Became a Manga Artist

April marked the heart of spring.

Haruki Ishida opened his eyes, a heavy wave of fatigue washing over him. His limbs felt like lead, sore and utterly devoid of strength. A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes.

"My head... it hurts. Where... am I?" he croaked, his voice unfamiliar and thin.

He sat up slowly, the cheap mattress groaning beneath him. This wasn't the run-down apartment he'd lived in for five years. Instead, it was an unfamiliar yet oddly familiar room. The air reeked faintly of mildew, cheap instant ramen, and something older, fouler, like stagnant despair.

"Did I... get kidnapped? But why? I'm just an ordinary office worker. Who'd bother kidnapping me?" He scoffed, the thought absurd. Who'd want a guy whose biggest thrill was a year-end bonus?

Squinting in the gloom, Haruki noticed the curtains were drawn tight, blotting out any trace of sunlight. And on the wall—a photograph. Then another. And another. Photos of a girl.

"What...? Why are there so many photos?" he mumbled, a strange sense of unease creeping up his spine.

Hiss—

Suddenly, as he looked at one of the images, a sharp, searing pain stabbed through his mind like a needle jammed into his brain. Cold sweat beaded instantly on his forehead, his vision blurring. He gasped, collapsing back against the cold, grimy floor, his body shaking uncontrollably.

Memories—fragments and flashes, not his own—rushed through him like a broken dam.

Japan… manga culture… the rise of the entertainment age…

He didn't know how long he lay there, gasping for breath, clutching his skull. Finally, the agonizing pain faded, and a terrifying clarity returned.

"It hurts like hell," he muttered, his voice raw.

What he'd just experienced was no hallucination. The pain had brought with it a torrent of memories—memories that were undeniably real, yet alien.

He understood now. He had transmigrated—into another world, one chillingly similar to Earth, yet not the same. This was a parallel world.

The old-fashioned trope of time-travel, the kind he'd scoffed at in cheap novels, had actually happened to him. Haruki was stunned.

There had been no dramatic car accident, no terminal illness. He'd simply been overjoyed from receiving his year-end bonus and had gone drinking with a few colleagues. Five people, three bottles of fiery white liquor. Nothing outrageous, just a typical office celebration.

He'd blacked out from the alcohol, and when he woke up... this.

This world, too, was called Earth, but the resemblance to his original world ended there. The country was no longer Japan, but Nihon, a powerful cultural superstate. Historical events were scrambled and divergent. Neighboring nations were like vassals in orbit of Nihon's creative and economic influence. Manga was the beating heart of everything.

And the person whose body he now occupied—was a 16-year-old boy named Aoki Junichi.

Yes. Just sixteen.

A second-year middle schooler, preparing for the high school entrance exams. Haruki, a man in his late twenties, now occupied the body of a teenager. Talk about a downgrade.

But the original Junichi had taken his own life—by overdosing on sleeping pills.

Depression had slowly eaten away at him until he gave in.

Through Junichi's fragmented memories, Haruki could see it all.

His childhood was steeped in loneliness. His parents had divorced when he was young. His mother had moved far away, and his father had been arrested three years ago for selling illegal substances—sentenced to eight years in prison. Although both parents were technically still alive, their absence might as well have been death. Junichi grew up without guidance, without love, without stability.

The stereotypical origin story of countless protagonists. "The great orphanage of destiny," Haruki muttered dryly, a cynical smirk playing on his lips. "The birthplace of all troubled protagonists. Wanna start a club? We can meet on Tuesdays and complain about our tragic backstories over lukewarm instant noodles."

Without family support, Junichi had grown up rebellious—loud-mouthed, arrogant, a schoolyard bully. But from Haruki's more mature perspective, the boy's actions weren't truly malicious. He was just misguided—a product of neglect, lashing out for attention. A scared kid trying to look tough.

Junichi had once forced his classmates to serve him in the cafeteria. Still, he never committed any heinous acts. His mischief stayed within the boundaries of teenage cruelty, never escalating to genuine violence or lasting harm.

But then came her.

A transfer student—Shirahashi Yukine—a hearing-impaired girl who had been homeschooled all her life. It was her first time attending a public school.

Unfortunately, Junichi, egged on by his peers, teased her. He went too far, and Yukine eventually dropped out.

That moment marked a turning point.

Junichi had felt something crack inside. Guilt, confusion, and a growing sense of shame began to haunt him. Yukine's face would frequently appear in his thoughts. He became withdrawn, ostracized by his classmates, and the regret deepened. Depression took root, consuming him.

And now, Haruki was here. In Junichi's body.

