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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 108
🕑 Added 2025-05-08 17:42:01 +0000 UTC“Come on in, Mizushiro-sensei!” Kazuya greeted warmly as Haruki stepped through the door.
The room was spacious, more like a screening studio than a meeting room. Near the entrance, a few long tables held laptops and paperwork where several staff members sat—likely producers and judges. At the front were speakers, a mic, and various pieces of audio equipment.
Aside from Haruki, several people were already present. Kazuya introduced each by name and title, then turned back to Haruki with a grin.
“By the way, Mizushiro-sensei, where’s the friend who composed the ending theme for Anohana?”
Haruki paused, then offered a sheepish smile. “He’s not great with social situations. Bit of a shut-in, honestly. He rarely leaves home, so I came in his place.”
It was a lie, but not one anyone was likely to question.
“He was really excited when he heard it might be used. I bought the rights from him. Here’s the score and arrangement data.”
Haruki handed over a neatly compiled folder labeled Secret Base.
“Didn’t come in person, huh?” Kazuya raised a brow.
Normally, a submission without the composer present would go straight to the reject pile. But this came from Mizushiro—the creator of Anohana.
“Sen,” Kazuya called out, turning to the man beside him.
This was Sen Fukumoto, the music director handling everything from insert tracks to opening and ending themes.
Sen took the folder and flipped through the pages.
Haruki wasn’t trained in music theory, but he’d studied enough online to make sure everything looked presentable. Even if his handwriting was stiff, the score itself was accurate.
Sen began humming along as he scanned, then reached behind him, grabbed an acoustic guitar, and strummed the first few chords.
The mood in the room shifted.
Despite his husky voice, Sen’s playing was smooth, the melody hauntingly nostalgic. It carried an emotional weight that filled the space instantly.
When he finished a few minutes later, silence followed.
No one said a word, but the expressions around the room told the story.
“This is better than any of the demos we’ve heard so far,” someone murmured.
Sen continued reviewing the arrangement notes. “These lyrics... they really match the tone of the story.”
Haruki gave a small nod. “That was the idea. I wanted something that resonated with the characters and their memories.”
Kazuya didn’t object—he’d approved of Haruki’s vision from the beginning.
Choosing such a wistful, reflective song for the ending was bold. Most shows leaned on punchy, upbeat tracks. But this had depth.
And in the end, quality speaks for itself.
The final decision hadn’t been made yet, but this performance clearly put Secret Base at the top of the shortlist.
“Saisei?”
Kazuya read the name printed on the score.
An odd pseudonym…
“You said you hold the rights, Mizushiro-sensei?”
“I do,” Haruki replied without hesitation.
“Alright then,” Kazuya nodded. Whether Saisei ever showed up didn’t matter now.
“We’ll discuss it further in the post-audition meeting. For now, we’ll hold on to the materials.”
“Understood.”
Kazuya glanced at the time. “Let’s keep things moving.”
It was already nine in the morning. If they didn’t stay on track, the auditions would drag well into the evening.
This was Kazanami Animation Studio’s major project for next February—heavily funded, widely anticipated. Every major agency had sent talent to compete.
With so many characters to cast, they expected hundreds of voice actors over the next two days.
While Anohana didn’t have a massive cast, the role of Meiko Honma—the heroine—was critical. Her voice was the show’s emotional anchor.
Today’s schedule focused on top-tier candidates for Meiko, with callbacks planned if needed.
Haruki, though not a studio staff member, had a seat at the judging table as one of seven panelists.
At first, he found the process novel. But after a while, it became repetitive. Actor after actor came in, read the same lines, gave similar interpretations.
Haruki tried to mentally compare them to the voice from the Anohana he remembered—but none quite captured that essence.
Dozens of actors who had waited in the hallway all morning finally perked up.
“Next.”
A woman stood, took a breath, and entered the room. Five minutes later, she emerged with a shaken expression.
“Next.”
Another woman followed, only to return with the same look of quiet defeat.
“What happened?” someone asked.
“You’ll see…”
“Looks like Producer Kazuya’s giving that young creator a lot of say,” someone muttered outside. “If he doesn’t approve, it’s over.”
“Next—Ryuko Mei.”
At the far end of the hallway, a girl looked up from her script for the first time all morning.
