Tooshiro Senda did not expect the email to matter. That was his first mistake, which felt unfair because he made it while brushing his teeth at 6:03 in the morning while checking his phone. Important life moments should have better timing. A person should be wearing pants.
Instead, Tooshiro stood in his one-room apartment with a toothbrush in his mouth, wet hair stuck to his forehead, and one sock on because he had lost the other sock during the private war between his laundry basket and the floor.
The email subject read:
Regarding The Kingslayer King Submission
He stared at it. Foam slowly gathered near the corner of his mouth. No. That was his entire first reaction as the sender was not a name he recognized at first. Then his eyes moved to the company line beneath it.
Kisaragi Bunko Editorial Department.
His chest tightened in a way that made the toothbrush feel like a foreign object. Kisaragi Bunko was not huge. Not the kind of giant publisher with anime billboards in Ikebukuro and entire shelves reserved in every bookstore from Tokyo to Sapporo. But they were real. A small-to-mid-size label known for light novels, fantasy romance, supernatural dramas, and a few web-origin titles that had gotten manga adaptations. They had a reputation for taking chances on unusual first volumes if the premise was clean and the first arc had enough shape.
Tooshiro knew this because three months ago, during a rare stretch of courage and sleep deprivation, he had sent them a submission package.
He had sent three, technically.
One to Kisaragi Bunko. One to a digital-first light novel label he never expected to hear from. One to a distributor contact whose website had looked so outdated he was not entirely sure the company still existed until they sent back an automated receipt.
He had done it at 2:00 a.m., after finishing Chapter Nine and telling himself that if he did not send it before further thinking, he would start revising again and die at his desk at age eighty-six with a file called Final_Final_REALFINAL_v926.
Then weeks passed and nothing happened. So, he printed the book himself, he delivered it to Fumiko, and his life hasn't been the same. But now, Kisaragi Bunko was in his inbox.
The toothbrush almost fell from his mouth. Tooshiro spat, rinsed, wiped his face with a towel, then picked up the phone again without breathing properly, opening the email.
Dear Senda Tooshiro-sama,
Thank you for submitting your fantasy romance adventure manuscript, The Kingslayer King, under the pen name Shin Kaidou. We apologize for the delay in response. After internal review, we would like to discuss publication possibilities for your first volume.
Tooshiro sat down on the bathroom floor. It was not a dramatic choice. His legs simply refused to stop shaking. The email continued in clean, polite sentences that seemed to have no idea they were beating him to death. They had reviewed the material of the submitted 10 chapters (The Opening Prologue counting as a chapter with the 9 after it), which gave them a complete first-volume arc by their standards. They felt the opening had strong character hooks, the fantasy world was marketable, the romantic thread was still early but promising, and the combination of post-kingdom adventure with quiet emotional aftermath could stand out in the current light novel space.
They wanted to schedule an online meeting with an editor to discuss revisions, volume structure, cover direction, interior character illustrations, and digital-first release strategy with print-on-demand or limited first run options depending on preorders and early response. Then came the line that made his vision go strange.
If reader response is strong, there may be potential for manga, audio drama, or animation proposal consideration in the future, though such developments depend on sales, readership growth, and partner interest.
Tooshiro lowered the phone into his lap. The bathroom was too small for this kind of news. There was toothpaste in the sink, a towel hanging crooked on the rack, and his shampoo bottle had fallen over in the shower sometime during the night. Nothing about the room looked like a place where a person’s future might change drastically.
He read the email again, then a third time, as he whispered, “What?!”
The apartment did not answer. It had never been helpful in emergencies.
His phone buzzed while he was still on the floor.
Nana: Mom says bring the empty containers next time or she’ll start billing you.
Tooshiro stared at the message. Then at the email. Then back at Nana’s message. He called her.
She answered on the third ring, voice thick with sleep and judgment, “If you are calling about nonsense at six in the morning, I’m changing my number.”
“I got an email.”
“From who?”
“A publisher.”
Tooshiro received only silence. Not Nana preparing an insult or doing a dramatic pause because she thought she was funny. Just silence.
Then, quieter, “Really? Which publisher?”
“Kisaragi Bunko.”
“Tooshiro,” she said, and his name sounded different from her mouth this time. Less brother, more witness, “Open the email on your laptop. Make sure it’s real.”
