InsomniaWL
patreon
548 – The Only Thing People Can Rely On Is Hard Work and Sweat!
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 16:52:58 +0000 UTCEven though it was a rainy day, the editorial office of Weekly Shonen High was as lively as ever.
The moment Kyousuke stepped out of the elevator, a storm of noise crashed over him.
The fax machine clattered away, sounding like it was on its last legs.
The old landline phone rang shrilly, followed by a furious roar:
"What do you mean you can’t find him? If he won’t open the door, call the cops!"
Clearly, some author who was dancing on the edge of their deadline had decided to fake dead in hopes of dodging their manuscript.
The crisp tapping of keyboards, the bubbling of the coffee machine, chatter and shuffling—it was chaos wrapped in routine.
By now, Kyousuke was a well-known figure in the manga world, especially here in his own stronghold—the editorial office.
Wherever he walked, greetings followed.
Whether it was a clerk hurrying past with a stack of documents or an editor sneaking out with a cigarette box in hand, everyone would stop, bow, and greet him respectfully.
And he, in turn, had no choice but to pause again and again, offering smiles and polite replies.
This ritual went on until he finally stepped into the meeting room.
Even Tetsuya Shimomura, the chief editor, didn’t have his own private office—everyone worked crammed together.
At least, he thought with some relief, this was the Heisei era.
If it had been back in the Showa days, just walking into an editorial office like this would’ve made a stranger call the fire department.
The place back then was mountains of paper, and every editor smoked like a chimney, filling the air with secondhand smoke so thick you could choke on it.
Fire hazards? Cancer? They didn’t care about either.
“Wow, that’s Hojou-sensei? He’s so young…”
A man in a gray suit sitting by a desk muttered in awe.
From the moment Kyousuke had stepped out of the elevator, his eyes hadn’t left him, and even now he gazed longingly at the closed meeting room door.
“Yeah, two huge hit series at his age… if only he were one of my authors.”
The editor with black-framed glasses sitting at the desk sounded conflicted.
“What’s he here for today? Don’t tell me Attack on Titan is finally getting an anime?” Gray Suit asked.
“No. That series has… special circumstances. Otherwise it would’ve been animated ages ago. He’s here today to discuss his new work with Chief Editor Shimomura.”
“A new work!? He’s got the bandwidth for a new series!?” Gray Suit shot up, excited.
“‘Bandwidth’? You really don’t get it. Hojou-sensei isn’t like those authors who act like submitting manuscripts is a death sentence. You’ve never seen how fast he works… Wait—why are you worrying about someone else’s business right now!?”
The editor nearly launched into his favorite speech—“The Ten Wonders of Weekly Shonen High: Hojou Kyousuke’s Golden Hands”—but snapped back to reality.
This was hardly the time.
“But it’s Hojou-sensei we’re talking about! Of course I’m excited! His manga is the reason I decided to draw in the first place!
I mean, if a middle schooler could make something that good, what excuse do I have as an adult? Like he said in that interview—if you have a dream, you can make it come true!”
Gray Suit’s voice was brimming with passion.
“I don’t recall him ever saying something that irresponsible,” the glasses editor replied flatly.
“From what I know, he’s very pragmatic. If you ever find that quote in a magazine, let me know. I’ll tell Hojou-sensei someone’s tarnishing his image. Who knows, maybe he’ll be grateful enough to transfer to me.”
He shook his head.
Even though most of them didn’t interact with Kyousuke often, everyone in the office knew what kind of person he was.
“Pragmatic” was the polite word.
The truth? Hojou-sensei was a firm believer in talent.
Didn’t he once say in an interview that he only created stories because he “heard voices from another world”?
A man who believed utterly in natural-born genius.
He was simply too modest to put it that bluntly.
Translated, it meant he didn’t even need to try—the stories and drawings just appeared in his head.
“That’s nonsense! Don’t you realize how fast his art improved? At first it was nothing but scribbles.
He had to rely on artist Lily just to finish One Punch Man. But by the time Attack on Titan came around, he was drawing everything himself! That’s proof of his effort!”
Gray Suit fired back heatedly.
