I stared at the blank digital canvas like it owed me rent.
No, seriously. The sheer, blinding whiteness of it was offensive. It was a void. A pristine, judgmental void that seemed to whisper, "Go on, hotshot. Impress me. I've seen better from people drawing with a mouse and pure spite."
The pixels stretched into infinity, humming with silent, untapped potential. I twirled my stylus between my fingers like a magic wand, half-expecting it to start shooting inspiration or maybe just a direct injection of caffeine into my carotid artery. My other hand was already massaging my temple, a pre-emptive strike against the migraine I knew was coming.
Okay, Yakuto. Breathe. You have a brain that is now, for all intents and purposes, a perfectly organized, high-definition library of the greatest fictional works of a parallel dimension. You have hands blessed by some fickle, absentee System-god that can translate those mental images onto a screen with the precision of a laser and the soul of a seasoned mangaka. No pressure.
The real question, the one that had been looping in my head since the System's second coming, wasn't if I could do it. It was which cultural nuke to drop first on this unsuspecting, cringe-infested 2015 timeline.
My mental scroll wheel was spinning out of control. I paced the length of my room, which was approximately four "anxious lawyer preparing to sue reality itself" steps long.
Option A: One Piece. The epic. The king. A rubber boy with a straw hat and a dream so big it defied physics. But was 2015 ready for a 1000-chapter-plus commitment? Was I ready to draw Skypiea? My wrist ached just thinking about the Gear Second smoke effects.
Option B: Naruto. The classic. The knuckle-headed ninja who never gave up. It had feels, fights, and a talking fox. But the early art was… a little rough. Did I refine it? Stay true to it? And did I want my debut to be about a guy who used Sexy Jutsu as a primary battle strategy? The discourse would be insane.
Option C: Bleach. The cool guy's choice. Soul Reapers, massive swords, Ichigo's perpetually pissed-off face. The style was undeniable. But then I remembered the Bount arc. Did I include that? My photographic memory was a blessing and a curse; I remembered the filler, too.
Option D: Jujutsu Kaisen. The modern banger. Cursed energy, a main character who becomes the housing for a thousand-year-old demon, and a world where power systems are explained with straight-up cooking metaphors. It was slick, it was stylish, and it had a guy who could literally talk to the void and have it talk back.
My brain was a ping-pong match between pirates, ninjas, soul reapers, and sorcerers. Each one screamed "PICK ME!" with the desperation of a contestant on a reality TV show.
I collapsed back into my chair, which groaned in protest. I put my head in my hands. "This is stupid," I mumbled to the empty chip bag on my desk. "I'm having a creative crisis over plagiarizing someone else's life's work. The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast."
After what felt like twelve separate mental breakdowns condensed into three real-time minutes, I stopped. A single, clear image flashed in my mind. Not the first page of a manga, but a feeling. A feeling of sheer, unadulterated, what-the-hell-is-even-happening cool. A feeling I'd gotten the first time I'd seen a certain spiky-haired sorcerer domain expansion his way into my heart.
I snapped my fingers. The sound was unnaturally loud in my quiet room.
"Alright," I said to the blank screen, a slow, manic grin spreading across my face. "This one. It's happening. Let's give them something slick. Something cursed. Something that says, 'forget your sentient vending machines, this is what a modern main character looks like.'"
I wasn't starting with the very first chapter. No, I was starting with a moment. A highlight reel. A trailer, drawn in manga form. I was going to break every rule, and I was going to do it with a bang.
My fingers flew across the tablet. I opened a new document in Clip Studio Paint—the canvas size set to a professional manga page. The digital tools gleamed, promising and pristine. But in my hands, they were about to become weapons of mass creation.
Then, I drew.
The first line was a tentative thing. The second, a confident curve. By the fifth, it was a symphony. The [God-Tier Drawing Skill] wasn't just about accuracy; it was about flow. It was muscle memory I'd never earned, an instinct for line weight and composition that felt like breathing. My stylus wasn't a tool; it was an extension of my will.
Line by line. Panel by panel. Time stopped existing. The sun set outside my window, and I didn't notice. The lukewarm coffee on my desk developed a skin, then fossilized. My posture evolved backwards into a question mark, my spine composing a silent symphony of pops and cracks.
A normal artist might take a week on a single, high-quality page. For me, a fully inked, detailed page was materializing in twenty, maybe thirty minutes. It wasn't just speed; it was sorcery. The speed-painting videos I used to make were a pathetic joke compared to this. This was the real deal.
I worked in a fever dream. I blocked out rough panels for a whole sequence—not a full chapter, but a key scene. The one I'd chosen. The exorcism. The moment a regular, too-kind-for-his-own-good kid swallows a cursed object and becomes the vessel for Sukuna. The horror, the chaos, the sheer iconic "oh crap" factor.
