broke out into a grin myself.

“Why don’t you go?” Yukinoshita prompted me.

“Yeah,” Yuigahama agreed. The smiles of both girls were distinctly forced.

“…Well, he is my case, after all,” I said out loud to resign myself to the decision and stood.

Meanwhile, Irohasu was clacking away on the computer, looking up something. “You can make a free magazine pretty easy, riiight?”

You really have no interest in Zaimokuza…

The sky outside my window seat was blue and cloudless. Despite that, it was strangely lacking in warmth, and though the sky was clear, something about it was chilly. Or maybe this was due to the library atmosphere and the lack of background noise.

There was nobody but us in the hushed library after school. I’m sure there was someone somewhere behind the checkout desk supervising the place, but there was no sign of them.

Sitting diagonally opposite me, Zaimokuza had been scribbling away in his notebook with a mechanical pencil, but at some point, he’d stopped, too.

I wasn’t sure if he’d lost steam or run out of ideas or what, but after sitting there staring into space for a while, he suddenly spoke up. “Herm, is there no use in becoming a light-novel author after all? …I mean, I can’t even marry a voice actress.”

“Uhhh, if marrying a voice actress is a required part of the job, then most careers are out…,” I said. “Same goes for editor, too.”

“I see. So light-novel author shall not work, and ’tis impossible for an editor, too…” Zaimokuza moaned for a while, but then his eyes sparkled, and he shot to his feet in a eureka! moment.

“Bingo! So then in these times: director! I shall make an anime! Don-Don-Donuts, let’s go nuts!” Zaimokuza’s voice echoed through the quiet library.

When the reverberations faded, I couldn’t stop a wry chuckle from escaping my lips. “…Well, as long as you’re happy.”

Zaimokuza blinked. “Hmm? Why are you talking to me like an ex-boyfriend…? H-hey, don’t. We-we’re not like that anymore…”

“Don’t blush and get all flustered, creep. This is me throwing my hands up, you idiot. Just write. Or I can’t go home.”

“Hmm. That is so… I have no choice. I shall write.” The excitement of his earlier cries was nowhere to be seen, and he was utterly awash in misery, his shoulders dejectedly hunching inward as he began writing in little dribs and drabs in his notebook.

Oh-ho, so he does intend to write a light novel. Surprising.

Though he didn’t seem to exhibit any maturity, Zaimokuza was changing bit by bit. Even as he wandered down escape routes and sidetracks and detours and all sorts of paths, he was heading for his destination. It was too bad that the destination was just marrying a voice actress. Nevertheless, just as writing one character after another, one line after another, will eventually lead to finishing a book, each day passes until the time comes when you go out into the world.

There was one more year until I would graduate high school. If I’m to assume that after that, I would make it into university just fine, then graduate without a hitch, there were only five more years until I went out into society as an adult.

Five years.

It felt like both an extraordinarily long time and the blink of an eye. I think as I grow older, the period of one year will become shorter and shorter. A year’s time right now wasn’t going to be the same as next year or the year after.

And I’m sure its value will be different, too.

Maybe even this hopeless time spent just looking up at the chilly sky has value.

I think right now, I’ll keep gazing at this beautiful dry sky for a while.



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