5. <em>Meaningless Lewd Confessions</em>

It's been about a fortnight since Meaningless Lewd Confessions hit the shelves.

A letter arrived from my sister.

I have no idea how she found out, but since I hadn't revealed my whereabouts, she must have sent it via Kiara.

My sister has zero connections in high society, so Kiara's the only capital noble she really knows.

In the end, thanks to that, I got the letter... but.

I do feel like slipping that in without a word was a bit much.

But what could I do? At least with her, I wanted her to know it was me.

Considering how faint the concept of copyright is in this world, it wouldn't be weird if someone impersonated my pen name.

Of course, she probably hasn't thought of that yet.

No matter how influential my novels are, that's just the novels' power.

The author Sad Zahermazo himself—after just two books—has barely any clout.

White Knight and Juliet, which confirms I'm the writer, are all I've published so far.

Of course, just hearing how this latest book's being received tells me the vibe's getting serious.

To the point where, from the next one on, most people hunting for Sad's novels will find them easily.

Meaning I'm nearing the stage where sales boom because a famous person wrote it.

So what needs locking down is my identity as the author.

—Ahh... Can you hear me...?

"Loud and clear."

I pulled the familiar-phone out of my bag after a fortnight.

Last time was two weeks ago when I left it out for illustration work, so this contact's right on schedule too.

—You don't call often...

We're not exactly the type for that.

Ophelia's baffling mindset always weighs on me.

If not for her unparalleled drawing skills, I'd have cut ties ages ago.

"I want more illustrations."

—Illustrations...? Th-there's already plenty...

"Honestly, I think pictures convince people more than words."

Text isn't as intuitive as images.

Unlike words, which you read line by line and mull over, a picture hits you at a glance.

It might take longer to grasp the exact meaning than with text, but for the big picture, images win hands down.

"My writing isn't the deep, thinky kind anyway."

Who said I'm writing art?

I'm just a guy chasing dopamine highs through words.

I stumbled into debut author status because my stuff leaked into the world.

—St-still... I like your writing style...

"...Not everyone agrees."

That's reason number two.

Having my writing critiqued stresses me out more than expected.

Especially the princess.

No clue what grudge she holds, but she scratches at me with reviews and recommendations.

I can't snipe the imperial family in my writing due to status differences.

If an erotic author satirizes the royals, the intelligence bureau will come knocking for real.

So I'm dodging.

"People take to pictures easier, right?"

—But...

"Problem?"

—Will people like my pictures...?

"...Someone trash them?"

—N-no... I've just never been ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠praised for my drawings...

Is my aesthetic too off from this world's?

These are drawings I'd rave about.

Someone this skilled could nail still lifes or hyper-realism no problem.

Her style's just pure originality.

"Have some confidence. You draw great."

—E-heh heh...

"My goal's swapping text and art priority anyway. I want people reading for the pics. You gotta step up, Opheli."

—Ughhh...

A sound like her stretching or psyching up, then Opheli continues.

—When you say it like that, it's too hard to slack off...

Not a refusal, so good enough.

Time to wrap the carrot-and-stick training for my exclusive hentai artist.

As I went to hang up the familiar-phone receiver, my eyes flicked to the desk.

My sister's letter, which I'd just been reading.

It's so short, postcard fits better.

"...Opheli."

—Y-yes...?

"One more favor okay?"

—Wh-what favor...? If you miss my tits, I can send—

"No, not that."

My sister always nagged me to call it a letter if it's alive.

But with real-time familiar comms, do we even need letters?

"Can you intercept calls midway like this?"

—Huh... what do you mean?

I blanked on "signal hijacking," so I phrased it vaguely.

No concept here, so it's not clicking intuitively.

I pondered, then rephrased.

"Can you eavesdrop?"

—Hmm... No? I don't think I could...

"Isn't this your familiar?"

—Y-yeah, but... familiars and owned items are a bit different...? I contracted this one, but I didn't create it, so controlling it freely ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is...

One less worry.

Imagining Opheli barging in mid-chat with sis saying she heard everything? Nightmare fuel.

"Can you set up... no, two more ways to contact like this?"

—Why...?

Sis was my first thought, but Kiara needs one too.

I'm not glued to the capital forever.

"Need quick links to the territory. Writing setup's here, but I gotta run Valancien somehow."

Excuse, obviously.

Telling my devoted artist it's for chatting up my fiancée? She'd eavesdrop somehow out of spite.

—...Ah. If that's it... Should I send both there...?

"One to the territory, please."

—Okaay... Make 'em just like this, okay...?

"Yeah. Start from one end, ends when both hang up."

—...But I have a condition.

