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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 113
🕑 Added 2025-05-10 17:50:15 +0000 UTC“Two serializations at once?”
“You’re planning a double launch?”
Haruka had stopped by to pick up the latest manuscript. At first, she was impressed by Haruki’s speed—until she heard his idea.
“Why would you even consider that?”
Haruki blinked. “I’ve got more time now with two assistants. Feels like a waste not to use it.”
“And if it burns you out again?” she shot back. “What then? If Natsume’s quality drops, it’s not worth it.”
She crossed her arms. “One great manga is worth more than ten decent ones. You’re still young. Maybe take time to explore other parts of life instead of doubling down again.”
“Other parts of my life…?” Haruki looked genuinely confused.
Haruka sighed. “Do you even have hobbies outside of manga and school?”
“I still game,” he muttered. “But lately, even that feels dull. I just end up wanting to draw instead.”
Haruka stared.
“So… you’re doing this because you got bored of gaming?”
Haruki nodded, completely serious.
She glanced at Naoya and Kenta, who looked just as baffled.
Unreal. Bored of games, so he’ll casually draw another manga—and somehow it’ll end up like Natsume or Remembrance?
And yet… for him, manga wasn’t just work. It was him.
“You’re unbelievable,” Haruka muttered.
After a pause, she sighed.
“If you’re serious, I’ll back you. But do you even have a concept yet?”
Haruki shook his head. “Not yet.”
In truth, he’d need to draw from the system—either lottery or world points. He barely had enough for a solid A-rank title.
“But if I go through with it, I’ll be ready,” he said vaguely.
The real reason? Shroud Line had an open slot. Haruka had mentioned it. The senior editors weren’t opposed.
He didn’t have to take it—but if not now, when?
He had too many stories to just release one chapter a week forever.
Haruka exchanged a glance with the others, as if silently debating whether to throw a pen at his head.
“Alright. Talk to me again when you have something that can stand beside Natsume.”
She moved on, flipping through the manuscripts—chapters seven and eight.
A soft sigh escaped her.
Three chapters in two weeks, with assistants. Compared to Airi—who had four helpers and still lagged behind—the difference was stark.
There might really be something here.
Haruki noticed the change in her tone.
If he kept this pace and the quality held, maybe dual serialization was possible.
If not—better to focus on Natsume.
“Got it,” he said.
“By the way,” Haruka added, “how’s the Anohana production coming?”
“Moving. Casting, music, animation—Kazuya says it’s tight, but they’re taking it seriously.”
“Glad to hear it. If the anime hits, the manga’s boost could be huge.”
“By February, we’ll have over a dozen chapters. If response stays strong, we can time the first volume release then.”
“Might be a nice surprise waiting for us,” she smiled.
Haruki looked at her.
“And maybe Natsume gets an anime someday too.”
“Kazanami has a good relationship with us. Keeping ties with Kazuya helps.”
She said it lightly, but Haruki narrowed his eyes.
“…You were already thinking this through when I brought up a second series, weren’t you?”
“Of course not,” she smiled.
“I just treat every series like it might become a hit. Step by step, right?”
“It all depends on your work.”
She finished her tea, gathered the manuscripts, and left.
A few days later, the final audition for Meiko’s role began.
Only six candidates made it to this round. None looked relaxed—they all knew the stakes. Kazanami’s investment made Anohana one to watch.
“Kaoru Minazuki, please come in.”
“Rui Nikaido, you’re next.”
Inside, the atmosphere was calmer than last week. The schedule was ahead, the judges more at ease.
Most re-auditions had improved, satisfying Kazuya .
So far, Aoi Kamisaka was the standout—her soft delivery had matched the emotional tone Kazuya imagined for Meiko.
But now, his eyes were on the final contestant.
“Ryuko Mei…”
Last week, she hadn’t seemed like a contender. But Haruki had vouched for her.
Kazanami had learned to trust creators after past missteps. Ignoring original authors came with consequences.
Still—if she couldn’t deliver now, he’d owe Haruki a drink.
The audition scene: Meiko and Jinta by the river.
Ryuko stepped in, visibly tense—but locked eyes with Haruki. He was her anchor.
She drew a breath.
“Don’t…”
“I really don’t want Jinta to die…”
The assistant playing Jinta gave a light, teasing reply. It didn’t break the moment.
It worked.
Ryuko kept going.
“Ah… seriously.”
“Meiko’s really weird…”
Another teasing line from the assistant.
“People who say that are usually the weird ones.”
Ryuko’s delivery held that gentle pout—frustrated, soft, quietly raw.
