I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 170 & 171

Chapter 170

“Natsume’s manga volume and the anime adaptation—they’ve already finalized everything?”

Haruki blinked. “That was fast.”

Haruka nodded. “That’s typical for Echo Shroud. If a series performs well in Shroud Line, a volume is practically guaranteed. And if it’s trending? An anime follows.”

Given Natsume’s Book of Friends had stayed in the top rankings for weeks, both the volume and anime were expected. The only delay had been the lack of chapters.

“Copyright’s shared between the publisher and creator,” Haruka explained. “Once there’s interest, reps handle the negotiations. If the artist agrees, contracts move fast.”

She handed him a folder. “They originally wanted you in the meetings, but you were busy, so I handled the first round. Everything’s in here.”

Haruki skimmed through it. The publishing partner was a major distributor Echo Shroud had used before. The royalty rate stood out—10%.

“Wait, isn’t 8% standard?”

“It used to be. But with the buzz around your work, they bumped it.”

A 2% difference didn’t sound huge, but for a hit series, it meant real money.

“Take Airi Tanaka. Her manga sold over 30 million copies. At 500 yen a volume, that 2% means tens of millions in royalties.”

Natsume had already cracked the top three and was still holding strong. If the volume sold well, Haruki could see it hitting the million mark.

"Echo Shroud could’ve stuck to the baseline offer, but they voluntarily increased his cut. That kind of gesture didn’t go unnoticed—it meant a lot."

“As for the anime,” Haruka continued, “they’ve chosen Kazanami Animation.”

Haruki looked up. “Really? That’s great.”

Kazanami had worked with Haruka on Dream World. Her connection likely helped.

“You’ll get the standard creator’s fee. A few hundred thousand yen, more or less.”

“Right,” Haruki said. “The money’s not the point—it’s the exposure.”

Anime rarely brought in direct income for manga creators, but the impact on visibility was massive. Initial D and Natsume were still climbing without adaptations—an anime boost would only help.

“Right now, your two series are the only ones in the top five without an anime,” Haruka said. 

An adaptation would push Natsume even further.

Haruki read the contract for another twenty minutes before setting it down. “Everything looks good.”

“No special requests?”

“Actually… if possible, I’d like Kazuya Mori to direct the anime.”

Haruka raised an eyebrow. “Kazuya?”

“Yeah. He’s good—and I trust him.”

“He’s basically working full-time for you already,” she muttered with a smirk. “I’ll pass the request along. No promises.”

“Fair enough.”

“If all goes well, Echo Shroud will schedule the contract meeting with the animation team soon.”

“Sounds good.”

In the following days, Haruki returned to his usual routine: manga during the day, planning in the evening, and nighttime gaming.

What started as a casual practice schedule between him and Ryuko gradually turned into a regular trio hangout—with Airi included.

At first, Airi only dropped in to chat. But soon enough, the three were gaming together, strategizing, and acting like a real team.

Ryuko’s skills stood out. Within weeks, all three of them ranked up from Black Tier IV to Black Tier III. That breakthrough—after so many failed attempts—felt surreal.

Haruki couldn’t explain it. He’d known Airi for months and Ryuko from work, but the friendship only solidified once they started playing together.

Now, they messaged each other on Line like close friends.

It still felt a little strange to Haruki—but in a good way.

Time flew by.

By October, Haruki had entered his second year at university.

Initial D had reached Chapter 12.

And it still wasn’t slowing down.

---

Contrary to some industry predictions, Initial D wasn’t losing steam after the Keisuke Takahashi arc.

If anything, it was gaining momentum.

The next challenger was Takeshi Nakazato, leader of the Myogi NightKids. After Takumi’s victory over the Akagi RedSuns, the mysterious AE86 driver was quickly becoming a legend across Gunma.

Akina’s downhill icon was no longer just a rumor.

Known for his aggressive driving and his GT-R32, Nakazato issued a formal challenge. Confident in his skills, he wanted to prove himself—and take Takumi down.

Ironically, Takumi hadn’t planned to accept. Despite the hype, he still didn’t see himself as a real racer. But thanks to Itsuki’s big mouth, rumors spread, and the pressure mounted.

The manga slowed its pacing again, but fans didn’t mind. After the explosive Keisuke race, they were fully invested.

The story offered a brief flashback to Nakazato’s past—his switch from an S13 to the R32 after a humiliating loss. It hit a nerve. It wasn’t just about horsepower; it was about pride, growth, and knowing your limits.

