For Haruki, Natsume wasn't a direct, page-by-page remake of the original version provided by the system. He never intended to stretch the series across four or five years. His goal was clear from the start: finish it in a single, emotionally rich year.
There was no shortage of excellent series waiting in the system archive. Haruki's strategy was to adapt only the most moving, resonant chapters—the ones that left a lasting impression. He deliberately avoided the slower arcs and filler-like stories that could cause reader fatigue.
In series with self-contained chapters, even a couple of weaker entries can derail the reader's interest. Once that connection is lost, it's hard to win it back. Haruki sidestepped that entirely. By keeping the emotional core intact and releasing a new chapter every other week, he kept the momentum strong. Readers were touched, again and again. Some chapters even brought fans to tears.
Natsume himself had quietly become one of the most beloved characters of the year. His kindness, gentleness, and emotional vulnerability struck a chord—especially among female readers, who connected with his quiet strength in deeply personal ways.
As the year neared its end, the manga industry shifted into its festive season. Year-end rankings, fan votes, and online events kicked into high gear. One platform in particular stood out: Nexari, the country's largest hub for digital manga fans. Though its editorial recommendations were hit-or-miss, Nexari had built an empire around fan engagement—community boards, fan art galleries, events, merchandise, and more.
At the end of each year, the site hosted a major fan-voted event: Manga of the Year, highlighting the standout new series across Tokyo's manga scene.
Industry veterans used to dismiss it. "It's not official." "It's just a popularity contest."
Over time, fan enthusiasm turned the event into a massive spectacle. the vote became an annual battleground for fandoms. Debates ran hot. Tempers flared. Even editors started paying attention.
To avoid overlapping with the prestigious Aurora Manga Awards, Nexari held their contest a month earlier—at the tail end of the year.
So when Haruka brought up the manga of the year to Haruki, his response was automatic.
What else was he supposed to say?
By now, Haruki had learned to pay close attention to anything involving rankings or visibility. There was no telling when a system reward might trigger. Even if this was just a fan poll, he wasn't going to ignore it.
"Are there any requirements?" he asked.
"None," Haruka replied. "It's an unofficial event. Nexari just compiles a list of new serializations from Tokyo-based magazines. After that, it's all up to the fans. Even if we didn't say a word, Natsume would still be in the running."
It was a bitterly cold day. Haruka was so bundled up in scarves and her padded coat that she looked more like a quilted dumpling than a senior editor.
"Then... why are you bringing this up so seriously?" Haruki asked. "It's not like you to care about these things."
Haruka gave him a sharp look. "Because it matters."
"The vote doesn't carry historical weight, and it's not part of the formal industry—but that's not what the fans care about. They respond to what's visible. And the exposure boost from this could be huge."
"So... it's free publicity," Haruki said.
"No," she corrected. "It's a full-blown marketing campaign we don't have to pay for."
She let that settle for a moment.
"Natsume is doing well—but the growth is leveling out. That's normal. All popular titles plateau eventually. If we want the series to reach a wider audience and become something lasting, we have to give it a little push."
Haruki leaned back in his chair, thinking it over. She had a point.
Even if the system didn't reward this directly, a visibility spike might help unlock something down the line.
"But this is a reader vote," he said. "It's not about quality—it's about popularity. What can I even do about that?"
"You have a Fend account, don't you?" Haruka replied flatly.
He blinked. "Yeah... almost a million followers now."
"Exactly. You've got readers from The Garden of Words, buzz from Rurouni Kenshin, and now Natsume's growing fanbase too. If you post—even just one message—it'll move people."
"You want me to ask them to vote?"
"I want you to remind them. Fans are busy. Most won't vote unless you tell them. But if you do, even casually, many will step up."
Haruka's tone wasn't forceful—but it didn't need to be. Her meaning was clear.
"Among all the new manga to debut in Tokyo this year, Natsume is already ranked sixth in shroud line. With your following, if you actually rally them... we could land in the top three."
She paused, then added:
"Maybe even take first."
Haruki exhaled. This wasn't just about numbers anymore. It was about momentum—about not letting the spark fade just when it had started to catch fire.
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