The room didn't change.
That was the problem.
Michatsu noticed it the moment he stepped back inside Manga Jump's building—same neutral colors, same polite smiles, same silence that felt engineered rather than accidental. If the previous meeting had been about him, this one was about what he represented.
He could feel it before anyone said a word.
This wasn't about whether they liked the manga anymore.
This was about whether they wanted to own it.
He sat where he was told, again near the middle of the table. Different room this time. Larger. Longer table. More chairs. Some empty. Some deliberately occupied.
Across from him sat Saito Haruka once more, posture impeccable. To her left was Tanabe Ryo. To her right, a man Michatsu hadn't met yet—older, glasses rimless, eyes sharp but tired.
"This is Kawashima," Saito said. "Head of Publishing Strategy."
Kawashima inclined his head. "A pleasure."
Michatsu returned the gesture.
No one rushed.
They never did.
1. Numbers Speak First
Kuroda Emi wasn't present today. Instead, a projector hummed softly to life, throwing graphs and tables onto the far wall. Clean lines. Minimal color.
Kawashima spoke while they loaded.
"We'll begin with performance metrics."
Michatsu kept his face neutral, even as the first chart appeared.
Views.
Retention.
Completion rate.
They were… high.
Not explosively viral—but dangerously steady.
Tanabe tapped the table lightly. "Seven chapters. No author name. No promotional push. And yet—"
He gestured at the screen.
"Readers stayed."
Kawashima adjusted his glasses. "More importantly, they returned."
Michatsu absorbed the information quietly. Inside, his thoughts moved slower than usual—not panic, not excitement. Just awareness.
This is where things get real.
2. The Question of Launch
Saito folded her hands.
"Manga Jump is prepared," she said, "to formally serialize your work."
There it was.
Not dramatic.
Not announced.
Just… stated.
"We're considering a launch within the main weekly magazine."
Michatsu's fingers pressed together slightly.
Weekly.
That alone carried weight.
Kawashima continued. "Initial run. Front-half placement. No cover yet."
No cover yet.
Tanabe added, "We don't rush those."
Michatsu nodded slowly. "I understand."
Saito watched him carefully. "You don't seem surprised."
"I expected the discussion," he said. "Not the certainty."
A faint smile touched her lips.
3. Business, Without the Word
Kawashima leaned forward.
"There are realities we need to address."
Michatsu waited.
"Serialization cadence," Kawashima said. "Deadlines. Editorial oversight."
"I'm aware."
"Long-form planning," Tanabe added. "You mentioned three hundred chapters."
"Yes."
"That's ambitious."
"It's structured," Michatsu replied. "Not improvised."
Saito interjected smoothly. "We're not asking you to shorten the vision."
Kawashima nodded. "We're asking how flexible you are."
Michatsu thought for a moment.
"On presentation?" he said. "Yes. On core narrative? No."
The answer was simple.
Too simple.
And yet—no one objected.
4. Ownership, Carefully Framed
Saito slid a thin folder across the table. It stopped short of him—close enough to acknowledge, far enough to not presume.
"This is not a contract," she said. "It's an outline."
Michatsu didn't touch it yet.
"Rights," Kawashima said. "Domestic first. International later, depending on performance."
"Adaptations?" Michatsu asked.
Tanabe's eyebrow twitched.
"Early," Tanabe said carefully. "But… discussed."
Michatsu nodded once.
"I'm not opposed," he said. "But the manga comes first."
Saito smiled again, that same controlled warmth.
"That's the correct answer."
5. Timing Is a Weapon
Kawashima changed the slide.
A calendar appeared.
Highlighted dates. Blank spaces. Deadlines that weren't labeled yet but clearly meant something.
"We're targeting a soft launch," he said. "Two chapters per week initially."
Michatsu blinked. Just once.
"That's aggressive."
"We know," Tanabe said. "That's why we're asking now."
Saito added, "We wouldn't suggest it if we didn't believe you could handle it."
Silence.
Michatsu considered the implications. Workload. Pressure. Visibility.
This would expose me faster, he thought.
But it would also cement momentum.
"I can manage," he said.
No bravado. No hesitation.
Just fact.
6. The Thing No One Says
The conversation slowed after that.
Not because they'd run out of topics—but because they'd reached the part where words mattered less than intent.
Saito closed the folder and pulled it back slightly.
"We'll proceed," she said, "assuming cooperation continues."