His goal? Beat Takumi, take down Ryosuke Takahashi, and dominate Gunma.

It was classic early-arc bravado. Readers understood the rhythm—Nakazato would challenge, lose, and mark another step in Takumi’s rise.

But how Takumi would be pulled in—that was the hook.

Meanwhile, Initial D kept climbing the rankings. The gap between it and Dream World shrank each week.

Then came a new announcement: Natsume’s Book of Friends was officially getting a volume release and anime adaptation.

For longtime fans, it felt overdue.

Though Initial D had become Haruki’s flagship title, Natsume still had a strong following, especially among female readers. The news spread quickly through forums and fan chats.

For new readers, the volume release was a perfect entry point. And the anime? A long-awaited reward.

There was one snag. Haruki had asked for Kazuya Mori—producer of Anohana—to lead the adaptation. But Kazuya was already locked into another project.

Instead, Kazanami Animation assigned Seiji Watanabe, a younger producer recommended by Kazuya himself. While less experienced, Seiji’s style suited Natsume's tone—quiet, emotional, and character-focused. No flashy set pieces, just heart.

Haruki agreed to the switch.

Meanwhile, his two indie anime projects—5 Centimeters per Second and Voices of a Distant Star—had moved into production. After two months of prep, they were finally rolling.

Without major funding, there was no official promo campaign. But Haruki did what he could on social media. Airi noticed and helped amplify the posts. Even her casual reposts brought in unexpected traction.

Haruki’s name carried weight now. Even low-key announcements under his name stirred buzz.

Still, people were confused by the titles.

“Five centimeters per second?”
“Voices of what?”
“Are these going to be another cry-fest like Anohana?”

Some hoped not. Others, still emotionally recovering, braced themselves.

“This guy’s insane. Two manga, two anime, all at once? Is he even human?”

“I vote we call him the ‘High-Yield Machine.’”

“If 5 cm/s is as depressing as Anohana, I’m out.”

“Nah, have you read Initial D? It’s all hype now.”

“Are you sure? That Takumi–Mogi stuff is totally setting up a healing arc.”

“Wait—‘Grassland Takumi’? What?”

“You missed the latest chapters, huh? Let’s just say… things got messy with Mogi.”

“Ah crap. I’m not caught up—no spoilers, please!”

Haruki silently closed his phone and exited the group chat.

He did this often—lurking, watching reactions, rarely posting.

He never let feedback change the story’s core. But for small things? He paid attention. If a character fell flat, he cut screen time. If a moment resonated, he leaned in.

Even Mogi’s design was intentional. Making her appealing deepened the impact of her arc. Readers cared more because Takumi did.

Even car designs mattered. He sketched each vehicle carefully. His readers deserved that much.

With multiple projects moving forward, Haruki knew the months ahead would define his career.

One way or another, this year would shape everything that followed.

Chapter 171

By the time October rolled around, Haruki’s schedule had become even more intense.

Between the ongoing serialization of Initial D and Natsume’s Friends’ Account, and the mid-stage production of 5 Centimeters per Second and Voices of a Distant Star, there was hardly a moment to breathe.

Even though he was mainly the investor, Haruki still visited the animation studio regularly to align on creative direction and keep things on track.

Now, both anime projects were entering the sound direction and voice casting stage—a critical phase that had Kazuya Mori increasingly concerned.

Unlike ensemble shows, 5 Centimeters per Second and Voices of a Distant Star had small casts. That made voice acting even more important—each line, each nuance of emotion, had to carry weight. Along with Haruki’s carefully crafted visuals and music, the voices would be the final layer that brought the stories to life.

Haruki had already composed the full OSTs for both projects, and they fit so well that Kazuya signed off without hesitation—no lengthy bidding or comparison between audio studios. That part was settled.

Voice casting, though, was a different beast.

Kazuya had reached out to several contacts in the seiyuu industry. He offered fair, industry-standard pay, and initially, many seemed interested. But after a few days, those same voice actors would politely decline or quietly ghost the project altogether.

It wasn’t surprising. Most top seiyuu had full calendars and no reason to gamble on a modest-budget production without the backing of a major studio.

If the project flopped, it wouldn’t just be a waste of time—it might even become an embarrassing blemish on their resumes.

It was no different from actors turning down independent movie scripts. Even if the pay’s fine, no one wants to be associated with something that could crash and burn.

Even with Anohana as a proven success, there was no guarantee Haruki and Kazuya could replicate that magic. Especially not with two low-profile short films.

