Chapter 13: The Volume Release
One week before the official release of Silver Spoon Volume 1, the editorial department sent a package.
It was a sturdy cardboard box, taped shut with NextGen branding. Inside, twenty copies of the collected volume were stacked neatly. Alex pulled one out. The cover featured the gold-foil treatment he had requested, giving the title a slight, satisfying texture under his fingertips.
The artwork showed Yugo Hachiken standing in silhouette at the gate of the Agricultural High School, looking out at the vast pastures and distant mountains. In the upper right corner, a small line of text read: "It starts here."
Alex flipped to the copyright page. It was printed clearly:
Silver Spoon Vol. 1 © Alex Walker / NextGen Manga Monthly Editorial Dept.
First Printing: 50,000 copies.
50,000.
Sue had been clear on the phone. "Initial run of 30,000, plus a reprint of 20,000 before launch. These are huge numbers for a rookie."
"Why the reprint?"
"Pre-orders are exceeding expectations," Sue said, a note of controlled excitement in her voice. "Bookstore orders are high, especially from agricultural colleges and vocational schools in the Midwest. They're bulk ordering it as recommended reading."
Alex traced the numbers with his finger. Fifty thousand copies meant at least that many people would hold this story in their hands.
He set the author copy on his desk and continued unpacking. There were sales projections, a marketing plan, and most importantly: the royalty statement.
He scanned the document. Advance on royalties. Reprint royalties. Estimated earnings...
The number had several zeros. It was more than he had expected. In his past life, he knew royalties were the lifeblood of a manga artist. But seeing that number next to his name felt surreal.
"Al! Another package!" Sarah called from downstairs.
This one was smaller. The return address was Bluebird Animation Studio.
Alex opened it. Inside were several bound booklets with "Confidential: Silver Spoon Anime Pre-Production Art" stamped on the cover. He flipped through them. Character designs, background concepts, color keys. The art style was faithful. Hachiken's anxious expression, Komaba's sharp muscle definition, the rustic architecture of the school... they were trying hard to match his style.
At the bottom of the box was a handwritten letter from the producer:
"Dear Mr. Walker: Enclosed are our initial concept sketches. Our team is passionate about this project. If we are honored with the adaptation rights, we will dedicate ourselves to capturing the charm of your work."
Alex put the letter back. Sue was handling the negotiations; this was just a gesture of goodwill. But it showed sincerity.
He locked the author copies and the concept art in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. Then he sat back at his desk to work on Chapter 14.
The theme was Spring Break. Hachiken goes home to the city.
Alex picked up his pen. He needed to capture the suffocating atmosphere of Hachiken's family home—the contrast between the open sky of the farm and the gray pressure of his old life.
{The dinner table was set with military precision. The clinking of silverware against china was the only sound in the room, sharp and unnerving. Yugo Hachiken sat across from his father, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on his bowl of rice.
"So," his father said, not looking up from his meal. "How is the school?"
The question hung in the cold air. Hachiken tightened his grip on his chopsticks. How was the school?
He wanted to talk about the physical exhaustion of the 4:00 AM milking shifts. He wanted to talk about the smell of the pig pen that seemed to have permanently seeped into his skin. He wanted to talk about the warmth of a freshly harvested potato, or how the night sky over the dorms looked like a sea of diamonds.
But looking at his father's stern, expectant face, the words died in his throat. None of those things mattered here. In this house, only grades mattered.
"It's fine," Hachiken murmured.
"That's good," his mother added softly, anxiously filling the silence.
Hachiken swallowed a mouthful of rice that suddenly tasted like ash. He was home, surrounded by the city comforts he used to crave, yet he had never felt more out of place.}
It was a quiet chapter. Alex focused on the nuances. The expression of parents who want to ask but don't know how. The awkward silence at the dinner table. The universal struggle of communication in a stoic family.
Halfway through inking, the phone rang. It was Sue.
"Get the books?"
"Yeah. They look great. The tagline works."
"Good. Listen, marketing needs you to do something."
"What?"
"Signatures."
Alex's pen froze. "I thought we agreed no public appearances."
"Not a signing event," Sue clarified. "These are special edition signed copies for bookstores. You sign the title page, we ship them out. Limited run of 500. No face-to-face, no photos. Just ink."
Alex thought about it. "Five hundred? All of them?"
"Yes. One of the boxes in your shipment is the special stock. Sign them and ship them back. We handle distribution."
"When do you need them?"
"End of next week. Take your time."
Alex hung up and went downstairs. Sure enough, there was another box in the living room. Inside were 500 copies of Volume 1.
Sarah stared at the stack. "You have to sign all those?"
"Yup."
"How long will that take?"
"A while."
Alex hauled the box upstairs. Five hundred books didn't sound like a lot until you spread them out. They covered half his floor.
He pulled up a chair and opened the first one.
Where to sign?
He decided on the bottom right corner of the title page.
Alex Walker. Then the date.
His handwriting wasn't calligraphy, but it was legible.
One. Two. Three...
At twenty, his hand started to cramp. He stopped to stretch his wrist, looking at the sea of covers. Every single one of these would be bought by a stranger. Opened. Read. Kept on a shelf.
It felt like writing 500 letters, but the only content was his name.
He kept signing.
By fifty, the sun had set. Sarah called him for dinner.
"Still going?" she sighed, looking at the mess.
"Getting there."
Dinner was quick—roast beef and potatoes. Alex ate fast and went back to work. Under the desk lamp, the name "Alex Walker" became a repetitive abstraction.
At one hundred, he stopped. His fingers were stiff.
He looked at the signature. He remembered buying a signed book from his favorite artist in his previous life. He had stared at that signature for hours, imagining the hand that wrote it.
Now, he was that hand.
He stood up and walked to the window. The ranch was dark, save for the safety light on the barn.
He continued the next day.
(To be Continued)
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