The internet did not sleep.
If anything, it screamed louder as the night turned into morning.
Forums refreshed so fast that threads duplicated themselves. Comment sections overflowed, moderators struggling to pin anything that mattered. Screenshots of panels from Jujutsu Kaisen circulated with red circles, arrows, and captions like "LOOK AT THIS COMPOSITION" or "THIS IS NOT ROOKIE WORK."
The name Karma was everywhere.
No face.
No history.
No interviews.
Just seven chapters that hit like a sledgehammer.
A university student skipped his morning lecture, sitting on his dorm bed, rereading Chapter 3 for the fourth time.
"How does this flow so smoothly?" he muttered. "It's like… it knows where my eyes want to go."
In another city, a middle-aged office worker read it during his commute, thumb frozen mid-scroll as the train lurched forward.
"This doesn't feel like Jump," he whispered. "It feels… dangerous."
A group chat titled "Manga Bros" exploded overnight.
Ken: did u READ karma's thing
Yuta: yeah wtf
Ken: this guy's insane
Yuta: insane or fake
Ken: idc I'm hooked
Fan artists were already sketching curse designs. Someone uploaded a color spread mockup. Another posted a theory thread predicting plot twists that hadn't even happened yet.
They didn't know the author.
But they felt him.
Professional reviewers were more cautious — but no less shaken.
"This is structured like someone who understands failure," one wrote.
"Too controlled for a debut," another noted.
"Either Karma is a veteran hiding under anonymity," a third suggested, "or we're witnessing an anomaly."
A popular critic livestreamed his analysis, replaying panel transitions frame by frame.
"Notice how the silence is used here," he said, voice low. "No dialogue. Just space. That's confidence. Beginners don't do that."
The chat scrolled faster than he could read.
Inside Manga Jump's headquarters, coffee cups piled up.
"Run the metadata again."
"We did."
"Then do it again."
A junior editor stared at the screen. "There's nothing. No art history, no prior uploads, no social media presence."
The senior editor exhaled slowly. "He submitted seven chapters at once."
"Yeah."
"Who does that?"
Silence.
Someone finally said, "Someone who isn't afraid of burning bridges."
That sentence lingered.
The Rivals
A young mangaka stared at his own unfinished manuscript, jaw clenched.
"I spent three years on this," he muttered. "And this guy just shows up?"
Another closed the app entirely, palms sweating.
"I need to redraw everything," she whispered. "If this is the new bar, I'm behind."
Some felt envy.
Some felt fear.
A few felt inspiration.
But none ignored him.
Meanwhile — Somewhere Completely Unrelated
Michatsu Kashimo stood in front of a convenience store fridge, staring blankly at bottled drinks.
"…Too sweet. Too bitter. Why is everything either zero sugar or diabetes?"
He grabbed a random tea and tossed it into his basket.
The automatic door chimed as he walked deeper into the store. Fluorescent lights hummed. A salaryman flipped through magazines nearby.
Michatsu glanced at the rack out of habit.
Manga Jump's latest issue was front and center.
On the cover: "NEW BLOOD SHAKES THE COMPETITION — WHO IS KARMA?"
He paused.
"…Huh."
Then he shrugged.
"Marketing's really getting aggressive these days."
He moved on to instant noodles.
Back at his apartment, Michatsu dropped grocery bags onto the counter and kicked off his shoes.
The system UI flickered into view, small and polite.
┏──────────────────────────────┓
[Daily Status]
Fatigue: Mild Hunger: Moderate Mental State: Stable (Lazy)
┗──────────────────────────────┛
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, tearing open a ramen packet.
Water boiled. Steam rose. He leaned against the counter, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly — news, ads, weather.
He didn't check manga forums.
Didn't check rankings.
Didn't check comments.
Because why would he?
I submitted it, he thought. That's future me's problem.
He ate slowly, staring out the window at passing pedestrians.
Somewhere across the city, people were arguing about his paneling choices.
He burped quietly.
A trending hashtag appeared:
#WhoIsKarma
Someone joked, "Plot twist: Karma is a bored college dropout."
Another replied, "Nah, too skilled."
A conspiracy thread theorized Karma was a disgraced industry veteran.
Another insisted he was an AI-assisted artist.
Someone else claimed he was foreign.
They were all wrong.
Later that afternoon, Michatsu wandered into a stationery store.
He picked up pens, weighed them in his hand.
"These feel cheap," he murmured. "But cheap works."
The clerk smiled politely, unaware.
At the register, the system popped a tiny notification.
[Entertainment Points +1,200]
Source: Passive Engagement
"Hm." He blinked. "Nice."
He didn't ask why.
Outside, the sun dipped low. The city buzzed.
Michatsu stretched, hands in his pockets.