Kazuya leaned back slightly.
---
“After discussions with Producer Kazuya and the rest of the team…”
“We’ve unanimously agreed—Miss Ryuko Mei gave the most fitting performance. Her portrayal of Meiko stood out.”
Outside the casting room, six voice actresses sat waiting in tense silence. When the announcement came, a quiet ripple of disbelief passed through the group.
Ryuko Mei?
She was virtually unknown, while the other five were all industry veterans. Any one of them getting the role would’ve made perfect sense.
But Ryuko?
Their gazes shifted toward her—some curious, others doubtful.
Did she have connections?
Ryuko herself felt lightheaded, like the ground had slipped beneath her.
She’d always believed in her ability. Her voice had been clear and expressive from a young age, and she’d fallen in love with anime early on. By junior high, she knew she wanted to become a seiyuu.
All through high school and college, she took every chance to train—broadcast clubs, workshops, whatever she could afford.
And now, that chance had come—suddenly, almost too easily. From barely scraping together a way into this audition, to a weak first round last week, to today’s callback after her unexpected conversation with Mizushiro…
Everything had moved fast. Suspiciously fast.
Haruki left Kazanami Animation Studio around noon. With only a handful of finalists, the second round had wrapped up earlier than expected.
As he walked toward the taxi stand, he spotted Ryuko waiting outside, scarf pulled up against the cold.
When she saw him, she raised a hand.
“Mizushiro-sensei—over here!”
Haruki hesitated.
He already knew Kazuya had chosen her for Meiko.
He had no objections. After a year in the industry, he understood that great casting mattered just as much as a strong script.
Even legendary stories could fail with the wrong production team.
The parallel-world version of Anohana had succeeded for many reasons. But here, in this world, nothing was guaranteed—not even with the same script in Kazuya’s hands.
That’s why Haruki had recommended someone whose voice carried the same gentle tone as the original Meiko.
Still, he hadn’t expected to run into Ryuko again. Nor had he intended to form any sort of connection.
Especially when the look on her face said one thing clearly:
She thought she owed him.
“It’s freezing,” Haruki said bluntly. “You should head back.”
A clear message: don’t wait here for me.
Same place. Same awkward moment.
But Ryuko didn’t push.
“Mizushiro-sensei, I know a great hot pot spot nearby,” she said casually. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
“I’m fine. Got things to do.” He tried to brush her off.
Gurgle~
His stomach had other ideas.
Ryuko grinned. “Was that your stomach?”
“…Don’t read into it.”
“I’m not. I’m just a regular girl. I’m not trying to get anything out of you.”
“…?”
“I just wanted to thank you. For speaking up to Producer Kazuya. For giving me a chance.”
“And maybe… treat you to some noodles as thanks?”
The hot pot place was small—faded signage, linoleum floors—but the food hit hard. Spicy, rich, and comforting.
Haruki ate in silence for a while before muttering, “You really know your way around here.”
Between mouthfuls, he glanced around. “First that café, now this place…”
Ryuko smiled. “Told you it was good.”
She barely touched her food, but looked satisfied just watching him eat.
“I used to work part-time nearby in my first year of university,” she added. “Know this area like the back of my hand.”
“You commuted all the way out here? From campus?”
“Three hours each way on weekends. The pay here was worth it.”
Haruki gave a slight nod. He understood that hustle. If he hadn’t started earning from manga, he probably would’ve done the same.
“…So,” he asked finally, “was there something else you wanted to talk about?”
“Nope. Like I said, just wanted to say thanks.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Haruki paused.
Maybe he’d been too wary. The industry trained you to read between the lines—to expect a favor, a pitch, an angle.
But Ryuko had kept it simple.
They finished eating and walked part of the way back together. Somewhere along the route, they exchanged Line contacts.
Not once did she ask him for anything.
Back at campus, their goodbye was short. Polite.
Later, alone in her dorm, Ryuko stared at his name in her contacts list and exhaled softly.
She hadn’t expected anything more.
But after their first meeting, she’d gone home and dug into his career.
He wasn’t just a manga artist. He was someone who’d broken into the Tokyo scene, won the Aurora Award, and landed an anime adaptation—within a year of debut.
He could send a script to someone like Kazuya Mori and get it greenlit.
To someone like Ryuko, just being in his orbit was an opportunity in itself.
This time, she’d landed Meiko because he’d said she fit.
But what about next time?
And beyond that—
She wouldn’t mind becoming friends with Haruki Yuuki.
Assuming she could get used to his deadpan delivery and unpredictable silences.
