Speaking objectively, from a bystander's perspective, Narumi Tōru didn't actually have a very good impression of the slick-tongued, carefree novelist version of "Narumi Tōru" from the simulation.
In his first simulation run, he hadn't reincarnated as some cliché overpowered protagonist or domineering CEO, but rather as a washed-up, dispirited, mentally off-track flop novelist. It was only natural that this made him feel a bit uneasy about his own future.
"And seriously, what was all that stuff he was writing anyway? A judge falling in love with a lawyer and the two of them escaping together from the courtroom… That kind of art might still be a little too avant-garde for modern humanity."
Because of that, Tōru had harbored more than a little skepticism toward the "Grotesque Novelist" reward trait the system granted him after clearing the simulation.
After all, if what he wrote ended up being no different from the simulation's works, becoming a flop again would just be a matter of time.
However, all of those worries vanished without reason the instant Narumi Tōru clicked into a Word document and put his fingers on the keyboard.
His scattered thoughts naturally aligned into a clear, straight line. Following pure logic and imagination, he effortlessly sketched out the scenes he most wanted to present in his mind—and then translated them perfectly into words.
Whether it was dazzling, hard-to-describe imagery, or obscure, profound emotional expression—even something as simple as describing a character's expression—he could effortlessly grasp the essence and depict it with concise, precise strokes.
This smooth, flowing, uninterrupted writing speed was something he'd never experienced before.
"So this is what 'writing as if possessed' feels like?"
The thoughts in his head ran wild like an unbridled horse. New ideas and concepts sprouted one after another like bamboo shoots after the rain, pulling him deeper and deeper until he couldn't bring himself to stop.
By the time Tōru finished writing the story's climax and came back to his senses, it was already around 2:30 a.m.
The growling of his stomach finally made him realize that he hadn't eaten or drunk anything since opening his laptop and fighting through the night. His body, pushed to its limit, was lodging a formal complaint.
For Tōru, writing so intensely that he lost track of time was extremely rare. He'd never even been this motivated doing homework.
"Alright, I take it back. This reward trait might actually be insanely strong."
He stood up from his chair, stretched after a brief dizzy spell, and trudged into the kitchen to boil a cup of instant noodles to stave off starvation.
Just as he sat down and started eating the seafood noodles, the curly-haired boy suddenly felt something missing around his neck—it should have been the whistle he'd taken to home economics class that day.
"I remember blowing the whistle once when cooking time ended… then I casually set it on the table, and after that… nothing."
Well, then it had definitely been taken by a janitor cleaning up afterward, or by another student who came in for the next class.
Narumi Tōru couldn't help worrying that his future old age might come bundled with Alzheimer's.
Sixteen years old with the body of a sixty-year-old—maybe that was the true state of modern youth.
…No, wait. Even sixty-year-olds were probably sturdier than him.
Though it added another annoyance to his list, Tōru only sulked briefly. After finishing the noodles in two or three bites, he dove right back into writing without dwelling on it—his emotions coming and going quickly was one of his better traits.
Driven by an irrepressible urge to create, the boy continued writing deep into the night.
Thankfully, the next day was Saturday, which allowed him to immerse himself without restraint. By the time he saved and closed the document, the sky outside his window had already begun to lighten.
Even as drowsiness relentlessly assaulted his brain, Tōru forced himself to do one final proofread of the freshly completed short story and backed it up several times.
Only after everything was done did he finally give in to sleep, collapsing onto his bed and drifting off to dreamland.
For some reason, the Duke of Zhou in his dream didn't look like an old man at all, but rather a clean-cut, handsome young man.
"Well, well, I can tell you worked quite hard. While you're still far from reaching my upper limit of talent, for an inexperienced piece of writing, this is already quite outstanding."
The young man's smiling face gave Tōru an inexplicable sense of familiarity, though the haziness of the dream dulled his suspicion.
"But what do you plan to do after writing it? Don't you feel like letting others read your work? Are you really content with just pulling it out occasionally and self-indulging?"
Mr. Zhou stroked a beard that didn't actually exist, his smile evoking fox-like cunning and smoothness.
"If I remember correctly, you've sent your work to editorial departments before, haven't you? The fact that your manuscript was rejected just means they lacked vision. Even without trait bonuses, that first draft was a gem waiting to be polished. After all, all 'rewards' are fundamentally based on what you yourself provide—they're not pies falling from the sky."
He spoke with such seriousness that Tōru felt half lost, half convinced. Though the man looked unreliable, there was a strange force in his words that compelled people to listen.
"If it were me, I'd post what you just wrote on an online forum as a test run—see how people react, gather feedback. Later, when you have better ideas, you could directly participate in major website contests… Ah, I suppose there's no need to say 'if.'"
Mid-speech, Mr. Zhou suddenly stopped and smiled as he met Tōru's gaze.
As the fog of the dream parted, Tōru finally saw the young man's face clearly.
"After all, 'I' am 'you.'"
It was unmistakably his own face.
"—!"
The curly-haired boy jolted awake in bed, greeted by the familiar ceiling above him.
The digital clock by his bedside read 11:30 a.m. Having gone to sleep at dawn, he'd slept straight through to noon.
Woke up too hard—now I'm hallucinating myself cosplaying the Duke of Zhou.
Having such a bizarre dream for the first time, Tōru rubbed his aching head, yet couldn't stop thinking about its contents.
Setting aside the uncanny valley effect of seeing his own face, the advice his dream-self had given was actually quite practical.
After a long moment of thought, Tōru opened the free online fiction forum he frequented and created a thread, posting his work there.
It was a story about a boy and a girl separated by life and death—after which the girl becomes a ghost, silently accompanying the boy who cannot see her through his painful days, hoping that he will one day step out of the shadows.