In Haruki's view, the first two episodes of Madoka Magica were nothing more than gentle misdirection. They introduced a handful of girls, an oddly cute creature, and a pastel-colored cityscape. It all seemed harmless, almost saccharine.
Then came episode three.
Mami Tomoe's sudden, brutal death shattered that illusion. In a single scene, the series tore away its playful mask.
The warmth of transformation sequences and after-school banter gave way to raw despair. It wasn't just a twist. It felt like betrayal. The cheerful facade cracked wide open, revealing something far darker underneath.
Episodes four and five pulled the curtain back even further. Mami's absence hung like a shadow. She wasn't just a casualty of the plot; she was a reminder of the price every girl would eventually pay. Her death forced the survivors to look inward. What did it mean to make a contract with Kyubey? Was a miracle worth such a fate?
From episode six onward, the series crossed into uncharted territory. The magical girl system was revealed in full: merciless, irreversible, and soaked in tragedy.
Just as the title suggested, this was always a story of two things—"magical girls" and "Madoka." Every episode spiraled closer to those two cores, like threads tightening around a knot.
By the time episode five rolled around, everything was ready to snap.
The tonal shift was clear in retrospect:
Episodes one and two: lighthearted school life, deceptive calm.
Episode three: shock; the cheerful illusion obliterated.
Episodes four and five: lingering sadness, foreshadowing heavier truths.
Episodes six and seven: suffocating dread.
Episodes eight and nine: collapse of hope.
The finale: quiet devastation, bittersweet and unshakable.
For many, the show became harder to stomach with each week. Yet even those who claimed they "couldn't take it anymore" kept watching. There was something magnetic about despair when it was written this well.
Even the opening theme, brimming with sunshine and pastel imagery, became unsettling in context. Fans began noting bitterly: Not a single one of those happy scenes actually happened.
Just before episode five aired, Haruki posted a short update on his Fend account:
"The story of love and magic truly begins now."
Was it a joke?
Confusion spread instantly. Love? In Madoka?
Viewers had already been bracing for more death, more cruelty. Where did love fit into this merciless story? Some worried this was Haruki's cruelest prank yet. Others argued it was a warning—that heartbreak was coming, and it wouldn't be pretty.
Debates flared online.
"It's just a violent magical girl show. There's no depth, only shock value."
"Nah man, it's not the blood that hits. It's that you actually care when they get hurt. That's what messes you up."
They cited examples: Rurouni Kenshin: Trust & Betrayal wasn't haunting because of swords cutting flesh. It lingered because of Tomoe's quiet, tragic death in the snow. 5 Centimeters per Second crushed people without a drop of blood—just two lives that never reconnected.
It wasn't gore that mattered. It was loss.
And in Madoka, Mami's death had struck because of her character, her warmth, her loneliness, the fragile courage beneath her smile. She wasn't just killed. She was taken after the show had made people believe in her.
That was Haruki's specialty. He had always wielded heartbreak like a scalpel. From Anohana to 5 Centimeters per Second, from Takaki watching Akari vanish into a passing crowd to Jinta crying out for Menma, his greatest works all cut along the same vein: the pain of unspoken love.
Fans even joked about it: "Only Haruki could make Initial D feel like a breakup story."
That was why many doubted Madoka. Up through episode four, there wasn't a trace of romance. Aside from Kyousuke, Sayaka's childhood friend, and Madoka's kindly father, men were practically absent. No love triangles. No tragic couples. No heartbreak to cling to.
The arguments raged on for a week. But speculation meant nothing. The answer would arrive when episode five aired.
Episode Five Begins
The screen faded in on a rooftop at dusk. The sky burned a dying red. Sayaka stood stiffly beside Kyubey. Her hair swayed in the cold breeze.
Kyubey's long, threadlike ears extended forward, curling with a sickly elegance. They pierced through the air and then into Sayaka's chest. From within her, a gem emerged—glowing blue, pulsing faintly in the twilight.
Her Soul Gem.
This should have been triumphant. A transformation. A beginning.
But there was no music. No celebration. Only silence. The ritual felt more like a sacrifice at an altar than the birth of a hero.
Later, Sayaka stood in the hospital corridor. Through the glass window, she watched Kyousuke, violin cradled in his hands. His fingers danced across the strings. The notes weren't audible through the glass, but she could see the light in his eyes, the relief on his parents' faces, the way doctors beamed at the miracle recovery.
