All Beautiful Girls Want to Stick with Me

The rise of online shopping came with both advantages and disadvantages. At least for consumers, having a faster, more convenient way to shop was undoubtedly a good thing.

But for those running physical businesses, it was far from pleasant.

From the moment online shopping was born, it stood on the opposite side of traditional retail, continuously squeezing the survival space of physical stores. Especially as it developed to its current stage, it had become nothing short of a devastating blow.

In the past, people loved going out to shop. As long as you visited a department store or shopping mall, they were crowded with people—sometimes you even had to line up to take the elevator. But now?

Everything a physical store could sell, online shopping could also sell—and often at a cheaper price with coupons. On top of that, online shopping could provide items that physical stores didn’t even stock.

So was online shopping good or bad? No one could give a definitive answer, nor was one needed. It all depended on perspective.

As a consumer, it was wonderful to be able to buy goods from home at the same or even lower price, delivered right to your door—including items you couldn’t normally buy in nearby shops.

But as the owner of a physical store, you’d see online shopping as a sworn enemy. One moment you were happily running your little shop, making money while eating sukiyaki and humming songs—and the next, a bolt of lightning called online shopping came crashing down from the sky.

Amazon Japan and countless other platforms had already taken away many customers. Even once-thriving department stores and shopping centers now looked deserted.

In Toyohashi City, there was a shopping mall Kotomi Izumi often visited. The place was practically empty. Even if there were people, most went straight to the fifth floor—because that was where the cinema was. Other floors were almost deserted.

Nowadays, those who went to shopping centers were mostly there for movies. The number of people who actually strolled around for shopping had become very, very few. After all, there weren’t many who enjoyed wandering aimlessly just for the sake of the experience.

Even the owners of department stores and shopping malls, who openly resented online shopping, privately used it in their own lives. They found it distasteful, but it was undeniably convenient.

This forced many physical shop owners to attempt transitioning to online sales. If you can’t beat them, join them—seemingly a good strategy. But the problem was, running an online shop also required costs.

For small business owners already struggling, how many could afford the expenses of maintaining an online shop?

Take Tomoka Yuigahama’s Dango Cake Shop, for example. Every month, rent was already a fixed expense, and she had to pay it annually in advance. Thankfully, business was good enough that she could at least cover rent and operating costs.

But besides rent, there were utilities, ingredient costs, and other overheads. Running a physical store demanded money in countless ways, and when you added it all together, it wasn’t a small amount.

And this was in Chiba City.

If it were in Tokyo, where land was worth its weight in gold, just the rent alone would drive most people away.

Asking Tomoka Yuigahama to also run an online shop? Impossible. It might look like diversification—another income channel—but in reality, it would be the final straw that broke the camel’s back.

Online shop fees, advertising, packaging costs for shipping cakes, delivery fees… and selling the cake wasn’t the end of it—you still had to handle after-sales issues.

Running one physical store already pushed her to her limits. Adding an online shop would only push her toward ruin.

All these years, while running the cake shop, Tomoka had also been working as an illustrator. She was only human—of course she was exhausted. More than once, she had thought about giving one of them up. But she still lacked the courage.

If she closed the cake shop, her primary source of income would vanish. In her parents’ eyes, she would become an unemployed single mother. And Tomoka herself worried too—if she relied solely on illustration, could her income really remain stable? Some months might bring in a lot, but the next month could easily bring much less.

But if Tomoka Yuigahama gave up her illustration work, she would feel unwilling. It was a profession that actually brought in money. If she just held on a little longer, maybe things really would get easier.

After her husband passed away, the entire weight of the household fell on her shoulders. Between the cake shop and illustration, she wavered constantly, never certain which one she should give up.

If she gave up neither, the exhaustion was unbearable. Tomoka couldn’t even remember the last time she had gone to bed before midnight. Each night she sat at the computer to draw, and by the time she glanced at the bottom right corner of her screen, it was always already one or two in the morning.

Kotomi had long since noticed Tomoka’s hesitation. That was why she chose this moment to reveal her plans for Type-Moon World. She wanted to become the reason Mrs. Yuigahama could close the cake shop and focus solely on illustration, giving her the confidence to do so.

”Kotomi, could you tell me more about your company plan in detail?” Tomoka asked after a moment of thought.

”No problem.”

Kotomi smiled slightly. It seemed Mrs. Yuigahama was starting to consider it. What came next would depend on how well she could explain and convince her. She needed to reassure Mrs. Yuigahama enough to make her join willingly. So she began to describe the concept and plan of her future game company, Type-Moon World, in detail.

