A/N:
🎉 Fanfic Voting Results Are In! 🎉
Hey everyone! 💖
The votes are counted, and here are the final results for the November Fanfic Poll 🗳️✨
🌀 Beyblade Burst – 10 votes 🏆
🍃 Naruto (Mana instead of Chakra) – 5 votes
🌟 Konosuba (MC scams Aqua) – 6 votes
⚔️ Let This Grieving Soul Retire – 0 votes
📖 Novel's Extra (Ability Creation Cheat) – 3 votes
🔥 Beyblade Burst takes the win! 🔥
So for November, I'll be working on the Beyblade Burst Fanfic — where the MC, who doesn't know about the Beyblade world, owns the strongest original Beyblade but isn't interested in battling.
Things are about to get interesting 😏💥
Thank you all for voting and supporting! 💕
Stay tuned for updates and early chapter previews — Patreon members will get the first look! 📖✨
— Zevion Asgorath
____X____
I woke up from the couch.
Yes, the couch.
I slept through the whole night instead of sneaking up at midnight and getting myself a sleeping spot on the bed.
The morning air in London had that peculiar chill, damp and sharp, like it had a memory of rain in it.
Even from the window of the hotel, I could see the streets bustling with people in coats and scarves, taxis weaving expertly through the grid of stone and asphalt.
The city felt alive and heavy all at once — ancient and modern clashing in perfect chaos.
I was going to an award ceremony.
Not just any ceremony, either: the International Literary Excellence Awards, hosted in London's Royal Albert Hall — a place dripping in history, elegance, and, most importantly, scrutiny.
I was here to receive the 'Top Newcomer Novel of the Year' award for my work.
Ravel trailed beside me, moving with her usual immaculate precision.
Maid uniform pristine, hair tied perfectly, and posture rigid as if any falter might offend the entire universe.
I could tell she was already annoyed, even before the ceremony had begun.
"Master," she said, voice tight, "I assume you have prepared your mask?"
I grinned under the black-and-silver covering.
"Of course. It's a masquerade, not a victory lap. If I show my face, half the orthodox magical girl fanbase will try to assassinate me on the spot."
Her eyes flicked to mine, sharp and calculating.
"And you're wearing that to a literary ceremony… for… Magical Girl Raising Project?"
"Exactly," I said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"The same one that, in this world, is considered the pinnacle of wholesome magical girl stories. Safe, predictable, and utterly adored."
We rode in the cab from the hotel to London's Royal Albert Hall.
The streets blurred past, red buses slicing through the mist, the hum of the city a constant drone.
I leaned against the window, soaking it all in.
This is it, I thought.
The stage where the world will acknowledge what I've done — what I've rewritten.
The hall was enormous, its Gothic arches and polished floors giving it a sense of weight, history, and importance.
Writers, critics, and industry insiders moved about with practiced poise, murmuring to each other in polite, cautious tones.
Cameras flashed here and there, capturing glimpses of the attendees, but no one dared focus on me directly, and not for a good reason at that.
The Masked Novelist's presence was like a show-off idiot who wants to be seen with attention but clearly fails at it.
I could hear Ravel's quiet, controlled breathing behind me.
Every step she took was precise, measured.
Her tension radiated off her like an aura, a constant reminder that she was my shield — both in etiquette and, if needed, in life.
Well, while I may be a bump, she is from a real noble family, so her presence was like it's only natural.
We made our way to our seats, and I could feel the room shifting subtly.
Whispers.
Curious glances.
The recognition wasn't just because I was masked.
It was because this year, something in the magical girl landscape had changed, and everyone here knew it.
...Well, at least some of them?
What?
I am not a mind reader, but I would like to think that way.
Other magical girl series in this world had always been revered, a classic in its own right — innocent, triumphant, and perfect.
But my version, the one that the world now celebrates, had brought real darkness and real consequences.
Where the original celebrated idealized heroism, my story questioned morality.
It forced readers to face despair, betrayal, and the human cost of power.
