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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 140
🕑 Added 2025-05-23 18:04:15 +0000 UTCThe story shifts focus—not on Mikako Nagamine’s fierce battle against the alien invaders or their propaganda, but on the quiet miracle of two souls reaching across time and space.
Eight years apart, Mikako sends a text message to Noboru Terao. Across that impossible distance, their thoughts align. The narration—drawn from the draft—reveals they share the same memories and feelings.
[Mikako’s message was only two lines. The rest were just greetings. Still, I think it’s a small miracle. Right now, Mikako, I’m thinking of you...] — Noboru Terao
[Me too. There’s so much I miss — this place feels empty, even though...] — Mikako Nagamine
[Even with summer clouds, cold rain, and the scent of autumn winds...] — Terao
[The gentle patter of raindrops on an umbrella, soft spring soil, the quiet calm of a convenience store at night...] — Mikako
[And that comforting feeling after school...] — Terao
[The smell of chalk dust from the blackboard eraser...] — Mikako
[The distant rumble of trucks in the night...] — Terao
[The romance of the setting sun... always rising, always pulling me up...] — Mikako
[I want to feel it with you, Mikako!] — Terao
Though separated by years and stars, their hearts remain tethered.
As three of the four friendly warships fell in battle, Mikako pressed forward alone against the enemy fleet.
She had no choice but to fight to the very end.
Even in those final moments, her thoughts never left Terao.
[Hey, Noboru, we’re so far apart...] — Mikako
[But maybe thoughts can cross even time and distance. If it’s only for a moment, what would I think? What would Mikako think?] — Terao
[Surely... it would be the same thing.] — Mikako
A final visual cuts in—two voices, two thoughts as one.
[I’m right here, you know!] — Terao
[I’m right here, you know!] — Mikako
The last scene shows Mikako’s mech taking down the enemy vessel, only to drift powerless into the endless dark.
In that moment, across space and time, their hearts speak the same words.
The story ends here.
Kazuya sat frozen in his seat, still lost in the afterglow of the tale.
After a long silence, he finally looked up at Haruki.
“…Mizushiro-sensei,” Kazuya said quietly. “I knew you were talented, but honestly... this is on another level.”
He was still recovering from being struck twice—once by Five Centimeters per Second, and now Voices of a Distant Star. The emotional weight was heavier than he’d expected.
As an industry veteran, Kazuya had long resisted this kind of storytelling. Maybe that’s why he’d clashed with Mizushiro’s fanbase so often.
But seeing this now—he finally understood.
“Well,” Haruki asked, “What do you think, Producer Kazuya? About these two works?”
“…They’re excellent,” Kazuya admitted plainly. “Really... I loved them.”
But then his tone shifted, more cautious now.
“That said... I don’t think Kazanami can commit a dedicated animation team to these projects.”
“Because of the risk?” Haruki asked, unsurprised.
He’d anticipated this before coming. Though he had some standing now in Tokyo’s anime scene, it wasn’t nearly enough to carry that kind of investment alone.
If he had a longer series like Anohana ready, maybe it’d be different.
But with Five Centimeters per Second running only an hour, and Voices even shorter, their commercial value was naturally limited.
Especially in a market that favored longer series over short films.
“There’s just not enough return potential,” Kazuya said. “I can draft a proposal, but honestly? I doubt the execs will approve it.”
“I see...” Haruki exhaled.
“So basically... the chances of Kazanami animating them directly are slim.”
“Not necessarily,” Mori replied. “There is... another option.”
Haruki glanced up.
“our model was: Mizushiro-sensei submits a manuscript, Kazanami greenlights it, and we build a production team. But... why not flip the model?”
Kazuya continued, “You fund the production yourself—commission an animation studio directly. Kazanami could then help distribute or promote it. We already handle outside contracts—for game cinematics, ads, things like that.”
Haruki was momentarily surprised. That was the exact suggestion Haruka had made earlier.
“I was actually going to propose that,” Haruki said. “I’m glad we’re thinking along the same lines.”
“Then... how much are you planning to invest?” Mori asked.
“Roughly thirty five million yen,” Haruki said. “It’s not a huge budget, but I don’t want this to be cheaply made. If I fund it, I want it to look beautiful—no broken frames, no corners cut.”
He paused, a little self-conscious.
“I know that’s a tall order for the price.”
Kazuya leaned back, thinking.
thirty five million was modest. But maybe... just maybe, it was possible.
After a few minutes, he looked Haruki in the eye.
“With thirty five million yen, if you want to hire a major studio to produce high-quality adaptations of these two works, you might be a bit short on funds. But honestly, there are a lot of things you can bypass entirely, especially in your case, Mizushiro-sensei. There are plenty of small studios or indie teams out there with solid skills and experienced staff, and their rates are far more reasonable. For something the length of Five Centimeters per Second and Voices of a Distant Star, thirty five million is more than enough.”