"Man," he sighed, "life's kinda peaceful right now."
Across the internet, people were tearing their hair out trying to figure him out.
He headed home, thinking about dinner.
***
The email arrived at exactly 9:12 a.m.
Not that Michatsu noticed.
At that precise moment, he was standing in his bathroom, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the sink, toothbrush vibrating lazily against his molars. He had long since stopped actively brushing; the motion had become automatic, something his body did while his mind drifted elsewhere.
The mirror reflected a man who looked… aggressively average.
Messy black hair stuck up in directions that suggested either poor sleep or a philosophical rejection of combs. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, drifting between his reflection and nothing in particular. There was a faint crease between his brows — not worry, exactly, but the lingering residue of someone who found thinking mildly inconvenient.
The system interface pulsed faintly at the edge of his vision.
It didn't intrude.
It didn't flash.
It didn't demand.
It simply existed, translucent green, patient.
┏──────────────────────────────┓
[You have received a message]
Sender: Manga Jump Editorial Department
Priority: High
┗──────────────────────────────┛
Michatsu registered it the way one registered background noise — a passing train, a distant siren, the hum of a refrigerator. His eyes flicked toward it for less than a second, toothpaste foam threatening to escape the corner of his mouth.
"…mm."
That was it.
Not what's this?
Not should I check it?
Just a vague, noncommittal sound that meant acknowledged but not processed.
He leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his head slightly to inspect a spot near his jaw.
Did I always have that mole?
The thought occupied him far more fully than the glowing notification.
The system waited.
Michatsu spat into the sink, rinsed, and reached for a towel. He wiped his mouth carefully, then dabbed his face, humming under his breath without realizing it. The tune was nonsensical — something he'd picked up from a commercial years ago and never bothered to forget.
When he glanced back at the mirror, the message icon had minimized itself.
A small, polite rectangle hovered near the corner of his vision.
Waiting.
"Oh right," he muttered, noticing it again. "That thing."
He stared at it for a full two seconds. Three, maybe.
Then he shrugged.
"Later."
He didn't even consciously dismiss it. His brain simply labeled it as Not Morning Material and moved on.
The system hesitated.
For a fraction of a second — imperceptible to anyone but itself — it recalculated. Then it complied, tucking the notification away without protest.
[Message status: Unopened]
Michatsu left the bathroom, already thinking about breakfast.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Manga Jump editorial floor did not explode into chaos.
That would have been easier to handle.
Instead, it tightened.
The kind of tension that settled into shoulders and jaws, that made people breathe just a little shallower than usual. Phones rang, but not frantically. Chairs scraped against the floor with just a bit more force. Coffee machines ran almost constantly, their soft gurgling noise becoming a background rhythm to unease.
At exactly 9:18 a.m., six minutes after the email had been sent, an assistant editor refreshed the inbox for the third time.
Nothing.
He frowned, clicking again, as if the system might have simply failed to load.
Still nothing.
"…Maybe he's asleep," he muttered, though the words carried no conviction. Japan wasn't exactly a place where professional creators slept through the morning, especially ones ambitious enough to submit seven chapters at once.
Across the room, a large screen displayed analytics in clean, sterile graphs. Lines climbed upward at unsettling angles. Views, likes, retention rates — all of them refusing to plateau.
"This isn't normal," said Editor Nakamura quietly.
No one disagreed.
A senior editor stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the data. He had worked in the industry for over twenty years. He had seen promising rookies flame out, veterans reinvent themselves, prodigies burn bright and disappear.
This was… different.
"Seven chapters," he repeated. "No author's note. No social presence. No response."
Another editor leaned forward. "What if he's testing us?"
That idea hung in the air.
"Testing how?" someone asked.
"To see how badly we want him."
A silence followed.
That interpretation made everyone uncomfortable.
The assistant editor refreshed the inbox again. Still unopened.
At 9:31 a.m., someone laughed nervously.
"Maybe Karma just… doesn't check email."
No one joined in.
Instead, a different editor scrolled through reader comments projected on a secondary screen.
"They're calling him arrogant now," she said. "Mysterious. Calculated."
She paused.
"…Some of them like that."
The senior editor exhaled slowly. "Of course they do."
By 9:45 a.m., a second meeting was quietly scheduled.
Not announced — just implied.
People drifted toward the conference room in small groups, carrying tablets, notebooks, and the vague sense that something important was unfolding without their permission.
Inside the room, the door closed softly.
"We don't push," Nakamura said. "Not yet."
"And if he never responds?"
"Then we wait."
A younger editor frowned. "What if another publisher contacts him first?"
Nakamura's gaze hardened. "Then we failed."
That word — failed — sat heavy on the table.
They weren't used to being ignored.
They weren't used to uncertainty.
