"To be frank, Aqua, I trained you to be an actor. I expected you to become a future superstar. But, well… I never thought you were also a competent scriptwriter, or even a director. Now, I've changed my mind."
Taishi Gotanda, the youngest and most lauded director in Japan, a man hailed as a genius, spoke with a rare, genuine weight.
His compliments were not given lightly; only a handful of individuals in the entire industry had ever earned his unfeigned praise.
He tapped the script I'd placed before him. "This is a masterpiece in terms of commercial value. You've already proven you understand how to ride a trend—no, how to create one—with this alone."
Then his expression shifted, a slight frown creasing his brow. "But it's… controversial. The protagonist here reads less like a typical shonen hero, the safe-bet trend-rider we usually bank on, and more like… an American Psycho. He's unsettling."
"You mean the main character is more like Patrick Bateman, and less like the generic 'Kirito' protagonist from my original draft, Director?" I asked, clarifying his point.
"Yes. That's exactly how I'd phrase it," he confirmed, leaning forward. "He's dark. Calculating. Manipulative. There's a visceral, amoral edge to him that wasn't present in your previous work. It's a significant pivot."
I met his gaze directly. "To be frank, Director, I don't just want this movie to perform well in Japan. I want it to dominate in North America and across the globe."
"Do you know what audiences want now? They don't want a heroic everyman in high-stakes movies anymore."
"They want something cooler. Something darker. A protagonist who isn't relatable to every man, but one every man wishes he could be."
"Men will want to become him. Women will want to sleep with him. And the world?"
I let the question hang for a moment. "The world will be chanting his name. 'Kirito.' 'Kirito.' 'Kirito.' I don't want fans, Director. I want a cult."
Taishi Gotanda's thoughtful frown dissolved, transforming into a sharp, approving smile.
"Good," he said, the single word carrying immense satisfaction. "Because a cult is infinitely better than fans. Especially given your… long-term goal."
"For revenge to succeed, society must first forgive you for it, or better yet, celebrate you for it. Fans demand perfection. They are fickle. A cult?" He shook his head, his grin widening.
"A cult loves imperfection. They crave something that feels dangerously, authentically real. They worship the flaw."
He scooped up the script, his eyes alight with strategic fervor. "So, we divide it. We structure this epic across multiple films. The Elf War sequence you've outlined—that's pure, undiluted blockbuster spectacle. We make that the climax of Part One."
"It will be epic, Aqua. Visceral. Audiences will watch it and see Sword Art Online not just as a game, but as a wet dream of power and consequence."
He began pacing, the energy in the room shifting from critique to conspiracy. "And Argus? The game company? They will build statues of us. If our films make their IP thrive globally, we won't just be players in this industry; we will be its kings."
He stopped and turned back to me, the grin still plastered on his face, but his eyes were dead serious.
"So, listen. I have a mountain of work to do, starting now. You—go attend that ridiculous dating show."
"Hone your acting. Immerse yourself in the current industry trends. And communicate with those Lala Lai theater troupe people. Network. Observe. Absorb. You need all of it, genius."
He jabbed a finger in my direction, his expression one of complete, ruthless commitment. "This is no longer just about a script. This is the first move. Now go."
...
"Sorry I'm late, everyone."
I offered the camera and the assembled cast a polished, disarming smile.
Every trace of the gloomy, menacing aura that usually clung to me at school was gone, meticulously shed at the door.
To everyone watching, it was like watching James Bond's more charming, casanova cousin step right out of the screen and into the room.
A girl with bouncing blonde hair and bright blue eyes—the very picture of a bubbly, genki idol—immediately bounced forward and took my hand.
Her grip was warm and enthusiastic. "You're not late at all! Let me introduce myself. I'm Mem-Cho! I saw you on screen with Arima Kana in 'I'll Go With Sweet Today.' Nice to meet you, future superstar!"
I returned her energetic grip with a calibrated warmth. "Nice to meet you too, Mem-Cho. I'm Aquamarine."
With that, I moved into the group, the center of attention shifting naturally.
The introductions flowed.
"Yuki Sumi."
"Akane Kurokawa."
"Nobuyuki Kumano."
"Kengo Morimoto."
A chorus of polite, curious voices. "Nice to meet you, Aqua."
The atmosphere settled into the manufactured, yet comfortable, rhythm of a reality show.
