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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 116
🕑 Added 2025-05-11 18:21:45 +0000 UTCA group of manga artists sat around a long table in a cozy downtown, the clink of glasses and quiet laughter mixing with shop talk. Despite coming from different publishers—some major, others smaller—they all shared one thing in common: they were from Kiyosu.
That regional bond still meant something in Tokyo’s manga scene. Even as rivals, they often met like this, sharing news, venting frustrations, and keeping tabs on each other’s careers.
“Hey, the Nexari newcomer poll started, right?” a middle-aged artist asked, glancing toward a younger man with dyed hair and a leather jacket. “Ren, this might be your moment.”
Ren gave a modest shrug, but his smile gave away his hopes. “It’d be nice. But I’m not holding my breath.”
Tatsuya let out a small laugh. “I still remember last year—Tsukino’s series jumped three spots in the second week. It cooled off after that, but the buzz was enough to land it an anime.”
Tatsuya smiled, though it was more a half-smile, than one of confidence. “That was last year,” he said, trying to sound humble. “My series has been running since last February and only made it to 11th place. I’d love for it to break into the top ten, but first place? Feels like a stretch.”
Even so, everyone there knew breaking into the top ten was no small feat—especially in a competitive magazine like Crimson Path, Red Lantern’s flagship. It wasn’t just about sales anymore. Rankings translated into animation rights, merchandise, international exposure.
“So what’s the trick?” someone asked, raising their beer.
Tatsuya just grinned. “Keep drawing. That’s all you can do.”
Before anyone could follow up, a quiet voice cut through the conversation.
“You’re all ignoring the obvious,” said Asami Fujikawa, barely looking up from her drink. “What about Natsume’s Book of Friends?”
The table fell silent.
Though no one said it aloud, everyone had been thinking about it. Asami, true to form, said what others danced around.
“Wasn’t there some online argument you had with the author?” someone ventured, half-joking.
“Back when it was ranked ninth,” another added.
“It’s still rising,” said a man with glasses, leaning forward. “My kid’s obsessed with it. It’s kind of taken over the house.”
“Sitting at sixth now,” Asami said. “And only eleven chapters in.”
That silenced whatever lingering skepticism remained. A series rising that fast in Shroud Line wasn’t just a fluke—it was a phenomenon.
“Didn’t see it coming,” someone muttered.
“Dark horse of the year, easily.”
Then, a voice from the far end of the table spoke.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
It was Inoue Kiyoshi—creator of Radiant Edge and Gilded Lock Publishing’s poster child. His work had dominated CipherKey Weekly for three years straight, and its anime was one of the few still pulling in strong weekend ratings.
Though technically peers, Kiyoshi operated in a different league. Gilded Lock was one of the top two publishers in Japan, known for its high-octane battle manga with massive sales. His words carried weight.
Within the so-called Seven Major Publishers, power varied. Gilded Lock and Chain Veil—both combat-focused—routinely pushed 15 to 16 million copies for their flagship titles. Mid-tier players like Echo Shroud and Red Lantern averaged half that. Hollow Anthem trailed slightly, while romance-focused publishers like Graveleaf and Parlour rounded out the list.
“Mizushiro’s work is good,” Kiyoshi admitted, “but the hype is outpacing the craft. Spiritual Vision has more depth, stronger themes. If we’re talking about what deserves to win the Nexari poll... it’s not even close.”
His voice was calm, but his intent was clear—he wasn’t just critiquing the work. He was positioning himself for a push.
Asami met his gaze evenly. “So you're campaigning now?”
Kiyoshi didn’t flinch. “I’m not ‘campaigning.’ I’m just saying the rankings aren’t gospel. Sometimes, it takes effort to shift the conversation back to quality.”
That hung in the air. This wasn’t about trash-talking. It was the quiet, strategic maneuvering that always lurked beneath the surface of the industry. Everyone at the table knew how it worked—votes, editorials, visibility. It wasn’t just about drawing panels. It was about influence.
No one said anything for a long beat. Then someone chuckled under their breath.
“Well,” they said, “looks like this year’s poll just got interesting.”
---
By mid-January, Nexari launched its much-anticipated “New Series Popularity Poll,” setting off a wave of excitement across Tokyo’s manga community.
The platform’s front page featured a bold banner with three standout titles: Natsume, Spiritual Vision, and Heart of Steel.
“Breakout Manga of 2020 – Cast Your Vote!”
The headline practically shouted for attention.
“Hey, did you see? Natsume got nominated for Nexari’s vote!” someone said in a bustling café.
“Nexari? That’s kind of a big deal, right?”
“Of course it is. It’s one of the most influential manga platforms out there.”
“If it wins, it’ll explode in popularity. Nexari’s picks always do well.”
The poll became a flashpoint for fans. Supporters threw their full energy behind their favorites, eager to see their series rise.
Buzz spread far beyond Tokyo. Even in Haruki’s hometown, readers were rallying behind Natsume—especially longtime fans who had followed his work since the early days.
When the voting opened at midnight on January 16, the response was immediate. Natsume shot to the top of the charts.
Haruki posted a simple message on Line:
“The annual poll is up. If you’ve been enjoying Natsume, I’d really appreciate your vote.”
Replies poured in.
“Already voted! Mizushiro-sensei, you’re amazing!”
“Used all three of my accounts—hope it helps!”
Within minutes, Natsume had over 100,000 votes. Spiritual Vision was still under 40,000.
Haruki allowed himself a small smile. It felt like vindication—not just for him, but for everyone who’d supported him. But he knew better than to get comfortable. Popularity was fickle.
He closed his laptop and went to bed, hoping maybe the system would reward him.
—
The next morning, he checked the leaderboard again.
Spiritual Vision: 350,000 votes.
Natsume: 300,000 votes.
Haruki blinked. “Wait, what?”
That kind of surge didn’t make sense. Not overnight.
His phone buzzed. Haruka.
“You saw the numbers?” she asked, her voice tight.
“Yeah. What’s going on?”
“Looks like a coordinated push. A bunch of creators—mostly mid-tier and indie—started flooding social media last night to boost Spiritual Vision. They’re all tagging Asami and hyping it up.”
Haruki frowned. “Asami again?”
“Pretty much. She didn’t do it alone, but she lit the match. Now it’s everywhere—fan groups, creator forums, you name it.”
“I haven’t done anything to them,” Haruki said quietly.
“That’s not the point. Natsume is gaining traction fast. For some of them, that’s reason enough.”
Haruki leaned back in his chair, silent for a moment. “I can’t exactly call them out. It’s not like they’re breaking any rules.”
Haruka sighed. “No, but this isn’t organic. It’s a power move.”
“I know,” he said. “But if I go public, it’ll just make me look bitter. People will think I can’t handle a little competition.”
“They’d twist it that way,” she admitted. “Right now, best we can do is watch.”
She hesitated.
This wasn’t the same as when Airi had helped during the Aurora Manga Award. That had come from genuine admiration. This campaign felt calculated—engineered to drown out Natsume.
Different motives. Same outcome.
Still, Haruki had a point. Reacting too strongly could backfire.
Haruka let out a breath. “Let’s stay sharp. This isn’t over.”
