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The King of Tokyo Freeloaders [123]
🕑 Added 2025-10-17 13:03:45 +0000 UTC“All right, Shiroi-san, I understand. Could you please get up first? The penalty game is already over, there’s no need for this grand gesture...”
“I’m not getting up unless you agree!”
“Fine, fine, I agree! Isn’t that good enough?”
“Really? You’ll teach me?”
Shiroi Shiori lifted her head, overjoyed—and from this angle, Kuroba Akira could perfectly glimpse the flat slopes of her runway.
Hey… you’re showing again, little Shiori…
Shiroi Shiori naturally noticed Akira’s gaze as well, but at this point, being seen didn’t matter anymore.
He’d already seen everything anyway—so what if he looked a little longer? At worst, that strange urge to pee would intensify…
Though, why did she feel an urge to pee whenever he looked at her body? Was it embarrassment and tension affecting her bodily functions?
“It’s not some secret art or anything. As fellow Literature Club members, of course I'd be willing to share writing tips with you.”
Kuroba Akira once again half-squatted, extending his hand toward her.
Shiori took his hand, got up from the floor, and picked up her uniform blouse to put back on.
She didn’t feel the need to hide anything—after all, he’d seen the entire process of her undressing. Even the last item had been personally removed by him. Asking him to wait outside while she dressed now would seem entirely pointless.
Kuroba Akira returned to her bed, sat down, and eventually just lay back, folding his arms behind his head. Staring at the ceiling meant he wouldn't be tempted by Shiori’s bare figure, effectively controlling both his upper and lower urges.
“Shiroi-san…”
“You can call me Shiori. And I'll call you Akira-sensei.”
“No need for that title—it feels like I'd be taking Kozaikawa-sensei’s spot. Just call me by my name directly. No need to be so formal.”
Truthfully, "Akira-sensei" sounded way too respectful—if Class Rep heard that, she'd definitely realize she'd won their bet.
Akira still wanted to struggle a little—if Shiori could treat him more casually, neither "hatred" nor "worship," he could at least force a draw out of this.
“Can I take that to mean you don't want me as your disciple?”
“I think exchanging ideas as fellow authors is fine, but becoming your teacher… Right now, I’m clearly not qualified. After all, I haven't even published a single book yet.”
“Your manuscript has already been accepted by Mori Keima from Hurricane Bunko, right? Publication is basically guaranteed, isn’t it?”
“Publication itself is nothing special. Until the first week’s sales figures come in, I’m just an author-in-training.”
“Akira-kun… you really only believe in results, huh?”
“Shiroi-san… Shiori, here’s the first piece of advice I want to share with you: minority reviews mean nothing; only majority sales figures reflect a work’s true quality.”
Shiori raised her skirt to her waist, adjusting the zipper while replying thoughtfully.
“Sales equal quality… Got it. I'll remember.”
“You might think this viewpoint vulgar, filled with the stink of money—but to an author, having readers willing to buy your work is the highest form of acknowledgment. And beyond that, if your readers feel ‘Buying this book was totally worth it! I’ll buy three more copies!’ then that’s already a massive success.”
“…”
Shiroi glanced toward her bookshelf and suddenly realized something profound.
He was absolutely right. She herself was living proof—buying multiple copies of works she loved, even expensive collector’s editions, and lining up for signing events…
Thinking from an author’s perspective: if it were herself signing books for readers, wouldn’t she be filled with pride and accomplishment?
She’d learned again!
Excitedly, Shiori urged him:
“And then? What else?”
“Well… Hmm. Continuing with abstract theory won't be very helpful. Show me the manuscript you submitted this time.”
“Yes! I'll get it right away!”
Shiori dashed to her desk, quickly retrieving the original manuscript from the drawer—the copy she'd previously sent to the publisher was a photocopy.
Akira took the manuscript and glanced at it briefly before asking:
“No title?”
At his question, Shiori looked slightly ashamed, lowering her head as she hesitantly explained:
“Uh… When I finished the manuscript, there wasn’t much time left. I didn’t want to pick a random title just for the sake of it, so I temporarily left it untitled.”
“Oh.”
Kuroba Akira didn’t say more, but he’d already drawn a preliminary conclusion.
A light novel where you couldn’t quickly extract a title from its content likely meant it lacked catchy elements and had unfocused storytelling.
As he continued reading, his suspicion was confirmed. This novel’s fatal flaw was indeed a vague theme.
Shiori probably referenced many popular works and pieced together elements she considered good, but the stitching wasn’t skillful enough, resulting in an intensely fragmented reading experience.
Still, her prose was genuinely good, and she had plenty of experience in narrative logic and characterization, so the overall impression wasn’t bad.
After finishing, Akira formed a basic judgment: Shiori’s writing wasn't poor. What she lacked was a sharp instinct for trends, the clever use of hooks, seamless integration of narrative elements, and precise control over story pacing.
Meanwhile, Shiroi Shiori herself, watching Akira flip through her manuscript, felt an overwhelming sense of embarrassment—far, far more intense than when her body had been exposed moments earlier.
Was it because her innermost self was now being read by him?
Shiori's toes curled unconsciously; her palms were sweating anxiously, and her bladder was at its bursting point.
She wanted to rush to the bathroom, but she didn't want to miss Akira’s feedback either. It was like awaiting surgery results—utter torment.
If writing novels was akin to exposing one's soul, then every time she showed him her work, she would have to lay her naked inner self before him, allowing him to admire it, critique it, and perhaps even reshape it…
“Hmm…”
Kuroba Akira’s thoughtful sound accelerated her heartbeat. Electricity surged from her abdomen throughout her body, nearly causing her to leak.
“H-how… is it?”
“First, the opening isn’t good enough. It doesn’t quickly lead into the story, nor does it have a strong enough hook.”
“Ugh…!”
“In traditional literature, a prologue guides readers into the setting, lays foundations for the plot, introduces relationships… but in light novels, a prologue has only one function—to grab the reader’s attention.”
“I see… wait! I need to take notes!”
Shiori quickly grabbed pen and paper, looking earnestly at Akira.
“All right, continue!”
“Hmm, and next…”
Akira listed off several more "flaws," although they weren't truly flaws—just points that weren’t trendy enough.
Mori Keima’s earlier praise hadn’t been flattery; Shiori’s novel definitely had publishable quality. It just felt slightly outdated.
As Akira read, he had the strange sensation of reading a novel from twenty years ago. Though in this world, it was the kind of style popularized just recently.
Shiori was mostly imitating past writers, but what was commendable was that the novel’s core remained distinctly hers.
She was unlike himself—she hadn't yet degraded into an opportunistic imitator…
Given enough time, she would surely surpass him, becoming an author with a unique style.
Suddenly, an ingenious idea popped into Akira’s mind.
He could have Shiroi Shiori ghostwrite parts of his own light novel under the guise of “training” her.
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This is a fan translation of 东京软饭王 by 夜幕下的鬼 All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!