Sayaka smiled faintly. Her hands curled into her skirt.
"My wish came true," she thought.
"How could I regret it? Right now… I'm happy."
She said nothing more. The scene lingered on her face.
And just like that, the story of "love and magic" had begun.
Not the kind of love that ends in a kiss.
The kind that ends in sacrifice.
The audience watching episode five felt something was off.
Under the orange sky, with surreal light and shadow swirling across the rooftop, Sayaka's face carried a content, almost joyful smile.
But the music told another story—subtly melancholic, like a quiet warning. Viewers couldn't shake the sense that the blue-haired girl was standing on the edge of something irreversible.
The scene shifted.
A new figure entered: the red-haired magical girl, Kyoko Sakura. Following Mami Tomoe's death, Kyoko arrived to claim her territory, only to find Sayaka Miki already active.
Her goal was simple: hunt the witch haunting the city and claim its Grief Seed. From the moment they met, Kyoko and Sayaka clashed. A fight was inevitable.
Meanwhile, Madoka, still haunted by Mami's fate, sought out Homura Akemi. She pleaded with her to fight alongside Sayaka.
But Homura's expression was cold, almost sorrowful.
"I won't lie to you," she said. "And I won't make promises I can't keep. So… give up on Miki Sayaka. She never should've made the contract."
"Just like the dead can't come back… once you become a magical girl, there's no going back. That contract grants you a single hope, but it costs everything else."
Her words sent shivers through viewers. This was already episode five, yet the full truth of the magical girl system remained elusive. Homura's cryptic warnings, her fierce insistence that Madoka never contract with Kyubey, what was she hiding?
Questions piled up:
What is Homura's real connection to Madoka?
Why does she care so deeply?
Why does Kyubey feel more like a cult recruiter than a guardian?
What's the hidden cost of becoming a magical girl?
Later, Madoka and Sayaka tracked a familiar close to evolving into a witch. Sayaka prepared to destroy it, until someone stopped her.
Kyoko, spear in hand, grinned sharply.
"You don't get it, do you?" she said. "That thing's not a witch yet. There's no Grief Seed. Let it eat four or five people first, then it'll transform. Then you kill it, and then you get the seed. Why would you kill the chicken before it lays the egg?"
Her words stunned the audience.
Weren't magical girls supposed to protect people? Kyoko spoke as if human lives were just fuel, necessary sacrifices for harvesting Grief Seeds.
Sayaka's fury ignited. She had made her wish to save others, not stand by while people died.
The fight began as a clash of ideals but quickly escalated into a brutal, unrelenting duel. Every strike was meant to kill. It was raw, fast, and desperate—the kind of battle that felt less like heroism and more like survival.
Viewers were floored. Was this the reality of being a magical girl? Kill or be killed. Territory wars. The strong feeding on the weak.
The ideals Mami and Madoka had believed in, that magical girls were meant to be protectors, shattered in the face of cold pragmatism. The system was transactional. Life for power. Sacrifice for survival.
This was Mizushiro's vision for Madoka Magica: a deliberate dismantling of the genre. And it was working.
The duel ended only when Homura intervened. The episode closed on silence, leaving the audience drowning in questions.
Even without the full truth revealed, viewers were hooked. This wasn't a standard magical girl show. It was darker, cynical, but achingly human.
Every character carried weight:
Mami, elegant yet burdened.
Sayaka, idealistic but insecure.
Madoka, hesitant yet empathetic.
Homura, cold yet clearly hurting.
They weren't archetypes. They felt real.
By this point, the show was drawing far more attention.
By the end of episode five, Madoka Magica had climbed to #2 in the nationwide streaming rankings for October, averaging 5.8 million views per episode. The season's leader, Into the Abyss, still held a commanding 6.6 million, but Madoka's surge was undeniable.
As the viewership spike became impossible to ignore, many began calling it a frontrunner for anime of the year. Still, Into the Abyss remained a strong contender, continuing to grow its audience with each new episode. The race for the crown was far from over.
Industry professionals and critics alike praised Madoka Magica.
"This is the best magical girl anime of the past decade," one TV host said. "Whether it reaches masterpiece status or not, the execution alone sets it apart."
On AnimeOn, Madoka Magica climbed to a 9.0 user rating, officially overtaking Into the Abyss, which held steady at 8.9.
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