Chapter 1 – Transmigration, Manga, and the Girl
In May, the Demon City felt like a steamer; sunlight hit the pavement and rippled in the heat.
During the lunch break, clusters of students could be seen in every classroom discussing the latest anime and manga.
"Did you read the newest Water Shadow? The protagonist is so cool…"
"It's mainly because Teacher Wanfeng's art is amazing; the plot is only so-so!"
"If we're talking art style, Lin Zheng is better… He used to be a washed-up manga artist with terrible storytelling. When he teamed up with the novelist Liu Yue on 'Inner Earth Chronicles', the visuals blew my mind…"
...Xia Jing listened to his classmates chatting about the latest issue of the hit manga in Story Comic, but he couldn't care less.
As one of the top-ten weekly manga magazines in the Xia Kingdom, Story Comic sold over ten million copies each issue, and almost every series it carried was adapted into anime, novels, stage plays, even films and dramas… But having been spoiled by far tastier dishes in his past life, Xia Jing—two months into this world—found the local anime offerings underwhelming, to put it mildly.
Tasteless, yet too bland to abandon.
He'd seen too many masterpieces; his threshold was so high he'd practically gone impotent toward anime.
Still… Xia Jing slung his bag over his shoulder, climbed the stairs past the first-year classrooms, and reached the rooftop.
He wasn't up here for anything weird—just that drawing manga in the classroom meant constant interruptions.
If some blabbermouth reported him to the homeroom teacher, he'd never hear the end of it.
He took the nearly finished manuscript from his bag and studied the pages he'd drawn himself—for the umpteenth time.
five centimeters per second.
In his past life, Xia Jing had died suddenly at his drawing desk; the good news was he'd transmigrated and awakened in a new world.
The bad news: his memories were still trickling back.
At first he'd figured, "I was an old otaku—this'll be easy."
"Drag out Dragon Ball, Naruto, yu-gi-oh!—work hard three years, coast the rest of my life, live rich and idle."
A lovely dream, but reality was harsh: though he knew these priceless properties existed, he couldn't materialize them—only scattered fragments surfaced.
Dragon Ball boiled down to "a monkey looking for seven glowing balls."
Pirate King was "a kid aiming to become the Pirate King."
Why become pirate king, why hunt the balls? No clue.
You can't build a coherent story on that.
But memories were slowly returning; otherwise… Xia Jing looked at the five centimeters per second pages in front of him.
Otherwise he wouldn't have, a month ago, so vividly dreamed of the tear-jerking experience that had once made him bawl.
In this world, Xia Jing's parents died in a car crash a few months earlier.
Yet he wasn't homeless.
They'd left him a decrepit three-bedroom on the outskirts of Demon City, worth maybe a million… but the accident was gruesome, the insurance paltry, and liability left his late father owing over two million.
For now he still lived there, but a court verdict could toss him onto the street any day.
His parents' savings were frozen; living expenses came from the original Xia Jing's stash of lucky-money hoarded over ten years—barely twenty grand.
A sky-crash start, basically.
Otherwise he wouldn't have, the moment five centimeters per second came back to him, raced to draw and submit it; reality left no room for a carefree high-school life.
"Sigh…"
With a soft sigh he took out his tools and began inking the final pages of five centimeters per second on the rooftop.
When he'd found the spot last month, a set of discarded table and chairs sat conveniently there—perfect for drawing.
Quiet, undisturbed.
five centimeters per second was the first anime feature by Sakurajima's national-treasure director Makoto Shinkai, divided into three parts: Cherry Blossom Extract, the astronaut, and five centimeters per second.
It wasn't especially famous or lucrative.
But of all Shinkai's works, the one that haunted Xia Jing wasn't Your Name.
It was this film that stabbed him anew every time he thought of it—he re-watched it every single year.
In his past life Xia Jing had been a washed-up manga artist and illustrator; drawing by hand was tough at first, but two months in he'd adapted.
The Xia Kingdom's internet was just starting, yet paper manga weeklies still ruled thanks to investors, and the animation industry boomed; top manga artists earned insane status and money.
In nineties Sakurajima, the best-selling Weekly Comic Jump peaked at six million copies—set during Dragon Ball's run.
Here, the record topped twenty million a week and kept climbing.