We launched into the standard talking points: school life, ideal types, the sanitized, relatable dreams of teenagers. It was a masterclass in normie performance—light, airy, full of the kind of jokes, shy glances, and tentative flirtations that made for perfect, digestible clips.
We exchanged X and Instagram accounts, and phone numbers, the modern ritual of connection, all under the unblinking gaze of the cameras that captured every smile, every lingering look.
And so, the dating reality show officially began. This was the stage. This was where I would inevitably meet my future yandere.
The question hung, a private amusement.
Who's it going to be?
This is going to be fun… Don't you think, Loli Goddess?
Her voice echoed in the mental space, dry and unimpressed. "I was under the impression you despised this kind of farce."
I learned something from you, I thought back, my internal tone flat even as my external self laughed at one of Mem-Cho's jokes.
Since you mentioned the existence of theoretical tools—time machines, resurrection devices, possibilities for the future—I've decided to take the initiative. To dominate the field. To use every means available, no matter how trivial or tedious, to acquire them. I don't need to win some bet for resurrection. If the tools exist in this world, in any form, I will find them. And I will take them.
Tsukuyomi's chuckle was a soft, ancient sound in my mind. "A commendable shift in ambition. But your war will not be a simple conquest. Many nations already hunt for such tools. Countless organizations, hidden and powerful, crave them. I hope you are prepared for the competition."
When have I ever not been ready?
I returned the laugh internally, just as I let out a genuine-seeming chuckle at something Mem-Cho said.
Across the room, the two boys, Nobuyuki and Kengo, were falling into an easy, bromantic rapport, while Yuki and Akane chatted with a comfortable, growing familiarity.
I took it all in, this stage of youthful romance and casual connection.
Dating show, huh?
I expect great things from you, my new friends.
Don't disappoint me.
...
Ruby Hoshino's POV
"Ruby. Ruby. Look. Your brother is on fire again. It's him."
Minami Kotobuki's voice was a hushed, excited whisper, her eyes sparkling with the kind of fervor only true celebrity-watching could inspire.
She was a friend I'd made here at school—pink hair, pink eyes, and a figure with a frankly overwhelming rack, way too well-developed for a typical high schooler.
My own eyes were already glued to the screen, trapped on the image of Aqua.
There he was, chatting.
Energetically.
With a bubbly, blonde girl who looked like she mainlined glitter and sunshine.
This… this wasn't him.
My brother hated interacting with people, especially that type.
His usual demeanor was a carefully curated study in lifeless detachment.
A closed book written in dull ink.
"Who… is this?" I murmured, my voice thin with disbelief. "This can't be Onii-chan. This has to be a fraud. An imposter."
"He's real," came the cool, measured voice of Frill Shiranui, another friend, the unflappable one.
She didn't look away from the screen. "And he's a damn good one, Ruby. That's the point."
A cold, sinking feeling settled in my stomach. "Did he… sell his soul to a devil to act that far out of character?"
The question was only half a joke.
Frill finally glanced at me, a soft, knowing smile playing on her lips. It was a smile that understood too much. "Welcome to the entertainment industry, Ruby. This is how we live. We all breathe lies here. The better you are at crafting them, the brighter you shine."
Her words were a quiet truth, heavy and cold.
I looked back at the screen.
The vixen was clinging to his arm now, laughing at something he'd said. My brother—no, Aquamarine—smiled back, the picture of charming engagement.
A dark, inky sensation, thick and possessive, began to swirl in my chest, mirroring the shadow that seemed to pass over Frill's expression.
"So," Frill continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "you should cheer your brother up when he gets home. He must be exhausted after having to talk to that… vixen… all day. All that fake energy must be draining."
My own voice darkened, harmonizing perfectly with hers. "Yes… he must be so tired. Talking to her. It must be absolutely draining."
We laughed then. It wasn't a normal laugh.
It was a low, syncopated, and slightly disconnected sound that didn't reach our eyes.
It was a laugh that spoke of shared understanding, of recognizing a performance within a performance, and of a silent, simmering protectiveness that curdled at the edges.
Our pink-haired friend, Minami, took a small, involuntary step back.
Her sparkling excitement had evaporated, replaced by nervous confusion as she watched us, listening to a conversation she was clearly no longer part of.
...
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