As for the money…

To be honest, for Kotomi, paying Mrs. Yuigahama wasn’t a problem at all.

Kotomi didn’t have enough capital to actually establish a company yet. After all, game companies burned money like no other. Unlike other types of businesses, internet-based ventures thrived on burning money to make money. As long as each step was carefully planned and properly placed, the more you spent, the more you stood to earn back.

But that only applied to internet companies.

Game companies were a little similar in that they also burned money to profit, but they carried a much bigger risk. The development cost of games was itself the main risk. And sometimes, no matter how well you made a game, it didn’t guarantee success in the market.

How many games with glowing reviews had ended up shutting down? Some were canceled mid-project, others dragged entire companies down with them.

Sometimes, running a game company required a bit of luck.

If, after launch, the game didn’t turn a profit quickly, then sorry—time to shut it down.

Kotomi knew this truth well. That was why, even though she was telling Mrs. Yuigahama about Type-Moon World now, she had no intention of actually starting the company immediately. She still needed more money!

The actual opening of the company would have to wait. She hadn’t even decided on the exact timing.

But what she couldn’t wait for was securing Mrs. Yuigahama as her person.

Well… perhaps that sounded strange. Kotomi wanted Mrs. Yuigahama to become her exclusive illustrator—not only to handle every illustration for her future light novels, but also to take on the role of lead artist for Type-Moon World’s games, drawing the character art and CGs.

Kotomi wanted Tomoka Yuigahama’s art style to become the defining visual identity of Type-Moon World.

But right now, Type-Moon World didn’t even exist. Kotomi hadn’t chosen an office space. Forget about game development—the company didn’t even have a team yet.

If anyone else heard her say this, they’d probably walk away instantly, thinking: What kind of game company is this? Sounds like a scam. She’ll just run off with the money! Goodbye!

Tomoka herself had been a little lost in the clouds at first. She had taken illustration commissions for a few game companies before, but she didn’t really understand the industry. Until Kotomi finally said something very straightforward:

”Mrs. Yuigahama, my game company hasn’t started yet. But that’s fine. You can already be my exclusive illustrator. As for money, don’t worry—I have plenty. I’ll support you.”

”Support me? You cheeky little brat.” Tomoka froze for a second, then felt both speechless and amused.

Being told I’ll support you by a sixteen-year-old child… what kind of feeling was that?

”I have money.”

”You can’t just spend money like that… of all things, why would you choose to ’keep’ an old auntie like me?”

Tomoka Yuigahama didn’t doubt that Kotomi had money. Her poise and confidence at critical moments made her look every bit the daughter of a wealthy family.

”Who said anything about keeping you? Once you close the cake shop, your income will come from illustrating my novels. If your royalties aren’t enough, just tell me—I’ll give you more money, and you can draw more illustrations for me. I give you money, you draw. The one thing I’ll never run out of is money. And once Type-Moon World opens, you’ll officially join as an employee. I’ve already chosen your position—Chief Illustrator.”

Kotomi’s words weren’t just generosity—they were also part of her careful planning.

The workload for Sword Art Online illustrations wasn’t huge. After Tomoka completed the first volume’s illustrations, she gradually became more comfortable with the work. On the surface, it seemed she could manage illustration while still running the cake shop.

But soon Kotomi would launch new works. Not to mention the one destined to become her magnum opus—Mushoku Tensei.

Redo of Healer Volume 1 would begin next year, and the illustration work, naturally, would also fall to Tomoka.

With Sword Art Online and Redo of Healer, Tomoka’s workload would jump from one series to two.

If, by chance, both series released new volumes in the same month, Tomoka would need to finish illustrations for both within the limited time frame.

For a full-time illustrator, that might not be a big issue—they could always work overtime and still finish within a few months.

But if Tomoka kept her current routine—running the cake shop by day and drawing by night—then once the workload doubled, she simply wouldn’t survive it. Overwork could even kill her.

That was why Kotomi chose now to persuade her—to temporarily close the Dango Cake Shop and focus solely on illustration.

Worried illustration alone wouldn’t be enough to support the family?

That was fine. Kotomi had already quietly prepared a bank card.

It contained… all the New Year’s money she had ever received since childhood.

For most kids, New Year’s money wasn’t much to begin with. Often, it didn’t even get saved. The moment a child got it, their parents would say:

”Sweetie, let Mom and Dad hold onto this for you, okay? We’ll save it for your college tuition.”

