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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 175
🕑 Added 2025-06-11 18:41:29 +0000 UTC[TL:-Only releasing one chapter today—I ended up rewriting the whole thing, so it took a bit more time to get it right.
Let me know what you think! Reviews and comments really help.]
The world’s full of distractions, but Haruki tried to keep his focus narrow: on the work. Most of the time, he succeeded.
Especially now.
he spent his days drawing and overseeing production for 5 Centimeters per Second and Voices of a Distant Star. The new studio base ran efficiently, and Kazuya had taken over the daily logistics. Things were moving along—until Haruki got a call one afternoon.
“There’s a situation,” Kazuya said, his voice tight. “It’s about the voice cast.”
Haruki set his pen down. “Go on.”
“The two voice actors we lined up—Rin Shiraishi and Rina Nanami’ve just backed out.”
Haruki blinked. “What? Why now?”
“Another studio made them a better offer. And... they signed formal contracts with that team yesterday.”
“Wait. We didn’t have contracts?”
Kazuya sighed. “No. We were still finalizing the paperwork. Rin and Rina had worked with me before—I thought it was safe to confirm everything verbally first. I didn’t think anyone would poach them this late.”
“Which studio?”
“Dakai Animation. They're producing The Icebound Witch—that fantasy series airing next season.”
Haruki didn’t speak right away.
He leaned back, eyes resting on the production board. This wasn’t just about scheduling. Dakai’s team had been ramping up fast. With a bigger release window and more resources behind them, they’d begun locking in top-tier talent. The timing wasn’t ideal, but that was how production schedules clashed sometimes.
Still, Haruki didn’t get angry. He let out a quiet breath.
“So they’re gone.”
“Yeah. And we’ve got two months until broadcast.”
There was a long pause.
Haruki eventually said, “Then we find new voices. Better ones.”
Kazuya let out a slow breath of relief, like he’d been bracing for worse. “I’ve already started contacting agencies. We’ll do auditions, callbacks—whatever it takes. Just wanted to let you know first.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” Haruki paused. “And make sure we double down on contracts. No more assumptions.”
“Agreed.”
After hanging up, Haruki didn’t go back to drawing right away. His eyes lingered on the neatly color-coded outlines pinned to the wall. Deadlines. Storyboards. Scene notes.
Everything else was on track.
The music was nearly done. The backgrounds were stunning. The storyboards were tighter than he’d dared hope. But without lead voices, everything downstream—syncing, previews, final mix—was stuck.
Still, he wasn’t panicking.
These things happened. Production was all about handling change. He wasn’t interested in pointing fingers or getting dragged into drama. That wasn’t how he worked.
What mattered was the project.
—
Meanwhile, quiet buzz about the upcoming shorts had started surfacing online. Even with minimal marketing, early stills from 5cm and Voices had found their way into fan circles. The visuals—cinematic, polished—had surprised people.
“Mizushiro is drawing this? Wait, seriously?”
“These backgrounds look insane. Are we sure this isn’t a movie?”
“There’s something about the tone... this feels like it’s going to hurt, in a good way.”
And Natsume's bookpf friend? Still climbing. The first three volumes had been out just over a week, and the sales were breaking past Echo Shroud’s projections.
Volume 1: 510,000 copies
Volume 2: 500,000
Volume 3: 500,000
Echo Shroud had expected 400,000 per volume in the launch window. Haruki’s work had quietly surpassed that—without splashy promos or limited edition bonuses.
With its overwhelmingly female readership and rising interest from anime fans, Natsume was becoming one of the strongest shoujo titles of the year.
It was exactly the kind of success Haruki valued. Built on substance, not noise.
But he didn’t let himself relax.
With January’s air date fast approaching and voice roles still empty, everything was about to tighten.
And that was fine.
He hadn’t expected this to be easy.
-----
Kazumi Animation Studio – Late October
“I’m sorry, Producer Mori… This was an agency’s decision,” said Rin, her voice low over the phone. “I really didn’t want to pull out, especially not this late, but… it’s out of my hands.”
Kazuya Mori leaned back in his chair. “It’s disappointing, but I appreciate you calling directly. Good luck with the new project.”
He ended the call and sat there for a few seconds, phone still in hand.
At least she’d had the courtesy to speak to him herself.
But that only confirmed what he already suspected.
Both Rin and Rina had withdrawn just days after receiving casting offers from The Icebound Witch—a high-profile fantasy series with a larger budget and broader reach. Officially, it was due to overlapping schedules. Realistically, it made sense: the new project offered higher visibility and longer-term roles. Without signed contracts, there wasn’t much reason for their agency to turn it down.
It wasn’t just unfortunate.
Kazuya leaned back, absorbing the news. It was disappointing, but not surprising. In a studio like Kazanami, where structure and policy minimized these situations, things felt more secure. But with this newer, independent setup, there was less buffer—less leverage when something fell through.
Whoever had made the call must’ve assumed there’d be no pushback.
And for now, they weren’t wrong.
Kazuya wasn’t going to drag Kazanami into a personal dispute. These shorts were his and Haruki’s own gamble, off the books. Trying to involve the company would just create friction.
But he’d remember this.
Not for revenge. Just as a reminder. In this business, you had to keep track of who played fair—and who didn’t.
For now, they had more urgent problems. Like finding voice actors fast.
Still, a thought crossed his mind—one he hadn’t voiced aloud.
What if these shorts did take off?
He’d seen Haruki’s tweet a few days ago, something half-joking: “Small team, big hearts—these two might surprise you next season.”
It hadn’t been a prediction, more like morale-boosting optimism.
But what if?
If 5cm and Voices launched well—if they landed the right platform slot, earned strong early impressions, got picked up for recirculation—the numbers might just tip their way.
The budget was tight. Four episodes total—three for 5cm, one for Voices. All-in production costs were about 5 million yen.
Breakout shorts like That Summer Name had pulled in nearly 25 million views online. On ad-supported platforms, where revenue averages 1–2 yen per view and around 60% flows to creators, the margins were slim—but real.
Even reaching just half that number could bring in over 10 million yen. Enough to double production costs. Not industry-shaking, but more than respectable.
The Icebound Witch? Big IP, lavish budget, massive marketing. It was built to dominate.
But maybe—just maybe—something smaller, more emotional, could still leave a mark.
Kazuya pushed the thought aside.
Daydreams meant nothing if the work didn’t get done.
First priority: cast replacements.
Everything else could wait.
Comments
Dhvaj Patel
Scroll down
Yashwant Varma
You uploaded ch 174 again
Hersh Jobanputra
Nice chapter! There are a few grammatical errors that can be corrected.