As long as it's not "break off the engagement."

—Call... more often?

"......"

Costs nothing.

Might as well indulge her.

"I'll work you hard."

—...Heh, o-okay...

That wrapped it.

Less than ten seconds after signaling end-call, it cut.

Handier the more I use it.

Twenty years without this as "normal"? The difference hits hard.

No waiting days for replies.

Knock knock—

I was geeking out over the phone when knocking pulled my head around.

A woman peeking in. Familiar face—my tension melted instantly.

"Back already?"

"...Yeah."

Kiara.

She'd said she'd be at the salon all day, but she's early.

Sun's still up. Something up?

"...Were you talking to someone?"

"Huh? Oh... Nothing. Just... uh..."

Started to spill on the phone, then clammed up.

Gifting it post-arrival feels more dramatic.

Surprise gifts hit harder unspoiled.

"...Hmph."

But my fiancée doesn't love the dodge.

She's this close to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pouting—better defuse fast.

I stood and pulled her into a tight hug.

"Good day?"

Her sharp expression melted.

"...Hmph. Same as always."

"Not buying it."

"......Something crazy. Heard someone's visiting the salon tomorrow."

"Who?"

Who makes folks giddy just showing up?

Santa? Blank otherwise.

"The author Sad."

"...What?"

"Sad Zahermazo. White Knight and Meaningless Lewd Confessions."

...I know.

But which Sad's crashing the salon?

The real one's clueless right here?

Next day, midday.

Kiara steps from the carriage, face etched with worry.

"...You sure you're okay?"

"Fine."

"Your face says otherwise..."

"......"

Fuck yeah it matters.

That's why I'm riding with her to the salon.

After her tip-off yesterday, had to.

"Um... Can't chat much in there, so no tea party together..."

"Standing's fine. Just wanna see someone."

"You wanna see the author too, Adrian?"

"...Yeah."

No denial.

Gotta eye the thick-skinned fuck impersonating me.

If armed, I'd slice 'em—but impossible.

Non-knight packing in the capital? "Rebel?"

Swinging it'd be messy anyway.

"Might be boring..."

Despite her worry, Kiara looked upbeat.

I could guess why.

Excited for the date.

I'd tagged along on a "salon escort" pretext laced with date vibes.

Date after, return together.

Thud—

First heard 'salon,' thought seedy den.

Really just a chatty café gathering.

Kiara's reading club's 'Salon de Fleur'—shortened to salon.

Diary stuff? I'd say 'the salon.'

Anyway, following her in, the place bloomed flowery like its name.

Ladies' perfumes, decorative flowers, round table teas.

I endured the headache vibe, standing behind her.

She glanced back, grinned at my stoic stance.

But it didn't cool my hidden rage.

"......"

Eyes scanning amid the chaos, academy training kicking in.

Knight virtue: sharp eyes. Disguise spotting drills flooded back.

Scanned faces for disguise tells—none.

New arrivals spotted the mountain-me behind Kiara, startled, then slight bows.

I nodded back, faces cataloged.

Capital nobles—academy overlap from youth.

No self-proclaimed Sads.

Kiara's chill said regulars.

—Is the author late?

—Hope they show...

—Brought my book for a signing...

Fan chatter didn't drag—the proprietress cleared her throat, eyes locked.

"They've arrived."

Venue buzzed, then click-clack heels.

...Heels?

Gaze to the door—slow reveal of legs.

Full figure.

Outrageous for demure-dress ladies: deep cleavage, high side-slit skirt.

But not just that.

Blonde. Red eyes.

Imperial giveaway.

But that's it. Face had micro-noise blocking instant ID.

Unfamiliar mug, but noise sparked unease.

Artifact? Hiding identity.

Others bought it wholesale...

"...!"

Not me.

Focused on noise, peeled layers instinctively. Magic, if you call it that.

High-grade artifact—took time to parse visuals.

Twitch—

"Adrian...? You okay?"

"...Yes. Fine."

...Knowing her identity, body's seizure was inevitable.

"Sad Zahermazo."

That woman claiming my name.

Basking in cheers for my fame.

I know who she is.

"Pleased to meet you all."

The brazen soul hijacking a world-shaking novelist—

the Empire's princess.

"Before we start, one question?"

Princess pulls paper from her bosom.

Eyes flock, then flinch away in shock.

"Anyone here send this pussy stamp?"

"......"

"Mentioned it casually in a post, didn't expect anyone to actually send one..."

I could guess the sender—hollow laugh.

No, finally ID'ing my stamper? Absurd.

How bold to flash a pussy print publicly, then play innocent.

Beyond comprehension.