Jingū Yō stood before a vending machine, purchased a can of coffee, yanked the tab, and drained it in one swift gulp. He then tossed the empty can into the trash bin stationed beside the machine.
Japan was strange in its own way—streets gleamed with cleanliness, yet public trash bins were scarce. Unlike in the grand metropolises of the Heavenly Empire, where a bin might appear every few steps, here people often drank on the spot. If they carried their bottles onward, who could be sure they'd find a place to dispose of them?
He pulled out his phone and activated the front camera. Yō inspected his appearance on the screen, nodded in satisfaction, and snapped a selfie.
His fresh, stylish hair was the result of early-morning effort. Before his transmigration, he hadn't been particularly handsome, but he'd mastered the art of hair wax sculpting.
His attire was formal yet casual: a business‑style plaid shirt, khaki slacks, leather shoes. Black‑framed glasses perched on his nose—fashionable for this era—lent him an air of maturity, as though he were years older.
Though his new body wasn't nearsighted, Yō had bought non-prescription glasses to appear more poised in formal settings. In Japan, where hierarchy and respect for elders were rigid, projecting age granted authority.
In the selfie's background loomed a six‑story building—the local branch of Weekly Shōnen JUMP, where he'd mailed his manga manuscript. The picture served as a self‑memento.
(In reality, Weekly Shōnen JUMP only has one headquarters; meetings with editors happen in cubicles on the first floor. This isn't a mistake—it's a parallel world detail. I won't highlight it further.)
He chose this branch simply because it was closer to his current residence.
"I didn't expect they'd actually request a meeting," he murmured, confidence brightening his smile as he strode across pedestrian-packed streets toward the building.
After mailing his draft, Yō had felt a pang of regret. Sending by post felt impersonal. Was it better to go in person to show courtesy? Japan was known for tolerating prodigies—but arrogance, even genius shown too boldly, bred dislike.
He had even prepared for the possibility that, despite a personal visit, Naruto might still fail to be serialized. This world wasn't his original one; there was no guarantee JUMP would pick it up. Still, he remained unshaken. Naruto had become a cultural phenomenon in another world—it had innate value. Even if not by JUMP, it would flourish elsewhere; only the timing would differ.
What he lacked most was time—precious and slipping away.
Then, just the next day, he received a phone call from a JUMP editor to request a meeting. All doubts evaporated. If possible, to serialize it in Japan's best-selling manga weekly—that was his aim.
The branch building appeared somewhat shabby beside JUMP HQ's glamor. As Yō moved to step inside, someone collided with him from behind.
Yō reacted swiftly, sidestepping the passerby. He frowned at the man.
The man, realizing his clumsiness, looked up sheepishly and forced a timid smile.
He appeared in his thirties, sallow and slumped, dark circles under weary eyes—resembling those in Tokyo who drifted without direction. Unease and tension colored his expression—as if awaiting judgment. Even his smile, directed at Yō, seemed awkward.
Yō returned the politeness with a courteous smile, gesturing for him: After you. The man must have been lost in thought, walking head-down and forgot to watch his feet.
"Thank you," he murmured, voice low and trembling—as if he were a shut-in, stepping outside after months.
Once the man disappeared into the lobby of the JUMP branch, Yō followed. He watched as the anxious man gestured wildly while speaking to the receptionist, yet she responded with a stiff, professional smile.
Soon after, the receptionist pointed with composure, and the man bowed—then retreated. Yō stepped forward.
"Hello, sir. May I help you?" Her tone was soft but mechanical—trained. She'd seen countless confident hopefuls arrive and leave defeated. This merciless competition could numb anyone.
"Hello. I'm Jingū Yō. I have an appointment with Editor Maki Ogata." Yō offered a bright smile.
"An appointment?" The receptionist paused, then scrambled to check her appointment log. After comparing notes, she looked up, emboldened: "Editor Ogata is in the leftmost meeting room. Would you like me to guide you?"
Her tone was warm—completely different from how she'd addressed the earlier man. Her smile had deepened, voice brimming with enthusiasm.
"No, thank you. I'll find it myself." Yō glanced down the corridor; the layout was obvious to anyone.
"You're too polite." She managed another courteous smile as he turned and strode inside.
"How young… that's refreshing." She muttered, admiration tinting her words.
Most who submitted work waited anxiously for editorial judgment. But those granted appointments were already on the radar—they stood a genuine chance at serialization in Weekly Shōnen JUMP. Even if they failed, they had arrived: they were real manga creators, entitled to the revered title of sensei.
In Japan, sensei is a sacred term—reserved for teachers, doctors, and respected professionals. Being called that signifies status.
And it was Editor Ogata who requested Yō's presence. The receptionist knew his reputation. Ogata was a veteran, effectively deputy editor at this branch.
Yō paid no mind to the receptionist's speculations. He walked past several transparent meeting rooms, glancing inside. Editors lounged, stretched, yawned—observing timid newcomers, occasionally peering at submitted pages, offering offhand commentary.
