If he could successfully recreate Inuyasha in this world—forget the potential for drawing magical powers or loot from it—just the royalties alone would be enough to let Lin Yu live like a king.
At the very least, he wouldn't have to wake up every morning worrying about his next meal.
Once the system issued its welcome package and initial rewards, it went silent. No quests. No objectives. Not even a hint of a notification. It was like it had dropped a bomb into his life and then ghosted him.
If Lin Yu couldn't still summon the system interface at will, he would've thought the whole thing was just a fever dream.
Still, the timing couldn't have been better. The system's arrival was like a life raft in a storm—right when Lin Yu was down and out. Finally, he had a clear goal. A direction. A way forward.
But that didn't mean he could afford to be careless.
Lin Yu pulled out a piece of paper and began writing down everything he currently owned.
Calling it "assets" was generous. After a full inventory, all he had was:
Eight packs of instant noodles.
One cheap, thin suit.
A handful of manga drawing tools and paper.
That was it.
If he didn't earn money fast, he'd be out of food in eight meals. After that, it was game over.
To make matters worse, autumn was already here. The air had a bite to it, and winter wasn't far behind. Lin Yu eyed his flimsy suit with a frown. If things kept going like this, starvation wouldn't be his biggest threat—hypothermia would.
He tapped his pen against the page, eyebrows knit in thought. He needed a plan, and fast.
Drawing manga seemed like the obvious route—but that wasn't going to put food on the table right away. At least not until he got published.
Which meant step one was survival. Bare minimum, he needed a job. Something part-time. Anything that paid.
After scribbling down a few ideas and listing out about seven or eight basic goals, Lin Yu glanced out the window.
Rain. Heavy, cold, and relentless.
Great.
He hadn't found an umbrella in this shabby apartment, either. No way he could go job-hunting in that weather. Getting sick right now would be a disaster.
Hopefully the storm would pass before his instant noodles did.
Until then, there was only one thing he could do.
Start creating Inuyasha.
Time to turn this manga into his lifeline.
"Alright," Lin Yu muttered to himself, cracking his knuckles. "Let's get to work."
He gathered all the tools left behind by the original "Lin Yu"—ink pens, brushes, dip pens, rulers, and stacks of paper. It turned out the guy had dreamed of becoming a mangaka, and while he hadn't succeeded... he at least left behind the gear.
One less expense. Thank God.
Thanks to the system's art skill reward, Lin Yu wasn't starting completely from scratch. His hand wasn't shaky. His strokes had some confidence. But the moment pen met paper, reality hit hard.
This was going to be way harder than he thought.
He wasn't a prodigy, not by a long shot. If Rumiko Takahashi—the original creator of Inuyasha—was a legendary master, then Lin Yu was a kindergartener with crayons.
Still, he had the advantage of the system. Instead of drawing from memory, entire pages of Inuyasha were projected right onto his blank paper—like transparent overlays. All he had to do was trace.
Sounds easy?
Not really.
Everyone's tried tracing letters or characters as a kid. You follow the lines, sure—but that doesn't mean it looks good. To really capture the style, the flow, the spirit of the drawing, you need either absolute precision… or a lot of practice.
And this wasn't just some sketch—it was the debut page of a legendary manga. Lin Yu wasn't willing to half-ass it.
The first page alone took him seven or eight tries. His room slowly filled with crumpled sheets and frustrated groans.
At one point, he paused, rubbing his temples, and let out a dry chuckle.
"If only I was recreating One Punch Man... the early ONE-sensei style? Stick figures with angry eyebrows? I'd be done in ten minutes."
Sadly, Inuyasha demanded beauty. Elegance. Depth. And Lin Yu refused to let his poor technique ruin a masterpiece.
After a short break and a splash of cold water to the face, he returned to his desk with renewed determination.
This wasn't high school anymore. No skipping class. No procrastinating on homework.
If he didn't finish at least one solid chapter before his noodles ran out—or land a job—he'd be completely screwed.
The workload was massive.
Recreating all of Inuyasha would take months. But thankfully, most publishers only required one chapter for submission—about 20 to 30 pages. Manageable.
Still, Lin Yu wasn't taking chances.
Based on the original Lin Yu's past submissions, he knew that most publishers wouldn't even bother returning a rejected manuscript.
Which meant he needed backups. Multiple clean, submission-ready versions of Chapter 1, just in case one editor passed and he had to send it somewhere else.
Pen scratched across paper, the sound soft and rhythmic in the still of night.
Lin Yu worked in silence, totally absorbed.
And slowly... he improved.
The first page took him nearly five hours.
By the fifth attempt, he could finish a page in under three.
Still slow. Still far from perfect. But better. Cleaner. More confident.
He didn't rush. He didn't sacrifice quality for speed.
This was his debut. His make-or-break moment.
He redrew the same pages over and over, determined to reach perfection. Not just for pride—but because he believed in the story.
Priestesses. Demons. Time travel. Magic.
Inuyasha had all the makings of a smash hit, especially in this world's version of the 1990s. It was bold. Unique. Fresh.
As long as the art didn't drag it down, it would succeed.
The first volume had eight chapters and over ninety pages.
Lin Yu didn't know how far he'd get before the noodles ran out.
But one thing was clear—
He wasn't going down without a fight.