Became a Manga Artist

Junichi's new life had settled into a relentless, almost manic rhythm. Mornings began with the austere quiet of school, a place he still felt detached from, observing the intricate social dance of teenagers with the jaded eye of a salaryman on his third coffee. After the final bell, he'd either head straight to Haruto's apartment—a creative sanctuary smelling faintly of old paper and youthful ambition—or retreat to his own now-spotless, if sparse, living space. There, hours dissolved into a silent, focused pursuit of skill: the scratch of graphite on paper, the meticulous study of anatomy guides, the endless repetition of drawing hands, faces, and dynamic poses. Every line felt like a small victory, a tangible sign of the system's subtle, yet powerful, influence. What would have taken years for a typical artist, he devoured in months, his innate talent seemingly amplified by an unseen force.

Then came the part-time job. His shifts at the local convenience store, a place humming with fluorescent lights and the constant chime of the automatic door, were a necessary grind. The manager, Mr. Kobayashi Genzou, was a man of precise habits and a perpetually stern expression. He was shaped like a human bowling pin, his round belly straining against his uniform shirt, and his beady eyes seemed to miss nothing. He saw himself as a shrewd, no-nonsense businessman, but Junichi often imagined him as a sweaty dumpling with legs, waddling around his domain. Still, for all his bluster, Mr. Kobayashi was oddly fair. He valued efficiency and hard work above all else, and Junichi excelled at both.

Junichi's presence behind the counter, or among the aisles, was a quiet whirlwind of efficiency. He tackled the grunt work with a methodical intensity that bordered on obsessive. Stacking heavy crates of drinks or snacks, his enhanced strength made light work of what usually required two people. He moved with a focused energy that often surprised his coworkers, who were used to the usual bored, minimum-wage slouch. He didn't complain, he didn't slack off, and he even seemed to genuinely enjoy cleaning the store's notoriously sticky floors, transforming grimy tiles into gleaming surfaces.

His coworkers were a varied bunch, and for the first time in this new life, Junichi found himself part of a genuine team. There was Hiroshi Tanaka, universally known as Uncle Tanaka, a middle-aged part-timer whose kind, weathered face and perpetually tired slump hinted at a lifetime of quiet struggle. He usually handled the graveyard shift, sipping lukewarm green tea and offering gruff, surprisingly insightful advice. Then there was Kurosawa Reina, a sharp-tongued university student with an impressive eye for detail and a penchant for sarcastic wit. She could spot a misplaced item or an expired product from across the store. And finally, Sakuraba Mika, a cheerful, motherly woman who always seemed to materialize with homemade snacks—a warm, comforting presence in the otherwise sterile convenience store environment.

They liked Junichi. He was polite, humble, and never shied away from the dirtiest tasks. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, it was often with a dry, understated humor that caught them off guard. But there was one thing about him that consistently raised eyebrows, sparked whispers, and bordered on legendary.

His appetite.

One evening, the break room hummed with the tired chatter of the late shift. Mika had brought a batch of her famous karaage—perfectly crispy, juicy fried chicken that was the envy of their culinary dreams. Reina was scrolling through her phone, Uncle Tanaka was halfway through a complex crossword puzzle, and Junichi was… eating.

He had started with three large bento boxes—a mountainous portion that would typically feed a small family. He devoured them in under ten minutes, chopsticks flying with the speed of a seasoned warrior. Then, without missing a beat, he turned his attention to Mika's karaage. One piece, then two, then a third. He polished off half the entire tray himself, leaving a pile of bones and the others stunned into a silent, slack-jawed awe.

"Are you sure you're only sixteen, Junichi-kun?" Reina blurted out, her jaw practically on the floor. "Not, like, a secret sumo wrestler in training? Or maybe a professional competitive eater?"

Junichi simply wiped his mouth with a napkin, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Pretty sure. Why?"

Mika chuckled, shaking her head in fond disbelief. "That boy eats like a sumo wrestler in training, no joke! Where does it all go? Your stomach must be a black hole, sweetie!" She watched as he reached for a bag of senbei crackers.

Uncle Tanaka, finally looking up from his crossword, grunted in agreement. "Kid's a human vacuum cleaner. Good for sales, though. He probably clears out our stock by himself." He chuckled, a rare, genuine sound.

Junichi just shrugged, the small, knowing smirk now a little more pronounced. If only they knew, he thought. Just a little side effect of the whole transmigration and system thing. The system had supercharged his metabolism, transforming his body into an efficient, energy-devouring machine. It was almost comical, this insatiable craving that seemed to grow with every new skill he gained, a constant, gnawing hunger that only seemed to abate after truly gargantuan meals. It was a perk, yes, providing him with endless energy, but it was also a persistent, low-level worry. Feeding himself was quickly becoming his biggest expense, far outweighing rent or utilities. He'd need to earn more. A lot more.

During another shift, Junichi was diligently stocking the manga section, his mind already drifting to new story ideas. The local comic market in this world was simply booming, a vibrant, sprawling ecosystem that far surpassed anything he'd known in his previous life. Manga wasn't just a popular pastime here; it was the very pulse of cultural expression. Even convenience stores carried a wide array of popular serials, not just the weekly magazines but full, collected volumes, their spines bright against the shelves. People flocked in daily, their eyes gleaming with anticipation, eager to snatch up the latest issues as soon as they arrived.

On his short break, he picked up a copy of Youth Youth—one of the top national shōnen magazines, thick as a brick, its cover emblazoned with a dynamic action scene. He flipped through the pages, admiring the sharp line work, the kinetic energy, the dynamic compositions, the sheer raw power leaping from every panel.

"Martial arts manga still thrives here," he murmured, turning a page to a stunning double-page spread of a character mid-punch, his fist seemingly exploding from the page. "Romance, mystery, horror… Everything's evolved. The storytelling is so much denser, the art so much more refined, the paneling so much more fluid." He noticed how they used negative space, how they expertly guided the reader's eye, how they built tension with a single, perfectly placed shadow.

His excitement rose, a familiar thrill humming beneath his skin. He knew his own skills were still amateurish by comparison. The system had given him access to publish, yes—but not instant, world-class talent. His storytelling felt weak, his narratives sometimes clunky. His drawing, despite the accelerated progress, was still greener than a celery stalk next to these masters.

But he had one weapon. The ace up his sleeve.

He knew manga. From a world decades ahead in creative evolution. He had seen the future of storytelling. He understood the fundamental archetypes that resonated universally, the narrative tropes that could be twisted and subverted, the emotional beats that could move millions. He knew the breakthroughs in character design, the innovations in paneling, the subtle psychological tricks that kept readers hooked for years. He had read thousands upon thousands of manga volumes, consumed countless anime, digested countless novels. He possessed a library of ideas, a cheat sheet of what worked and what could be improved.

The goal now? Improve. Sharpen. Grow. He could learn from these living masters, meticulously pick apart their techniques, understand their philosophy of art, and then combine them with the concepts and perfected narratives from his previous life. It was a long, arduous road, fraught with challenges. But he had the stamina, the drive, and the insatiable hunger—not just for food, but for progress, for mastery, for proving himself.

He returned to stocking, his mind buzzing, already sketching out new panel layouts in his head. He needed to get better. For himself. For the story burning within him, a quiet, melancholic tale that was demanding to be told. And maybe… just maybe… to quiet the lingering guilt of a past that wasn't entirely his own, a past that still whispered to him in the quiet hours of the night. His new life was no longer about escaping; it was about building. One meal, one drawing, one stacked shelf at a time.