And being naïve, children believed them, obediently handing it over.

But Mr. and Mrs. Izumi never took away their daughters’ New Year’s money. Instead, they gave Kotomi and Aimi each a separate bank card, specifically for storing it.

Their goal was to give the two girls a simple concept of money while they were still young.

They didn’t expect them to learn financial management—after all, finance had too many intricacies. Teaching it to such young children would be pointless. If a kid could really understand finance at that age, wouldn’t they go straight to Wall Street to wreak havoc when they grew older?

Since childhood, Kotomi and Aimi never lacked food or clothing. This bank card, used only for New Year’s money, mostly just sat there as deposits. They rarely touched it. They barely even remembered its existence—since they had other cards for daily use, where most of their money was kept.

The only time they remembered this card was during New Year’s, when they received New Year’s money and deposited it.

Aimi, clever from a young age, didn’t use the card often, but she kept it in a small box in her bedroom drawer, always able to find it immediately when needed. She also remembered the password clearly. And even if she forgot, it was no problem—she had saved a backup in her phone’s notes.

Kotomi, on the other hand… she used to change the password every single year—not out of caution, but simply because her childish brain couldn’t remember it!

Every year, when it came time to deposit New Year’s money, Kotomi would have forgotten the password completely, forcing her to reset it again and again.

It wasn’t until she graduated middle school that Kotomi finally managed to remember it.

But recently, Kotomi went to the bank once more—and changed the password on that card.

She changed it to Mrs. Yuigahama’s birthday.

When Kotomi went to change the password, she also took a glance at the card’s balance. She had spent her whole childhood just depositing New Year’s money into it, never really checking how much was inside.

Seeing the balance now, even though she had recently earned plenty from writing novels and drawing manga, she still couldn’t help but suck in a cold breath. So much? I didn’t realize I was this rich?!

Why should she worry about not having enough money to start a game company? Just the savings in this card alone were enough to establish Type-Moon World, recruit a large team, and start making waves in the gaming industry.

No wonder, when she walked into the bank that day—only to reset her card password—the branch manager came rushing over personally, smiling like he had just seen his long-lost father, respectfully inviting her into a private office, fussing over her with tea and fancy snacks.

To anyone else, it would have been unthinkable that Kotomi was only there to change a card password.

Every New Year, her grandparents on both sides had given both Kotomi and Aimi New Year’s money. The red envelopes were always thin—not because the amount was small, but because instead of cash, they contained checks.

Back then, little Kotomi couldn’t read the figures clearly. She would pull out the check, see a long string of numbers, but never truly understand how much it was worth.

Even so, after seeing the balance, Kotomi still transferred 90% of it out to another account, leaving only 10% in the original card—for Mrs. Yuigahama.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to give more. She knew very well that if she handed over such a large sum, Mrs. Yuigahama would never accept it—and it might even create distance between them.

Even without money, one must keep their self-respect. This was something Tomoka had always taught her daughters.

Kotomi knew Tomoka’s strong-willed personality well. The mother of Dango was a woman both charming and stubborn to the core. That was why Kotomi left only 10%—because even that much would already be more than enough to cover the Yuigahama family’s expenses, as well as Yui and Yuka’s tuition and living costs for the years ahead.

Kotomi could be steady and reliable when it came to serious matters, but at times of leisure, she still had her streaks of chuunibyou.

There had been a time when she loved reading web novels—not for the cheesy Mary Sue romance, but simply to enjoy watching the protagonist flex, humiliating those who looked down on them.

Yes, whether it was male-targeted or female-targeted novels, Kotomi loved the ”face-slapping” satisfaction.

But you couldn’t just skip to the face-slapping scenes. Without the buildup, the payoff wouldn’t feel as exhilarating. To Kotomi, it was like eating fried rice without ramen—just not right.

One day, while reading through the setup of such a novel, she came across a line that struck her as so incredibly badass that she longed to imitate it.

But she had never had the right chance—or the right person—to say it to. Until now.

Finally, she had her chance. How could Kotomi possibly let it slip away?

From her pocket, Kotomi pulled out the bank card and slapped it lightly but firmly onto the table. She smacked it too hard—her hand stung from the impact—but she kept her face calm, pretending nothing had happened.

”The password is your birthday. Use it however you like.”

The words had barely left her mouth when Kotomi’s lips twitched—not from heartache over the money, but from the sheer rush of finally, finally being able to say that line. She had to restrain herself from trembling with excitement.

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