He could never forget the shock of seeing that bug-eyed cockroach-headed man from Hojou’s early work—it was hard to believe the same person had drawn Attack on Titan.
After launching his own website, Kyousuke occasionally posted character sketches or four-panel gags as fan perks.
He even uploaded his old, laughably bad “soul-drawing” manga for fun, just to be closer to his fans.
Unexpectedly, it worked.
Many readers came to idolize him as a “champion of hard work,” inspired that someone with such clumsy art could persevere, pursue his dream, and eventually master the craft.
“Fine, let me ask you: could an average person—no, even someone with decent talent—really make that much progress in such a short time?”
The glasses editor pushed his frames up.
This wasn’t a new debate—everyone in the office had chewed it over before.
Plenty of authors had submitted stories with great plots and paneling but atrocious art, and editors often paired them with illustrators.
Some of those writers had later improved their drawing skills.
But someone like Hojou Kyousuke? No way.
His progress was like he’d been replaced by an entirely different person.
“But still—” Gray Suit tried to argue again.
“That’s enough! Do you even realize what’s important right now!?” The editor slammed the desk, making Gray Suit flinch.
“Hojou-sensei can afford to start a third series. And you—you’re about to lose the serialization you fought so hard to get! Two straight weeks at the bottom of the rankings. One more and you’ll be axed! Your dream is about to pop like a bubble!”
Gray Suit shrank into silence. “It’s not the bottom… there’s still…” His voice trailed off, collapsing into gloom.
“Reader feedback is clear,” the editor said, sipping water before pulling out a sheet of paper. “We need to talk through it and fix this. That’s our job—to watch the readers’ reactions and keep authors from steering off a cliff.
Especially in Weekly Shonen High, where survey results rule everything. No matter how great the later chapters are, if you can’t grab readers early, you’re dead.”
Meanwhile, Kyousuke stepped into the meeting room and immediately spotted his editor, Tetsuya Shimomura, sitting on the sofa with a furrowed brow, staring at a stack of documents.
His hair… there was even less of it now.
Kyousuke thought wryly as he sat down across from him, ready to greet him with a smile. But before he could say a word, Shimomura suddenly slammed his forehead down on the rosewood table with a thud.
The sound was deep and heavy. Definitely good wood.
“I’m sorry!! I’m really sorry!! Because of my mistake, I’ve caused so much trouble for Hojou-sensei! I’m truly, deeply sorry!”
Shimomura Tetsuya’s voice boomed across the room.
Even though the conference room had decent soundproofing, there was no way it could block such a thunderous apology.
Which meant—every editor and author outside had definitely heard the chief editor groveling in shame.
Even after finishing his words, he stayed bent forward, both hands pressed against the coffee table, head lowered and unmoving.
The smile on Kyousuke’s face faded, his expression turning slightly more serious.
Of course, he knew exactly what Shimomura was apologizing for.
Because of his investigation, the contents of Kyousuke’s new work had been prematurely exposed.
That, in turn, gave the Society of Mystery Writers the excuse they needed for two “social school” judges to stir up trouble again.
And what did that bring him?
Being worried about by this idiot while walking home with Eriri.
Being “forced to recharge” by Kasumigaoka Utaha as soon as he stepped through the door.
Being cheered on by Shouko first thing in the morning.
And to solve it?
He had no choice but to write yet another excellent novel, crib three murder tricks from the classics, and send his little “murder underling” to deliver the message.
He made it sound simple, but it had been exhausting! Writing while sandwiched between Utaha and Eriri, fending off Utaha’s teasing while Eriri had her random mood swings.
And even though Yukino sat quietly to the side, watching it all with eyes full of gentle tolerance, Kyousuke still couldn’t help but feel embarrassed.
All in all, that one slip-up nearly turned his household upside down. Damn it!
Neither of them spoke. The room fell into a heavy silence.
Of course, Shimomura thought, there’s no way Hojou-sensei can forgive a mistake this serious.
Eyes shut tight, he pressed his forehead harder against the cool lacquered surface of the table.
No one knew better than him how important a prestigious award was to a writer, how much it could change their career.