This was the first barrier for many: being judged harshly. Not Yō. He bypassed that threshold entirely.
The innermost meeting room was larger and placed more prominently—only for important meetings. It confirmed that Editor Ogata held Yō's presence in high regard.
"Knock, knock, knock…"
Hearing "Please come in," Yō opened the door.
Inside, Ogata was seated at the table. Upon seeing Yō, he hastily set aside his work and rose. Yō noted instinctively: this was the original Naruto manuscript he'd mailed.
Ogata's eyes flickered with surprise—he hadn't expected someone so young. But seasoned as he was, he suppressed his shock, swept a few wisps of thinning hair aside, and offered a broad smile:
"Welcome, Sensei Jingū. I didn't expect someone so young. When I first saw the age on your submission, I thought it was a prank."
Some manga artists were eccentric enough to joke like that—but it was rare.
Yō raised a brow at the unexpected sensei honorific. Typically, newcomers received harsh treatment first, and titles came only later. This openness unsettled him—it meant the conversation began with Yō on solid footing.
"Editor Ogata, thank you for saying so. I am Jingū Yō—the young man you referred to."
The light joke broke the ice. He offered a handshake and sat across from him.
Yō wasn't truly a youngster—his 25 years before transmigration had seasoned him for life's struggles.
"May I offer you something to drink, Sensei?"
"A glass of room-temperature water would be fine. Thank you."
Ogata poured two cups of water into disposable paper cups, placed them on the table, then dove into business.
"Saying this frankly: you're different. Your reaction absolutely surprised me."
"May I ask what surprised you, Editor Ogata?"
Yō steeled himself. This was the verbal duel he would face often—essential for building his ACG empire. Now was the time to sharpen that experience.
"Most newcomers—even the confident ones—show nerves. But I sensed no anxiety from you. I started as an editor from the bottom too and have seen artists so isolated they barely speak. Those like you are rare."
Ogata looked at Yō with respect—he spoke not condescendingly, but as a peer. That boosted his confidence.
Yō smiled but stayed quiet. His confidence sprang from two sources: his transmigration's authenticity gave him an inherent presence—and his certainty that Naruto would succeed. If JUMP didn't pick it, they'd live to regret it. He held the advantage.
Seeing Yō steady and mature, Ogata's demeanor shifted to earnest appraisal.
"At first, I questioned whether this was even your work—I thought maybe someone else drew it. But now, I'm convinced: it's yours."
He lifted the manuscript on the desk. Confidence, when genuine, inspires belief.
"These are the next few chapters you asked me to bring along. Please review them."
Yō nodded as Ogata handed him the newest pages. His goal was serialization—idle talk served no purpose.
"You know, young blood seldom stays calm," Ogata said with a smile—no trace of mockery, only jest.
Ogata examined the new pages with seriousness, flipping through. Yō noted silently: Ogata was not the kind to skim or be superficial. His meticulous dedication spoke of a true professional.
The room fell silent as Ogata studied. When he finished the last page, Yō broke the quiet:
"…Actually, I'm surprised, Editor Ogata. Your treatment of a 'newcomer' is unconventional. So… what do you think of the manuscript?"
His tone bore no hint of worry.
Ogata paused, then answered slowly, "Honestly, from the moment I read your first mailed draft, I thought Naruto would succeed. To what extent, I cannot say, but I believed it had manga‑to‑be-serialized potential in JUMP. Though your submission was a bit late, I submitted it to the chief editor—even against protocol. Your next chapters are strong too. Only in some details, improvements can be made…"
Ogata, now in the editor's eye, outlined areas for improvement. Yō nodded—these were minor tweaks, no fundamental changes. Even the adjustments would enhance Naruto without altering its essence.
Toward the end, Ogata sighed wryly:
"…Your draft is nearly perfect. Even without changes, it's serial‑ready. I half-wonder if you worked as an editor before—and understand exactly what we need. But, it's my duty to suggest edits. If I passed your work unaltered, I'd seem incompetent."
"Not at all," Yō replied. "Your suggestions are excellent. Following them, the manga will only be stronger."
Flattery structured as genuine praise was easy; Yō delivered it effortlessly.
Ogata glanced at his watch: "…We've been at this for half an hour. I'd hoped to discuss more, but the serialization meeting begins shortly and I must prepare. I'm sorry I can't continue. Know this: Naruto has been nominated by the chief editor for the serialization meeting. Whether it passes depends on that process, not me. Regardless, here's my card. Please keep it. You can call me anytime, and I'll inform you of any updates."
Yō accepted the card, studying the balding man before him. Ogata's sincerity was genuine, but Yō knew Ogata was ambitious—he'd attached importance to Yō's talent. If Yō failed, Ogata lost nothing—if Yō succeeded, Ogata gained significant credit.
They shook hands one final time.
Ogata had shown respect, competence, and dedication. He believed in Yō—and would work on his behalf. This was a win‑win situation, and Yō held no objections.