The punishment wasn't complete—not yet.
Stripping naked had been only the first half. What remained was the dogeza itself: prostrating before Kuroha Akira in this state of undress, pressing her forehead to the floor in total acknowledgment of defeat.
If anything, this part was worse.
Shirai Shiori stood there—bare from crown to sole, goosebumps prickling along her arms and thighs as the room's air conditioning breathed cool against skin that had never known such exposure. Her nipples had tightened from the chill, and she fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest again, to curl inward and make herself smaller. Her clothing lay in a neat pile beside her feet like a shed cocoon, and the faint scent of her own perfume—something floral, almost too sweet—drifted up from the discarded fabric.
Just kneel. Just do it and it's over.
But her knees wouldn't bend.
She leaned forward, palms slapping the fronts of her thighs—crack, the sound sharp in the quiet room—trying to force her body into obedience. Her teeth ground together. The muscles in her legs trembled but refused to fold.
Why...!
She'd already stripped. Already endured the humiliation of standing before him like this, every curve and shadow of her body visible under the overhead lights. She could feel his gaze even without looking up—steady, unbothered, patient in a way that made her want to scream.
So why can't I kneel?
The answer surfaced like something cold and unwanted from deep water.
Because my heart still hasn't surrendered.
Even now—even naked and defeated—some stubborn core of her refused to bow. Her pride wasn't dead; it was thrashing, drowning, but still gasping for air.
How pathetic...
Shiori felt heat bloom across her cheeks, spreading down her neck and chest in a flush she couldn't hide. Shame at her own stubbornness. Shame at being so transparent. She was about to look up, to tell him she needed another moment, that she would complete the promise no matter what it took—
"Do you know, Shirai-san..."
His voice drifted down from above her bowed head. Calm. Almost conversational.
"...that for an author who truly pours their heart into their work, creation itself is a form of self-exposure? Baring your inner world for strangers to judge. In that sense, people who love writing light novels are exhibitionists at heart."
Shiori's breath caught.
That's... an extreme way to put it.
And yet.
It wasn't wrong—not for her. She did want to expose herself through her writing. Wanted readers to see her, understand her, praise her. That desperate hunger for validation had driven her for years.
"Wanting to bare your heart to others," Kuroha Akira continued, his tone thoughtful, unhurried. "Wanting approval. Wanting praise... but the more you chase those things, the further you drift from creation itself."
Her lips parted. A small sound escaped—something between a gasp and a whisper.
Why does he... how does he understand me so well?
It was as though he'd seen through not just her body—every inch of pale skin, the soft curve of her belly, the dark hair between her thighs—but through her heart as well. As though her nakedness was merely the physical manifestation of a deeper exposure that had already occurred.
No. That wasn't quite right.
He didn't understand her specifically.
He understood authors. Because he was one too.
A senpai who had walked further down this path than she had.
"Creation is like placing yourself and your readers on opposite ends of a scale," he said. "Always trying to keep it balanced. And your scale, Shirai Shiori... it's tilted."
Tilted.
Yes.
She'd tilted too far toward herself. Toward her ego, her ambitions, her desperate need to prove she was worthy.
She'd neglected what the readers actually wanted.
Is that why I failed...?
"I once read a light novel called 'Baka, Come Here Naked,'" Kuroha Akira said, and despite everything, Shiori felt her eye twitch at the absurd title. "It tells the story of a college student who meets a mysterious naked man at a hot pot restaurant—"
"I've never heard of such a novel..."
Was he making this up? Crafting some strange parable on the spot just to comfort her?
"Let me finish."
"...Okay."
"With the strange man's help, the protagonist reconnects with his dream of writing. He even becomes the apprentice of a popular female college author—a genius type, the kind who seems to breathe inspiration. But it turns out she was the one who almost made him quit in the first place. Because he once overheard her evaluating his submission."
A pause.
"She said: 'Worthless. No matter how hard the untalented struggle, it's pointless.'"
Shiori's chest tightened.
That's cruel.
But also... wasn't it true?
She knew she wasn't a genius. Knew she lacked that divine spark some authors seemed to possess innately—that ability to spin prose like silk, to conjure worlds from nothing. She'd always relied on reading extensively, absorbing techniques, filling the void of her absent talent with borrowed brilliance.
And Kuroha Akira... he had to be one of those geniuses. The real deal.
"That kind of thinking is ridiculous."
Her head snapped up.
"W-What?"
"I'm not going to feed you some shounen manga speech about effort conquering all," he said evenly. "Hard work doesn't guarantee success. But creation isn't a field where talent alone determines everything either."
He raised his right hand, examining it as though seeing something there that she couldn't.
"Because I'm not as talented as you, Shirai."
"...You—!"
What are you saying?!
I'm the talentless one!
You beat me! Decisively! Overwhelmingly!
If you call yourself untalented, what does that make me—a complete joke?!
"I'm serious." His voice stayed calm despite her outburst. "Most of my life has been spent consuming content. Anime, manga, novels, games—anything and everything 'interesting.' Not just for entertainment, but to accumulate experience. That experience is what allowed me to defeat you."
"You..."
So he's the same as me...
"But honestly? I never cared much about winning or losing." A slight shrug. "I just wanted to use light novels to make money."
"...!"
How shallow!
That was her first thought.
But... was it really?
He—who didn't obsess over victory—had won.
He—who wrote for profit rather than pride—had created something readers loved.
Maybe his mindset was simply correct.
Was it wrong to want money from writing?
No...
Being profitable meant being popular.
Being popular meant reaching many readers.
And reaching many readers meant... genuine recognition. Not just her own stubborn conviction that her work was good, but actual proof that it resonated.
"Creation isn't about winning or losing," Kuroha Akira said. "It's about survival."
"The quality of a work is judged by readers, not authors. And creators need money to survive—which comes from popularity. A popular author might seem like they're understood by many, but in reality, only a handful truly get it."
"That's why meeting a kindred spirit is fortunate. There's no need to force understanding."
"Create for yourself. Create for your readers. When you can balance both... you won't lose to me again."
He finished speaking.
And Shiori realized—with a strange, floaty sensation—that her knees had gone soft.
Ah...
It's not so hard anymore.
He'd said all that to help her understand why she'd failed.
She hadn't lost to a "genius."
She hadn't been crushed by some innate inferiority.
She'd simply failed to care about readers as much as he did.
Seen that way... her defeat made perfect sense.
Because she was far less mature than him.
Accepting that—truly, fully accepting it—something uncoiled in her chest. A knot she'd been carrying for so long she'd forgotten it was there. An obsession:
I must write something that beats him.
I must surpass my award-winning work.
I must make those editors respect me.
I must, I must, I must—
But creation was never about "must."
The readers decided a work's worth. Not her ego.
She'd failed to convince them wholeheartedly.
So she'd lost.
When awareness returned fully, Shiori found herself already kneeling—bare knees pressing against the cool floor, the texture faintly gritty against her skin. The position made her acutely aware of her own body: the curve of her spine, the weight of her breasts hanging slightly forward, the vulnerability of her posture.
She continued bending.
Palms flat against the floor in an inward figure-eight.
Forehead touching down.
Naked. Prostrate. Surrendered completely—body and soul.
"Kuroha-san..."
She paused. Corrected herself.
"Kuroha Akira. This time... I lost."
The words came out quiet but clear.
And with them, something in Shirai Shiori finally settled into peace.
****
a/n
Yes, I took an abrupt sabbatical but I'm back. Also, I increased the chapters available on my Pat3eon up to Chapter 147. They might increase by 7 today.
Do consider supporting me @BlackZetsu.
Apologies and a good day to you all.