Michatsu nodded.
"We'll announce the serialization internally first," Kawashima added. "Publicly, shortly after."
Tanabe leaned back.
"And for what it's worth," he said, "you've stirred interest."
Michatsu didn't ask where.
He didn't need to.
7. Outside the Room
When the meeting ended, it didn't end cleanly.
There were polite goodbyes. Handshakes that still didn't happen. Doors opening and closing with soft clicks.
Michatsu walked out alone.
The hallway felt longer this time.
Not physically.
Mentally.
They're moving, he thought.
The machine is moving.
And whether he liked it or not—
He was inside it now.
***
8. The Quiet After Yes
The elevator ride down was silent.
Not the awkward kind—the deliberate, corporate kind, where silence wasn't absence but expectation. Michatsu stood alone near the back wall, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, staring at his own faint reflection in the brushed metal doors.
Karma, he reminded himself again.
You're Karma here.
The elevator chimed softly at every floor, but no one entered. Manga Jump's upper levels were insulated like that—restricted, controlled, a little unreal.
When the doors finally opened onto the lobby, the noise returned all at once.
Phones ringing.
Shoes against tile.
Voices overlapping in polite, urgent murmurs.
The real world, back on.
Michatsu stepped out and immediately felt it—the difference between being unknown and being noticed. No one stared. No one pointed. But a few glances lingered just a second too long.
They know, he thought.
Or they know someone knows.
9. Internal Currents
He didn't leave immediately.
Instead, he drifted toward a seating area near the lobby windows, pretending to check his phone. He didn't actually need to—there were no new messages, no system alerts, nothing demanding his attention.
But he listened.
Not actively. Not suspiciously.
Just… passively.
"…did you hear—?"
"…seven chapters at once, apparently—"
"…retention's insane—"
"…no author profile—"
The fragments floated through the air, never finishing, never confirming. They weren't meant for him—but they orbited him anyway.
This is how it starts, he realized.
Not announcements. Not headlines. Whispers.
He exhaled slowly.
10. Upstairs, Decisions Multiply
Three floors above him, a different conversation unfolded.
Saito Haruka stood near the window of another meeting room, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed on the city below. Tanabe sat at the table, scrolling through performance metrics on his tablet.
Kawashima remained standing, reviewing notes.
"We move carefully," Kawashima said. "The moment we push too hard, others will notice."
Tanabe snorted softly. "They already have."
Saito didn't turn around. "Let them."
"That confidence assumes control," Kawashima replied.
Saito finally faced them.
"We have control," she said. "For now."
Tanabe looked up. "And if another magazine makes a move?"
Saito's lips curved slightly.
"Then we move faster."
11. The Author, Elsewhere
Michatsu left the building fifteen minutes later.
No escort.
No ceremony.
Just another person exiting into the city.
He stopped by a convenience store on the corner, bought a canned coffee and a packaged sandwich, and stood near the window while unwrapping it.
The coffee was lukewarm.
He drank it anyway.
They're planning a launch, he thought, biting into the sandwich.
Weekly. Main magazine.
It felt surreal.
Like overhearing plans about someone else.
He checked his reflection in the glass—cap low, glasses faintly fogged, mask still in place. An anonymous figure among dozens.
Good, he thought.
Stay that way.
12. A System That Says Nothing
For once, the system didn't interrupt him.
No quests.
No rewards.
No congratulatory messages.
That silence felt heavier than any alert.
He finished the sandwich, tossed the wrapper, and started walking—no destination in mind. Just movement.
Past storefronts.
Past a small bookstore.
Past a train station entrance humming with commuters.
Three hundred chapters, he thought again.
He didn't feel daunted.
He felt… committed.
13. Elsewhere, the Machine Turns Louder
By evening, internal emails began circulating.
Subject lines carefully neutral.
Re: New Serialization Candidate
Re: Scheduling Adjustments Q3
Re: Resource Allocation – Editorial
Names weren't used.
They didn't need to be.
Editors talked. Assistants speculated. Veteran authors noticed shifts in tone—requests for earlier drafts, sudden interest in supernatural genres, subtle questions about long-term arcs.
No one said Karma aloud.
But everyone felt the ripple.
14. Back to Normal
Michatsu returned home just after sunset.
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag by the door, and stood in the small apartment for a moment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of trains.
Normal.
He liked normal.
He changed clothes, cooked instant noodles, and ate them straight from the pot while standing at the counter. No ceremony. No reflection.