“I already checked the domain.”
“Check again.”
“I did.”
“Check anyway. I refuse to let your dreams get stolen by a phishing scam before breakfast.”
That was practical enough to keep him from floating away. He stood, nearly tripping over the missing sock, and carried the phone to the low table. His laptop waited open from last night, still showing the Shin Kaidou website draft. The author profile sat there, clean and unfinished.
He opened the email on the laptop. Same sender. Same company domain. Same links going to their official site.
“It’s real,” he said firmly.
Nana inhaled sharply on the other end, “Read it to me then.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No, I mean if I read it out loud, I might die.”
“Then haunt professionally. Now read.”
He did. Slowly, badly, stopping twice because the words looked less believable once spoken. When he reached the part about cover direction and interior illustrations, Nana made a sound that was half laugh and half something else.
“They’ll pay an artist?” she asked.
“It says they would commission cover art and limited character artwork if the project moves forward.”
“Like real light novel stuff?”
“Yeah. Cover. Maybe a color insert, character sheets, chapter ornaments, depending on format and budget. They said a first volume structure. Chapters one through ten.”
“That’s the arc?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you wanted.”
He looked at the laptop screen. The email glowed beside the website draft. The name Shin Kaidou appeared in both places, “Yeah, of course.”
Nana’s voice softened, “Aren't you happy?”
Tooshiro opened his mouth, but no answer came. That was absurd. Of course he was happy. He had wanted this for years. Always writing different stories since he was in middle school. He had imagined the email, the meeting, the real cover, the first box of printed copies arriving from a company that did not require him to fight his own printer at midnight. He had wanted a real editor to say the story could become a book. A real book. Not just a handmade copy slipped into a delivery order by a man making choices that would alarm a human resources department.
But underneath the happiness, another feeling had already moved in and there she was, Fumiko.
She would want to know. She would be thrilled for Shin Kaidou. She would ask questions about the editor, the cover artist, the release plan, the title treatment, whether Selena would be on the cover, whether Quintin’s eyes were described correctly, whether Johanus should appear in the first volume artwork even if the marketing wanted the younger leads.
And Tooshiro would stand there with his fake messenger bag and tell her his friend had gotten the offer. His stomach turned.
Nana did not need him to answer. She already knew,c“Oh… I get it.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't know enough! Brother, the lie has now acquired publishing rights.”
He covered his face with one hand, “Please, don’t say it like that.”
“The lie has an editorial meeting!”
“Nana.”
“The lie might get an anime?!”
“Stop,” Tooshiro groaned into his palm.
Nana’s voice sharpened, but not cruelly, “You have to tell her before this meeting becomes a reality.”
“I haven’t even replied yet.”
“Then reply, schedule it, and tell Fumiko!”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It never is. That’s not an argument.”
He looked toward the fridge without meaning to. The convenience store pudding still sat on the top shelf, unopened, though now it had outlived its symbolic usefulness.
Nana sighed, “Do not look at the pudding.”
“How did you know I was even…?”
“Because you are predictable.”
“I hate that.”
“Good. Use it as fuel.”
A work alarm rang from his phone. 6:30. First shift. The real world was calling, rude and punctual.
“I have work,” he said.
“Of course you do. Tokyo needs its boxes.”
“I’ll think.”
“No. You will plan.”
“Nana.”
“Thinking is where you hide. Planning is where you make an effort for actions.”
He stared at the email again, “I know.”
“Tell Daiki-san too.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s annoying in a useful way, and you need another voice of reason,” she paused, then added more gently, “Congratulations. Really. I’m proud of you.”
The apartment seemed to become quieter around him, “Thanks,” he said, but hated how small it sounded.
“Also, if you cry, drink water.”
“I’m not crying.”
“Then drink water because you sound dehydrated, emotionally,” Nana said, hanging up before he could argue.
At the depot, Tooshiro moved like someone had replaced his bones with wrapped cables. He loaded boxes. Scanned labels. Checked time slots. Said good morning to people who answered with the usual range of mumbles, nods, and one cheerful “Yo” from Kudo, who looked far too awake for a man with an early route.
Daiki noticed before 8:00. This was annoying, but not surprising. Daiki noticed everything except the crumbs he left in other people’s vans.
