The Villainous Uncle in the Adult Game Gets Unusually High Praise from the Heroines - Chapter 42

What I was handed was a stack of papers.

…A stack of papers.

Judging by its thickness, it seemed to contain enough content to fill a small book. They were A4-sized sheets, printed full of text.  

Or to be more specific—this was a novel.  

I knew that she, as a member of the literature club, wrote novels. In fact, I had read one of her previous works before.  

“So, what do you think?”

And yet, for some reason, there was something different about her this time. Her expression seemed uncertain—anxious, even—but at the same time, it carried a faint hint of defiance.  

I couldn’t quite put my finger on why her demeanor felt so off, but for now, I decided to focus on what she’d asked of me. I began reading the novel without a word, letting my eyes trace the lines of text.  

…Its content was that of a fantasy novel.  

Even just glancing through the opening pages, it was clear that the story followed a very classic and straightforward structure.  

Unlike the work I had read before, this was a different novel entirely—one that told the tale of a hero embarking on a journey to save the world.  

As I read further, I found it remarkably easy to follow. The story flowed smoothly, as if it were water being poured into my mind. The descriptions were vivid; the scenes came to life effortlessly in my imagination.  

In fact… though it might sound like a cliché, it was truly an entertaining read.  

If this were displayed on a bookstore shelf with a sample available for preview, I could easily see myself considering buying it.  

But, at the same time—  

“…?”  

Something felt… off.  

That feeling solidified when I reached a particular passage:

“She, once a saint, was dead—irrevocably dead. Reviving her would not only be impossible, but would also defy the very will of fate.”

…This reminded me of a distinct impression I had when reading her previous novel.  

That is, the works written by Yozuki Kongo had always been exceedingly idealistic.  

Put less kindly, they could be called childish.  

Alternatively, one might describe them as dreamy.  

Or—perhaps it would be more accurate to say that her writing brimmed with unwavering hope, almost as if it sought to transform any and all harsh realities into visions of optimism and idealism.  

But the novel in my hands was different.  

The story was engaging.  

Yet, without question, its tone was different.  

It felt far too realistic.  

The fantasy world was meticulously constructed, its rules and logic firmly established within the narrative.  

It was almost as though—

I were reading a novel written by someone else entirely.  

“Hey, this—”  

Before I could voice my thoughts, however, she spoke.  

Her expression carried a mix of emotions—glee, tinged with a faint sadness—and she asked, “Did you find it interesting?”  

“Ah, yeah. I thought it was interesting. But—”  

“This is a novel written by my sister.”  

At her words, I thought, Ah, that explains it”. Yet at the same time, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Why would she feel the need to bring this up?”  

“I don’t really understand myself lately,” she admitted. “No matter how much I write, no matter how many words I string together, all I can do is… write things that sound nice but lack weight.”  

“…”  

“My sister is incredible. I love her so much. But… it hurt when she dismissed the ideals in my writing.”  

“I see…”  

“And yet, despite everything,” she continued, her gaze fixed on the stack of papers in my hands, “I keep thinking that everything will somehow work out perfectly. That my sister and I will go back to being close in no time. But every time I read her work, I can’t help but think—”  

Her eyes lingered on the manuscript I held as she spoke, “It feels like it’s shouting at me, ‘You’re such a convenient woman’. I’m the one who started the fight over such a trivial thing. I’m the one who sulked. And yet, here I am, thinking I can just say, ‘I’m sorry’, and everything will magically be okay. That’s… way too selfish.”  

“Yozuki-chan,” I interrupted, cutting her off mid-thought.  

She blinked at me, clearly not expecting me to speak.  

“Before we go any further… is there something else you want to show me?”  

“Uh…”  

Her expression shifted, and after a moment of hesitation, she reached into her backpack and pulled out another stack of papers.  

This new stack was slightly thinner than the one I already held.  

“Um… would you mind reading this one next?”