Just food.
Only after did he sit at his desk.
The translucent system screen flickered faintly into existence, idle.
He stared at it.
"Not yet," he murmured.
The screen dimmed obediently.
15. Somewhere Between Draft and Destiny
As night settled over the city, Manga Jump's building glowed quietly in the distance, unaware—or perhaps entirely aware—of the gravity slowly forming around one anonymous author.
Plans were being drawn.
Calendars filled.
Lines crossed.
And Michatsu Kashimo?
He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about nothing in particular.
The story would continue tomorrow.
For now—
Life was still simple.
***
16. Somewhere Else, Someone Frowns
Rivals didn't sense danger the way amateurs did.
There was no panic.
No alarms.
Just… discomfort.
In a small but well-lit studio apartment on the opposite side of the city, a man sat cross-legged at a low desk, stylus hovering above a tablet. The screen showed a half-finished page—clean lines, practiced composition, nothing wrong with it.
That was the problem.
He hadn't touched it in ten minutes.
Instead, his eyes kept drifting to the second monitor beside him.
A forum page.
No headline.
No pinned announcement.
Just a thread that shouldn't have been as active as it was.
"Anyone else notice this new supernatural submission?"
He scrolled.
Not fast. Not eager.
Slowly. Carefully.
Replies stacked one after another—not explosive praise, not shallow hype. Just… engagement.
Long comments.
Thoughtful breakdowns.
People arguing over character intent.
The man frowned.
"That's odd," he muttered.
He checked the timestamp.
Seven chapters. Uploaded together.
No author profile.
No social media link.
No history.
His stylus tapped lightly against the desk.
"That's… not how new authors do things."
17. Veteran Eyes
Across town, in a cramped office cluttered with manuscripts and energy drink cans, another artist leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
He wasn't reading comments.
He was watching graphs.
A private analytics dashboard—nothing official, nothing illicit. Just years of habit telling him where to look.
A line was climbing.
Not sharply.
But steadily.
Too steadily.
"Retention's weird," he said to no one.
He'd been serializing for six years. He knew how readers behaved. He knew when interest spiked and when it decayed.
This line didn't decay.
It leveled.
Then climbed again.
"That doesn't happen without marketing," he murmured.
He pulled up the series info.
Author: Karma
He snorted softly.
"Cute."
But his eyes stayed on the screen longer than he meant them to.
18. Editors Who Aren't Supposed to Care
In a different building entirely—one that wasn't Manga Jump—an assistant editor paused mid-scroll.
She'd been reviewing submissions when a coworker leaned over.
"Hey," he said casually, "have you seen this?"
He slid his phone across the desk.
She glanced.
Then looked again.
"…That's Jump," she said.
"Unofficial," he replied. "For now."
Her fingers twitched.
Seven chapters.
No announcement.
Yet readers were already dissecting panel flow and narrative restraint.
"That's not beginner pacing," she said quietly.
"No," he agreed. "It's… confident."
They exchanged a look.
Neither smiled.
19. The Quiet Rivalry
Back in his apartment, the first artist finally closed the forum tab.
He stared at his own page again.
It was good.
He knew it was good.
So why did it suddenly feel… fragile?
He saved the file and leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
"Probably nothing," he told himself.
But his hand hovered over the keyboard again, reopening the forum.
Just one more look.
20. Meanwhile, Oblivious
At the exact same time, Michatsu Kashimo stood in front of a vending machine, squinting at the options.
"Why do they all taste the same," he muttered.
He pressed a button at random.
A canned drink clunked down.
He caught it, popped the tab, and took a sip.
"…Yep. Same."
He leaned against the machine, staring at nothing in particular, completely unaware that several professionals—people who had survived this industry for years—were now subconsciously adjusting their pace because of a name he hadn't even internalized yet.
Karma.
To him, it was still just a mask.
21. A Disturbance Without a Source
That was how rivalries really began.
Not with declarations.
Not with confrontation.
But with small moments of doubt.
A delay before hitting "publish."
A reread of one's own work that suddenly felt less certain.
A question whispered into empty rooms:
Who is this person?
And more dangerously—
Why do they feel ahead of me?
22. The Chapter Breathes Out
Night settled.
Windows lit up across the city.
In different rooms, on different screens, the same title remained open a few seconds longer than necessary.
No one made a move yet.
But everyone remembered the name.
