"...Interesting!"
Just finishing the prologue, Mori Keima couldn't help but give an immediate evaluation.
The prologue neatly laid out the premise, spiced things up with enticing fanservice, and most strikingly, had the little sister appear at the most awkward possible moment for the older brother, brimming with dramatic flair.
He keenly sensed the makings of a hit—this would probably be the best submission he'd seen so far this year.
From an editor's perspective, the most valuable point was that the prologue alone vividly conveyed a sense of imagery.
Creating such a strong sense of imagery required skill; only seasoned authors could pull it off properly. Some authors, despite detailed descriptions, failed to conjure clear visuals in readers' minds.
Perhaps for traditional literature, imagery wasn't absolutely critical, but it was extremely important for light novels.
Because among all novels, light novels were the most suitable for manga or anime adaptations.
Ever since Mori Keima entered the industry, the definition of a "light novel" kept evolving. But no matter how it changed, the core remained unchanged—the crucial question was always, "Is this suitable for adaptation?"
Manga and anime adaptations massively boosted sales of original novels. In this country, with its highly developed anime industry, this synergy was unbeatable.
With built-in illustrations and character designs, this was the innate advantage of light novels. Yet few authors grasped this point, instead pursuing literary depth or significance...
Literary depth, my ass! If you want literary depth, go write traditional novels! You're submitting to the wrong publisher!
But this author clearly understood.
With anticipation raised, Mori Keima eagerly moved to the next chapter but was surprised to find not the actual text but character introductions and visual descriptions.
Reading this first would spoil things...better skip ahead for now...huh?
Just as he was about to skip this section, his eyes unintentionally caught sight of some dialogue boxes, prompting confusion. Why were there dialogue boxes in the character introductions?
Taking a closer look, his eyes gradually widened.
Wait, this isn't just a character intro!
"This is... a placeholder for colored inserts!"
Each character's name was followed by a quote perfectly capturing their personality.
And all four were heroines... clearly, the novel intended to use its female leads as selling points.
The descriptions weren't mere character introductions but notes for corresponding illustrations, including a PS stating these illustrations should appear at the very start. However, to give editors a smooth reading experience, they were placed after the prologue.
Indeed, colored illustrations typically came at the beginning, but in submissions, placing illustrations upfront often made Mori Keima feel the author was trying too hard to impress. Reading the prologue first helped him quickly gauge whether the content was solid enough.
If the prologue established the imagery, these color insert placeholders proved the author had clearly visualized exactly what illustrations he wanted—an obviously intentional move.
Mori Keima's curiosity instantly ignited. Just what situations led to these lines being spoken?
Reading further would provide the answers.
...
Four hours later, the entire morning had passed. Mori Keima was so engrossed that he even forgot lunch.
After finishing the entire first volume, Mori Keima couldn't help but exclaim:
"Amazing..."
He wasn't marveling at the author's talent, but rather at how thoroughly the author had considered everything.
This was already a fully "completed" light novel.
Normally, submissions rarely contained a full first volume. Usually, authors sent a sample with an outline, mainly seeking editorial advice.
To confidently send an entire volume demonstrated tremendous self-assurance.
Yet, it wasn't unfounded arrogance—this submission truly required no further adjustments before publication.
Publishing a single paperback volume typically took two or three months: writing manuscripts, editorial adjustments (content, word count, layout), commissioning illustrations, printing, and finally shipping to bookstores nationwide.
But this submission required no editing—length, pacing, and word count were perfectly balanced. With commissioned illustrations, this manuscript could immediately go to print.
In his editing career, Mori Keima had never encountered a submission this polished—it suggested a profound understanding of the publishing industry.
He even suspected some well-known author might be trolling him under a new pseudonym, making him curious to check the sender's name and address later.
Content-wise, he could find nothing to criticize—it had everything necessary, even surprising elements he hadn't anticipated, each equally captivating.
Even more impressively, the author strategically placed insert illustration placeholders within chapters as well, clearly describing what images to use precisely at moments when scenes vividly formed in Mori Keima's mind.
These scenes highlighted the charm of female characters or the protagonist's coolest moments, perfectly complementing the narrative.
If the title and opening illustrations indicated the author understood how to create appeal, now Mori Keima was convinced the author had deliberately engineered visual scenes, laying groundwork for adaptations!
The only minor flaw was slightly immature writing.
But in the light novel category, writing prowess wasn't critical—fluid readability mattered most.
Moreover, the author clearly recognized their limitations, using simple vocabulary and clean, concise sentences deliberately.
This made for an easy reading experience—honestly, even elementary schoolers would find this delightful!
Yet emotional delivery remained spot-on! Not lacking at all!
This is good! Really good! This author has great potential!
Mori Keima hated authors who couldn't see their own shortcomings, blindly stumbling around like headless flies, ultimately collapsing due to writer's block.
Such authors could at least be guided by editors—but others were truly hopeless.
His most hated type was arrogant, stubborn authors who insisted their writing was perfect, even when poor sales slapped reality in their faces. They blamed readers for "not getting it"—those hopeless authors deserved permanent exile.
Even though the current submission made Mori Keima eager to immediately contact the author, as a seasoned deputy editor-in-chief, he had other considerations.
Primarily, the sustainability of serialization.
This first volume was impeccable, but it could've just been an extraordinary performance—no telling how the story would continue.
Also, bringing a manuscript to this level of completeness might've taken considerable polishing—possibly months or even a year.
Becoming a professional writer required speed and consistency. High-quality content had to be continually produced to survive this brutal industry.
Only superstar authors had the privilege of dragging out deadlines, and publishers often turned a blind eye to them.
Many authors started strong, only to write a chaotic mess later. Mori Keima had no choice but to cancel their series prematurely.
He certainly wished those authors could continue publishing—but when sales were inevitably set to plummet, should he really release garbage to readers?
He'd seen countless immature authors who required editors to clean up after them.
Regardless, he decided to reach out first—understand how long the author took to write this novel and how they developed the story.
Mori Keima had already resolved to meet the author. Just the quality of this submission alone warranted the deputy editor-in-chief personally treating the author to dinner.
If the author could sustain future storylines, this would unquestionably become a bestseller!
But just then, he realized the submission wasn't over yet. He pinched the remaining pages—there was still quite a bit left.
Did they actually include Volume Two…?
He flipped the page again and saw...
A detailed outline for subsequent volumes.
In the editing cubicle, Mori Keima couldn't help bursting into laughter.
"Haha! You're really playing your cards well!"
You even anticipated how I, the editor, would react?
Well played, kid... You're the one!