“You look strange,” Daiki said.
Tooshiro lifted a box onto the cart, “That’s a broad statement.”
“No. This is a very specific strange.”
“Work strange?”
“Life strange.”
“Could you not?”
Daiki stopped joking for half a second, which made Tooshiro worry, “What happened?”
Tooshiro looked around. The depot was noisy enough to cover them. Carts rattled. Someone was arguing with a label printer. Tanabe’s voice came from across the floor, calm in the way that meant someone’s mistake had entered paperwork.
“I got an email from a publisher,” Tooshiro said.
Daiki’s face changed slowly, “For the book?”
“For the book.”
“The frog book?”
“If you call it that in front of anyone, I’ll put you in a refrigerated box.”
Daiki ignored that with unusual grace, “And what did they say?”
“They want to discuss publication.”
Daiki stared at him, but Tooshiro hated that too. He preferred the jokes. Jokes were easier to dodge. Daiki looking proud was harder. Daiki looking proud while holding a box of cat litter was a specific form of emotional warfare.
“Damn,” Daiki said.
“Yeah.”
“Hot damn.”
“You said that.”
“I’m building emphasis.”
“Please don’t.”
Daiki placed the cat litter down and clapped a hand on Tooshiro’s shoulder with enough force to remind him why married men always claimed accidental strength, “Senda. That’s huge for you!”
Tooshiro looked away, “Maybe.”
“No. Don’t maybe it. This is not your discount bento romance where everyone pretends the obvious isn’t obvious. A publisher? That’s huge!”
“It’s only to set up a meeting.”
“A meeting because they liked your work.”
“They might still pass after talking.”
“They might. But they opened the door.”
Tooshiro nodded once as Daiki squeezed his shoulder, then let go, “Have you told Door 305?”
“No.”
Daiki’s proud expression immediately shifted into the long-suffering face of a man whose friend kept stepping on rakes, “Senda man.”
“I just found out this morning.”
“And now it is later this morning.”
“I have a route.”
“You have a route and a ticking bomb.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
“Nana already gave me a very similar speech.”
“Good. I like her.”
“You haven’t met her.”
“Her work is speaking for itself."
Tooshiro sighed and picked up another package, “I don’t know how to say it.”
Daiki leaned against the cart, “Start with the truth. Use some sentences. Avoid your metaphors.”
“That sounds like advice from someone who eats sandwiches in other people’s vans and leaves crumbs.”
“Yet I’m right.”
“You are often somehow accidentally right.”
Daiki grinned, but the grin faded again, “Listen. She is going to be happy about the publisher. Then she is going to realize you kept this from her too if you don’t tell her now. The good news is part of the lie if you deliver it wrong.”
The good news is part of the lie. Tooshiro wished everyone would stop being articulate at him. His scanner beeped. Route 17 wanted him.
“I’ll tell her,” he said.
“When?”
“I don’t know. Soon.”
Daiki pointed at him, “Soon is just eventually in disguise. Be quick and clear. Clarity matters.”
“You sound like my sister.”
“Then your sister is also beautiful and wise.”
“She would agree.”
“Then I like her more.”
Tooshiro left with the route loaded and his head crowded. The morning passed in a blur that still somehow required exact addresses and polite bows. He delivered winter bedding to a woman preparing early for the season. A box of protein drinks to a man who looked personally offended by the stairs he descended to get them. A book package to a customer who accepted it with such joy that Tooshiro almost told him to be careful, books could ruin your life if handed to the correct person.
At 11:37, during a break outside a vending machine near Higashi-Nakano, he replied to Kisaragi Bunko.
Senda Tooshiro: Thank you very much for your message. I would be grateful for the opportunity to speak with you. I am available Wednesday evening or Thursday afternoon, depending on your schedule.
Please note, while I submitted the work under the pen name Shin Kaidou, correspondence under my legal name is fine.
That sentence made his palms sweat, but he sent it, sat in the van and breathed. His phone buzzed ten minutes later.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Did Shin Kaidou decide whether the website profile is final?
The timing was so cruel that Tooshiro looked up at the van ceiling like the universe had sent a direct insult. He typed, deleted, and then typed again.
