Saturday. Sales Day.
A day where numbers would speak louder than words.
On this particular Saturday, Fujikawa Publishing had strategically released several high-profile fantasy fiction volus—tid precisely to compete, or rather, to interfere. There was no need to match "Saekano" head-on in quality or innovation. Their aim was simple and petty: to be a nuisance.
Flood the shelves. Drown the visibility. Fracture the attention of readers.
With heavy marketing, flashy posters, and storefront banners, they tried to capture foot traffic, banking on the fact that most readers only buy one light novel at a ti. If they could divert just a fraction of those choices, it would be a win in their eyes.
A desperate one, but a win nonetheless.
But Yukima Azuma wasn't bothered.
This was expected.
Once fantasy waned, the youth genre would inevitably rise to take its place. Fujikawa's actions were like those of a mosquito buzzing in a room full of moonlight. Annoying, maybe. Threatening? Hardly.
"Let them try," Yukima thought, reclining on his sofa, thumbing through his Twitter feed. "Let them waste their breath."
His tiline was buzzing.
Every major account connected to "The Youth of a Lonely Boy Will Not Dream of a Passerby Heroine" had posted:
@EromangaSensei
"On June 21st, this Saturday, the youth romance novel I've illustrated will be released. Please support it!"
The likes were astronomical. The retweets relentless. Even the trics for idol scandals couldn't touch the viral traction of this post.
Years of fan loyalty to the enigmatic Eromanga-sensei had mobilized into full force.
Not to be left behind, Kasumigaoka Utaha and Eriri Spencer Sawamura had also shared promotional tweets. Their engagent numbers were more modest in comparison, but there was an undeniable sincerity in their words.
Yukima smiled faintly, ward.
"Maybe I should thank them properly..." he murmured aloud. "What should I make?"
His eyes twinkled with a sudden idea.
"Pocky. I'll make Pocky."
A simple snack—long biscuit sticks dipped in glossy chocolate. Nad after the crisp "pocky" sound they made when bitten. A classic among ani couples and light novel flirtations alike.
He was just about to leave his phone behind and head to the kitchen, when—
Ring.
A call.
From Machida Sonoko.
Yukima paused, thumb hovering over the answer button. What could she want now?
He picked up.
"What's up, Machida-san? Shouldn't you be drowning in sales data?"
There was no reason to call unless sothing urgent had happened. The numbers weren't even finalized yet.
But instead of stress, all Yukima heard on the other end was...
Laughter. Unrestrained, delighted laughter.
"Did you see the latest 'Jujutsu Kaisen' Chapter?!" she gasped between fits of giggles.
Yukima blinked.
"Jujutsu...?"
He rembered it from his previous life. It was a masterpiece, no doubt. But he already knew how it ended, so he hadn't followed it this ti around.
"I haven't. Sothing happen?"
Machida sounded like she could barely breathe.
"Gojo Satoru. He got split in half. Literally. Just—snrk—chopped down the middle. Dead. Gone. The author actually did it!"
Yukima's eyes narrowed.
"So... 'Gojo Satoru' is now... 'Gojo/Satoru'?"
Machida wheezed.
"YES! Or maybe even 'Go/jo/Sato/ru'—since both his arms got severed too. And before dying, the villain even told him to stand proud—'I'll never forget you'—the gall!"
Yukima clicked his tongue. Typical.
Gege never did shy away from writing what they wanted, regardless of comrcial impact.
"In the art of disappointing fans, Gege is a true professional."
Another pause followed.
Then Machida, regaining composure, asked with mock suspicion:
"Aren't you worried? You haven't asked about sales at all."
Most authors would've been at the event, watching anxiously as numbers rolled in. But not Yukima. He hadn't even left his apartnt.
"I have confidence," he said coolly. "And if it flops, that just ans the readers have poor taste."
Machida couldn't help but roll her eyes.
But honestly? He wasn't wrong.
With its prose, characters, plot, promotional push, and hype—Saekano had everything. If it failed, it would say more about the market than the book.
And it wasn't like he needed the money. He had Laplace Corporation—the powerhouse in Shibuya—at his back.
She sighed and hung up, turning back to her screen.
Her eyes fell on the real-ti sales data, numbers updating in bursts.
And her jaw dropped.
Barely half a day had passed.
The first print run was nearly gone.
She had estimated a full month of stock. At minimum.
Yet here they were—three-quarters depleted by mid-afternoon.
A debut author. First release.
It was unheard of.
Elsewhere. The Sawamura residence.
Sayuri closed the door behind her, plastic bag in hand. The mont she stepped inside—
"Mom! You got it, right?! Did you get it?!"
Eriri ca bounding down the hallway, eyes wide.
Sayuri raised the bag like a trophy.
Only for Eriri's face to fall in dismay.
"Only three?! I told you fifty! No—A HUNDRED!!"
Sayuri bonked her daughter's forehead.
"Ungrateful brat! I visited five bookstores! These were the last ones!"
Eriri rubbed her head and grinned sheepishly. Then she jumped behind her mother, rubbing her shoulders like a repentant child.
"They sold out too fast... Seriously, how many copies did they even print?"
Sayuri gave a dry chuckle.
One million.
Yet barely any were left.
She hadn't told Eriri this, but she had skimd the book on the way ho.
And what she read...
It wasn't just a novel. It was an emotional blueprint. Six hundred pages of raw, heartfelt prose, as if each word had been carefully carved from the author's soul.
"This isn't a light novel," Sayuri thought.
"It's a six-hundred-page love letter. To gumi."
And her daughter—clutching that "love letter" ant for another girl—was now dancing around the living room, beaming with joy.
Sayuri sighed.
She considered herself emotionally sharp. Her husband Spencer, too—England's diplomatic prodigy—had enough charm to devastate entire dormitories of girls in his youth.
Yet sohow, their daughter had inherited... none of that instinct.
A real mystery.
3 PM.
First print run: Officially sold out.
Laplace, sensing the tidal wave too late, scrambled. The printing factory was mobilized. Trucks were rerouted. Production resud at full force.
Had they waited another hour, the wave would've crested and fallen.
But they didn't.
And that decision would go down in company history.
Midnight.
One hour and forty minutes past the deadline.
The final numbers arrived.
Not a single person at Laplace Bunko had gone ho. Everyone was gathered around the central monitor. Silence fell over the office as the screen updated.
And when the number appeared—
No one moved.
2,217,300 copies.
The air was sucked from the room.
More than four tis the highest first-day sales ever recorded in light novel history.
A debut work.
A complete unknown.
Machida Sonoko slowly sat back in her chair, exhaling in disbelief.
She rembered her last day at Fujikawa. Her boss's irritated face. The sneer when she handed over her resignation letter.
She imagined their expressions now.
And couldn't help but smile.
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