Chapter 114 — The Mangaka's Resolve
Slash.
Shinsuke's hand cut through the air; the cursed spirit in front of him disintegrated into nothing. He kept moving deeper into the barrier.
He hadn't met many players so far—only a handful of sorcerers—but cursed spirits were everywhere. That gave him a realization: even though he'd already pushed his Eight Gates training to its limit, killing powerful cursed spirits still restored his vitality. In short, he could keep growing simply by cutting things down.
Not a bad bonus.
Raising your base stats bit by bit also raised the ceiling of the Eight Gates. The idea made him smirk.
"Hey—do you know what manga is? And what a mangaka is?" a dispirited voice called from ahead.
Shinsuke glanced toward a lone man seated on a broken chair. He had silver hair and green eyes—Charles, the mangaka.
"You asking me?" Shinsuke shrugged.
Charles stared at him, stunned. He'd been an unrecognized comics artist, barely scraping by, when the world shifted and the unbelievable—cursed energy and jujutsu—spilled out of pages and into reality. The collapse of the line between fiction and life had crushed his sense of purpose. If scenes from comic pages could manifest in reality, then what was the point of making comics at all? He'd lost the reason to draw; the drive to create.
Shinsuke rubbed his chin, considering. "No idea. People see it differently, I guess."
"Forget that for now—can you transfer your game points to a player named Fushiguro Tsumiki?"
A rule had just been added allowing point transfers. Shinsuke knew—Itadori's team likely pushed it through—and he'd already tested it when someone tried to mug him: game points could be transferred remotely, as long as both parties were inside a barrier.
Charles fell silent for a moment. Shinsuke waited.
"I'll give you the points," Charles said finally, "but—give me a reason to fight. Everyone here fights like they don't care. If I'm going to draw battle scenes, there has to be a reason that makes readers want more. Give me a reason to hate you—make me hate you enough to want to kill you on the page."
The mangaka ranted like a man possessed. To him, the lethargic motives of these players were unreadable — they weren't dramatic, not worth a serial. Who would read it?
Shinsuke watched him, amused. The guy looked like he'd been burnt out by deadline pressure and an audience that never came. "Your manga must be big, then. What's the title? I'll buy it when I get the chance."
Charles froze, hair falling into his face. "I… I've never published a single volume. I've never released anything."
Shinsuke raised an eyebrow. "No awards either?"
Charles shook his head, softer this time: "No."
Shinsuke couldn't help himself. "Then stop pretending to be a mangaka. You don't have the talent. Accept reality: become a lowly sorcerer and move on."
The insult lit a spark in Charles. "They don't understand manga!" he spat. "It's them, not me!"
"Good," Shinsuke said, deadpan.
Charles's eyes snapped open—rage and inspiration warred in them. "Thank you. You gave me the reason I needed."
He hefted his oversized brush like a spear and lunged.
Clang.
The steel-tipped brush struck Shinsuke's chest with a clean, metallic note—then stopped as if hitting iron. The pen tip didn't pierce skin at all.
After surviving Sukuna's relentless slashes earlier, his body's defenses had toughened; the heavenly binding and the curse-imbued flesh granted him uncanny resistance. Ordinary cursed-energy strikes barely dented him now.
Shinsuke glanced down at the brush, flat voice cutting through the ruined air: "I just wanted the game points, kid—didn't come here for a fight."
Shinsuke flicked his finger.
Crack.
The oversized brush that had been pressed against his chest shattered instantly, splintering apart in Charles's hands.
The mangaka froze, staring blankly at the fragments scattering at his feet. In that instant, he understood perfectly — he wasn't even remotely this man's opponent.
Snap!
Dropping the broken handle, Charles raised both hands high. "I surrender!"
Sure, he'd lost the will to draw… but he hadn't lost the will to live.
Shinsuke studied him for a moment, then sighed. He didn't feel like bullying a man who might someday be a decent artist. "Good. Now, can you transfer your game points to a player named Fushiguro Tsumiki?"
"Of course!"
Charles immediately summoned his golden beetle and, right in front of Shinsuke, transferred his meager five points to Tsumiki.
"It's done," he said after a moment.
Shinsuke nodded once. "Alright. You can go."
He turned to leave, then paused and added, "Oh, and about that question earlier — I still don't really know what makes a mangaka. But manga itself? I'd say its purpose is simple: to make people happy."
He looked over his shoulder, expression softening slightly. "As long as your stories can bring someone joy — no matter how many bad reviews you get — you're already a real mangaka.
Keep at it, kid. I hope I get to see your work on a shelf someday."
With that, Shinsuke waved lazily and disappeared into the ruins.
Somewhere ahead, a faint but powerful cursed aura flickered — the presence he'd been searching for.
Charles watched him leave, fists trembling.
"I'll do it," he whispered to himself. "I'll keep drawing. I'll make people smile."
The stranger's words had reignited something inside him. What did it matter if the world had changed? Manga was still manga — something meant to move people, to make them feel.
That editor who said he "didn't understand storytelling"? He was the one who didn't understand manga!
---
Meanwhile, on a deserted coastline lined with towering cargo containers—
Yorozu wandered aimlessly, her hands in her pockets, her expression unreadable.
She'd already cut down several players along the way, and her point total now sat at forty.
A golden beetle appeared beside her with a mechanical chirp.
"Notification: five additional points have been transferred to your total."
Yorozu's lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Let me guess… that guy again?"
She could easily imagine Shinsuke lifting some poor fool by the collar, forcing him to hand over his points with a threat and a grin.
Tap… tap… tap.
Footsteps echoed between the narrow rows of shipping containers.
Yorozu turned toward the sound — and froze.
A tall man stepped out from the shadows, eyes sharp, a lazy smile on his face. The air between them grew heavy, the tension sharp as wire.
"Is she a player?" the man asked without even looking at her, speaking instead to the golden beetle hovering by his shoulder.
"Yes," it replied. "She's registered as a player."
At that, the man's grin widened — Kashimo Hajime.
"Good," he said softly, electricity crackling faintly around him. "Let's hope this one isn't boring."