“You have connections like that, Producer Kazuya?” Haruki blinked, then quickly caught on.
Kazuya was a veteran producer in the industry, not someone who’d go out of his way to offer help for no reason. Even though they had worked together before, their relationship wasn’t close enough to warrant charity.
“You’re not offering this out of goodwill, right? What are your conditions?” Haruki asked bluntly.
Kazuya chuckled. “You're sharp, Mizushiro-sensei.”
He looked Haruki in the eye. “What I’m proposing... is a partnership. A direct one.”
“With you? Not with Kazanami Studio?”
“Exactly.” Kazuya leaned forward slightly. “I want to personally invest six million yen into the animation of these two works. I’ll leverage my contacts to bring in a capable yet cost-effective team, and I’ll also handle post-production, marketing, and distribution.”
“However, whether the final product succeeds or flops, I want 40% of the revenue from both projects.”
Haruki’s expression didn’t change. “So you're proposing to co-produce the adaptations?”
“That’s right.” Kazuya nodded. “I know it’s a sudden offer, but I genuinely believe in these two titles. You're young, and animation production isn’t something you can brute force through talent alone. Funding, logistics, coordination, industry experience... You need all of that. Especially the connections. And that’s what I bring to the table.”
He continued, “I’m not just throwing money in—I’ll put in the work, bring in the team, and use my network to get the word out.”
Haruki listened in silence. He didn’t distrust Kazuya’s intentions. In fact, he was aware his own limitations went beyond budget—he knew nothing about distribution strategies, marketing, or broadcasting.
Letting someone with industry experience take the reins made sense. It would keep things efficient, and more importantly, avoid pitfalls that came with inexperience.
But... forty percent?
That was steep.
Haruki had already written the scripts, and the soundtracks were complete. He’d be the one putting up the bulk of the funding, and creatively, the work was entirely his. Letting Kazuya walk away with nearly half the profit didn’t sit right.
Still, Haruki wasn’t stubborn to the point of sabotaging the project over pride.
“Twenty percent,” Haruki said.
He didn’t know much about negotiating, but he figured starting at half the offer was standard practice.
Kazuya blinked, then gave a half-laugh. “You’re serious? I’m contributing 6 millon to your 35 million, which is about 17% of the funding. But beyond that, I’m bringing the team, handling operations, negotiations, marketing, licensing—all the post-production work. You think that’s only worth 3% more?”
His voice grew louder, a negotiation tactic he was used to using.
But Haruki remained calm. “And I wrote the story, produced the scripts, and already secured the soundtrack. The creative core is done.”
Mori paused, realizing a back-and-forth over contributions wouldn’t go anywhere.
“Thirty-five percent,” he offered.
“Twenty-one.”
Kazuya frowned. “You’re haggling over single digits now?”
“Twenty-two,” Haruki replied.
“…You’re impossible.” Kazuya sighed. “Thirty-three. That’s my final offer. Below that, there’s no deal.”
“Twenty-three.”
The silence hung for a moment before Kazuya exhaled through his nose.
Thirty minutes later, they shook hands on a 28% share for Kazuya.
It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but Kazuya could tell Haruki wouldn’t budge beyond that number. And truthfully, he didn’t want to pass on these two titles—he believed they had serious potential. A small cut of something big was still better than nothing.
They agreed to meet later in the week to sign the contract.
As they prepared to part ways, Haruki asked one last question. “Won’t this kind of deal be a problem for Kazanami?”
Kazuya smiled. “Plenty of small studio founders used to work at the big names—Kazanami, Daiten, even Shuyuu. It’s nothing new.”
Haruki immediately understood.
Kazuya was planning to break away. He wasn’t just investing in these works—he was investing in his future.
For Kazuya, 6,000,000 yen wasn’t a serious loss. Even if the project underperformed, he could recoup most of it. But if it succeeded, it could launch his independent career.
After a few final pleasantries, they parted ways.
Kazuya headed off, already thinking about assembling a team.
Haruki, meanwhile, had to shift gears.
Initial D was set to be submitted to the serialization committee next week. If it passed, he’d be swamped.
Not only would he be handling Natsume’s Book of Friends, but now he had to prepare for Initial D and oversee the production of two anime adaptations.
He didn’t plan to merely meet expectations—he wanted to recreate the visual beauty of Shinkai’s work, or even surpass it. That meant intense collaboration with the animation team, perhaps even storyboarding the more intricate scenes himself.
Haruki wasn’t just a manga artist anymore.
He was stepping into the shoes of a creator with full control—one who had to manage vision, direction, and execution across multiple mediums.
And that meant the real work was only just beginning.
Comments
Dhvaj Patel
They continue negotiating after the 23%
Banana19
23% not 28%