And Michatsu?
He finished his drink, tossed the can, and headed home, thinking about what to cook tomorrow.
***
23. The Wrong Conclusion
The man didn't sleep well.
That alone annoyed him.
He'd gone to bed thinking about panel layouts and woke up thinking about upload timing—an unhealthy loop he thought he'd outgrown years ago. The morning light crept through the curtains of his apartment, thin and pale, cutting across the cluttered desk where his tablet still lay untouched.
He sat up and rubbed his face.
"Get a grip," he muttered.
The kettle clicked on in the kitchen. While it heated, he checked his phone—habit more than intent.
The thread had doubled overnight.
He stared at the screen.
Not because of praise.
Not because of excitement.
But because of language.
"This feels industry-polished."
"No way this is a first-time author."
"Look at the restraint in chapter three."
"This reeks of a veteran playing anonymous."
He scrolled slowly, jaw tightening.
Veteran.
That word lodged itself in his head.
"Of course," he said quietly. "That's what this is."
The kettle whistled, sharp and insistent. He ignored it.
Seven chapters uploaded cleanly.
No visible corrections.
No experimental wobble.
No desperation.
"This isn't a newcomer," he decided. "This is someone hiding."
The thought settled into place with unsettling ease.
24. A Theory Forms
He poured hot water into his cup, barely noticing the steam fogging his glasses. His mind was already building the narrative.
A burned-out pro.
Someone who left the industry.
Someone testing the waters anonymously.
It made sense.
Too much sense.
"Probably from a rival magazine," he muttered. "Testing Jump's systems."
He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. Too bitter. He didn't bother fixing it.
If that were true…
Then this wasn't just competition.
It was infiltration.
25. Elsewhere, A Different Angle
In another studio, a younger mangaka paced in slow circles, phone pressed to her ear.
"I'm telling you," she said quietly, "this doesn't feel organic."
A pause.
"Yes, I read it."
Another pause, longer.
"…No. That's the problem. It's too clean."
She stopped pacing and stared at her wall, where character sheets were taped in uneven rows.
"Someone like that doesn't just appear."
Her call ended without ceremony.
She exhaled and sat heavily at her desk.
If this Karma person was a veteran, then the playing field had just tilted—and not in her favor.
26. Editors Whisper, Authors Guess
Speculation never stayed in one place.
By mid-afternoon, private group chats buzzed—not with gossip, but with careful phrasing.
"Anyone recognize the pacing?"
"Feels familiar, doesn't it?"
"Reminds me of early serialization-era control."
Names weren't dropped.
But thoughts circled.
Veterans recognized patterns—or thought they did.
And when people didn't have answers, they borrowed explanations that made them feel safer.
A known threat is easier than an unknown one.
27. The Spiral of Assumption
Back in his apartment, the first man reopened the series.
This time, he wasn't reading like a fan.
He was dissecting.
Panel transitions.
Dialogue economy.
Negative space.
He zoomed in on a quiet moment—Yuji sitting alone, expression neutral, the world moving around him.
His lips pressed together.
"That's… deliberate," he said.
Not lucky.
Not instinctual.
Deliberate.
His earlier conclusion hardened into certainty.
"This is someone experienced," he said aloud. "Someone pretending."
And suddenly, his irritation shifted.
Not fear.
Annoyance.
28. Meanwhile, Reality
Michatsu Kashimo stood in line at a grocery store, staring blankly at a rack of discounted snacks.
He picked one up. Put it back. Picked another.
Behind him, someone sighed.
"Sorry," he said absently, stepping forward.
He paid, bowed slightly to the cashier, and walked out into the evening air.
His phone buzzed.
A system notification flickered briefly, then vanished before fully forming—like it had thought better of interrupting.
He didn't notice.
He was thinking about whether instant curry counted as cooking.
29. The Gap Widens
That was the danger of misinterpretation.
While rivals built ghosts and conspiracies, the real person remained untouched by those narratives—free, unburdened, and unknowingly ahead.
They thought Karma was hiding.
They thought he was calculating.
They thought he was playing a long game.
None of them imagined the truth:
That he was just living his life, writing steadily, and not thinking about them at all.
30. An Uneasy Calm
That night, several authors went to bed uneasy.
Not threatened.
But unsettled.
Because something had entered their shared ecosystem that didn't follow the usual rules—and they had no way to measure it.
And the worst part?
They didn't even know if it was watching them back.