---
“Mizushiro-sensei, what did you think of the last few auditions?”
Kazuya sat at the center of the judges’ table. Haruki , arms folded, leaned back slightly beside him, his gaze distant.
Haruki hesitated. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what exactly these auditions were meant to focus on. Fortunately, the system had given him both the script and the full anime version of Anohana from the parallel world. Naturally, his judgment leaned toward how the original characters sounded—tones and emotions already etched into his memory.
Even though the dialects varied slightly, emotion transcended words. Cadence, delivery, that intangible resonance—those didn’t change.
So far, two voice actresses had tried out for Meiko.
One had a voice too deep, better suited for a composed older sister type. The other’s delivery was so exaggerated it felt straight out of a comedy routine.
“Neither really captured the Meiko I had in mind,” Haruki said eventually.
He wasn’t entirely sure what exactly he wanted. He had a reference—an ideal—but Kazuya and the rest of the team were casting without that same luxury. Their decisions had to balance a lot more than nostalgia.
Still, Haruki’s opinion held weight. As the creator, his vision mattered.
A staff member quietly stepped in. “The next auditionee is ready.”
The room quieted. A few moments later, a young woman entered.
She wore a black jacket and white slacks—probably around twenty, with a delicate, attractive face. But her nerves were obvious. She clutched her script so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
“Good morning, judges,” she said, her voice trembling. “My name is Ryuko Mei. here to audition for the role of Meiko Honma.”
Her effort to stay composed only highlighted how shaken she was. Her voice shook slightly, and her bow was stiff.
Kazuya exchanged a glance with another judge. She screamed “amateur.”
Ryuko, feeling the tension in the air, glanced at the panel—only to be met with furrowed brows and guarded expressions.
Her stomach sank.
“It’s over,” she thought.
Kazuya exhaled. “Have you had any experience in broadcast anime before?”
“I…” Ryuko hesitated. “I was part of my school’s broadcasting club, and I hosted school festivals in high school. I'm currently studying voice performance at Tokyo Media College.”
“I meant professional work,” Kazuya said, tone flat. “Anything that’s aired?”
“I… I voiced a small role in The Legend of Dogman,” she managed.
Kazuya blinked. “Never heard of it. What role?”
“I played Pom, the protagonist’s pet cat… in episodes one through five, then eight and thirteen.”
“A… non-speaking cat?”
“Yes,” Ryuko admitted. “My lines were mostly… ‘meow~’…”
Some people at the edge of the table were already stifling laughter.
“Anything else?”
“…No.”
Kazuya barely masked his sigh. “Alright. Let’s begin the audition.”
Ryuko could feel the weight of dismissal before she’d even started. Still, they hadn’t kicked her out. That meant she had a chance—however slim.
She glanced at the seven judges. Her eyes briefly met Haruki’s. He looked passive, unreadable.
But she’d heard the rumors.
Producer Mori might be the one conducting the auditions, but Mizushiro-sensei was the one every actor watched for. If he nodded subtly, the actor usually got the part. If he didn’t… that was the end of it.
Haruki was only a little older than her. But his silence carried more weight than any spoken judgment.
Ryuko exhaled, dropped the script to her side, stepped up to the mic—and became Meiko.
“Why...
Why would you do something like that?”
Haruki’s head lifted slightly.
That voice—something about it made his chest tighten. It wasn’t a perfect match to the Meiko in the system’s anime, but it was close enough to stir a memory. More than that, it felt right.
Voice similarity alone wasn’t enough. Truly skilled voice actors could play wildly different roles with the same vocal tone—what mattered was delivery, emotion, presence.
And Ryuko’s first lines… carried that weight.
“You did this...”
She continued—but then abruptly stopped.
A long silence followed.
Kazuya shifted in his seat, frowning. A pause like that usually meant only one thing.
She’d blanked.
Ryuko’s heart pounded. She had practiced these lines a hundred times, but the pressure, the disappointment she’d already sensed—it all hit her at once. Her mind went blank.
She bent quickly, picked up the script.
But the moment was already gone.
Her next lines stumbled. The rhythm was off, the energy gone.
“Meiko makes her mother feel so lonely...”
Her voice wavered.
And just like that, the audition slipped through her fingers.
