While reviewing the upcoming anime lineup, Kazuya couldn't help but pause at one title: The Three Sisters Next Door.
It wasn't exactly refined storytelling—full of coincidences and fanservice—but it had carved out a loyal fanbase.
Then there was something else that stood out: a manga called Winter, serialized in Low Voice, under the Silent Parlour label.
Self-described as a "tangerine" series—quietly provocative, yet grounded in storytelling—Winter, had sold nearly three million copies over two years.
In a city like Tokyo, that might not make headlines, but for a niche title that started off with backlash—mainly from readers put off by its tone—it was a sleeper hit. Especially now that it had stabilized with a steady readership.
The author, Nanami Yume, was in her mid-thirties and known for her clean, expressive art. Where The Three Sisters Next Door leaned into eye candy, Winter, stayed focused on plot. Despite the suggestive branding, it never relied on cheap gags or gratuitous content.
If the anime adaptation delivered, Kazuya believed it could break into the top three of the season.
And yet, he couldn't shake the pressure.
There were already several strong contenders this season—and likely at least one dark horse waiting to surprise everyone.
He believed in Anohana, but he wasn't blind to its weaknesses. The early episodes weren't flashy. No huge twists, no instant hooks. It relied entirely on character work and emotional buildup.
Which meant: if a viewer didn't connect with the characters early on, they might not stick around long enough to see where it went.
For the right audience, it would hit hard. But that impact wouldn't land until episode seven or eight. If too many people dropped it before then… it might not matter how good the ending was.
Still, Kazuya pushed the thought aside and muttered, "Trust yourself."
He'd seen this problem before. The first time he read the storyboard, he knew the pacing was a gamble.
But by the time he reached the final scene, all hesitation had disappeared.
I want to animate this, he'd thought, without a second of doubt.
And if he could see the value in the whole story, others would too.
With the right marketing and timing, a show like this wouldn't just vanish.
Good stories will find their audience.
After the New Year break, Tokyo's manga industry slowly came back to life.
Even over the holidays, serialization never really stopped. In this business, long breaks could throw everything off rhythm.
Over the past week, a short interview clip featuring Haruki had stirred up conversation online. Some fans of Kiyoshi accused him of sounding arrogant, but paired with two weeks of promotional features for Natsume on Nexari, the buzz brought in not just critics—but a fresh wave of curious readers.
Natsume had been sitting at sixth place in Shroud Line, with around 4.2 million votes.
In the latest issue, it had jumped to fourth.
The vote count had surged past 6.5 million—a huge leap.
These new readers weren't just browsing. They were actively voting, deeply engaged.
Even if some in the industry still questioned Haruki's staying power, climbing to fourth in Shroud Line—one of the top seven manga magazines in Tokyo—was no fluke. It was a clear sign of momentum.
Still, popularity wasn't the same as legacy.
Someone who'd spent twenty years building their name would always carry more weight than a newcomer riding a hot streak.
Haruki had the numbers now, but the veterans beneath him on the chart still commanded more respect. Not because he lacked skill—but because his success hadn't stood the test of time yet.
If he could hold this spot for a year or more, the story would shift. People would see it as earned—not just hype.
And when that day came, a single chapter from him would be enough to dominate the rankings. No buildup. No promo push. Just presence.
Only then would he be seen on equal footing with someone like Kiyoshi.
Right now, he was still climbing—propelled by momentum and buzz.
There was a big difference between the two.
Flipping through chapter fourteen of Natsume, Haruki sighed. His pacing was still too slow.
Growing an audience wasn't just about quality. It was about consistency. Output. Keeping the momentum going.
He glared at his hands. Two just weren't enough.
Di-di-di!
His phone buzzed.
It was Haruka.
"Calling me on the first day back?" Haruki said with a yawn. "Didn't I already turn in the manuscript before New Year's?"
"I'm not here to hound you for pages—though honestly, I've never even gotten the chance," Haruka said with a dry laugh. "This isn't about your manga. Kazuya reached out. You probably forgot, but Anohana airs in three days. He wants you to promote it on your socials."
Haruka was baffled. Haruki had always been laid-back, but this? Next level.
Since Anohana wasn't running in Shroud Line, she hadn't been tracking the production closely. But to find out the original creator hadn't even mentioned it online?
Was this guy part housecat?
"Ah, got it. Sure," Haruki said.
"That's all. Talk later."
"Yep."
After the call ended, he opened his Fend account and stared at the screen.
Ten minutes passed.
Nothing catchy came to mind.
"Whatever," he muttered. "Might as well be honest."
He typed:
An anime for people who laugh until their cheeks hurt.
One that won't let you down.
And maybe—just maybe—one that helps dry eyes feel better.
Anohana: The Flower We Saw That Day airs on the 11th.
Mizushiro will be watching with you.
P.S. The music's amazing.
He hit post and turned his comment section back on—it had been off for a few days.
Then he tossed the phone aside and flopped back into bed.
He felt at ease.
His fans... did not.
"What do you mean 'cheeks hurting from laughing'?"
"Dry eyes?? Is this a joke or a medical tip?"
"Could you write one normal promo post?
They knew it was Mizushiro's new anime, so support was there.
But when it came to marketing...
Couldn't he at least try to sound professional?
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