And the other works this year — Puella Magi Madoka Magica, Magical Girl Site, Day Break Illusions, Yuki Yuna is a Hero — all had the same subtle touch.
Borrowed from my original-world memory, they were interwoven with complexity, tension, and a depth rarely seen in magical girl stories here.
Now, this world's literature community was about to officially recognize the impact.
The host stepped up to the podium, voice calm but commanding:
"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests, and authors from across the world, welcome to the London Literary Awards. Tonight, we honor those whose work has not only captured the imagination but reshaped the very landscape of storytelling. This year's Most Influential Newcomer award goes to…"
My pulse quickened.
A hush fell over the room.
"The Masked Novelist, for Magical Girl Raising Project."
The applause was immediate, resounding, and undeniably powerful.
Cameras flashed in unison.
I rose from my seat, mask firmly in place, and made my way to the stage with deliberate calm.
Ravel followed, silent as a shadow, her gaze sweeping the audience like a hawk, ensuring no one stepped out of line.
Guess she is taking her job seriously today?
Onstage, the statuette was heavier than I expected, gold gleaming under the stage lights.
I accepted it with a measured nod, bowing slightly.
The applause continued.
Journalists scribbled furiously, snapping pictures of the enigmatic masked figure who had dared to rewrite a beloved genre.
The host continued, recounting the reasons for the award: unprecedented sales figures, critical acclaim, and the courage to introduce darkness and moral complexity to a genre often considered sacrosanct.
"Unlike conventional magical girl stories," he said, "these works explore moral ambiguity, existential consequences, and the harsh realities that lie beneath the surface of innocence. A bold vision for a bold year."
I allowed myself the tiniest internal smirk.
All of my works are just plagiarism from my previous world, but... oh well, if they don't exist in the world, they become originals.
A mentality of clones.
Ravel, as always, remained vigilant.
But there was a subtle shift in her stance, almost imperceptible — a flicker of pride, a recognition that my methods, as chaotic as they might seem, worked.
After the applause settled, the ceremony continued.
Conversations hushed when I passed.
Eyes followed, curious, wary, respectful, murderous.
I had become more than just an author; I was a disruptor, a masked anomaly in a world that had only known safe, comforting stories.
The post-ceremony reception was a mix of polite congratulations and cautious inquiry.
I deflected questions with humor, teasing Ravel quietly whenever she tried to scold me for being informal.
By the time we stepped outside, the night had fallen.
London's fog wrapped the city in a soft, silvery glow.
Streetlamps reflected on the wet cobblestones, and the Thames shimmered like a river of liquid gold.
Big Ben stood sentinel, majestic, timeless.
Ravel's gaze lingered on the cityscape.
"It's… still beautiful, I guess..."
She murmured, almost as if to herself.
I chuckled lightly.
"How about trying some luxury food before we head to bed?"
She gave a slow nod, and we wandered to a nearby restaurant renowned for classic English cuisine.
The smell of roasted meats, fresh bread, and warm spices filled the air as we settled into a quiet corner.
I ordered a hearty beef Wellington, while Ravel chose something lighter — salmon with seasonal vegetables, perfectly plated.
As we ate, the warmth and satisfaction of good food spread through me.
Ravel, ever composed, occasionally glanced at me with the faintest hint of amusement.
By the time we left the restaurant, fatigue had caught up with both of us.
London's night air was cool against our skin as we walked back to the hotel.
Once inside, Ravel prepared our clothes and stuff with meticulous care, while I collapsed on the couch, letting the day's events wash over me.
"Good night, Master," she said softly, finally turning off the lights.
I leaned back, letting the dim glow of the city filter through the curtains, and murmured to myself.
"Yeah… maybe this trip isn't going to be so boring after all."
I guess this girl, while that guy's sister isn't that much of a bad girl as him.
Although a small regret of hurting her initially starts to seep in, I haven't really treated her that badly yet, so that regret also washes away at the same time.