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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 132(2 in 1)
🕑 Added 2025-05-19 17:03:31 +0000 UTCThe car rolled to a stop after about an hour on the road.
Haruki and Ryuko stepped out, gazing at the venue ahead. A sizable crowd had already gathered—anime fans, many in homemade cosplay, packed tightly around the entrance. Despite the varied interpretations in their outfits, Haruki could still recognize the characters they were meant to portray.
“Wait, isn’t that Ryuko Mei...?”
Someone pointed. Within seconds, the crowd surged.
“Ryuko! Is it really you?”
“Could you say a line as Meiko? I loved your performance!”
“I’m a huge fan—of Meiko and you! Can I get an autograph?”
A few overly enthusiastic cosplayers dressed as Meiko jostled their way toward her, nearly knocking into Haruki as they crowded around.
Ryuko looked overwhelmed. The attention, especially from the die-hard Meiko fans, left her frozen in place.
Haruki let out a quiet sigh. Just what they needed right now.
Kazuya’s assistant, stuck managing the car, couldn’t get through the crowd to help.
“Come with me,” Haruki said, without hesitation.
He took Ryuko’s wrist and began guiding her through the crowd.
The fans, still focused on Ryuko, barely noticed him—until they did.
“Wait, who’s that?”
“Why’s he dragging Ryuko away?”
“Is that her boyfriend?”
“No way—maybe her manager?”
“Hold on... I’ve seen him before. Isn’t that Mizushiro? The screenwriter who killed off Meiko? I saw a photo online...”
“Wait—they came together? That’s kinda suspicious...”
—
The fans weren’t allowed past the venue entrance, so they eventually fell back.
Ryuko, breathless from the quick pace and wobbling slightly in her heels, looked a bit flushed.
“S-sorry,” Haruki said, releasing her wrist. “I didn’t mean to be rough. We were cutting it close and… I’ve been caught in crowds like that before. It only gets worse the longer you wait.”
“It’s okay,” Ryuko said with a gentle smile. “ I get it.”
“I’ve only ever seen that kind of thing on the news. I didn’t think I’d ever be the one getting swarmed. It’s a little overwhelming.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Haruki said with a shrug. “When Rurouni Kenshin ended, I got chased down the street by fans demanding a sequel. That was way worse.”
Ryuko chuckled. “So that’s why you kept such a low profile at university? Afraid someone would corner you and beg for more manga?”
“You knew about that?” Haruki looked at her, surprised.
“Just a guess,” she said quickly, glancing away. “Our universities are close. If you’d gone public with your identity, I would’ve heard about it.”
“Makes sense,” he said with a nod. “I just didn’t want the hassle.”
“You two finally made it.”
A familiar voice broke in. Kazuya approached, dressed sharply, giving Ryuko a nod before turning to Haruki.
“It’s been a few months, and look at you—Mizushiro-sensei, as sharp as ever.”
“Just Haruki’s fine. ‘Sensei’ still doesn’t sit right with me,” he replied with a small grimace. “So, do I need to speak at the event, or is this just a formality?”
“Formality?” Kazuya raised an eyebrow. “Not even close.”
“Haruki, Anohana has blown up. It’s the biggest thing Kazanami’s had in years. The media wants everything—talks of sequels, behind-the-scenes stories, you name it.”
He paused, then asked carefully, “Even though we’ve been over this... you’re really not considering a sequel?”
Ryuko turned toward Haruki, eyes hopeful. A sequel would mean more Meiko—and more spotlight.
But Haruki shook his head.
“No. The story’s finished. I never wrote it with a sequel in mind. Forcing a continuation wouldn’t feel right.”
“I see...” Kazuya gave a slow nod, masking his disappointment. “Well, let’s head in then.”
He didn’t press further. It was clear Haruki wasn’t going to budge.
—
The press event followed a Q&A format, with members of the main cast and staff seated onstage: Ryuko Mei, voice of Meiko; Ryoka Minamide, voice of Jinta; producer Kazuya; director Jin Okabe; the music and art directors; Haruki as the screenwriter; and several senior Kazanami staff.
Facing them were journalists from anime publications, web platforms, and fan media.
The first wave of questions focused on Kazuya—Anohana’s rough start, its viral rise in popularity, and speculation around key story points.
“What caused the slow initial response?”
“What triggered the sudden surge in viewership?”
“What really happened to Meiko after she vanished?”
Eventually, the attention shifted.
“As a newcomer, what led to casting you as Meiko?” a reporter asked Ryuko.
“That was thanks to Mizushiro-sensei,” Kazuya said with a small smile. “He supported her from the beginning. There were some doubts, but after the auditions, we all saw it—she was right for Meiko.
“Miss Ryuko, is that true?” another asked.
“Um... yes,” she said softly, glancing at Haruki. “That’s how it happened.”
The mention of Haruki brought the spotlight directly to him.
“Mizushiro-sensei, will there be a sequel to Anohana?”
“No.”
“Do you plan to collaborate with Kazanami again?”
“If the right project comes along, I’m open to it.”
“You once said you aimed to surpass Kiyoshi as the top manga artist in two years. If so, why give Anohana to Kazanami instead of making it a manga yourself?”
“Because Anohana was always meant to be an anime,” Haruki answered. “The story only worked in that format—visually, emotionally. That’s why I submitted it as a script.”
