A Polite Yet Light Protest
I read up to that point and quietly closed the internet browser. Then I pressed down hard on the rage boiling up inside me, threatening to explode.
Who is the biggest piece of trash in the world?
The guys who only think about getting carried while playing games? The ones who throw the match and troll just because someone told them not to? The “first-chapter masters” who draw chapter one beautifully and then never touch chapter two? No.
The absolute worst, the ones who deserve to die, are the bastards who deliberately slam in a sharp curveball ending just to screw over their readers. Just like the author of the light novel I was reading—Love in School.
If it had been an NTR story from the start, I wouldn’t have been this angry. But that son of a bitch built a perfectly good harem rom-com and then pulled an NTR Drift at the very end.
It wasn’t the NTR itself that pissed me off. This author had betrayed the readers’ expectations head-on. He had taken the heroines who were supposed to be happy and made sure they couldn’t be. And he did it with cold, deliberate malice.
If, after getting stolen, they had genuinely fallen in love with the guy who took them, that would have been one thing. But no—they only surrendered their bodies while still feeling guilt on top of it? Who the hell does that kind of drift for?
If I stayed home like this, I was going to smash everything in sight. So I quietly packed a bag, started the car, and drove straight to the publishing house that had been serializing Love in School. According to the author’s notes scattered throughout the chapters, he commuted to the office and uploaded from there. He had to be inside.
When I arrived, I slung the bag over my shoulder and headed straight for the office. It was a small company with no fingerprint scanners or employee ID readers, so getting inside was easy.
A few staff members spotted an unfamiliar face standing near the entrance and asked from a distance,
“Who are you?”
“Where’s the author of Love in School?”
“If you’re not an employee, entry is prohibited. Please leave immediately.”
When it became clear they had no intention of bringing the writer out, I opened my bag and pulled out the tools I’d prepared.
A massive baseball bat and a sledgehammer.
CRASH!
I smashed the potted bonsai trees and the tables that had been neatly lined up. Amid the screams, I spoke again.
“The author of Love in School.”
Once I started, the pent-up fury detonated. My head rang and my hearing began to fade. Still, the author of Love in School did not appear.
“The writer.”
SHATTER!CRACK!
I smashed the glass entrance door with the bat and hammer, flipped over monitors and desks, and kept searching for him.
“Bring! Him! Out!”
In my extreme state of excitement, I could no longer maintain even a surface-level calm. I screamed and rampaged wildly. My balance was gone. My vision was starting to blur.
“That! Fucking! Bastard!!!! Bring him out right— urk…”
While I was thrashing around, I suddenly felt an overwhelming pressure on the back of my neck. The bat and hammer slipped from my hands. My entire body stiffened as if turning to stone, and just like that, I lost consciousness.