Parallel World Light Novelist

Chapter 11: Chapter 11: Contract Signed and Officially a Light Novel Author

Haruto had arranged to meet Yukino at exactly 3:30 p.m.

He was the type who hated being late, and he hated waiting around for other people even more. So he timed it perfectly, stepped into Crimson Maple Literature’s office area at 3:28, and headed straight for the office where he had met Yukino before.

The door was not locked.

He twisted the handle, stepped inside, and froze.

Shopping bags were piled around the room, stuffed with newly bought clothes, shoes, figures, and random hobby goods. Some bags had clear tags, and some were gaping open just enough to reveal what was inside. Maid outfits, doctor coats, nurse uniforms, and even a sleek-looking mecha suit.

If Haruto was not mistaken, these were cosplay costumes, the kind you would see everywhere at a big convention.

And he was not just guessing.

Even the styles felt familiar.

Most of the designs were clearly inspired by recent hit anime and popular game characters that had been trending across the otaku scene.

’...Did I walk into the wrong office?’

Haruto’s brain stuttered. It had only been two days since he was last here. How could the whole atmosphere feel completely different?

Then his eyes shifted to the desk.

Yukino was sitting there, resting her chin in both hands, cheeks puffed slightly, glaring into space with an unmistakably irritated expression. Her beautiful face looked like it was silently declaring war on the entire world.

Of course, Haruto had no idea that Yukino was furious because her father was about to cut off her credit card starting tomorrow.

Even after storming through a shopping mall downtown at lunch and swiping it like a woman possessed, she still had not managed to calm down.

But professionalism was professionalism.

No matter how annoyed she was, she had still immediately called Haruto to tell him Blue Spring Ride had passed the serialization meeting, and she had told him to come in as soon as possible to sign.

”You’re here.”

It took Yukino a few seconds after he entered to fully snap back to reality. Then she straightened, took a quiet breath, and visibly adjusted her expression like she was flipping a switch.

A moment later, the composed, intelligent, confident, dependable editor Yukino Aoyama was back.

Haruto hesitated.

”Um... did I come at a bad time?”

Yukino glanced at him, and that quiet grown-up pressure rose in her gaze, the kind that made high schoolers instinctively sit up straighter.

”It’s exactly 3:30. You’re on time.”

As she spoke, she slid a contract across the desk toward him.

”Congratulations, Haruto.”

”Your debut went off without a hitch. You’ve secured the right to serialize in Fleeting Blossoms.”

She tapped the papers once.

”This is our standard agreement. Read it carefully. If you have no objections, then once you sign, our partnership officially begins.”

Haruto took the contract and began reading.

The first thing he looked for was the manuscript fee.

Fleeting Blossoms published twice a week. Its circulation per issue was in the hundreds of thousands, often pushing well past two hundred thousand and sometimes higher.

A magazine like that did not pay peanuts.

Of course, the exact rate depended on several things. The quality of the submission, the author’s standing in the industry, popularity, fanbase, and the editorial department’s assessment of the work’s long-term potential.

Since Haruto was a total newcomer, Crimson Maple Literature had offered him a baseline rate of 67,800 yen per Chapter.

That number was clearly defined as the minimum. It was not a rigid ceiling.

If the series took off and reader support exploded, the rate would rise. If a Chapter ran longer than usual, the payment would increase accordingly. But no matter what, it would not drop below the amount printed in the contract.

Haruto did the math in his head.

Four weeks in a month, two issues per week, which meant his novel would publish at least eight Chapters a month once serialization started.

At the absolute minimum, that came out to 542,400 yen per month.

It was a substantial amount.

For an ordinary household, that was not pocket change. For a sixteen-year-old who had just stepped into the industry, it was the kind of number that could change the shape of his life.

But he also knew something important.

For serialized novels, manuscript fees were only one part of the money.

The real battlefield was rights.

Japan was strict about intellectual property, and the industry’s legal framework was well established. Companies could not simply crush creators and steal their work the way people liked to imagine in cynical rumors. Authors were still weaker than corporations in negotiation power, sure, but they were not helpless dolls either.

Even as a newcomer, the contract Crimson Maple offered him was within normal bounds.

The copyright and authorship of Blue Spring Ride belonged entirely to Haruto.

What Crimson Maple wanted was the commercial operation right.

In other words, if the series gained enough popularity to be adapted, then every major step of that process would involve the publisher. Manga adaptation discussions, anime production committees, game collaborations, merchandise, and print volume releases. Crimson Maple would participate, hold decision-making authority in negotiations, and take 20% of the profits from those commercial ventures.

But they were not taking that cut for nothing.

A typical light novel author did not have the connections, bargaining power, or industry network to chase down adaptation partners alone. Publishers were the ones who arranged introductions, handled business talks, invested in promotion, and kept the entire machine moving.

So while the clause was not generous, it was also not outrageous. It was simply the standard reality of the market.

If you were a legendary author, you could negotiate, and you might even keep tighter control over rights and revenue.

But as a rookie, dreaming about that kind of leverage was pointless.

Crimson Maple Literature was a business, not a charity.

Once he finished scanning the key terms, a question popped out of him almost automatically.

”Um... I wanted to ask,” Haruto said. ”Has there ever been a series in Fleeting Blossoms that got adapted into a manga, an anime, or a game?”

”There has,” Yukino replied after a brief pause.

”But the odds are low. It’s the kind of thing that happens once in a long while. If you want a realistic path toward those kinds of adaptations, you usually need to serialize in Crimson Maple itself, our flagship magazine. That is where the biggest influence gathers.”

It made sense. A work’s impact depended on both its quality and the platform carrying it.

Yukino continued, her voice easing slightly, as if she was giving him a glimpse of the real ladder in this industry.

”However, print volumes are common. If your popularity does not fall too low and readers respond well, the publisher will generally arrange a tankōbon release. A lot of series sell several tens of thousands of copies, and some break over a hundred thousand.”

She pointed lightly at a line in the contract.

”Your royalty rate is seven percent. If your volume sales go well, that income will likely be one or two times your manuscript fees from the serialization period.”

A series did not pay in a single stream.

Manuscript fees were one stream. Royalties were another. Merchandise could become a third. The total could become frighteningly large once everything stacked together.

And that kind of ecosystem only existed because Japan’s pop culture industry was mature, and because the audience was generally willing to pay for official releases, treating creative work as something with real value.

If the culture was one where everyone hunted pirated rips and free downloads as a default, creators would make nowhere near this kind of money.

”I understand,” Haruto said after thinking it over.

Then he did not hesitate.

He picked up the pen and signed.

Most publishing contracts were similar no matter which company you went with. There was no space for dramatic bargaining at his level. If you wanted to eat in this world, you had to respect the market’s rules first.

Yukino watched him sign, and a small smile finally appeared at the edge of her lips.

She stood and extended her hand across the desk.

”Congratulations. From this moment on, you are officially a contracted author under Crimson Maple Literature.”

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