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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 135
🕑 Added 2025-05-21 17:43:22 +0000 UTCThe title of the third episode was revealed the day after Keisuke Takahashi lost to Takumi Fujiwara. He’d shown up at the gas station where Takumi worked, asking about the mysterious AE86 from Mount Akina.
In front of the other employees, Keisuke admitted defeat and told Takumi’s senior that he wouldn't lose to the same guy twice. He promised a rematch in the weekend’s team battle—this time, he’d beat that 86 fair and square.
Haruka didn’t know much about cars. She could drive, but that was about it. "To her, cars were just machines—four wheels, a steering wheel, and a gas pedal. Nothing more."
And yet... just flipping through the storyboards for the first three chapter of Initial D had hooked her.
What happens next?
Why is Takumi so skilled?
Will he even show up to the race? And if he doesn’t, are the Akina Speed stars doomed against the Akagi RedSuns?
Also, is Natsuki supposed to be the heroine?
There was something off about her dynamic with her father... something unsettling in the script that lingered in the back of Haruka’s mind.
She let out a quiet breath, flipping back to re-read a few panels.
“This is... a big shift from your usual style,” she said after a moment, glancing at Haruki.
“Yeah. It is,” he admitted.
“You into cars and racing?”
“Of course,” he said, smoothly.
In truth, Haruki knew almost nothing. But once he committed to this project, he’d promised himself he’d learn. He planned to apply for a license and start researching immediately. It’d be embarrassing if people found out the creator of a street racing manga couldn’t even drive.
More than anything, Haruki had to seem like he had it under control. If Haruka started thinking he was in over his head, it could put the whole plan at risk.
“I didn’t expect you to take on this kind of series,” Haruka said, skimming the pages with interest. “But I’ll admit… it works.”
She flipped to another panel and paused. “Starting with someone like Takumi—a total beginner—gives it a different feel. Most racing manga throw you straight into pro circuits. This one feels more down-to-earth.”
Haruki nodded. “That was the idea. Something more accessible.”
“Yeah. Not everyone dreams of being a pro racer, but a kid working at his dad’s tofu shop with talent he doesn’t even realize? That’s easy to get behind.”
She didn’t say more, but Haruki could tell she was mulling it over.
And the whole “cheating girlfriend” subplot? That’s going to hit a little too close to home for some readers, Haruki thought grimly.
Haruka tapped her fingers on the desk, thinking. “Ashes of Tomorrow wraps wraps in three weeks. And with three other series getting cut, we’ll have four open slots in Shroud Line.”
“Ordinarily, with your track record, if you submitted a new series of this quality, serialization wouldn’t be a problem.”
“But...” she hesitated, “you’re still submitting under Natsume’s account. I’ll push for it, but it depends on how the editor-in-chief feels about you running two serials at once.”
“I get it,” Haruki said.
Getting serialized wasn’t just about the quality. Every slot in Shroud Line was tied to internal politics. If one artist started dominating too many slots, it’d upset the balance.
Haruka might believe in Initial D, but she couldn’t promise anything. All she could do was try.
“By the way,” Haruki said, seizing the moment, “I’ve got two short-form ideas. Not really suited for manga—but I think they’d work well as short animated films. Ten to twenty minutes each. Any idea how I should approach that?”
“Two?” She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been busy.”
She paused, then nodded. “I get it, though.”
She thought of Anohana. Even now, she had mixed feelings about handing it off to Kazanami Animation Studio instead of adapting it into a manga for Echo Shroud. But Kazanami had nailed the animation, music, and casting. It had been the right call.
If Haruki had serialized it as manga, it might’ve been axed before readers reached the emotional climax.
“You could try pitching them to Kazanami again. You’ve worked with Kazuya, right?”
“I have. But last time, they just happened to have a gap, and my script fit. These two are totally standalone. I doubt Kazuya would be interested.”
“Fair,” she said. “Last time was a bit of luck.”
“But look—Kazanami doesn’t just initiate projects. Sometimes people commission them. Like how game publishers fund anime adaptations to boost sales.”
“So if they’re not actively looking, you could finance the production yourself and have them handle the work.”
“You mean... I pay them to make it?” Haruki blinked.
“Exactly.”
“Even if I could afford that, what about distribution? Casting? Promotion? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Then you’d frame it as a partnership,” Haruka said. “You handle the funding, they handle the production. If they believe the project has commercial value, they’ll handle the rest and split profits.”
Haruki groaned and rubbed his forehead. “Sounds like a huge headache.”
It was a lot—but it wasn’t a bad idea.
Realistically, neither 5 Centimeters per Second nor Voices of a Distant Star could survive serialization. They just weren’t structured for it. Short films were a better fit.
He just hadn’t expected it to be so complicated.
Money, at least, wasn’t the biggest issue.
His current manga earned him nearly 3,300,000 yen per month after assistants’ fees and taxes. Combined with royalties from Natsume, he had saved around 18 to 20 million yen. Once the sales from Anohana were finalized, he’d likely add a few million more.
Within a few months, including the Anohana payment, he could gather nearly 35 million yen.
Would that be enough to fund two shorts?
On paper, it didn’t seem like much. But 5 Centimeters per Second had been made with only 35 million yen—in parallel world. Haruki’s world had lower production costs, and his films were even shorter.
Plus, he already had the music.
If Kazuya helped him assemble the right team—with the same kind of “wallpaper-level” artistry as someone like Makoto Shinkai—it might be possible.
And if Kazanami agreed to co-produce, with a profit share?
They’d have a real stake in making it succeed.
It might actually happen...
Haruki shook his head, snapping out of the thought.
It was still just an idea. Kazanami might not even take his pitch seriously. But thanks to Haruka, it now felt like something he could chase.
And that made it real enough to start.
