Chapter 9: Chapter 9 (V2) First Canvas
The scattered afterglow of the setting sun stretched out like a road of gold, shimmering beneath Aoki Junichi's feet as he walked home. It painted the quiet streets of Chiba County in hues of orange and purple, turning ordinary suburban houses into picturesque silhouettes. He loved these walks after work, the cool evening air a balm after hours spent under fluorescent lights, his mind buzzing with ideas.
His thoughts, however, weren't on the latest convenience store sales figures or the peculiar habits of his manager, Mr. Kobayashi. They were on Shirahashi Yukine, and more recently, her faithful companion, Jūketsu.
He'd seen them again in Momiji Park just a few days ago. The orange tabby, Jūketsu, had been playfully swatting at a fallen leaf, its fur catching the last rays of sunlight. Yukine, sitting quietly on a nearby bench, watched the cat with a soft, almost imperceptible smile. She had sensed his presence, as always. He stood at a comfortable distance, just watching, feeling that familiar, inherited ache of guilt, tempered now by a quiet resolve.
He wasn't ready to approach her again directly. Not yet. Their last interaction, brief and tinged with Rika's coldness, had left him feeling a bit raw. But seeing them together, so peaceful and self-contained, had sparked an idea.
Jūketsu, he thought, remembering the cat's unique name. That's… something else. Like a minor demon. Or maybe a mythical beast in feline form. He'd almost laughed aloud when Yukine had mumbled the name, struggling to keep a straight face. The thought still brought a faint, amused smile to his lips.
As he reached his apartment, the tantalizing aroma of sizzling meat drifted from his kitchen. He knew what that meant. Haruto had cooked dinner. Again. Haruto, who often acted like Junichi's self-appointed big brother and personal chef, had been spending more and more time at his place. He had an uncanny knack for showing up just as Junichi's stomach, now an endless void, began its insistent rumbling.
"You're late!" Haruto called out from the kitchen, a cheerful shout. "Thought you got lost in the convenience store aisle again. Or maybe you finally ate the entire store?"
Junichi rolled his eyes, but a warmth spread through his chest. It was nice, having someone there. Something close to family. "Traffic was bad," he mumbled, inventing a plausible excuse. "And no, I controlled myself. Mostly."
Haruto emerged, holding two steaming bowls of gyudon, piled high with thinly sliced beef and onions over rice, garnished with a generous sprinkle of red ginger. "Liar. I bet you had a mid-shift snack that could feed a small army."
"Maybe a tiny one," Junichi conceded, already reaching for a bowl. He inhaled the rich, savory scent. "Smells amazing. You're getting good at this, chef."
"Only for you, my bottomless pit of a friend," Haruto laughed, then paused, noticing the small, almost imperceptible changes in Junichi. His eyes were sharper, more focused. His movements, though still a bit gangly in his teenage frame, held a new, quiet confidence. Haruto had always seen the spark in Junichi, but now it was a steady flame.
They ate, mostly in silence, punctuated by the rhythmic clinking of chopsticks and Junichi's frankly alarming speed. Haruto watched, half-amused, half-horrified, as Junichi finished his first bowl, then immediately grabbed Haruto's half-eaten one.
"Hey!" Haruto protested, but it was too late. Junichi was already halfway through it.
"You said you were full," Junichi mumbled, mouth full.
"I was getting full! You're a monster! Seriously, if you ever go missing, I'm just going to look for the nearest all-you-can-eat buffet that suddenly went out of business."
Junichi just grinned, a rare, genuine flash of humor. "Good strategy."
After dinner, while Haruto started on the dishes, Junichi retreated to his desk. He pulled out a fresh sketchbook and his best pencil.
"How's the drawing coming along?" Haruto called from the kitchen, the sounds of splashing water and clanking plates accompanying his words.
"Good. Very good," Junichi replied, his voice distant, already lost in concentration. He had been practicing relentlessly, sometimes for six or seven hours a day. His innate talent, amplified by the system, was blossoming. He'd moved past lines and basic shapes. He was now sketching faces, figures, landscapes, capturing emotion and movement with surprising fluidity. He even started to dabble in expressions. It was an addiction, this rapid mastery. Every new technique he learned, every skill he unlocked, fueled his desire for more.