Senda Tooshiro: Mostly final. Something came up, so he may need to adjust it.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Adjust it how?
He stared at her question. How? Always how with her. The simple questions that were doors to different routes, different confrontations, and different endings.
Senda Tooshiro: There might be publisher news.
It was the closest he could get without lying outright. Her reply came almost immediately.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Oh?? Publisher news?
Then after a moment:
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Senda-san?
Yamaguchi Fumiko: What publisher news?
He could see her face in the messages. The composure cracking. The reader waking up. Fumiko at her desk, maybe in Shinjuku, trying not to look too excited in front of Mizuki and failing enough for Mizuki to smell blood. He smiled despite the panic.
Senda Tooshiro: He received an email from a light novel label. They want to discuss publication possibilities for the first volume.
The typing bubble appeared, vanished, appeared again, then vanished for long enough that he thought he had killed her before finally:
Yamaguchi Fumiko: That is not “might be” publisher news.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: That is actual publisher news!
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Why did you lead with “might”?
Tooshiro laughed once in the van before the next message came through.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: I’m happy for him.
There it was. For him. Tooshiro’s smile faltered. Her next message arrived before he could respond.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Truly. That’s wonderful. Which publishing label?
I should tell her as soon as possible... Not just the label, everything. And Tooshiro knew it. That he should put the phone down, call her after work, meet her somewhere quiet, and say, ‘Yamaguchi-san, I need to tell you something before this gets worse.’ He should say it while he still had the chance. While the good news could still be shared instead of used as cover.
Instead, the scanner beeped from the passenger seat, and a redelivery alert flashed, snapping him out of head.
Senda Tooshiro: Kisaragi Bunko. I have a delivery, but I’ll explain later.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Kisaragi Bunko?
Yamaguchi Fumiko: They publish Starfall Café and The Saintess Who Quit Before Dawn.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: I’m sorry. My mind’s racing! I’ll stop.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: But that label is a good fit.
Tooshiro read her messages and leaned back against the seat. She knows the label. Of course she knows the label.
Senda Tooshiro: I’ll tell him you said that.
He sent it. The moment the message left, he hated it. I’ll tell him. The lie had learned to fall from him so easily.
At Sakura Capital, Fumiko read the message three times during lunch and then looked at the website screenshot again. The profile line sat on her phone screen.
He writes stories about people trying to live honestly after surviving the lives they were given.
She liked that sentence. She had liked it when Tooshiro first sent the screenshot, and she liked it more now because a publisher had apparently seen what she had seen. The Kingslayer King could become a real light novel. A proper volume. Cover art. Character art. Maybe a color page. Maybe a small afterword. If sales were good, possibly a manga someday. If the gods of media production were bored and generous, anime discussions far in the future!
Fumiko also knew enough about the industry not to romanticize it too much. Publication did not mean fame. A meeting did not mean a contract. A contract did not mean the book would sell. Light novel volumes lived or died on packaging, timing, bookstore placement, digital rankings, reader response, cover appeal, and a hundred invisible decisions. But still. A publisher had looked at The Kingslayer King and said, ‘This is worth discussing.’
Fumiko pressed her phone to her chest for half a second, then immediately lowered it because she was in the break area and Mizuki could be anywhere… as Mizuki slid into the seat across from her two seconds later.
“Who got published?” Mizuki asked with a grin.
Fumiko nearly dropped the phone, “Why would you just start there?”
“Your face.”
“My face said that?”
“Your face and I was peaking over your shoulder for quite some time before you were worried I was peaking over your shoulder.”
Fumiko looked around, flushed. The break area was mostly empty. Two analysts sat near the vending machines discussing weekend plans, and one person from accounting was microwaving something that smelled like curry and regret.
She lowered her voice, “Shin Kaidou received an email from Kisaragi Bunko. They want to discuss publication possibilities for The Kingslayer King.”
Mizuki nodded, “The suspicious delivery book?”
“Please don’t call it that.”
“The smuggled book?”
“No.”
“The romance plot device book?”
“Mizuki.”
“Fine. The fantasy novel.”
Fumiko nodded even though Mizuki already knew.
“And that’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s very good. It’s not guaranteed, but it’s a serious step. They usually want a full first-volume shape, which he has. Ten chapters now, apparently. They could assign an editor, commission cover art, maybe character illustrations. If it performs well, there could be a manga adaptation pitch someday, or other media attention, but that would be later.”
