The final stroke of my digital pen glided across the tablet, completing the last line as dawn's faint glow seeped through the window. I slumped back in my gaming chair, staring at the scantily clad female character on the screen. My stomach churned with unease.
Another chapter of Magical Girl (Ecchi Series) was done, and the backend data showed a surge in subscriptions. But instead of joy, I raked my fingers through my blonde hair, irritation bubbling up.
"So boring…" I muttered, clicking through to the payment page. The royalties could buy the latest drawing software, yet my fingertips felt hollow, devoid of pride.
My phone pinged with a notification: Kimi no Na wa's manga edition had sold out its first print. The accompanying image of Shiroyama-sensei's silhouette—a mysterious creator whose work eclipsed mine—stung my eyes.
A stack of Shiroyama-sensei's manga sat on my desk, foisted on me by my art club juniors. "Sawamura-senpai, these panels are divine!" they'd gushed. I'd scoffed, "Just overhyped drivel," but late at night, I pored over them obsessively. Typical tsundere behavior, Kashiwagi Eri-sensei.
The razor-sharp action panels in Parasyte, the heartfelt expressions in Horimiya, the breathtaking time-travel sequences in Kimi no Na wa—every page mocked me. My work? Soulless ecchi fluff.
A soft knock came at the studio door. "Eriri, breakfast's ready," Mama called. I grumbled a reply, threw on clothes, and trudged downstairs.
The tablet on the dining table played the Weathering With You theme song MV. The scene of a boy and girl running through rain-soaked streets was achingly vivid. I poked at the strawberry jam on my toast as Mama rambled about Shiroyama-sensei: "They say he's barely twenty, writing novels, drawing manga, even composing music. A true genius." My grip tightened, nearly crushing the toast.
Twenty? My age. While he painted epic tales of salvation, I was obsessing over the curves of a virtual girl's figure.
At the last university art exhibition, my professor sighed over my work: "Sawamura-san, your technique is flawless, but the soul is lacking." I'd snapped back, "You just don't get the charm of 2D!" But now, I couldn't deny it—my ecchi art was empty.
Back in my studio, I opened Shiroyama-sensei's portfolio, almost compulsively. The tender emotions in I Want to Eat Your Pancreas, the rain-drenched intimacy of The Garden of Words, the storytelling woven into Yoru ni Kakeru's MV panels—it was as if he had a cheat code for creativity. Meanwhile, I was trapped in the "Kashiwagi Eri" label, forgetting what I truly wanted to draw.
A message popped up in the art club group chat. Juniors were raving about Shiroyama-sensei's panel techniques.
"This overhead shot captures the character's loneliness perfectly!"
"The montage is so clean, packing in so much without clutter!"
My fingers tapped the desk as I stared at their screenshots. I knew those techniques—could even outdo them—but my panels were all "accidental panty flashes" or "hot spring mishaps."
I'd chosen ecchi manga to prove I could succeed without my family's name, chasing quick profits. Now, that choice felt like a cage.
During a late-night drawing stream, a viewer commented: "Kashiwagi-sensei, when will you draw something serious?" I'd fired back, "Mind your own business!" But after the stream, I stared at a blank canvas, hollowed out.
Serious manga? Could I even draw the growing pains and dreams buried in my heart?
Shiroyama-sensei could—his simple lines and words brought complex emotions to life.
I dug out my high school sketchbook, filled with clumsy but heartfelt sketches of campus life—boys and girls laughing under the sun, leaves falling in autumn. Back then, I'd spend hours studying a single leaf to capture its essence, not calculating bust angles with a mannequin.
My fingers traced the faded pages, a lump rising in my throat. When had drawing become just a paycheck, squandering my talent on cheap thrills?
My phone chimed—a publisher's reminder to submit my manuscript. I opened a new canvas, but instead of another ecchi scene, I sketched a starry sky, inspired by Kimi no Na wa's celestial glow. Stroke by stroke, I crafted twinkling stars. Halfway through, I realized I was mimicking Shiroyama-sensei's style, and my cheeks flushed.
"Who's copying that guy?!" I huffed, hovering over the delete button. But I couldn't press it. This starry sky had more life than any ecchi panel I'd drawn.
By dawn, the canvas held a boy and girl gazing at the stars, no suggestive poses or gags—just a dialogue bubble: "Will our dreams ever come true?" I smiled, a genuine warmth I hadn't felt in ages.
I set the image as my desktop background, then opened the Magical Girl (Ecchi Series) file. Hesitating, I added an internal monologue I'd never dared write before.
As I shut down my computer, sunlight hit Shiroyama-sensei's manga on my desk. The boy on the cover seemed to urge me: Keep running forward.
I might still be an ecchi artist, might never reach Shiroyama-sensei's heights. But I'm twenty—there's time to try, to change. My digital pen felt alive again in my hand.
This time, I'd draw the story I wanted to tell, not what others expected.
The sunlight on my drawing board grew brighter. I took a deep breath and titled the new canvas: Dream Chasers Under the Starlight.
The story's path was unclear, but it was mine to forge.
Shiroyama-sensei, a distant beacon, lit the way ahead.