So when Haruki dropped by the studio that afternoon, Kazuya—usually upbeat—was visibly frustrated.

“Back when I was at Kazanami,” Kazuya said, without prompting, “people returned my calls. Now I’m offering standard pay for two emotionally rich roles—and still nothing. Apparently two decades in this industry means jack without a logo stamped on your project.”

Haruki glanced around the studio. A dozen animators, compositors, and support staff were hard at work—most of them people Kazuya had handpicked.

“Doesn’t look like no one believes in you,” Haruki said. “Look at this team. You built this from scratch. That’s already more than most people could pull off.”

“Yeah, but none of this matters if we can’t cast the right voices,” Kazuya muttered. “We’re not selling cool fight scenes here. If the lead actors can’t carry the emotion, the entire project falls apart.”

Haruki leaned back.

“Then we don’t chase big names. There’s plenty of talent out there—just lesser known.”

“You say that,” Kazuya said, “but I don’t have the time to sift through a hundred no-name demos. We’re under two months out from deadline. I can’t afford to take risks. I need people who can nail it fast.”

“Didn’t Ryuko do fine back on Anohana?” Haruki pointed out. “She was a rookie too. But she pulled it off.”

“Yeah, but that was different. We got lucky. I can’t count on lightning striking twice.”

Still, Kazuya admitted he had a few more interviews lined up with promising veterans. If those fell through, he’d give Haruki’s suggestion a shot and audition some lesser-known names.

Haruki nodded.

He briefly considered asking Ryuko to audition again, but quickly pushed the thought aside.

Their relationship was casual now—friendly, but not close enough that he felt comfortable pulling her into a passion project like this. She was busy these days anyway, taking on small roles here and there. Even if she was willing, Haruki didn’t want to put her in an awkward spot.

It wasn’t worth risking the easy camaraderie they’d built while gaming.

But what Haruki didn’t know was that Ryuko had been quietly hoping for an invitation.

At first, her interest in Haruki had been mixed—part admiration, part professional curiosity. He had potential. He might go places. And being part of one of his future works could elevate her career too.

But after weeks of casual gaming and banter with him and Airi, something shifted.

She wasn’t thinking about exposure or popularity anymore. She genuinely wanted to work with him again.

Because she trusted him.

When Kazuya announced the anime adaptations, Ryuko was tempted to reach out. She knew these shorts had the potential to become something special.

But now, with their roles as online teammates and casual friends, she couldn’t bring herself to bring it up. She was afraid it would make everything feel transactional.

And worse—what if he thought that’s why she’d stuck around?

So she kept quiet.

Back in her room, Ryuko had a livestream of a pro jungler’s League of Legends match open on one monitor, taking notes. But her mind kept drifting.

“I really want to be part of these two projects…”

The words came out in a whisper. Not meant for anyone.

Not even herself.

One of her roommates overheard.

“What are you muttering about?”

“She’s watching that League stream again,” another replied from the bunk.

“Seriously, Ryuko? Is that game even fun?”

“Honestly? Not really,” Ryuko said without looking up. “It’s kind of boring solo.”

“Then why are you always playing it?”

She paused.

“...No reason.”

By the following week, Kazuya’s casting dilemma had resolved.

He secured two veteran female seiyuu: Rin Shiraishi and Rina Nanami.. Both had solid reputations, and more importantly, they understood the tone Haruki was aiming for.

To manage costs, Rin Shiraishi would voice both Sumida in 5 cm/s and the female lead in Voices of a Distant Star, while Nanami would voice the heroine Akari in 5 cm/s.

After test recordings, the results were impressive.

Haruki couldn’t find a single thing to complain about. Their delivery had the exact emotional tone he’d envisioned.

It was a reminder—sometimes fame really did come from skill.

Meanwhile, Initial D was ramping up its next major arc: the match against Nakazato.

Takumi, still riding the high of his win over Keisuke, began to slowly come to terms with the fact that he was a street racer now—whether he liked it or not.

The most thrilling parts?

Always the moment when Takumi pulled off an impossible overtake in the final stretch. And always, without fail, when the AE86 tore up the mountain roads in the dead of night.

Readers were now trained to expect those uphill runs—and they lived for them.

More and more, the manga wasn’t just retaining fans—it was bringing in new ones week after week. Word of mouth was spreading, and the “86’s uphill climb” had already become a running meme in racing forums.

Just a few months in, Initial D was no longer just an underdog manga.

It was quickly becoming a mainstay.