A broken boy in a broken room.

"Damn… I didn't expect this," Haruki whispered, the full weight of Junichi's past settling on him.

Haruki stood in silence, absorbing Junichi's raw emotions—the crushing guilt, the profound sorrow, the helplessness. He clenched his fists, the knuckles white. He knew what it felt like to drown in regret.

"Don't worry, Junichi," he vowed, his voice firm. "I'll make it right. That girl... Shirahashi Yukine. If I ever get the chance, I'll make amends. This won't be another tragedy."

In that moment, as if acknowledging Haruki's resolve, the two souls merged completely. The lingering fragments of the original Junichi's consciousness intertwined with Haruki's.

Aoki Junichi was reborn, a synthesis of a troubled past and a cynical but determined future.

[Ding-dong. Comic Creation System activated.]

A mechanical, almost robotic voice echoed in Haruki's—no, Junichi's—mind. He froze.

"A system? Wait, don't tell me… is this one of those transmigration cheat systems? The kind that makes you instantly overpowered? Please tell me I don't have to fight a demon king."

Comic Creation System…?

"What can you do?" he asked out loud, a tremor of excitement, or maybe disbelief, in his voice.

No reply.

"System spirit? Assistant AI? Any tutorial at all? You just gonna leave me hanging here?"

Still nothing.

"This has got to be the worst beginner's experience ever," he grumbled, rubbing his temples. "Seriously, no intro video? No welcoming party? Zero stars for user experience."

[Ding-dong. Beginner's Manual unlocked.]

A translucent interface shimmered before his eyes, displaying a system guide in crisp, holographic text.

Junichi skimmed through the manual.

The premise was simple but powerful. The system allowed him to create original manga. The better the quality and the more popular it became, the more powerful rewards he could draw from the work.

The rewards ranged from skills to supernatural powers—even legendary items—if they appeared in the manga. If he wrote a manga like Naruto, he could possibly gain chakra. If he created a world like Bleach, he might draw a Zanpakuto or spiritual abilities.

It was like the most overpowered gacha system he'd ever heard of—one where he could influence the prize pool himself.

But luck was everything.

The draw rate for high-tier rewards? Abysmally low—think SSSSSSS-rank difficulty. To improve his chances, he had to create manga that captivated the masses. Otherwise, he'd be lucky to draw something like "Passerby C's Left Sock" or "Mystic Nose Hair."

Thankfully, manga culture in this world was hyper-developed. This was a society that revered manga as the peak of cultural expression.

Junichi nodded. "At least the foundation is here. I won't have to convince people manga is cool."

His stomach growled, a loud, embarrassing rumble. Right—he hadn't eaten in days.

"Ugh… this place is a disaster," he muttered, glancing around the room properly for the first time. The apartment was a warzone—trash, discarded clothes, empty ramen cups piled high, dirty dishes caked with ancient food. A true cave of despair. His predecessor had clearly given up on more than just life.

In the kitchen, he found a half-eaten sausage that had already gone bad and the last cup of instant noodles. Scrounging. Pathetic.

He boiled some water, the ancient kettle whistling its sad song, and splashed some on his face in the meantime.

For the first time, he looked at his new face in the grimy bathroom mirror—slightly pale, hair too long and messy, but undeniably good-looking. Huh. Not bad. Maybe a fresh start had some perks after all.

When the water was ready, he poured it into the noodles and waited impatiently.

Five minutes later, he slurped greedily, the cheap broth a surprisingly welcome warmth in his empty stomach. He sighed with relief.

While eating, Junichi opened his phone and began researching manga trends in this world.

And what he saw blew him away.

All the legendary manga of his previous life—One Piece, Dragon Ball, Attack on Titan, Demon Slayer—none of them existed here.

It was a clean slate. A blank canvas.

He could recreate them—or improve on them. The thought sent a jolt of excitement through him. And the manga industry here was far more intense and widespread than in his original world. Manga was the heart of global culture. Everything—novels, anime, movies—spun off from manga.

Moreover, the competitive landscape was brutal.

Dozens of manga magazines from different provinces fought to gain dominance—just like the Warring States period. Their weapons? Original, high-quality manga.

And above all else, there was a system of rankings every mangaka aspired to:

The Eight Kings. The Four Emperors. The One Emperor.

"Tch. Cringey as hell," Junichi said with a smirk, shaking his head. "Seriously, who comes up with these names? But if I can get that One Emperor title... that's badass. Utterly, undeniably badass."

He placed his empty cup on the table.

Now came the real problem.

Junichi didn't know how to draw.