Within hours, I had a rough storyboard for a ten-page blast. Within a day, the crisp, clean line art was done, every stroke confident and sure. I moved on to tones and shading, my fingers a blur. Adding the gritty textures, the dramatic shadows that defined the series' aesthetic, the creepy-crawly details of the curses that looked like they'd stepped out of a Junji Ito nightmare. The speed lines, the impact "DON!" effects that I drew with such ferocity they looked like they could shatter reality itself.
My room became a cave of creation. The only light was the glow of the monitor, painting my face in shifting shades of blue and white. Empty energy drink cans formed a small metropolis on my desk. I was running on pure, System-enhanced adrenaline and the terrifying joy of playing god.
By the end of the third day, my hands were trembling with a fine, constant vibration. My eyes felt like they'd been sandpapered and stuffed with cotton. My brain, for all its perfect memory, felt like it had been microwaved on low, filled with nothing but the phantom sounds of chants and the tearing of cursed spirits.
But I'd done it.
I leaned back in my chair, which emitted a final, pathetic squeak of surrender. The monitor glowed softly, illuminating my exhausted, victorious face. I was hollow, drained of every ounce of creative juice, but in that specific, satisfying way that only comes from having created something you know is objectively, earth-shatteringly awesome. The "I-just-rewrote-culture" kind of way.
On the screen was a ten-page manga sequence that did not exist in this world. It was perfect. The horror was palpable, the action was chaotic and clear. The art style was a love letter to Gege Akutami's original, but filtered through my own, slightly-chaotic sensibilities—a little sharper, a little more intense, as if the original had been injected with pure, concentrated menace.
I saved the file with a name that felt both blasphemous and righteous.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would open the airlock and jettison this chaos bomb into the 2015 internet. I would hit 'publish' and watch from the shadows as the world either short-circuited in awe or collectively scratched its head in confusion. Probably both.
For now, I just let the hum of my PC's cooling fan fill the room. It was a lullaby for the digitally damned. My eyelids, heavy with three days of stolen sleep, finally gave up the fight. I didn't even make it to my bed. I just put my head down on my keyboard, surrounded by the archaeological layers of my ambition and burnout, and passed out to the gentle feel of the 'J' key imprinting itself on my forehead.
---
I woke up twelve hours later feeling like I'd been used as a pinata by every special-grade curse in Jujutsu society. Every muscle in my body had filed a formal complaint. My spine made a noise that could legally be classified as a death rattle, a sound so profound and full of despair that it probably summoned a low-grade curse in some other, even lamer dimension.
For a few solid seconds, I just stared at the textured ceiling of my room, trying to remember which universe I was in, who I was, and what the fundamental laws of physics were. The faint smell of old pizza and desperation acted as a Proustian madeleine, bringing it all crashing back.
Oh. Right. I'm Yakuto. The guy who got isekai'd into his own lamer past. The guy with a System that gives out skills like a miserly billionaire handing out charity.
"Morning, genius," I croaked at the ceiling. My voice was hoarse, unused for days. "Still technically unemployed, but now you're illegally talented. Progress."
My stomach chose that moment to emit a gurgle so loud and aggressive it sounded like a Domain Expansion starting. The kind with a sure-hit effect that guaranteed hunger pains. Right. Sustenance. I hadn't eaten anything that wasn't liquid sugar or salted corn in approximately 12 hours.
I dragged myself out of my chair, my body unfolding with a series of pops and cracks that would make a reverse cursed technique user give up. I stumbled out of my room, a zombie in pajama pants, and shuffled into the kitchen. The place looked like a crime scene sponsored by Red Bull and existential dread.
A forensic analysis of the kitchen would reveal:
One (1) half-empty cereal box, the cereal inside possessing the structural integrity of sawdust.b A carton of eggs that was daring me to check its expiration date. The holy trinity of instant noodles: chicken, beef, and "mystery flavor." A single, sad-looking banana that had achieved a new state of matter beyond mere ripeness.
I stood there, blinking slowly. The options were bleak, but my hunger was a tyrannical overlord. I made a executive decision. A decision born of sleep deprivation, post-creative high, and a profound disregard for my own well-being.
I was having all of it.
I put a pot of water on to boil for the noodles. I scrambled two of the questionable eggs in a bowl, praying to whatever god had sent the System that they weren't about to give me salmonella. I dumped the stale cereal into another bowl, not even bothering with milk. This wasn't a meal; it was an act of desperation.
When the noodles were done, I drained them and, in a moment of pure, unadulterated chaos, I dumped the scrambled eggs on top of them, then crumbled the dry cereal over the whole monstrosity like some kind of crunchy, sad topping.
I stared down at the beige, lumpy abomination in my bowl. It looked like the result of a curse.
"Gordon Ramsay would have an aneurysm," I muttered to myself, grabbing a fork. "He'd call me a donut and tell me to get out of his kitchen."
I took a bite. The texture was a war crime. Crunchy, soft, slimy, all at once. The flavor was… confusing. But it was calories. It was edible. In my current state, that was a Michelin-star meal.