And somewhere, deep down, every single one of them felt the same uncomfortable thought creeping in:
We are not in control here.
***
The dairy aisle was cold.
Not uncomfortably so, but enough that Michatsu noticed it in a vague, abstract way — the kind of awareness that made him pull his jacket a little tighter without fully understanding why.
He stood in front of the refrigerated section, basket hanging loosely from one hand, eyes scanning rows of milk cartons.
There were… a lot of options.
Regular milk.
Low-fat milk.
High-calcium milk.
Organic milk.
Milk with reassuring green labels.
Milk with unsettlingly minimalist white packaging.
"…Why," he murmured, "is this so complicated?"
He reached for one carton, paused, then pulled his hand back.
Too expensive.
He grabbed another.
Too cheap. Suspiciously cheap.
The system flickered gently into view, sensing indecision.
[Decision Support Available]
[Comparing similar products may reduce cognitive load.]
Michatsu stared at the translucent green text.
"Who asked you," he muttered.
He picked up a regular carton, read the label, then put it back. Then he picked it up again, as if the information might have changed.
It hadn't.
A woman down the aisle coughed politely, waiting for him to move. He shifted half a step to the side, still blocking most of the shelf.
Milk is milk, he told himself. I don't even drink it that often.
He finally grabbed the nearest carton and dropped it into his basket with a soft thud.
"Done," he said aloud, satisfied.
The system did not comment.
As he pushed his basket forward, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He felt it. Noticed it.
Did not take it out.
Probably spam.
He turned into the next aisle, instantly distracted by a discount sign on instant curry.
"Oh," he said softly. "That's a good deal."
He spent the next three minutes comparing flavors, reading the backs of boxes with exaggerated seriousness. Mild. Medium. Extra spicy. One had a cartoon mascot he vaguely disliked.
He chose medium.
At the checkout, the cashier scanned his items.
"Would you like a receipt?"
Michatsu hesitated.
The system helpfully chimed in.
[Receipts can aid future budgeting.]
"No," Michatsu said firmly. "I believe in living free."
The cashier blinked, then smiled politely.
Outside, the city moved on. People walked past him while checking their phones, some with expressions of excitement, confusion, even frustration.
One man laughed aloud while reading something.
"Who is this Karma guy?" he said to no one in particular.
Michatsu adjusted the grocery bag on his arm and headed home, thoughts already drifting toward dinner.
Milk sloshed gently in the bag.
The world continued to spin faster.
He did not notice.
**********
By the time Michatsu got home, it was already early afternoon.
Not that he noticed the time precisely — only that the sunlight slanted through his apartment window at an angle that suggested the day had moved on without consulting him. The grocery bag rustled softly as he set it down on the counter, the thin plastic handles stretching and snapping back into shape like tired rubber bands.
He unpacked slowly.
Milk went into the fridge.
Curry boxes stacked neatly on the shelf.
Instant noodles were placed into their designated corner, the one he mentally labeled emergency supplies even though he dipped into it almost daily.
He paused, staring at the inside of the refrigerator.
"…I should clean this soon."
The thought was sincere.
It was also immediately ignored.
He closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. The apartment was quiet in a comfortable way — no noise except the distant hum of traffic and the occasional creak of the building settling.
The system interface shimmered faintly into view.
Not abruptly.
Not intrusively.
Just enough to be noticed.
┏──────────────────────────────┓
[Reminder]
You have 1 unopened message.
┗──────────────────────────────┛
Michatsu blinked.
"Oh. That thing again."
He stared at the small glowing rectangle for a long moment, head tilted slightly to the side. His expression was neutral, almost curious, like someone examining a household appliance that made a sound they didn't recognize.
"…After lunch," he decided.
The system did not argue.
It did, however, adjust.
The reminder slid to a different corner of his vision, smaller now, but unmistakably present — like a sticky note that refused to fall off.
Michatsu moved on.
He filled a pot with water, set it on the stove, and turned the knob. The flame ignited with a soft whoomph. He stood there watching it, hands resting on the counter, shoulders relaxed.
Waiting.
The system pulsed again.
[Entertainment Points Update]
+7,800 points
Source: Sustained Reader Engagement
"Huh," he murmured. "Neat."
He did not question why the number was higher than usual.
He did not check statistics.
He did not open analytics.
He simply accepted it in the same way one accepted a slightly larger paycheck than expected — pleasant, but not something to dwell on.
As the water heated, his phone vibrated again on the table.
This time, it buzzed longer.
He glanced at it.
The screen lit up briefly with a preview.
Unknown Sender
Subject: Regarding Your Submission
Michatsu frowned.
"…Spam's getting creative."
He flipped the phone face-down and returned his attention to the pot.
Behind him, the system hesitated.