Damn it all. If only Kyousuke never finds out who was really pulling strings behind the scenes—otherwise, he’d kill them for sure.
For now, all Shimomura could do was bow as low as possible, apologize sincerely, and vow to make up for it.
Even if it meant burning through every favor he’d built up over the years, he was determined to help Kyousuke win back those two votes.
Kyousuke watched him with a complicated look.
He himself might have shrugged off the whole ordeal, even enjoyed it—beautiful girls by his side, plenty of drama, and his own overwhelming skill to back him up.
But for anyone else? For someone who had finally managed to get in the good graces of two powerful judges, only to see it all ruined by someone else’s blunder…
They’d probably be driven to murder.
Just like the protagonist of his new novel.
That guy’s first victim wouldn’t have been the judges—it would’ve been Shimomura right here, with the coffee table as the chopping block.
But really, Shimomura wasn’t to blame.
Everything he’d done had followed the rules, and his intentions had been good—genuinely good, not the lip-service kind.
He’d wanted to ensure Kyousuke’s new work would be a hit.
This mess was just someone else twisting things to their advantage.
Shimomura was the poor guy stuck holding the bag.
And truthfully, Kyousuke owed him a lot.
Shimomura had been his guide and supporter from the start.
He’d fought for good magazine slots, color covers, and even animation deals.
He’d helped Kyousuke keep anime rights in his own hands.
When Kyousuke launched Tansan, he was the one who introduced him to a bunch of down-on-their-luck mangaka.
For all that, Kyousuke had no intention of truly blaming him.
But forgiving him outright?
No. If it weren’t for Kyousuke’s own system, if it weren’t for his own diligence, this single mistake could have cost him everything.
At the very least, Shimomura needed to remember this debt—and remember it well.
Only then would their relationship grow stronger.
After deciding that, Kyousuke adjusted his expression and spoke in a firm voice:
“Raise your head, Editor Shimomura.”
“…Hojou-sensei…”
Shimomura, well-versed in the culture of apology, didn’t try anything theatrical like ‘if you don’t forgive me, I’ll kneel here until I die!’
That would have been coercion, not apology. Instead, he obediently raised his head—though his back still remained hunched.
“Tell me,” Kyousuke asked, his gaze cool. “Did you do all this to deliberately cause me trouble?”
“Of course not!!”
Shimomura’s eyes flew open wide.
Seeing Kyousuke’s cold, unreadable face, he finally understood why his own son had once called him “the fiercest demon in Tokyo.”
When this man got angry, he was terrifying. Shimomura hurried to explain:
“N-No one in the world wants to see your manga succeed more than I do!”
His bonus, his career—everything depended on Kyousuke.
He’d even sent his own son to serve under him as a bag-carrying lackey.
If only he had been born a daughter, he thought bitterly—then he could have attended to Kyousuke’s every need, day and night.
“Then why apologize?” Kyousuke asked. “Editors and mangaka are a team. Our shared goal is to make the manga better. Success or failure, we should shoulder it together.”
The chill on his face melted into warmth, his tone softening.
“If anything, I share some of the blame too. If I had just been more proactive about communicating with you from the start…”
He took on the calm, gentle tone he’d once used as a mentor in Itomori.
The best way to deepen someone’s guilt wasn’t to hammer on their mistakes, but to take the burden onto yourself—to seem understanding, forgiving.
Of course, that only worked if the other party was fundamentally a good person.
If they were trash? Then no need to waste breath—just kill them outright.
Hearing those gentle words, Shimomura instinctively nodded.
Yes, yes, everything he had done had been for Kyousuke’s sake.
Editors and mangaka were two sides of the same coin.
When things went wrong, editors were usually the first to get blamed.
If only Kyousuke weren’t so busy flirting with girls all the time, making him harder to track down than the moon landing, none of this would have happened…
‘Smack!’
The thought hit him so hard he literally slapped himself across the face.
‘Shameless! Hojou-sensei was comforting you, and you dared take it seriously?’
‘What a disgrace. Shimomura, you’re old enough to know better!’
‘Your son would be ashamed of you for such pitiful thoughts!’
