As one of Japan's "Big Three" manga publishers—alongside Shogakukan and Shueisha—Kodansha ran an extremely strict selection process for Weekly Young Magazine's top newcomer award: the Manga Grand Prize.
Typically, it went through three rounds:
1) Preliminary Screening
A basic filter to check whether the entry met requirements—no disallowed themes, whether the style fit the magazine's readership, and so on.
2) Editorial Review Meeting
A cross-review by the entire YM editorial department. This was the backbone of the competition—usually more than 95% of entries were cut here, leaving only 30 works to advance to the finals.
3) Final Judges' Review
A judging committee made up of the Editor-in-Chief, veteran editors, and industry experts would select eight final nominees from the 30 finalists, then determine the winners: Selected, Runner-up, and Honorable Mention.
Of those three stages, what Kurokawa Aoi feared most… wasn't the final judging.
It was the second stage—the editorial review meeting.
"I have absolute confidence in your work, Akiyama-san. Perfect Blue is outstanding—no matter where you put it, it will shine."
Before explaining why, Kurokawa made sure to affirm Akiyama Satoru's talent.
Then her tone shifted.
"But… you're a complete unknown, and Perfect Blue isn't the kind of manga people understand by 'skimming it twice.' Do you know how many works passed preliminary screening this time?"
"How many?"
"Nine hundred forty-two." Kurokawa's voice hit like a gavel.
The Manga Grand Prize wasn't like the monthly newcomer award. It only happened once every six months—so the submission volume was exactly what you'd expect.
To pick 30 finalists out of nearly 1,000 entries… the workload was monstrous.
"And when the editors are drowning in work, it can happen—works that are 'hard to parse' get treated like mediocre fluff and tossed aside."
At last, Akiyama understood what she meant.
1. Perfect Blue needed careful reading. If someone reviewed it too casually, they might "not get it"… and bury it.
2. And because Akiyama was a blank-slate rookie who'd never even entered the monthly award, the chance of that "casual misread" happening went up.
Fair.
He could accept it. The original story itself was a stream-of-consciousness work built around dissociation, full of blurred lines between reality and illusion.
It was like this: when a deep, challenging work came from a famous creator, people were more forgiving. They'd assume there was meaning, and they'd patiently look for it—even if the first glance felt ordinary.
But if it came from some nobody—someone they'd never heard of—then trying an "arthouse" style just made people roll their eyes. Pretentious. Empty mystery. They'd toss it and move on.
The fact that Kurokawa had even considered that possibility said everything about how much she cared about this manga.
"If we can skip the editorial review meeting and go straight to the final judges," Kurokawa said, "it'll be much better for us."
What she didn't say was the other reason:
She couldn't be sure that man in the editorial department wouldn't target her again. Cross-review made it harder, sure—but not impossible.
"Then… what's the price?" Akiyama asked.
From any angle, being fast-tracked to the final stage sounded perfect.
But the way she'd explained so much meant this "internal recommendation" wasn't simple.
A flicker of bitterness crossed Kurokawa's face.
Akiyama was too sharp. Every time she tried to lay the groundwork, he went straight for the pressure point.
"The price is this: if we use internal recommendation to enter the finals… the pressure on both of us will be beyond what you're imagining."
In theory, every full editor had one slot to recommend an entry directly into the finals.
But in a major award like this, that slot was like a powerful privilege—something top editors could use confidently, while ordinary editors… especially editors with weak results… didn't dare touch lightly.
Because a slot was a resource.
Resources were limited. If you used your recommendation, you were effectively taking a place that another editor might have pushed forward. That meant your entry would instantly become the focus of everyone's attention.
And Kurokawa wasn't merely "underperforming."
She had no results at all.
Using that privilege now was like the class dead-last suddenly demanding the best study resources—resources even the middle-ranked students were afraid to use. And yet the dead-last wanted them anyway.
If Kurokawa had previously been someone "the department didn't need"…
then after this? She'd become someone "the department could do without."
"But… how does that affect me?" Akiyama asked, genuinely puzzled.
He understood her pressure.
He didn't understand his.
Why did she keep saying "we"?
"If the entry becomes a focal point in the finals… it could get targeted by others…"
Kurokawa's voice weakened, as if she hadn't expected him to ask that.
"But that only matters if the work isn't good enough, right?" Akiyama said.
"Kurokawa-san—do you not have confidence in our manga?"
"Of course I do."
"Then there's no pressure on me."
Akiyama's voice went firm.
If the recommendation succeeded, he gained fame and money.
If it failed, Kurokawa carried the blame. He'd simply submit his next work. At worst, he'd get called a "nepotism pick," take a few jeers—nothing that actually hurt.
Editors asking the creator's opinion was standard procedure, sure.
But Kurokawa had deliberately tried to frame him as someone sharing the risk—like he was also "taking responsibility."
It was strange.
"…So you were saying that on purpose," Akiyama continued. "You were trying to erase my guilt. Because once you break precedent and use that recommendation slot, I become the one who pays nothing… and gets everything."
"…Nothing gets past you, Akiyama-san."
Kurokawa let out a bitter laugh—completely convinced now.
Yes. She wanted to recommend him directly.
But she also feared she was being presumptuous: What if Akiyama refuses because he doesn't want me taking that kind of risk?
Truthfully, she didn't care about herself anymore. She'd already lost once. She already had nothing.
This was just her last all-in.
She didn't want Akiyama to hold back for her sake.
Kurokawa lowered her gaze. Her lashes trembled. Instinctively she reached toward her pocket for a cigarette—then remembered they were in an izakaya and grabbed her beer instead.
And at that exact moment—
Akiyama lifted his glass too.
"Do it."
"Huh?"
Kurokawa froze and looked up.
"Kurokawa-san, I'm not the kind of gentle man you're imagining," Akiyama said with blunt honesty, grinning. "I only ever think about myself. I'm not going to make you give up the recommendation just because you're taking a risk for some apprentice."
Under those exhausted, world-weary eyes…
Kurokawa was actually a kind person.
She was the only one who never treated Akiyama like "just an apprentice." She'd invited him to eat like an equal. She'd thought ahead for him like an equal.
Maybe it was a subconscious habit she'd developed—surviving as a woman in a harsh workplace.
But Akiyama wasn't romantic.
All he cared about was how much money he could make, and how soon the prize money would land in his hands.
If Kurokawa quitting on the spot could somehow buy him a Grand Prize victory… he'd nod without hesitation.
"Kurokawa-san, we're just using each other. I'm using you to debut—and you're using me to keep your seat in the editorial department."
"So don't burden yourself. If you want to do it, then do it."
He paused, meeting her stunned stare, and spoke slowly—word by word:
"And I've never once believed that Perfect Blue will lose to any other entry in the finals!"
Kurokawa's pupils widened sharply.
After a long beat, she clenched her jaw, lifted her beer, and clinked it hard against his.
She tipped her head back, drained it in one go—and finally let out a relieved smile.
"Yeah!!"