By the following weekend, Utaha's script finally received a revision request.
However, it wasn't about changing the male protagonist. Rather, it was due to her habits as a light novel author—or rather, the general style of light novel writing.
Her script was filled with detailed descriptions of expressions and inner thoughts.
Although she had already tried to tone it down per Akira's earlier advice, once the script was inserted into the trial version of the game, it still caused a sense of sluggish pacing.
It wasn't a major issue. Once she understood the feedback, Utaha received the revision request Friday night and completed the changes by Saturday afternoon.
And then came a new request—could she write a perfect ending where both heroines survived?
That night, for the first time, Nanami saw Utaha so distraught she couldn't even eat.
"Was dinner not to your liking today, Miss Kasumigaoka?" Nanami asked with concern.
Utaha held her rice bowl with a gloomy expression and shook her head. "No, of course not. Your cooking is so good it could easily pass in a fancy restaurant."
"Then… are you having trouble with something?"
Utaha gave a small nod but, seeing Nanami's expectant and caring gaze, had no idea where to begin.
She could only say, "Sorry. I don't know how to explain it. If you still want to know, I'll tell you in detail later."
"It's fine," Nanami replied gently, though her concern deepened.
"But I think Ogiwara-san probably knows, right? If you really can't figure it out, maybe ask him. I'm sure he'll have a good idea."
Akira had just asked last week what she thought of him, and now, turning around, it seemed Nanami viewed him as a combination of encyclopedia, wise older brother, and possibly even the CEO of some miracle idea company.
Still, being seen as someone all-knowing wasn't a bad feeling—especially in the eyes of his own little maid.
Maybe it was vanity, but it was a good kind of vanity.
After swallowing a bite of the fresh but far-from-bland lobster meat, Akira spoke up. "Alright, let's hear it."
Since the topic was unpleasant, Utaha's expression turned sour, her tone clearly irritable.
"Tomoya wants another 'perfect' ending. But that's totally not my style.
The foreshadowing, the character arcs, the logic—it just doesn't make sense. I want to know, have I paid back my debt yet or not?"
Ah, so it was that third route—the most controversial one.
Akira set down his chopsticks, pulled a napkin to wipe his mouth, and took two sips from a can of cola.
"To answer that, we need to lay out what each of you brought to the table. Let's start with what you owe."
That was easy to answer. After all, from the moment she decided to repay her debt, Utaha had made it all very clear in her mind.
"My Love Metronome was at serious risk of being canceled.
If not for his tireless promotion as a popular blogger, which boosted sales by 30%, drawing attention from bookstores and earning me better marketing resources, I might not have become a successful light novel author.
I wouldn't have sold hundreds of thousands of copies or earned those royalties. Plus, his fervent praise and the fan site he built gave me enormous emotional support."
"Good." Akira nodded seriously.
"And what did you give in return?"
That made Utaha hesitate a bit. She answered uncertainty, "Only… two game scripts?"
"Miss Kasumigaoka, please. Do. Not. Undervalue. Yourself. If you really can't gauge the worth of your own efforts, then let me do it for you."
Akira exhaled, opened one hand, and said,
"Yes, he gave you a push when you were starting out. But the 500,000 copies sold—oh, and it looks like there's even a reprint—prove that once given the opportunity, you had the quality and talent to match.
Your reputation as a rising star, and the awards you received, were all well earned."
"So in my view, what you did was: with such a proud identity and talent, you poured your precious time—without any salary, and with expected returns and royalties barely worth mentioning—into a project you had no interest in and that was completely unpolished.
You laid the foundation for a high school student's dream—not as a condescending handout, but through passionate, dedicated creation that took everything you had!"
His tone was cold as he delivered that last sentence.
He paused, took a long breath, and his voice regained some warmth.
"If not for the fact that opportunity is rare, that timely help can be deeply meaningful, and that emotional support is hard to quantify—your repayment would have long since overflowed by who knows how many times.
Both Nanami and I have seen how hard you've worked. From my perspective, from my judgment—you've paid your debt in full."
Hearing those words brought Utaha some comfort, but she still couldn't completely let it go.
After all, her original intention was to help Tomoya finish this game. As long as the project continued, she couldn't just walk away.
Akira saw the expression on her face and could easily guess what she was wrestling with. He understood and continued:
"Of course, if you feel it's right to see it through to the end, you can think of it as paying some interest on top—finish it confidently and call it a thorough closure.
But you're not his mom.
There's no need to coddle him.
When he makes unreasonable demands you simply can't fulfill, don't force yourself to shoulder them."
The words were blunt, even a little crude—but Utaha found them deeply satisfying.
It reminded her of the first time in that café when Akira delivered a cutting truth about Tomoya.
Cathartic.
"So… what should I do?" she asked.
She was being a little lazy—rather than come up with a plan herself, she continued asking him for the answer.
Akira picked up his chopsticks again and waved them, as if brushing something away.
"Let him write it himself. You just revise and polish it. Taking a rookie's chaotic mess and turning it into something presentable is already more than generous."
Utaha thought for a moment, then slowly nodded.
Finally, she started feeling hungry again.
She picked up her bowl and said quietly, "Thank you. Let's count this as part of my repayment too. Would you say that balances things out, Ogiwara-san?"
Of course, what she meant was that this moment of clarity—this help in resolving her confusion—should also count toward her repayment.
Akira thought she had already overpaid, and now she finally understood that for someone like him—for people like the two of them—feeling like they'd received too much without giving enough in return actually felt uncomfortable.
Akira shook his head, saying nothing.
But that shake of the head didn't mean what Utaha thought it did.
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