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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 107
🕑 Added 2025-05-07 17:45:01 +0000 UTCWhile casual readers might still be debating the merits of Natsume’s Book of Friends after its fourth episode, the editorial team at Echo Shroud Publishing already had their eyes on real-time data.
The numbers spoke clearly.
At first, Natsume was just shy of breaking into the top ten—about 30,000 votes behind. The gap wasn’t closing. If anything, it was widening.
Most had already written it off as destined for 11th place. But then came the shift.
By midnight, Natsume had surged to tenth place with 280,000 votes—just 300 behind Curse of the Thorn Mage, a well-established mid-tier title.
For the editors at Echo Shroud, that narrow gap meant something. In a rankings-driven magazine like Shroud Line, even a single spot could mean the difference between getting forgotten and being fast-tracked for anime.
The magazine’s titles typically fell into clear tiers. At the top were the heavyweights: Kōen by Shūkyo, Dreamworld by Airi Tanaka, and Ryūkon by Rinseki. Each consistently pulled in over a million votes.
Beneath them sat the second tier—solid performers with 400,000 to 600,000 votes per issue. These were dependable series with healthy volume sales and a high chance of animation deals.
Then came the lower top ten: works like Curse of the Thorn Mage, earning respect but rarely excitement. Anything that dropped below that zone faced the chopping block—quietly, but inevitably.
So when Natsume’s Book of Friends, a series only three issues in, pushed its way into ninth place with 380,000 votes by the final count... people noticed.
Even Shūkyo, Shroud Line’s most respected veteran, began paying attention.
In a high-rise apartment overlooking the city, Airi Tanaka scrolled through the vote results on her phone. Her lips curved into a small smile.
“I knew it,” she murmured. “Anyone who can create something like Rurouni Kenshin and now Natsume... there’s no way they’d stay out of the spotlight for long.”
By dawn, word had spread across the manga industry. And for some, it stung.
Several editors who had initially rejected Natsume’s Book of Friends were now catching flak from colleagues. It had been Mizushiro’s first stop before he took the project to Echo Shroud. Now, that rejection was becoming an industry punchline.
Missed opportunities were one thing. But public embarrassment? That lingered.
As for Asami—who had criticized Mizushiro just weeks ago—she had gone silent online. Her latest work, The Three Sisters Next Door, was still holding steady, but now she faced a looming threat.
Both her series and Anohana, Mizushiro’s next adaptation, were slated to air next February. If Anohana outperformed her show, it wouldn’t just be a rivalry—it would be a rout.
Back in his apartment, Haruki leaned back, eyes on the screen.
“Ninth place,” he muttered, exhaling. “Tokyo’s a different beast.”
Trying to recreate the sudden success of Rurouni Kenshin from his Osaka days was proving tougher than expected.
Ding! Ding!
His phone buzzed. The caller ID read: Kazuya Mori.
Haruki straightened up and answered.
“Producer Mori, good evening.”
“Evening, Mizushiro-sensei. Sorry to call so late.”
“No problem. What's going on?”
“We’ve got a planning meeting in two days over at Kazanami Animation for Anohana. If you're free, we’d love to have you drop by. The team’s hoping for your input as the original creator.”
Haruki nodded, already reaching for his calendar.
“Oh, and you mentioned you might know someone who could handle the music? If they’re available, bring them along too. We’re looking to finalize a direction soon.”
---
Haruki frowned slightly as he ended the call.
The studio wanted to hear the track in person?
He understood the importance of matching music to animation, but he wasn’t a composer. The only reason he even had the song was because of the system. And now Kazuya wanted him to bring the songwriter?
That was a problem.
He couldn’t just claim he’d composed Secret Base (Kimi ga Kureta Mono) himself. That would be absurd. Unlike manga—where he could pass off works like Rurouni Kenshin or Natsume's Book of Friends as his own thanks to the system—music was different. He couldn't even read a clef, let alone fake authorship.
Still, he needed a workaround.
With a sigh, Haruki accessed the system’s data space again.
There it was—the full composition for Secret Base. Not just the melody, but complete sheet music, tempo changes, instrumental breakdowns… all organized in Japanese notation.
He exhaled. “Of course the system includes everything...”
With this level of detail, he could just hand over the sheet music to the professionals.
Over the next few hours, Haruki studied enough basic terminology to avoid sounding completely clueless. Then he transcribed the system data onto proper score sheets, formatting everything cleanly.
When he reached the composer’s name, he paused.
He couldn’t use Mizushiro—that would create a whole new problem. After a moment’s thought, he scribbled down a neutral pseudonym that popped into his head:
Saisei.
No reason. Just forgettable enough to blend in.
The next day, Haruki quietly visited Echo Shroud’s legal department to register the copyright under the alias. Better to make it official before the studio asked questions.
Haruka personally handled the paperwork. She looked mildly curious about his sudden pivot into music, but didn’t pry.
She’d already gone above and beyond as his editor by connecting him with Kazuya. Getting more involved in production would risk overstepping her role.
Instead, she handed him the finalized documents with a small smile.
“Good luck at the studio meeting,” she said.
Two days after the fourth episode of Natsume's Book of Friends aired, the buzz surrounding it was impossible to ignore.
The anime—and Mizushiro’s name—had finally begun circulating more widely in Tokyo’s manga and anime circles. Group chats, casual industry talks, and online forums were all bringing it up more often. Even manga recommendation threads online were suddenly full of praise for the show.
Meanwhile, Asami's social media had been flooded with comments from Mizushiro’s fans for the past two days—mocking, defending, arguing.
To outsiders, it all looked like typical online drama. But people closer to the situation knew better.
This wasn’t going away quietly.
---
That morning, Haruki took a cab to Kazanami Animation Studio.
A staff member was already waiting at the front.
“You must be Mizushiro-sensei. Producer Mori asked me to escort you.”
Haruki nodded and followed him in.
It was still early, but a line had already formed outside a recording room. Men and women stood holding scripts—clearly voice actors waiting to audition.
The staffer stopped in front of a side door. “Please head in. Producer Mori is waiting.”
As Haruki stepped inside, quiet murmurs rippled through the line.
“Who was that? Why did he go in directly?”
“No idea. Looks too young to be staff.”
“Wait—I think that’s the author of Anohana! Mizushiro, right? He just won the Aurora Manga Award.”
“He’s that young?!”
The buzz grew louder.
Most of the actors were unfamiliar with the manga world. They had little reason to know who Mizushiro was—or care.
But one woman near the end of the line stayed quiet. Her script was filled with handwritten notes.
“The reason I came to audition,” she murmured, “is because Mizushiro wrote it.”
Her eyes lingered on the door Haruki had just entered, thoughtful and unreadable.
