I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 91

"Two?" Haruka Sato paused for a couple of seconds.

"What about gender or age requirements?"

"Doesn't matter!" Haruki Yuuki replied quickly.

"Got it. I’ll have it sorted in three days," she said confidently.

"Great." Haruki let out a quiet sigh of relief.

He’d was already starting to get a sense of how Haruka operated—straightforward and highly efficient.

Compared to her, Haruki, who only avoided procrastination when it came to manga deadlines, felt like a bit of a slacker.

"Alright then, let’s move on to something else."

"Did you bring the plot outline for Anohana?"

Haruka didn’t waste time getting to the point.

"Yeah, I’ve got it." Haruki reached into his backpack and pulled out a thick bundle of manuscript pages.

The top few were the completed chapters of The Unheard Flower, and beneath them were name drafts and rough sketches—loose outlines that still made the direction and tone of the story clear.

"You don’t mind if I read through the rest of it, right?" she asked, glancing at him.

After all, showing a friend’s animation company a series that wasn’t tied to Echo Shroud Publishing was outside their original arrangement. She wanted to respect that boundary, even if she was trying to help.

"Go ahead," Haruki said with a nod.

Compared to the formal serialization of Natsume’s Book of Friends, Anohana was something Haruka was helping with purely as a personal favor. Of course she had the right to evaluate the material before passing it on. That was only fair.




An hour later—

Haruka quietly set down the stack of manuscripts.

She studied Haruki for a long moment, as if trying to see straight into his mind.

"So that’s what Sora meant."

"Huh?" Haruki looked up, a little dazed after the long wait.

"Sora told me once that you’re the kind of manga artist no one can pin down. She said you’ve got this strange genius—like your ideas come from places nobody else sees."

"A lot of creators tend to leave traces in their work. You can usually tell what kind of stories they’re drawn to."

"But with you
 The Garden of Words, Rurouni Remembrance, Natsume’s Book of Friends—they all feel so different. Even your art style shifts."

"And now this one—Anohana—I really didn’t see it coming."

"I thought it was going to be a simple supernatural love story. But it’s actually... a quiet, gut-punch of a story about friendship. That ending
 it really caught me off guard."

"Meiko’s character left a real impression."

Haruka hesitated, then added, "Honestly, I almost regret recommending this one to my friend..."

"But if it were running in Shroud Line..." She stopped herself. "No, it wouldn’t be a good fit. The early chapters are too quiet. Our readers can be impatient."

She looked at him seriously.

"Haruki, one last time—are you sure you want me to pass this on? If I submit this to my friend’s animation studio, it’ll be entered for their early-stage adaptation lineup."

"Yeah, I’m sure," Haruki said without hesitation.

Haruka gave a small nod and carefully set the manuscript aside.

"In that case, we’re done here."

"The studio’s currently reviewing original works for adaptation. The process might take a week, maybe a month. But whether it gets picked up or not, I’ll make sure you hear back."

She was never one to draw things out.

With everything laid out clearly, she didn’t waste another word.

After walking Haruki out of the Echo Shroud offices, she returned to her desk and went straight back to work.

----

“Finally
 something big is actually moving forward.” Haruki let out a long sigh.

Three weeks from now, for the first time in half a year, Haruki would begin a new serialization.

The name “Mizushiro,” long absent from the public eye, was about to make a comeback.

At any rate, Haruki was in high spirits. Brimming with confidence, he was already looking forward to the start of serialization.




That evening, after work—

Haruka drove across the city center of Tokyo to another company.

Kazanami Animation Studio.

There, a producer named Kazuya Mori had been waiting restlessly in his office.

“You’re finally here!”

He jumped from his chair the moment he heard the knock at the door.

As a producer at Kazanami Animation, Kazuya had been under enormous pressure lately.

Upper management had demanded a new project—something that could rival Oathbound, a smash-hit series launched back in August by their longtime rival, Takami Animation.

Takami had delivered a major blow that season, with Oathbound easily outperforming both of Kazanami’s offerings. To make matters worse, the people at Takami weren’t shy about flaunting it. They’d been publicly mocking Kazanami ever since, taking shots at their so-called lack of creativity during industry gatherings.

The higher-ups at Kazanami didn’t take that lightly.

They wanted payback. And not just with any show. They demanded something just as powerful—emotional, heartfelt, layered with friendship, romance, and something moving that would resonate.

In short, they wanted something that could meet Oathbound head-on when its second season aired in February.

That’s how Kazuya ended up in this situation.

This project wasn’t born out of careful creative vision. It was a reaction—a knee-jerk mandate from executives bruised by public embarrassment.

Takami’s brass had scored a few laughs, and Kazanami’s couldn’t stomach it.

Of course, anyone who’d worked at Kazanami long enough had learned to endure management’s impulsive whims. Despite everything, the company remained a heavyweight in the animation world—well-funded, experienced, and well-connected.

Still, Kazuya couldn’t help feeling boxed in.

It was already October. Even if they settled on a script this month, they’d have just four months to finish production. That was barely enough time—even with full greenlight status and every internal resource at their disposal.

It was absurd.

They were expected to “match or beat” a hit series with a production window that would make most professionals break into a cold sweat.

Kazuya wasn’t just stressed—he was drowning in uncertainty.

If they failed? The project would become a cautionary tale. Something future producers studied in textbooks as a what not to do.

But after weeks of voicing his concerns to no avail, Kazuya had stopped fighting the tide.

All he could do now was find the best possible script.

Thankfully, some solid submissions had come in—from novelists, manga authors, and freelancers. A few had real potential.

But nothing quite sparked the way Oathbound had.

The pressure was mounting.

If they chose wrong, they wouldn’t just fall short—they’d be obliterated in comparison.

Which is why Kazuya was so eager to see Haruka.

He needed a miracle. Or at least, something close.

As Haruka stepped inside and laid down a thick stack of storyboards and name drafts on the table, Kazuya’s eyes lit up.

“Haruka, you move fast. It hasn’t even been a full month since I brought this up.”

He picked up the pages, fingers already flipping through them.

“Whose work is this, anyway? Is it from Suda? Maybe Takagi?”

“Neither.” Haruka sat down, crossing one leg casually over the other.

She and Kazuya had worked together many times before. Formalities weren’t necessary.

“This is Mizushiro’s new work.”

“Mizushiro?” Kazuya paused, the name ringing a faint bell. “Wait
 that sounds familiar. Who is that again?”