—
The event wrapped up just over an hour later.
Most questions had been aimed at Haruki and Kazuya, while the rest of the team remained largely silent. Once the press cleared out, the group prepared for a celebratory dinner.
Haruki didn’t particularly enjoy drinking, but he stayed out of courtesy.
Thankfully, there were no heavy drinkers like Kotone around this time. Haruki ended the night a little dizzy, but not overwhelmed—unlike Kazuya, who was fully plastered.
“Haruki...” Kazuya slurred, gripping his arm like an old friend. “Do you have anything else like Anohana?”
“I get it—you’re a manga artist first, and your best stuff will go to your own work. But let’s be honest. Some stories need to be animated. Anohana worked because of the direction, the music, the timing. It wouldn’t have landed the same as a manga.”
“If you ever write something like that again—even just a script—bring it to me. I’ve still got pull at Kazanami. If it’s good, we’ll greenlight it. No questions asked.”
Haruki paused, then nodded.
“I don’t have anything right now. But if something comes up—and the timing’s right—I’ll bring it to you first, Brother Kazuya.”
It wasn’t much, but Kazuya understood.
A promise.
And one Haruki himself found hard to ignore.
Because deep in the library of his system… were still countless stories from the parallel world.
And some of them were born to be anime.
---
A week had passed since Anohana’s finale aired.
Because it had only eleven episodes, it ended earlier than most winter anime.
After a brief lull following the emotional finale, Anohana’s popularity surged again. Within that week, total views across platforms soared past 60 million—close to 70 million.
That crushed Oathbound, which had only reached 50 million views in its second month and was once seen as Anohana’s biggest rival.
Among all winter finales, Anohana was the only series to break 60 million—a staggering figure given Japan’s strict copyright and pay-per-episode streaming model.
Unlike other countries with free or subscription streaming, viewers in Japan paid for each episode. For an anime to hit those numbers under these conditions was a real triumph.
Even just the profit-sharing deal between Kazanami Animation Studio and the streaming platforms brought significant returns. After covering production costs, profits would keep coming for months. Fans clamored for Blu-rays, merchandise, and collector’s editions—plus licensed apparel and overseas rights.
For Haruki, the original creator, that meant steady royalties.
When he signed with Kazanami, the focus was on adaptation rights. He hadn’t negotiated merchandising or licensing details—he left that to the studio for a share of the revenue.
At first glance, his earnings might seem modest—just a 12 million yen. But Haruki knew millions more in dividends were on the way.
Compared to Kazanami’s take, his share was small, which explained why Kazuya, Kazanami’s producer, had toasted him so eagerly at the wrap party.
Anime production was high-risk. Many shows flopped. But Anohana was a rare hit, and Kazuya saw Haruki as a creator with genuine talent and commercial instinct—whether it was choosing voice actors like Ryuko or the touching ending theme, every choice paid off.
Despite some early bumps, Kazuya was already eager to work with him again.
With Anohana finished, it dominated streaming front pages. Cosplayers dressed as Meiko appeared at convention. Still, every series had its moment—peaks don’t last forever.
The day after the wrap party, the last winter anime still airing—Bear’s Daily Life—also ended.
That morning, Haruki woke to the familiar chime from the system in his mind.
“Congratulations, host. Anohana is the most popular anime of Spring 2021 in this world’s Japan. You’ve earned an A-rank reward: one lucky draw.”
“What...?” Haruki blinked, still foggy from last night’s drinking. It was already ten o’clock—he’d missed morning classes.
Guilt flared briefly, then he pushed it aside. This was a system draw. Priorities.
Spring’s most popular anime… and it earned an A-rank?
Interesting.
The system rated seasonal rankings. Winning meant rewards—just like when Natsume’s Friends Journal topped the manga polls on Nexari and got an A-rank reward.
Now, he had two A-rank lottery chances.
Haruki hesitated.
One A-rank was hard enough. Two? Managing three series might cut too much into his time.
He’d spent six months carefully adapting Natsume’s most moving chapters and planned to finish the current run by year-end. Maybe after the full parallel world series was out, he’d revisit it properly.
Still, with two A-rank draws plus twenty to thirty million world points from Anohana and Natsume, he could probably redeem another A-rank series outright.
It was... a lot.
Haruki exhaled. “Alright. Let’s see what we get.”
He sank into system space.
The room looked the same, but this time he wasn’t nervous. He understood what A-rank meant—heavy hitters, timeless classics or commercial juggernauts from the parallel world.
The system’s picks could still be quirky, though. Natsume’s Book of Friends and Anohana felt similarly popular, yet one was S-rank and the other A-rank. Maybe the system had its own taste.
“System, use one A-rank draw.”
“Confirm?”
“Do it.”
The cursor spun through rows of glowing titles.
Five minutes passed.
Then—
“Congratulations. You’ve drawn a bundled set by Makoto Shinkai: 5 Centimeters per Second and Voices of a Distant Star.”
Haruki froze.
He’d started his manga career in this world by The Garden of Words, another Shinkai work. He knew Shinkai’s films well, including 5 Centimeters per Second and Voices of a Distant Star from the system database.
Voices of a Distant Star was Shinkai’s debut—less famous but arguably deeper.
And now he had both.
