[A/N]= hi guys i am back and i will continue publishing the story from tomorrow the wait have ended and btw i have made a new discord server for those who don't want to join telegram and to tell you truth i am more active on discord then telegram so join the discord and share your ideas to me and discord link is in author thought for just comment on this para i will give you discord link personally and if you are lazy just like me then take a screenshot of discord link and search the link in google lens that will send you directly to my server [lol it sound like those gimmick from instagram ]
https://discord.gg/YBXJapKE
Chapter 82
After she got home, Eriri scanned the character sketch, checked the line work, and sent the file to Kasumi Utako.
The next day Kasumi replied at once: she loved the concept and wanted Eriri to handle the image design and all the illustrations for the other characters in her new novel. The fee Kasumi offered was modest, but Eriri didn't hesitate. This was a dream opportunity — illustrating for an author she admired — and money mattered far less than the trust placed in her.
Kasumi was decisive. As soon as she received the first draft she transferred the remainder of the promised payment and added a contingency: if the first print run reached two hundred thousand copies, Eriri would receive an extra commission. Encouraged and nervous in equal measure, Eriri got to work preparing for the next phase.
Wary that her doujin alias, Eri Kashiwagi, might be uncovered, she adjusted the painting style just slightly. Only an extremely observant fan would spot the telltale strokes. Even if someone did recognize the style, Eriri had already decided what she would say — a simple, confident denial. After all, imitation is a part of learning; many great painters began by copying. Eri Kashiwagi was a rising star among doujin artists — why couldn't she borrow a line or two from that school?
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On the other side, Utaha Kasumigaoka opened the image and stopped breathing for a fraction of a second.
The blonde, twin-tailed tsundere heroine — Murasaki Anjie — looked exactly as Utaha had imagined her: alive on the page, full of small, defining gestures that suggested pride and vulnerability at once. The drawing gave Utaha fresh angles on the character's psychology — new quirks and microbeats she added into later scene notes.
"This junior draws beautifully. I've found a gem," Utaha murmured, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips.
She felt confident about the collaboration. With illustrations like these, the novel's initial sales could reach a new level. Utaha knew how much the cover and internal art drove buying decisions; first impressions often came from a single image. A strong illustrator could turn a middling manuscript into a bestseller. Eriri's art would be the icing on the cake.
Utaha noticed, too, a faint echo in the style — something she'd seen on a doujin feed before. A quick scroll through the artists she followed turned up the name Eri Kashiwagi. She paused, then let the thought pass. Money and timing mattered; she couldn't get bogged down in speculation.
---
Another week passed.
The eleventh volume of Slam Dunk finished serialization, and readers were buzzing: Shohoku's hard-fought victory over Shoyo had been a storm of emotion and technique. In the manga, Shohoku had overturned a formidable opponent to reach the semi-finals, and fans praised the team's grit.
Reality, however, rarely mirrors fiction. Toyosaki Academy's basketballers — the "real-life Shohoku" in the metropolitan division — suffered a harsh defeat in the "four into two" match and lost to the veteran Kaijo High School. Eriri didn't attend the game; instead she stayed home to watch the live stream of Makoto Shinkai's announcement. Between sports and cinema, she knew what mattered to her that morning.
She'd wanted to watch the press conference with Lucien so they could share the excitement, but he'd had radiotherapy the day before and was under a short isolation period in the ward. It was disappointing, but not enough to keep her from the stream.
By 10:30 the live room had already filled; viewers and commentators were piling into the broadcast half an hour early. The press conference had industry attention, and the chat—the floating comments that scroll over the screen—filled with anticipation.
Comments flew by in a colorful blur: "I didn't expect a new Shinkai! I can't wait!" "Is Makoto finally announcing a new film?" "Don't get your hopes up—maybe it's retirement news." "I love Makoto's heroines." "The falling-cherry-blossom trope—classic." "Who will be the leads? Will they ever meet?"
Eriri read the lines and bounced on the bed in a mix of impatience and giddy anticipation. "He must be watching this too," she told herself, picturing Lucien's excited face. She crawled off the bed and paced, then fell back onto the mattress and hugged her teddy bear until the nerves eased.
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Meanwhile, in the ward Lucien had spent the morning drawing more than ten pages for a personal project. The piece he was sketching was inspired by a title that had lodged in his head after reading Your Name: We Still Don't Know the Name of the Flower We Saw That Day — the anime-turned-franchise commonly known by its Japanese title, Anohana: The Flower We Saw That Day. He'd only watched the original anime, never read the manga; the line "name" in the two titles struck him as a creative prompt. On a whim he attempted a short visual sketch inspired by that mood — an exercise, a challenge.
