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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 178
🕑 Added 2025-06-13 18:45:28 +0000 UTCHe cleared his throat. “So? Thoughts on the script?”
Ryuko blinked and straightened.
“They’re different. Not your usual romance, not standard mecha either… but there’s something about them. Quiet, but it really stays with you.”
She paused. “You wanted me to audition for Sumida, Akari, and Mikako, right? How should we do this?”
“Just read some lines,” Kazuya said, flipping through the script. “I want to hear how you interpret the characters.”
Haruki stayed quiet. When it came to casting, Kazuya had better judgment.
“Let’s start with this inner monologue from Sumida,” Kazuya said, pointing out the page.
Haruki immediately recognized the scene—Sumida silently confessing her feelings, knowing they’ll never be returned.
Ryuko took a few minutes to steady herself.
Then she began, voice soft, trembling.
“Even though Takaki-kun is kind... so kind... he’s always looking at something far beyond me...”
“Stop,” Kazuya cut in gently.
“Too strained. She’s already cried at this point. This moment should be gentler—still sad, but quieter. She understands she’s not the one in his heart, but she doesn’t hate him for it.”
“Got it,” Ryuko nodded, taking another breath.
...
“Stop.”
...
“Try again.”
...
The next few takes, Kazuya kept stopping her—not because she was bad, but because something wasn’t quite right.
“I think I’m overthinking it,” Ryuko admitted finally. “I’m trying too hard to remember what kind of person Takaki is... it’s splitting my focus.”
“You want to substitute someone you’re more familiar with?” Kazuya asked.
“Exactly.”
“Well, just imagine me as Takaki, then.”
Ryuko blinked. “...I’ll try.”
She began again, but it was her weakest read yet.
“I need someone else,” she said flatly.
Then, quietly, she turned to Haruki.
This time, when she spoke, her voice was steady. Clear. Her eyes never left his.
“Even though Takaki-kun is kind... so kind... he’s always looking at something far beyond me.”
“My hopes for him... were never going to come true.”
“But still... even tomorrow, and the day after, and all the days after that... I’ll keep loving him. Even if it hurts.”
Kazuya sat back, stunned.
“That was incredible. Not just your tone, but your face, your eyes—it all came together. If this were a live-action film, you’d play Sumida on screen too. I mean, we’ll still need a high school-aged Takaki, but—”
“Too late,” Kazuya sighed. “It’s over.”
“What is?” Haruki asked.
“She’s already chosen you as her Takaki. And you’re too dense to see it.”
...
After a few more test lines—this time with Haruki reading Takaki’s dialogue—Ryuko leaned back in her seat, exhausted.
“So... did that count as my audition?”
“Absolutely,” Kazuya nodded. “You nailed the key scenes. The rest will come with time.”
“We’ll finalize the contract tomorrow,” he added. “For now, go rest.”
Ryuko nodded, but before leaving, turned back.
“Once I sign, I’ll be part of the studio, right? Since it’s close to school, is it alright if I come by sometimes? To observe or help out?”
Kazuya opened his mouth to say no—dubbing would happen off-site—but caught Haruki’s expression and pivoted.
“Of course! Actually, I was going to suggest that myself.”
Haruki gave him a side-eye.
“Thanks, Producer Mori,” Ryuko beamed.
Then she turned to Haruki.
“Anything you want to say before I go?”
Haruki shrugged. “Head back while you can still make class. Sorry for taking up your afternoon. Just don’t get caught skipping like I always do. If you’re not there, just tell them you were sick and at the infirmary—that trick got a few of my absences erased.”
Kazuya groaned and turned away.
This guy...
Of all the things to say, that’s your parting line?
After Ryuko left, Haruki let out a deep sigh of relief. Then he turned to Kazuya, still puzzled.
“Kazuya... you were really patient today,” he said. “I mean, when Ryuko’s first take didn’t land right, I thought for sure you’d just send her home.”
Kazuya raised an eyebrow. “If this were one of my old productions at Kazanami, I probably would’ve. But we’ve got time to spare now, and she’s got potential. I wanted to see if she could meet what we need.”
He paused, looking at Haruki.
“And to be honest, I was thinking of you too.”
“Me?” Haruki blinked. “What do you mean?”
Kazuya just shook his head with a smirk. “Figure it out yourself. You’re smart. Or at least I thought you were.”
He didn’t wait for a response, turning and walking back to his desk.
...
The tension with the previous casting situation—especially the conflict with some behind-the-scenes pressure—had died down within a few days.
