— — — — — —
"Oikawa, don't forget to bring my mistake notebook tonight. I need to see how much my math has improved this time."
"Two onigiri."
"Deal."
"See you tonight."
"Mm."
After striking a bargain with his deskmate, Saki Kawasaki, Oikawa Tōru stuffed the textbooks he'd need for evening study into his shoulder bag and stepped out of the classroom.
It was mid-April in Chiba.
The cherry blossoms had long since lost the dazzling glory they'd shown at the beginning of the month. A soft breeze drifted through the streets, occasionally carrying a few petals scented with faint sweetness.
Oikawa swung onto his bike and pedaled down a road crowded with high school girls in uniform. Not that he had any mood to appreciate the view.
It had been over half a month since he'd transmigrated to this world.
At first he'd refused to believe it. Then came despair. Now, he'd more or less accepted reality.
Oikawa sighed and complained silently, 'Fine, I transmigrated. But why into some kind of anime crossover world? Hachiman Hikigaya, Yui Yuigahama, Saki Kawasaki… aren't they all from OreGairu? My Teen Romantic Comedy SNAFU?'
"Please," he muttered to himself, "don't let me run into names like Ken Kaneki or Yuji Itadori."
On his way home, he prayed under his breath.
All he wanted was to lie flat and coast through life. No supernatural nonsense, no insane plot twists. Just peace.
Before long, a slightly rundown house came into view.
"I'm home."
He opened the door.
Silence.
Of course it was silent. If someone answered, that would be the real horror story.
The body's original owner had been an orphan. His parents had died in a car accident a year ago. After blowing through the compensation money and their savings, he'd chosen to end his life.
And now Oikawa had inherited the mess.
"I wonder… if I ended it too, would I go back?"
The words left his mouth, and he let out a self-mocking chuckle.
He'd never been brave. Besides, suicide sounded painful. Definitely not his style.
After tossing his bag onto the sofa, Oikawa booted up his computer, ready to put his grand plan into action.
Ever since arriving in this world, he'd been racking his brain for ways to make money.
Start a small business ❌ (no capital)
Apply to be a porn star ❌ (equipment's fine, age isn't)
Sell the house and slack off forever ❌ (not eighteen yet)
Get a part-time job ✅
But after working for half a month, he'd faced the truth.
If he worked before transmigrating, and he's working after transmigrating. What was the point of crossing over at all?
After some painful soul-searching, Oikawa made up his mind.
He would cast aside that pesky moral line and become a… literary transporter.
Calling it plagiarism felt a bit harsh. How could moving knowledge from one place to another count as stealing?
It was borrowing.
Just… borrowing a lot.
"Keyboard, heed my call!"
A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
He might not have gotten a cheat system like most transmigrators, but every novel he'd read in his previous life was neatly stored in his brain.
"Let's write a tearjerker light novel."
"Leave the sorrow to the readers. Keep the happiness for myself."
"I choose you!"
He swept the pile of eroge icons on his desktop into a folder, opened a new document, and typed the title:
{Your Lie in April.}
A masterpiece that had wrung rivers of tears from its audience before being adapted into a light novel.
…
Clack-clack-clack!
Fingers flew across the keyboard with the ferocity of someone flaming in an online ranked match.
Three hours.
Twenty thousand words.
Honestly, not quite up to his old standards. Back in the toxic trenches of online gaming, that typing speed would've gotten several generations of his opponents' family trees wiped out.
Of course, that speed left more errors than normal.
"Good enough. Gotta leave the editor some room to shine."
After a final spellcheck and a satisfied nod, he gave himself a ridiculous pen name and mass-submitted the manuscript to every rookie award competition he could find.
His extensive job-hunting experience from his previous life had taught him one golden rule: shotgun approach. Even if you graduated from an unknown university on the map, maybe one of the big companies would still give you an interview.
Of course, passing was another story.
Most light novel newcomer awards offered four tiers:
Grand Prize (1 winner) — Gold Prize (2 winners) — Silver Prize (2 winners) — Encouragement Prize (5 winners)
Big publishing houses offered around three million yen for the Grand Prize. Smaller ones paid about one million. Gold and Silver paid less.
But even an Encouragement Prize meant a chance at publication.
In Japan, light novel authors earned royalties, usually seven to ten percent of the retail price. Some top authors negotiated higher rates, but that was clearly none of Oikawa's business right now.
They called it "printing royalties."
As long as the book got printed, the author got paid.
Whether it sold or not? That was the publisher's problem.
Of course, no writer didn't dream of both critical acclaim and booming sales.
"Your Lie in April was huge in my old world. A Gold Prize should be a safe bet, right? There's no way these editors are that blind."
Still, he couldn't help feeling nervous.
He desperately needed a lump sum to escape the part-time grind.
"Time for work again. Ugh. I really don't want to see the manager's ugly face again."
"Damn pervert goes slack-jawed every time a high school girl walks in. One of these days I'll snap a picture and send it to his wife."
After venting for a bit, Oikawa grabbed Kawasaki's mistake notebook, bit into a piece of bread, and headed for the convenience store.
…
At Dengeki Bunko.
Every April was hell for the editors.
Especially the rookies. For them, it was both physical torture and a mental endurance test.
Once you've seen enough submissions, you realize the world truly contains all kinds of wonders.
"Intentionally Delaying Updates So the Editor Has to Wear a Maid Outfit."
"What kind of nonsense title is that?!"
A rookie male editor's face went dark as he read it.
He opened the file, skimmed a few pages, and delivered a brutally honest verdict:
A steaming pile of crap.
Your Lie in April.
"Huh. Author name: 'Copycat Transmigrator?'"
The rookie editor frowned, thoroughly confused, and clicked open the document.
.
.
.