April marked the heart of spring.
Haruki Ishida opened his eyes from the bed, a wave of fatigue washing over him. His limbs felt heavy, sore, and utterly devoid of strength.
"My head… it hurts. Where… where am I?"
He sat up slowly, glancing around. This wasn't the run-down apartment he had lived in for the past five years. Instead, it was an unfamiliar yet oddly familiar room. The air reeked faintly of mildew and something older, fouler.
"Did I… get kidnapped? But why? I'm just an ordinary office worker. Who would bother kidnapping me?"
Squinting in the gloom, Haruki noticed the curtains were drawn tight, blotting out any trace of sunlight. And on the wall—a photograph. A picture of a girl.
"What…? Why are there so many photos?"
Hiss—
Suddenly, as he looked at the image, a sharp pain stabbed through his mind like a needle being jammed into his brain. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
Memories—fragments and flashes—rushed through him.
"Japan… manga culture… the rise of the entertainment age…"
He didn't know how long he sat there, gasping for breath, his back against the cold floor. Finally, the pain faded, and clarity returned.
"It hurts like hell," he muttered.
What he had just experienced was no hallucination. The pain had brought with it a torrent of memories—not his own.
He understood now. He had transmigrated—into another world, one similar to Earth, yet not the same. This was a parallel world.
The old-fashioned trope of time-travel had actually happened to him. Haruki was stunned.
There was no car accident, no terminal illness. He was simply overjoyed from receiving his year-end bonus and had gone drinking with a few colleagues.
Five people, three bottles—white liquor. Nothing outrageous.
He blacked out from the alcohol, and when he woke up... this.
This world too was called Earth, but the resemblance to his original world ended there. The country was no longer Japan, but Nihon, a powerful cultural superstate. Historical events were scrambled and divergent. Neighboring nations were like vassals in orbit of Nihon's creative and economic influence.
And the person whose body he now occupied—was a 16-year-old boy named Aoki Junichi.
Yes. Just sixteen.
A second-year middle schooler, preparing for the high school entrance exams.
But the original Junichi had taken his own life—by overdosing on sleeping pills. Depression had slowly eaten away at him until he gave in.
Through Junichi's fragmented memories, Haruki could see it all.
His childhood was steeped in loneliness. His parents had divorced when he was young. His mother had moved far away, and his father had been arrested three years ago for selling illegal substances—sentenced to eight years in prison.
Although both parents were technically still alive, their absence might as well have been death. Junichi grew up without guidance, without love, without stability.
The stereotypical origin story of countless protagonists.
"The great orphanage of destiny," Haruki muttered dryly. "The birthplace of all troubled protagonists. Wanna start a club?"
Without family support, Junichi had grown up rebellious—loud-mouthed, arrogant, a schoolyard bully. But from Haruki's more mature perspective, the boy's actions weren't malicious. He was just misguided—a product of neglect, lashing out for attention.
Junichi had once forced his classmates to serve him in the cafeteria. Still, he never committed any heinous acts. His mischief stayed within the boundaries of teenage cruelty.
But then came her.
A transfer student—Shirahashi Yukine—a hearing-impaired girl who had been homeschooled all her life. It was her first time attending a public school.
Unfortunately, Junichi, egged on by his peers, teased her. He went too far, and Yukine eventually dropped out.
That moment marked a turning point.
Junichi had felt something crack inside. Guilt, confusion, and a growing sense of shame began to haunt him. Aiko's face would frequently appear in his thoughts. He became withdrawn, ostracized by his classmates, and the regret deepened. Depression took root.
And now, Haruki was here. In Junichi's body.
A broken boy in a broken room.
"Damn… I didn't expect this."
Haruki stood in silence, absorbing Junichi's emotions—the guilt, sorrow, helplessness. He clenched his fists.
"Don't worry, Junichi. I'll make it right. That girl... if I ever get the chance, I'll make amends."
In that moment, as if acknowledging Haruki's resolve, the two souls merged completely.
Junichi Aoki was reborn.
[Ding-dong. Comic Creation System activated.]
A mechanical voice echoed in Haruki's—no, Junichi's—mind. He froze.
"A system? Wait, don't tell me… is this one of those transmigration cheat systems?"
Comic Creation System…?
"What can you do?" he asked out loud.
No reply.
"System? Assistant AI? Any tutorial at all?"
Still nothing.
"This has got to be the worst beginner's experience ever."
[Ding-dong. Beginner's Manual unlocked.]
A translucent interface appeared before his eyes, displaying a system guide.
Junichi skimmed through the manual.
The premise was simple but powerful. The system allowed him to create original manga. The better the quality and the more popular it became, the more powerful rewards he could draw from the work.
The rewards ranged from skills to supernatural powers—even legendary items—if they appeared in the manga.
If he wrote a manga like Naruto, he could possibly gain chakra. If he created a world like Bleach, he might draw a Zanpakuto or spiritual abilities.
It was like the most overpowered gacha system—one where he could influence the prize pool himself.
But luck was everything.
The draw rate for high-tier rewards? Abysmally low—think SSSSSSS-rank difficulty.
To improve his chances, he had to create manga that captivated the masses.
Otherwise, he'd be lucky to draw something like "Passerby C's Left Sock" or "Mystic Nose Hair."
Thankfully, manga culture in this world was hyper-developed. This was a society that revered manga as the peak of cultural expression.
Junichi nodded. "At least the foundation is here."
His stomach growled. Right—he hadn't eaten in days.
"Ugh… this place is a disaster."
He took the time to look around properly. The apartment was a warzone—trash, discarded clothes, empty ramen cups, dirty dishes. A true cave of despair.
In the kitchen, he found a half-eaten sausage that had already gone bad and the last cup of instant noodles.
He boiled some water and washed his face in the meantime.
For the first time, he looked at his new face—slightly pale, hair too long and messy, but undeniably good-looking.
When the water was ready, he poured it into the noodles and waited.
Five minutes later, he slurped greedily, sighing with relief.
While eating, Junichi opened his phone and began researching manga trends in this world.
And what he saw blew him away.
All the legendary manga of his previous life—One Piece, Dragon Ball, Attack on Titan, Demon Slayer—none of them existed here.
It was a clean slate.
He could recreate them—or improve on them. And the manga industry here was far more intense and widespread than in his original world. Manga was the heart of global culture. Everything—novels, anime, movies—spun off from manga.
Moreover, the competitive landscape was brutal.
Dozens of manga magazines from different provinces fought to gain dominance—just like the Warring States period.
Their weapons? Original, high-quality manga.
And above all else, there was a system of rankings every mangaka aspired to:
The Eight Kings. The Four Emperors. The One Emperor.
Corny names? Absolutely.
But these were real titles—honors awarded by the National Cultural Association, inspired by the work of legendary mangaka Akihiko Kyuusei. His world-famous manga had used this very ranking system.
Now, it was real.
The Eight Kings—eight of the best mangaka.
The Four Emperors—legends among legends.
And the One Emperor… the title reserved for the greatest creator of all time.
No one had claimed it yet.
"Tch. Cringey as hell," Junichi said with a smirk, "but if I can get it... that's badass."
He placed his empty cup on the table.
Now came the real problem.
Junichi didn't know how to draw.