For exactly 0.4 seconds.
Then another window slid open, overlapping the previous reminder.
┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
[System Advisory]
Ignoring key opportunities may delay progress.
This message can be reviewed at any time.
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛
"Yeah, yeah," Michatsu muttered, tearing open a curry packet. "Everything's always an opportunity."
He stirred the sauce absentmindedly, watching the steam rise. His thoughts wandered — not toward manga, or competitions, or readers — but toward whether he should buy eggs next time.
I'm out, right? Or do I still have one?
The system watched.
It did not escalate.
Yet.
Elsewhere, Very Far Away from Curry
At Manga Jump headquarters, someone slammed their pen down.
"He still hasn't opened it."
The room was quieter than before.
Not tense — focused.
"Try again tomorrow," Nakamura said calmly. "No pressure."
"But—"
"No pressure," he repeated.
Outside the conference room, screens continued to tick upward.
Views passed another threshold.
Notifications piled up.
The name Karma refused to disappear.
Back in the Apartment
Michatsu ate his curry straight from the bowl, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The TV murmured in the background, some afternoon rerun playing quietly.
He paused mid-bite, eyes drifting upward as the system flickered once more.
[Optional Reminder]
Your trajectory is shifting.
"…That sounds ominous," he said flatly.
He took another bite.
"Probably nothing."
The system dimmed.
The world outside accelerated.
Michatsu chewed slowly, thinking about nothing at all.
It began the way most modern disasters did.
Quietly.
On a forum.
With a single comment that should have been ignored.
User: PanelHunter77
Am I crazy or does this "Karma" manga feel… too polished? Like, debut-level polished doesn't explain this.
At first, it sat there.
Five likes.
A couple of shrug emojis.
One reply calling the user paranoid.
Then someone quoted it.
User: InkBurner
Yeah, no. Chapter 1 alone had better panel economy than half the weekly roster.
That was when it tipped.
Threads multiplied.
Screenshots appeared — cropped panels, circled expressions, red arrows pointing at gutter spacing and negative space like crime scene evidence.
"Look at this page turn."
"This silence panel lasts EXACTLY three beats."
"Who debuts knowing how to weaponize stillness?"
Someone compiled a comparison chart.
Someone else wrote a three-paragraph breakdown titled:
"Why Karma Is Either a Veteran Mangaka or Not Human"
By evening, the post had been shared outside the original forum.
Twitter picked it up first.
Short clips of pages flipping.
Zoom-ins on character eyes.
Slow pans across action panels with dramatic music slapped on top.
"THIS is a debut???"
"Nah bro trained in a cave."
"Tell me this isn't industry-level composition."
Hashtags formed.
#KarmaWho
#MangaJumpMonster
#DebutMyAss
On YouTube, analysis videos began appearing — fast, breathless, speculative.
"Okay so hear me out," one creator said, pointing aggressively at a paused panel. "This shadow placement? This isn't amateur instinct. This is someone who's failed before."
Comments exploded.
"DISGRACED VET THEORY CONFIRMED"
"Nah, reincarnated."
"Could be an AI??"
"STOP IT. AI CAN'T FEEL LIKE THIS."
Reddit was worse.
Entire megathreads sprang up overnight.
One user claimed Karma's art style subtly shifted between chapters — proof, they argued, of a team masquerading as one person.
Another insisted the pacing resembled early classics — manga that didn't even exist in this world — and accused Karma of plagiarizing a feeling rather than content.
Critics joined in reluctantly.
"Well," one columnist wrote, "whether intentional or not, Karma demonstrates a rare understanding of emotional restraint. The kind that usually only comes after years of overindulgence."
A rival mangaka, anonymous but verified, posted a single line:
"If this is a rookie, I wasted ten years."
That quote went viral.
At Manga Jump, the internal chat was unreadable.
Editors argued.
PR panicked.
Someone suggested reaching out again — gently.
Someone else warned that pushing might scare Karma off entirely.
"He hasn't said a word," an assistant said quietly.
Screens showed the numbers.
Readers climbing.
Comments refreshing faster than they could be moderated.
Speculation stacking on speculation until no one remembered the original manga anymore — only the absence of its creator.
The mystery.
The silence.
The author who dropped seven chapters of surgical precision and vanished.
Back online, the theories turned almost reverent.
"Maybe he's watching."
"Maybe this is his test."
"What if he never intended to win?"
One post summed it up best.
"The scariest part? Karma hasn't reacted at all. That confidence is unreal."
Somewhere Else
Michatsu Kashimo lay on his bed, phone resting on his chest, eyes half-lidded.
He scrolled lazily through a shopping app.
"…Do I need a new toothbrush?" he muttered.
Outside, the internet burned.
Inside, the system remained silent — patiently waiting.