"Just don't forget to sleep, weirdo!" Haruto chuckled. "You'll turn into a zombie."
----
One Month Later.
The change in Junichi's life was profound. He still went to school, still endured the whispers and the cautious distance from his classmates. But it hardly registered anymore. His world had narrowed to three things: learning, drawing, and earning.
He was a regular fixture at the convenience store, a reliable and indispensable employee. Manager Kobayashi had even given him another bonus, a rare show of generosity that surprised everyone, especially Mika-san.
"You're more thoughtful than my own son, Aoki-kun," Mika-san had said, beaming at him, handing him an extra ¥5,000 for his diligence. "So responsible!"
Junichi had just nodded, pocketing the cash. He'd almost laughed. Thoughtful? Responsible? He was just trying to keep his internal black hole from devouring his savings. But the extra money was welcome. Every yen counted. He spent most of it on food, with a small portion dedicated to art supplies—better paper, sharper pencils, a few basic inks.
His relationship with Uncle Tanaka had also deepened. The older man, usually taciturn, had started offering Junichi quiet advice on life, occasionally even sharing old war stories from his youth, which Junichi absorbed with genuine interest. They found a shared camaraderie in the quiet hours of the night shift.
And his drawing? It had accelerated beyond anything he could have imagined. He wasn't just good; he was fast. His hand seemed to anticipate his thoughts, translating complex images in his mind onto paper with uncanny precision. He was still years away from being a master like those he admired in the magazines he devoured, but the gap was closing at an alarming rate.
He now had a purpose, a quiet fire burning within him. It wasn't about fame, or even about fulfilling his predecessor's regrets directly anymore. It was about creation. About finding his own voice.
And that voice had begun to speak through his first complete manga manuscript.
He titled it: She and Her Cat.
The story flowed from him, a gentle, melancholic tale. It began with a lonely girl, Shirahashi Yukine, living in a quiet, almost isolated world, her only true companion an eccentric, fluffy orange tabby cat named Jūketsu. The narrative unfolded through slice-of-life vignettes, focusing on the simple beauty of their everyday interactions—the cat's mischievous antics, the girl's soft, almost whispered responses, the quiet solace they found in each other's company.
He deliberately avoided grand drama. There were no epic battles, no world-saving quests. Instead, he explored the subtle emotional landscape of loneliness, companionship, and the unspoken bonds that form between living beings. The girl was a reflection of the Yukine he'd observed, the pain of her past visible in her quiet solitude, even as he showed her finding comfort in the small, everyday joys. The cat was Jūketsu, rendered with all the chaotic charm he'd witnessed in the park.
He drew it entirely by hand, using only basic tools: pencils, an eraser, and cheap paper. He had no digital tablet, no fancy software. It was raw, heartfelt. He poured every ounce of his burgeoning skill into each panel, each stroke. He knew his art wasn't perfect, not by the standards of the masters. He wasn't some prodigy like ONE who could draw compelling action scenes even with below-average art, so he needed to stay grounded for now. But his storytelling, honed by a lifetime of consumption, was compelling.
The final panel depicted the girl and the cat silhouetted against a setting sun, their figures small against the vast, indifferent sky, yet undeniably connected. A quiet, hopeful image.
He finished the last page late one night, the soft glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across his room. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, a profound sense of satisfaction settling over him. It was short, only a few chapters, but each panel was drawn with his whole heart.
"Please… reach someone," he whispered into the silent room, a rare vulnerability in his voice. All he wanted was to share his story, to evoke a feeling, to connect.
The next morning, with a profound sense of nervous anticipation, Junichi walked to the post office. He held the thick envelope containing his manuscript, addressed to Shinsei Comics, one of the mid-tier manga magazines he'd researched. He had chosen it carefully—not too big to ignore a rookie, not too small to lack impact.
He dropped the heavy package into the slot, the thud echoing in the quiet office. And then, he walked away, a strange mix of lightness and trepidation in his stride. His first canvas was complete. His first message sent. Now, all he could do was wait.