Mizuki stared as Fumiko stopped, “What?”
“You were trying not to gush and somehow gave me a publishing seminar anyways.”
Fumiko’s face warmed, “Oh… sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was informative. How interesting for our dear little Fumiko.”
“I mean, it’s a big opportunity for him.”
“For this Shin Kaidou?”
“Yes.”
“But it is your delivery guy that told you?”
“Yes, Senda-san is the liaison.”
Mizuki’s expression did something unpleasantly thoughtful and she shook her head from side to side.
Fumiko noticed, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Now that's my line when I’m lying, right? Feels the same coming from you.”
“See? We’re growing so close!”
“Mizuki.”
Mizuki leaned forward, “Have you ever actually seen Shin Kaidou and Senda-san in the same room?”
Fumiko stared at her, “Well, no. That's his whole thing. How all of this started. Because…”
“Fumi, I’m joking.”
“Are you?”
“Mostly.”
Fumiko looked down at the phone again. The break area noise seemed to shrink around her. Have you ever actually seen Shin Kaidou and Senda-san in the same room? It was ridiculous. A very obvious joke.
The kind Mizuki threw into conversations the way some people tossed coins into fountains, without caring where or how they landed. Tooshiro was a delivery worker helping his private author friend. That was the story. A strange story? Maybe. But life had strange stories all the time. Not everything was a secret identity plot from a manga.
Fumiko’s eyes moved back to the website sentence. People trying to live honestly after surviving the lives they were given. Her mind offered another sentence without permission. I think it’s a story about people finding out freedom is heavier than chains. Tooshiro had said that in the hallway. Not Shin Kaidou. Tooshiro.
Fumiko remembered his face when she asked what he thought of the book. The way he answered so quickly and quite deeply. She remembered Jimbocho, the kissaten, and his other answers.
Does Shin Kaidou think those things? Or does Tooshiro? Fumiko had asked him… But Nana’s cabbage message had interrupted before he answered.
Fumiko placed the phone on the table, lost in those thoughts.
Mizuki watched her carefully now, wondering if she truly had stirred the pot too much, “Yamaguchi?”
“It’s… nothing.”
“No, that was not nothing.”
“It’s only...” Fumiko stopped, then changed direction, “He writes like Senda-san talks sometimes.”
Mizuki’s eyebrows rose.
“I said sometimes.”
“And?”
“Nothing. It could be because Senda-san helped with the profile, or any number of things.”
“Did he say he helped?”
“He implied it.”
“Ah, the official language of suspicious men.”
Fumiko frowned, “He is not suspicious in that way.”
“In what way?”
“A bad way, like you're implying every time you call him suspicious.”
Mizuki softened a little, “I’m not actually accusing him of being bad.”
“I know that.”
“But something about this is odd.”
Fumiko looked at the phone again.
Odd. Yes. But odd did not mean wrong. Odd could be a private author with an awkward friend. Odd could be an earnest delivery worker who loved his friend’s book enough to remember chapter order, themes and characters with poignant accuracy. Suspicious accuracy.
Fumiko rubbed at her temple, “I hate that phrase.”
Mizuki tilted her head, “What phrase?”
“Nothing.”
“That is becoming your least convincing word.”
Fumiko picked up her chopsticks and looked at her lunch, a neatly packed container of rice, vegetables, and chicken leftover from the curry.
“I don’t want to solve him like he's an error on a spreadsheet,” she said.
Mizuki smiled faintly, “Then don’t. Just ask him.”
“That sounds… terrifying.”
“Most real things are.”
Fumiko’s phone buzzed and both women looked down.
Senda Tooshiro: Sorry, route got busy. I can talk after work if you still want details.
Fumiko read the message once.
Senda-san. Not Shin Kaidou. The man who delivered packages, saved pudding, apologized to mailboxes, and somehow stood right beside a mystery she kept refusing to open. Her thumb hovered.
Yamaguchi Fumiko: Yes. I’d like all the details!
Mizuki, who absolutely had no right to be reading upside down that well, made a soft sound as Fumiko sent the message.
7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFjKZVjlKFk
and then Add to home screen.