Became a Manga Artist

One day passed quietly. After school ended, Junichi Aoki didn't go straight home. Instead, he made a small detour—to the local internet café, a place that hummed with the soft glow of monitors and the muffled clicks of keyboards.

"Junichi! Over here. Haruto's on PC No. 3. Want me to boot up your usual?" The man at the counter, Uncle Sato, a middle-aged uncle with a friendly grin and a perpetually stained apron, greeted him warmly.

Junichi shook his head. "No need today, Uncle Sato. I just came to see Haruto."

"Ah, got it. Go on in then." Uncle Sato waved his hand casually. "Oh, right—could you bring this drink to him? I forgot to send it over earlier." He handed Junichi a chilled can of melon soda, condensation beading on its surface.

"Sure."

Junichi took the drink and stepped past the rows of humming machines. In the corner where they always hung out, he spotted Haruto Yagami—but instead of gaming like usual, he was Browse webcomics, his head cocked to one side as he scrolled.

Haruto, with his flashy dyed hair and sharp school uniform worn with a rebellious flair, looked like someone ripped straight from a shojo manga himself. His handsome features and slightly mischievous eyes naturally drew attention.

"No games today? Just reading manga?" Junichi plopped down onto the worn chair beside him and casually opened the can. Without much thought, he took a long, refreshing sip.

Haruto glanced over, blinking. "Oh, hey. Didn't expect you to actually show. There've been a lot of good releases lately—some new series are seriously fire. Wait… whose drink are you chugging?"

"Yours," Junichi replied, taking another sip.

"Oi, you're shameless." Haruto smirked, shaking his head. "So, not playing today either? You came all the way here just to freeload my soda?" He playfully snatched the can back, taking a sip from the same straw.

"I'm not here to play," Junichi replied calmly.

"Huh? Then why'd you come?" Haruto tilted his head, genuinely curious.

"I needed to ask you something."

"Ohh?" Haruto's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Alright, tell me who needs a beatdown. I'll grab the crew and we'll handle it. Just point 'em out, I'll bring the baseball bats."

Junichi gave him a dry stare. "Why do your solutions always involve violence? No, it's not that. It's… something else. Something… less bloody."

"Alright, alright, I'm listening." Haruto leaned back, the melon soda can held loosely in his hand.

"I want you… to teach me how to draw."

"…Huh?" Haruto stared, his mouth slightly agape.

"I said, teach me how to draw." Junichi repeated, his face dead serious, not a hint of a joke in his eyes.

Haruto stared blankly at him for a moment, genuinely taken aback. They'd known each other for years, and while he'd always sensed the quiet storm of emotions Junichi carried, the guy had never shown interest in anything creative. Not even once. Junichi had always been the rough-and-tumble type, the one who'd rather brawl than sketch.

Still… something was different now. In a good way. A genuine spark in his usually detached eyes.

After a few seconds of silence, Haruto stood up.

"Alright. Let's go."

"Huh? Where to?"

"My place. No point wasting money on internet café time when we can just use my desk."

Haruto lived in a small, one-room apartment that was, frankly, a bit of a mess. His "study" area was less a study and more a battlefield of creativity, packed with piles of comic books, well-loved manga volumes, and sketchpads—some unfinished, some worn from age, others bursting with intricate character designs. Junichi glanced around, quietly taking it all in. The air here smelled of ink and old paper.

Haruto had studied art seriously for two years before abruptly quitting to focus on his studies (and, secretly, gaming). Though his hands might've gone rusty, he still knew more than enough to teach a complete beginner like Junichi. Besides, Junichi didn't have the money to afford professional lessons or digital equipment. Asking Haruto for help was the only real option.

"Here," Haruto said, tossing him a freshly sharpened graphite pencil and a clean sheet of sketch paper. "I studied sketching, and honestly, it's the foundation of everything. If you get a solid grasp on form and perspective through sketching, the rest gets way easier. We'll start with that." He didn't ask Junichi why he wanted to draw. Not directly. But in the back of his mind, Haruto figured it might have something to do with applying to an arts-focused high school, or perhaps just a new hobby for a kid who'd seemed lost for too long.

Junichi nodded. "Got it."

"Start with lines. Clean, confident strokes. Here—watch me." Haruto smoothly drew a row of straight lines across his own paper, crisp and evenly spaced. "Practice this first. Over and over. Don't worry about making it perfect, just get the feel."

Junichi didn't say much. He picked up the pencil, his brow furrowed in concentration, and began drawing, eyes narrowed in focused intensity. His first lines were shaky, hesitant.

Haruto peeked at the page now and then, offering brief, precise pointers. "Too shaky. Don't force the line—relax your wrist. Try again."

Junichi let out a slow breath, then got back to it, his focus unwavering.

As the hours passed, Haruto read through a manga volume beside him, occasionally letting out a "whoa!" at a twist or killer panel. Meanwhile, Junichi continued practicing in silence, the soft scratch of graphite on paper filling the room. He filled page after page with lines, circles, and basic shapes, driven by a quiet, burning resolve.

Eventually, Haruto glanced over, stretching his arms above his head. "Alright. That's enough lines for today. Your hand must be cramping. Next up—you're gonna draw something simple. An apple."

"An apple?" Junichi repeated, his voice raspy from disuse.

"Yeah. Gotta start somewhere. Besides, you need to eat something other than cheap soda. I'm starving."

Since Haruto's parents were both away on business trips, the apartment was quiet—no curfews, no interruptions. Junichi planned to stay the night, eager to keep practicing.

"Don't burn yourself out though," Haruto said, standing and stretching. "You've been at this for like four hours straight. I'll go get us something to eat. What do you want? There's a good bento shop down the street."

"Hey, Haruto—get extra. A lot."

"…How much is 'a lot'?" Haruto asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"Just enough for, like, five people," Junichi replied without looking up from his paper.

Haruto raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. "You planning to eat all of that yourself, you bottomless pit?"

"You'll see."

"Alright, alright." Haruto grabbed his wallet, still chuckling. "Don't say I never fed you."

When Haruto returned with a stack of bento boxes, the rich scent of grilled fish and seasoned rice filled the apartment. He laid them out on the small coffee table, a colorful spread of six generous meals.

"We're never finishing all this," Haruto muttered, already unwrapping his first bento.

Junichi didn't reply—he was too busy demolishing the first box, chopsticks flying.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Haruto watched in growing shock as Junichi systematically devoured the entire spread, box after box disappearing into what seemed like a void.

"You… You actually finished all six?!" Haruto spluttered, his own half-eaten bento forgotten.

Junichi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still a bit hungry. Got anything in the fridge?"

Haruto gulped, staring at Junichi's flat stomach in disbelief. "Dude. You're a black hole. Seriously, are you training to win an eating contest or something? All that food just… disappeared. It's like you have a hidden stomach."

"There's still bread and eggs in the fridge," Junichi said, pushing himself up. "You can fry them yourself, right?"

"Perfect."

As Junichi headed into the kitchen, Haruto touched his own stomach, still feeling full after just one bento. "What the hell, Junichi," he murmured, shaking his head. "He must have a black hole in there, seriously."

Junichi returned soon after, full again, a faint glow of satisfaction on his face. He sat back down in front of his paper. Without missing a beat, he picked up his pencil and went right back to drawing—with a fire in his eyes that hadn't been there in years.

He had made up his mind.

No matter how long it took… he would master this.