Inside one of the editorial departments under Tokyo's Shueisha—home of Weekly Shonen Jump—the all-important serialization meeting was just a few days away. As the editor-in-chief of this division, Kitagawa had the obligation to select and submit the most promising manuscripts. It wasn't just his professional responsibility—it directly impacted his chances for promotion and salary increases.
As long as a manga he submitted made it into Weekly Shonen Jump's serialization lineup, it was considered a win. But if that manga went on to become a major hit and brought in huge profits for the company, then, as the one who discovered it, he'd have a powerful bargaining chip when vying for a top position at the head office.
"Still... the manuscripts this round are just not cutting it."
Kitagawa sat in his office, flipping rapidly through the piles of drafts on his desk, frowning and shaking his head.
Weekly Shonen Jump, being the highest-circulating manga magazine in the industry, operated under a rather unique policy: reader surveys above all.
Most other magazines treated reader opinions as mere references. Whether a manga got serialized or not ultimately depended on internal editorial decisions, which made the process less fair—and more prone to manipulation. But Jump was different. It placed extreme importance on reader feedback, treating it as the ultimate popularity metric. The rule was simple: for every new series, its fate would be decided based on the first ten chapters. The editorial team would compile reader responses over that span and determine whether the manga would live or die.
Each issue's survey results also influenced where a manga appeared in the magazine. While the very first spot was often reserved for flagship series or special debuts, every other page order was dictated by popularity. It was a harsh, cutthroat system.
Top-performing manga continued week after week. But Jump had limited pages. Which meant every three months—or ten issues—those series that ranked consistently at the bottom were forcefully axed to make room for new titles.
That's why many series launched with a bang, only to fade and end abruptly a few chapters later. A series that could survive long-term in Weekly Shonen Jump... that was a true candidate for national treasure status. Most, though, were destined to be fleeting sparks.
Every editorial branch, every three months, had to select what it deemed the best candidates and submit them to the head office. There, in the final meeting, all the chief editors would decide together which ones would make it to the magazine.
This branch's editor-in-chief was Kitagawa—a man past forty, slightly balding, and a seasoned veteran with years of experience in the industry. He loved manga. He understood manga. Whether a series would blow up or not, he couldn't say. But when it came to storytelling, paneling, and art style, he could judge their quality instantly.
"Looks like we're getting passed over again this round…"
With visible frustration, Kitagawa placed the draft he was holding back on the desk and rubbed his forehead. A headache was building.
There were four new manga on his desk. But none of them impressed him. Plenty of artists had submitted work this round. In fact, every three months, there were always quite a few entries. However, most were from amateur artists, still wet behind the ears. Before anything reached Kitagawa, his team of editors had already screened the submissions. Out of the initial batch, ten were shortlisted—but even among those, Kitagawa found no real potential.
Still, with the serialization meeting just days away, he had no choice but to "pick the best from the worst" and go with the top four of the lot, even if he wasn't satisfied.
It had already been several cycles since any manga from their department got serialized. That wasn't good news for Kitagawa's career. Initially, he thought maybe his staff had been slacking—but this time, he'd reviewed every submission personally. And reluctantly, he had to admit—his team had done their job. The submissions really were just bad.
If he were the artistic type, he'd have drawn something himself.
As he sighed deeply, worrying about his future, a sudden and urgent knock echoed from the office door.
Already in a sour mood, Kitagawa frowned even deeper. The knock was rushed and loud. Irritating.
"Come in!" he barked impatiently.
The door opened, and in walked a man in his thirties, full of energy. Like Kitagawa, his hairline had started to retreat. Maybe this industry really was just that brutal on men.
"Editor-in-Chief Kitagawa!"
The man bowed respectfully. In Japan, especially within corporate hierarchies, younger employees were expected to show deep respect to those who'd served the company for many years—regardless of their actual ability. It might've felt burdensome for young talent, but for the diligent veterans who'd given their lives to the company, it was a source of pride. Veteran salaries were usually higher too.
Of course, this man wasn't being polite just because of Kitagawa's seniority. He also happened to be the highest-ranking person in the division.
"Ah, it's you, Ogata. What's the matter?"
Kitagawa quickly composed himself. Years of leadership had taught him how to stay professional. No matter how bad your mood was, you didn't take it out on your subordinates.
"Chief, a new submission arrived this morning. I spent half the day reviewing it carefully, and I think it's very promising—strong enough to be considered for submission this round. I'd like your opinion!"
"Cutting it close, aren't we?"
Kitagawa frowned. The meeting was just a few days away. Manuscripts submitted this late were usually pushed to the next cycle. But Ogata looked genuinely excited. And he wasn't a newbie—he'd been in the department for years. If he was this worked up, that meant the manuscript might really have something.
Kitagawa glanced down at the underwhelming drafts still on his desk. Then gave a small nod.
"Alright. Let me see it."
"Yes, sir!"
Ogata handed over the manuscript with both hands, then stood straight at the desk, waiting for Kitagawa's reaction.
The first page featured a boy with spiky blond hair. Below him, written in bold red characters, were the words:
"Naruto."
Kitagawa read the title aloud under his breath. Ninja-themed manga weren't rare in Japan, but they weren't oversaturated either. The fact that Ogata was this excited meant this one had something unique.
"'Jingu Akira'? Never heard of that name. Must be a newcomer…"
He muttered, eyeing the author credit—a blue box with the pen name printed neatly beneath the red "Naruto" title.
The second page displayed a rather eerie illustration. Off to the side was a caption that read like historical narration, recounting the tale of the Nine-Tailed Fox and the Fourth Hokage.
The third and fourth pages were still frames—quiet, motionless.
And the fifth page—that's where the manga actually began.
Kitagawa flipped to it, giving it a casual scan—and immediately, his eyes lit up.
"This paneling technique… Doesn't feel like a rookie at all."