In the larger anime scene, Haruki’s name carried far more weight than a mid-tier producer’s. With millions of followers and several hits behind him, the casting change barely made a dent.
Inside the industry, though, people noticed. Reputation lingered, and grudges moved quietly.
Still, once Ryuko signed on, Kazuya posted the update through the official accounts. Haruki retweeted it and followed Ryuko’s page—simple gestures, barely noticed by fans.
Just another casting update, to most.
Haruki and Kazuya didn’t dwell on it. They had work to do.
...
The next day, Ryuko was already in the studio’s rented recording booth, voicing early segments alongside the rest of the cast.
Because the studio was close to her campus, she often dropped by even outside her scheduled sessions—ostensibly to “better understand her character,” but more often to find Haruki and ask for his interpretation of specific scenes.
Not that Haruki had much to offer—he wasn’t exactly a voice coach. But thanks to the reference material from the original scripts and audio tracks, he’d help her adjust when needed.
Within two weeks, Ryuko had settled into the studio’s rhythm. She brought snacks and fruit regularly, and everyone appreciated her presence. She was easy to work with, helpful, and eager to learn.
The whole team quickly warmed up to her.
...
By mid-to-late November, things had reached full momentum.
“Haruki, have some fruit,” Ryuko said, handing him a plate of neatly sliced apples.
It was past 9 p.m.—prime downtime for most office workers, but peak work hours for this small studio.
With both 5 Centimeters per Second and Voices of a Distant Star in production, Haruki and Kazuya were often in the studio late into the night, checking storyboards, listening to dubs, reviewing post-production.
Ryuko, too, would often stay late after finishing her lines. She liked being around the creative process.
“Thanks,” Haruki said, taking a toothpick and skewering a slice. “How’s the recording schedule looking?”
“For 5 Centimeters, Akari’s childhood scenes are mostly done,” Ryuko said, pulling up the notes on her phone. “Next week, we’ll start on Sumida. For Voices, Mikako’s lines start next week too. We’ve got maybe three weeks left for audio work, so post-production can still stay on track.”
Everything was moving in sync now. Soundtrack, animation, dialogue, promotional planning—it all followed the schedule Kazuya laid out.
If one part slipped, the rest would be in trouble. Haruki knew he wouldn’t be able to juggle it all without Kazuya overseeing operations.
Fortunately, funding hadn’t been an issue.
Sales of Natsume remained strong, especially after the release of the print volumes. The first three volumes had sold close to two million copies, and although royalty payments were still processing, the numbers meant Haruki would soon have a few million yen in income just from that alone.
If the payments had cleared already, he might’ve even reinvested that money directly into marketing.
Right now, the anime sections of major streaming sites were filled with hype about big-budget January releases—Frozen Witch, Downfall in Another World. In comparison, 5 Centimeters per Second and Voices were buried in the listings, barely visible without scrolling.
Haruki had even considered mortgaging his apartment to fund a stronger promo push.
But after talking to Kazuya, he’d been talked down.
“If we throw more money into this, the break-even line becomes a problem,” Kazuya had said. “We’re looking at two short films, maybe four episodes each. Total cost? Five million yen. We’re a small, unknown studio with no track record. We can’t justify a premium price.”
“The content quality’s there—I know that. But even if we push the platforms to host it at 1.5 yen per view, to recover costs we’d need ten million views. That’s 2.5 million per episode on average.”
Haruki had blinked. “You ran the math already?”
“Of course. But even that’s a stretch. No high-profile voice cast. No existing fanbase. Just your name—and yeah, that helps, but not enough to guarantee millions of views.”
“So... we just let it ride?”
“Pretty much. Keep expectations grounded.”
Haruki had been quiet at the time, but he’d accepted the logic. It wasn’t like 5 Centimeters or Voices had any real shot at massive merch sales either.
Still, he didn’t buy the whole “low reach” narrative. Anohana had hit forty million views. Even without Kazanami’s full promotional machine, Haruki refused to believe these two new works were that far behind in quality.
But unless more funds showed up soon, a big marketing push wasn’t happening.
...
“By the way,” Ryuko said, breaking his train of thought, “Kazuya said he wants to start cutting together a teaser next week. Some early dubbing, soundtrack clips, just something we can release as a trailer.”
“Sounds good,” Haruki nodded.
December was coming fast. For a January release, even one month ahead was cutting it close for promotional material.
But so far, everything was on track.
If they kept this pace, both films would be ready in time.
And with any luck—maybe the right people would notice.
