Became a Manga Artist

Three days had passed since the latest issue of Shinsei Monthly hit the shelves, and Aoki Junichi had yet to receive any direct feedback on his work. The internet was alive with chatter—thread after thread dissecting the latest plot twists in Celestial Fist, memes about the Eight Kings, and speculation over upcoming arcs in Ephemeral Petals.

His story—quiet, melancholy, tucked in the back pages—barely caused a ripple.

But in the offices of Shinsei Monthly, something subtle had shifted. The sales numbers, usually stagnant, had ticked up. Not dramatically, but enough to make the editors lean forward in their chairs, enough to make someone say, "Wait a minute."

"It's the short stories," one murmured, tapping the sales data.

"Especially Dark Heart. But there's buzz around that cat story too…"

Dark Heart, a grim meditation on human hypocrisy, had rightfully earned the Gold Award. But it was She and Her Cat that began surfacing in reader feedback, quietly, like a leaf drifting down a river.

> "Out of the three, Dark Heart hit me the hardest," one user posted on MangaTalk Forum, "but She and Her Cat stayed with me. It was so quiet. Like reading someone's diary they never meant to show. The story's small, but it's written with so much care. The art's rough, yeah—but it means something."

Another user, @sliceofaneko, added:

> "I read it three times. That line from the cat—'I don't understand her words, but I understand her thoughts'—bro. I had to close the magazine and go sit in silence for a bit. I think this April Breeze person's legit."

Someone else chimed in:

> "Anyone notice 'Love and the Like' is definitely Kuroishi in disguise? Same panel transitions as Blood War Boy. I cross-compared."

> "He got caught red-handed speedrunning the Newcomer Award 💀" another user joked.

Meanwhile, in a small, cramped apartment, Ryo Matsumoto—the real man behind Love and the Like—read these posts with gritted teeth. Final notice envelopes stacked on the edge of his desk. His last serialized work had been axed for low performance. His comeback manuscript had been rejected without explanation. Desperate, he entered the Newcomer Award under a pseudonym, hoping to buy time and a paycheck.

He got the Silver Award, sure—but it wasn't what hurt.

What hurt was the kid who took Bronze. The one whose story people cared about.

>She and Her Cat? It's barely even a story. Just sentimental fluff stitched together with nostalgia and a talking cat. These kids… they don't understand structure, pacing, foreshadowing—

His jaw tightened.

>This industry's losing its standards.

---

At the convenience store, Aoki Junichi swept the tiled floor with steady motions, lost in thought. The soft mechanical hum of the refrigerators, the quiet click of the clock on the wall, the faint jingle of the automatic door—it all formed a backdrop he no longer noticed.

He'd seen something different lately.

The rack that held Shinsei Monthly, usually untouched, had emptied by the second day.

It wasn't much—but it was real.

He was replacing the canned coffee section when the entrance chime rang. A woman stepped in, shaking off her umbrella. She moved straight to the magazine rack. Her brows furrowed slightly.

Then she approached the counter.

"Excuse me," she asked, polite but hopeful, "do you have any more copies of Shinsei Monthly?"

Junichi offered a slight bow. "I'm very sorry. We've sold out of that title for this month."

His heart flickered at her question. She hadn't come for snacks or drinks—she came for the magazine.

"Ah… really?" she said, disappointed.

"I apologize," he repeated. "We may stock more next issue if demand continues."

She gave a small nod, murmured thanks, and left as quietly as she came.

Behind him, Sakuraba Mika walked out from the back, drying her hands on a towel.

"Who was that, Aoki-kun?"

"She was looking for Shinsei Monthly. We're out."

"Seriously? We never sell out of that."

He gave a small shrug, as if it didn't matter—but inside, he felt something stir.

"She's not the first one this week," he added softly.

Mika chuckled. "Looks like Manager Kobayashi should order more copies next time."

"Maybe," he said, tucking the towel into his apron pocket.

He slipped into the break area and opened his sketchpad. The pencil moved of its own accord. A girl on a balcony. A cat curled beside her. Moonlight falling on empty tatami.

"You really never stop, huh?" Mika's voice came again, amused. "Every break, you're at it."

He didn't look up. "I just want to get better."

His fingers paused. The lines weren't bad. But they weren't alive either. They didn't breathe yet.

He thought of Yukine's quiet smile in the park. The way she'd brushed her bangs behind her ear, not knowing he was watching. He thought of Haruto's dumb grin when he teased him about working too much.

Their faces flickered like memories pressed between pages.

>I'm not there yet, he thought.

---

Later, while wiping down the bento shelf, Mika approached him again.

"Hey, you're still in school, right?"

Junichi nodded absently, not looking up.

"Is it really okay to work this much?"

He looked away, just briefly. "Probably. I haven't been told to quit… yet."

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't really an answer either.

He knew Mr. Sato hadn't said anything, hadn't asked questions. And he hadn't officially dropped out. He still studied at night, brushing up on junior high material. He planned to sit for the high school entrance exam, even if it meant going to the lowest-ranked school in the area.

Because even now, even with the System and the contract and the serialization—he didn't trust the ground under his feet to stay firm forever.

He didn't draw because he burned with passion for manga.

He drew because it was all he had left to move forward.

---

"Aoki-kun, help out at the Oden station, would you?" came Uncle Tanaka's voice from behind the register.

"Got it."

Steam kissed his knuckles as he lifted the metal lid. Broth clung to his fingers, earthy and savory, the scent rising with a comforting warmth. He grabbed the ladle and began organizing skewers—chicken, pork patties, and thick slices of daikon—into the steaming trays.

The scent reminded him of late autumn. Cold fingertips, vending machine drinks, and fading streetlights.

At that moment, a group of high school students wandered in, laughing and jostling each other.

"Give me a chicken skewer and a daikon."

"Same here!"

"I want extra soup!"

Junichi moved quickly, fulfilling their orders without missing a beat. The rhythm of the work was almost meditative. Serve, refill, wipe, restock. Serve again.

By the time night fell, the shelves were restocked, the expired bentos were labeled half-price, and the soft glow of fluorescent lights gave the shop a worn but steady warmth.

He stepped outside for a breath of air, the night cool against his skin. From across the street, he could see the lit window of the bookstore—one copy of Shinsei Monthly still propped in the display.

He smiled faintly.

---

Another day closed.

Not with fanfare, not with applause—but with the quiet, slow building of something real.

Just like the story tucked at the back of the magazine—still unnoticed by many, but beginning to breathe.

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