The population was ten times larger, after all.
Every major television station broadcasts adapted anime in the afternoons.
Walking along the streets of Modu, Xia Jing would occasionally hear the incredibly retro and nostalgic vaporwave music.
Moreover, the teenage population of Xia Country was about to reach its historical peak.
Barring any surprises, the coming decade would be the golden age of anime.
While Xia Jing's thoughts wandered, his pen never slowed.
Recalling the content of five centimeters per second, perhaps because two souls had merged, Xia Jing's mental energy was extremely abundant.
Visualizing the relevant scenes cost no effort; with eyes closed he could see the anime vividly, freely switching viewing angles and perspectives… in short, his brain's CPU and GPU were probably twice as powerful as an ordinary person's.
As soon as he recalled the plot, storyboards arranged themselves automatically; the comic panels, details, character designs, and linework could be drafted and set in his mind at lightning speed.
So he barely needed name storyboards when drawing manga, and his strokes were both fast and nearly error-free… the reason it had taken a month to finish roughly a hundred pages of five centimeters per second was simply that he'd spent most of the time getting used to drawing by hand.
The lunch break flew by amid the drawing. Though he'd found a rooftop spot shaded by an eave, beads of sweat still formed on Xia Jing's neck.
A breeze swept past, carrying a coolness from his back to the core of his body.
"Here, wipe your sweat—such good work would be a shame to spoil with a drip."
"Oh, thanks." Xia Jing casually took the tissue and dabbed his nose and neck.
But he quickly froze—"Huh? Who… are you?"
Wasn't he alone on the rooftop? Who had handed him the tissue?
Xia Jing turned and saw only strands of hair dancing in the breeze, the girl's delicate features and soft smile, her bright eyes fixed on him and on the manga manuscript before him.
"You're Su Qingxiao from Class 1?" Xia Jing asked.
"You know me, classmate Xia Jing?" Su Qingxiao said in surprise.
"Of course I know you—you're famous in first year, no, in our whole school… wait, how do you know my name?" Xia Jing blinked.
"I saw you drawing manga up here last month, got curious, and asked around." Su Qingxiao spread her arms, eyes lightly closed, feeling the rooftop breeze.
Then she opened her eyes, studied the manuscript in front of Xia Jing, and the title on the first page.
[five centimeters per second]
"I don't remember seeing you here last month…" Xia Jing mused.
"You were drawing so intently that you didn't notice me standing behind you for half an hour." Su Qingxiao smiled faintly.
"Add in two weeks ago, last week, three days ago, and today—that makes five times I've stood behind you watching you draw, and you never once noticed."
"Your concentration while drawing is amazing! If I hadn't seen your sweat about to drip onto the original page, I probably wouldn't have spoken up today."
Xia Jing's expression shifted, a flutter of unease in his heart.
Had he muttered anything this past month that might reveal he was a transmigrator from Blue Planet?
"This is… peeking?"
"Peeking…"
A smile flickered across Su Qingxiao's fair face; her eyes met his as she spoke softly.
"Classmate Xia Jing, that sounds awful. Why do you think this set of abandoned desks and chairs is here on this empty rooftop—did they fall from the sky?"
Su Qingxiao rummaged in her bag and pulled out a stack of blank manga manuscript paper and several professional pens.
"There are more than four thousand students in this school. Why assume you're the only one who wants to draw manga, the only one who thinks the rooftop is the perfect lunch-break drawing spot? Before you came last month, I was the one sitting here drawing."
"I'm only telling you the facts; I'm not angry at all!"
Xia Jing stared blankly, then grew embarrassed.
"Sorry—you could've told me at the time," he said.
"Well, seeing another student creating manga so well and so focused, I can relate—I hate being interrupted when I draw! Besides… maybe you just happened to take my spot occasionally." Su Qingxiao's tone softened.
Xia Jing now understood everything.
He had occupied her rooftop drawing spot for the past month; she'd probably thought he'd lose interest and hadn't interrupted at first.
A week later he was still there.
Two weeks later he was still there.
Today he was still there.
"Forget it—let's officially meet." Su Qingxiao extended her hand.
"I'm Su Qingxiao—currently a professional manga artist and part-time High School Student!"
…