I shoveled it into my face, my mind already drifting away from the culinary trauma and back to the digital masterpiece waiting on my computer. The panels. The flow. The sheer horror on Yuji's face when he first realizes what he's done. Had I gotten the eerie glow of Sukuna's markings right? Was the cursed energy visually distinct enough from generic anime power aura?
This was it. The calm before the storm. The last few moments of anonymity before I either become the most famous mangaka on the planet or get laughed off the internet as a try-hard with surprisingly good art.
After forcing down the last of my Franken-meal, I dragged my now slightly-nourished body back to the scene of the crime. My room. My sanctum. My pigsty. My chair squeaked a familiar greeting of resentment as I sat down. I nudged the mouse, and the monitor blinked awake, still displaying the finished pages.
It looked… even better than I remembered. Terrifyingly perfect. The kind of art that didn't just ask for your attention; it demanded it. It grabbed you by the collar and whispered cursed secrets into your ear.
A cold spike of anxiety shot through me. This was really happening. There was no going back.
Now came the final, most daunting step: distribution. Where the hell does a time-displaced manga prophet upload his gospel in the year 2015?
I opened my browser—Chrome, still young and relatively bloat-free—and typed "where to upload manga online" into the search bar.
The results were a time capsule, a nostalgia bomb wrapped in janky web design. This was the frontier. The pre-algorithmic wild west. I clicked through a series of sites that looked like they were built in someone's Geocities basement.
MangaGalaxyX.net: The background was a deep, starry space with a poorly rendered anime girl floating in the corner. The "Latest Uploads" section featured a comic called My Magical Toaster Adventure.
OtakuHeaven69.com: The URL alone was a red flag. The front page was a wall of text, with blinking GIFs advertising "HOT ANIME GIRLS" and a pop-up that immediately asked for my email.
Amino Apps: It was there, but it felt more like a forum. I needed a platform, not a chatroom.
My heart sank a little. This was the landscape? This was what passed for a digital manga hub? No wonder the genre was dying here. It was like trying to sell a Ferrari in a junkyard.
Then, I found it. Webtoon. The site was… cleaner. Simpler. The layout was a bit basic, a little ugly by future standards, but it was functional. It had a proper upload system, a comment section, a way to favorite and follow. It was still in its relative infancy, a seedling compared to the giant it would become. It was perfect. A fledgling platform for a fledgling (fake) mangaka.
My mouth felt dry. This was it. The point of no return.
I created a new account. The username field stared back at me, blank and demanding. What was my nom de plume? My alias? I couldn't use my real name. This needed a name with… vibes. Chaotic, confident, a little bit arrogant.
I smirked. My fingers flew across the keyboard.
Username: Absolutepeak
A perfect name for a guy doing god's work at the most ungodly hours.
I prepped my files, converting them to the right format, checking the page order for the third time. I wrote a description for my "series," my heart hammering against my ribs.
Title: Jujutsu Kaisen
Description: In a world where invisible monsters known as Curses feed on human fear and negativity, a high school student named Yuji Itadori lives a simple life — until he stumbles upon a cursed object that changes everything.
When Yuji's friends accidentally release a powerful Curse by unsealing a mysterious rotting finger, he swallows it in a desperate attempt to save them — and becomes the host of Ryomen Sukuna, the legendary King of Curses.
Now bound to the most dangerous spirit in history, Yuji is dragged into the world of Jujutsu Sorcerers, warriors who exorcise curses using their own spiritual energy. Under the mentorship of Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, Yuji joins Tokyo Jujutsu High, where he must learn to control his powers, face deadly Cursed Spirits, and ultimately find a way to end Sukuna once and for all — even if it means sacrificing himself.
It was vague, a little pretentious, and hopefully intriguing. It gave nothing away but promised everything.
I hovered the cursor over the UPLOAD button. It glowed with a soft, menacing light. My heartbeat synced with the gentle pulse of the cursor on the screen. Blink. Thump. Blink. Thump.
This was more nerve-wracking than the actual drawing. Drawing was control. This was surrender. This was releasing my creation into the wild, into an internet that could either crown me or crucify me.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. I thought of the endless isekai about moss and shoes. I thought of the cultural void. I thought of my own boring, year-long exile in this timeline.
"Alright, you cringe-infested wasteland," I whispered, a grin finally breaking through the anxiety. "Time for your upgrade. Get ready for some actual peak fiction."
I clicked the button.
A progress bar appeared, slowly filling with blue. Page one of ten. Uploading.
There was no fanfare. No heavenly choir. Just the quiet whir of my hard drive and the frantic beating of my own heart. I sat there, watching the bar fill, page by page, until the final one completed.
A notification popped up. "Upload Successful! Your Manga, 'Jujutsu Kaisen,' is now uploaded."
I leaned back, the adrenaline finally receding, leaving behind a deep, profound exhaustion. I had no idea what would happen next. Would anyone even see it? Would they get it? Would they hate it?
I didn't know. And for the first time since I'd arrived in this stupid, boring world, that uncertainty felt electric. It felt like a beginning.