By 11:00 he straightened, put the sketch aside, and turned the television to the Tokyo live feed. TV Tokyo was carrying the conference; the channel's coverage cut into its regular programming for this event. A female reporter walked through the crowd and explained the significance of the day: Makoto Shinkai, widely known for his delicate portrayals of youthful love, would announce a new film.
At eleven the creative team walked onto the stage amid applause. Names flashed across the screen: a Toho producer, a few well-known actors, and industry people who'd collaborated with Shinkai before. The camera lingered, then the director took a breath and began to speak about the heart of his craft. Animation, he said, was a form of imagination and purity — each character exists for the work itself, separate from live action, and that purity is what he loves.
When the announcement came, the room roared. He had chosen to adapt a comic:
"The new film is 'Your Name,' adapted from the manga of the same name by the author Whale."
A hush swept across the online audience. "Whale?" someone typed. "That pen name rings a bell."
Onscreen, Shinkai continued, visibly moved: "Mr. Whale's story moved me deeply and rekindled my desire to make films. Whale was supposed to attend, but due to health reasons he cannot be here. We wish him a speedy recovery and hope he will see the finished film in theaters. We will not fail him."
The director then introduced the production lineup — animation supervisor, art director, composer — names that sent fans brainstorming and speculating.
---
Eriri's phone buzzed. A message had come from a small account: a reader group where fans of Attack on Titan and Slam Dunk sometimes gathered. The chat exploded into activity.
"The author Shinkai mentioned — could it be our Whale?" someone asked.
"If it is Whale, then… he's also the creator of Attack on Titan and Slam Dunk?" another typed, incredulous.
"Isn't Whale the author we follow? When did he draw Your Name? I can't find anything online."
"This is huge. Whale handles so many styles. If the same author wrote those titles — a dark epic and a sports manga — and now Your Name? He's incredible."
"Please, Whale, stop posting online for free. I'll buy the tankobon when it appears."
Var, a well-informed poster in their group, chimed in: "Yes, it's the same Whale mentioned on the stage. He's ill, but he's the Whale we know."
Someone else tried to calm the thread, but the panic and excitement blended. Fans were equal parts worried about the author's health and ecstatic that such a respected creator had attracted Shinkai's attention. Eriri watched the scrolling chat with her heart beating fast. The name Whale had always been familiar: a mystery author whose work had dominated two very different genres. The confirmation made the room alone with her television feel suddenly very small.
Lucien was ill. The idea lodged in her chest, far stronger than anything else. She opened a new message window and hesitated. She wanted to tell him she'd seen the announcement, to share the stir and the excitement, but his isolation made a small, sensible restraint keep her from messaging. Instead she sat very still and let the images from the reveal settle.
On the screen, Shinkai finished his remarks with a promise: he would honor the original story. The crowd's applause rolled on as the production team prepared for the months ahead. Fans everywhere flooded forums and social feeds with speculation about casting, music, and how the film would render the book's quiet emotional moments.
Eriri felt a complicated surge of pride and worry: pride that the work she admired — Whale's work — would be adapted by a director she respected, and worry for the author behind that pen name. She thought of Lucien in the ward, sketching and quietly smiling at small triumphs, of the radiotherapy just finished, of the isolation that kept him from witnessing the announcement in person.
She dug her phone into her bag again and opened the message group. The chatter was frantic now, a mix of praise and concern:
"Is Mr. Whale okay? What's his condition?"
"A little worried. But surely he'll recover."
"Will he stop the free serialization? I'll buy the books."
Eriri typed nothing for a long time. On-screen, Shinkai's team posed for photographs. The cameras flashed. The future of the story had been set in motion; the adaptation would be made; fans would flood the theaters next year. For a moment she could already see the theater lights and hear the hush as the first frame fell into place.
Her chest tightened with the need to be nearer — to share the news in person, to see his reaction, to say the simple, practical things that friends say in days like this: congratulations, be careful, don't overdo it, we're proud of you. But she stayed where she was, watching the feed, feeling the rush of an entire audience fall in love with a story she loved too.
Outside her window, sunlight tempered into afternoon. Inside the ward, Lucien would be preparing a new sketch, his hand moving as always, turning grief, hope, and fiction into lines. The press conference ended; the world would now wait for the film. And somewhere between those two acts — between screen and sketch — Eriri felt, stubbornly and fiercely, that she had to keep working. There were illustrations to finish, commissions to deliver, and a small, fragile pride to guard: the trust that an author and an artist had placed in each other, and that, somehow, had led to this moment.