The harsh trill of the landline on the desk shattered the silence. Light Inksworth reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he lifted the receiver.
"Light, listen to me," a rough, strained voice barked from the other end before he could even speak. "I know you're grieving. I know the last few weeks have been hell. But you can't keep ghosting us like this. Your parents built this company from the ground up, and right now, it's bleeding out. You haven't shown your face in a week, and the artists are starting to jump ship. We're sinking, kid."
It was Andy. The man sounded exhausted, his voice raspy from too many cigarettes and too much shouting.
Light offered a tired, bitter smile to the empty room. "Uncle Andy, take a breath. I'm coming in today. And if those artists want to walk, let them walk. I've got something better."
"Better?" Andy scoffed, the skepticism dripping from the receiver. "Christ, Light... just get your ass down here."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
Light set the phone down and exhaled slowly. He turned back to his desk, clearing away the clutter to make space. He reached into the drawer and pulled out a fresh stack of bristol board.
He closed his eyes, accessing the System interface in his mind. He dismissed the previous search and focused on a new title. He mentally typed three words into the search bar: One Punch Man.
The cover art flashed in his mind's eye—the juxtaposition of intense, gritty detail and the comically blank expression of the protagonist. Light picked up his pen. It was time to draw.
According to his memories, Andy was more than just a general manager; he was his father's oldest friend, the glue that had held Inksworth Publishing together for decades. But loyalty only went so far when the paychecks were uncertain.
The company, despite its prime location and legacy, was a shell. On paper, it sounded prestigious. In reality, it was a boutique studio struggling to stay relevant. They had four pencilers, six assistants, and a handful of admin staff—fifteen people in total.
Or at least, they did.
The comic industry in 2008 was a stagnant pool. Diversity in storytelling was nonexistent. The market was suffocated by the shadow of Captain America. Every publisher was chasing the same "Patriotic Super Soldier" trend, terrified that deviating from the formula would lead to financial ruin. It was an ecosystem of cowardice.
There were half a dozen independent publishers in New York just like Inksworth Publishing—family-owned, underfunded, and slowly dying as they failed to compete with the giants.
But for Light, who now possessed the Supreme Mangaka System, this stagnation wasn't a death sentence. It was a golden opportunity. The bar was set so low it was practically underground.
He worked quickly, the "Ghost Trace" feature guiding his hand with supernatural speed. Within an hour, the first chapter was complete. He slid the manuscript into his leather messenger bag, threw it over his shoulder, and headed out the door.
...
New York City, 2008. The center of the modern world.
Stepping out onto the street, the sensory overload was immediate. The air smelled of exhaust fumes, hot asphalt, and stale garbage. Horns blared in a chaotic symphony as yellow cabs wove aggressively through gridlock.
Light looked up at the sliver of sky visible between the skyscrapers, shielding his eyes from the harsh glare. It felt surreal to be back in the grind, yet in a universe so fundamentally different.
Inksworth Publishing was located in Midtown Manhattan, just a few blocks from the sensory assault of Times Square.
It was prime real estate, ironically situated near the "Crossroads of the World," surrounded by theaters, major firms, and the beating heart of capitalism.
Light hailed a cab, sliding into the worn backseat. The driver, a chatty man with a thick Queens accent and a rhythmic way of speaking, spent the entire ride monologuing about the heatwave and the Knicks. Light stared out the window, offering only noncommittal hums in response.
When they pulled up to the curb, Light handed over a crisp bill, waving off the change before the driver could finish his sentence about the mayor.
"Hey, thanks, boss! You have a blessed day, alright?" the driver called out, pocketing the heavy tip.
Light stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the imposing steel-and-glass structure. The Inksworth offices were on the 7th floor.
Originally, his parents had leased the entire floor, dreaming of expansion. But after the crash—not the economic one, but the literal plane crash that took their lives—the company had contracted.
The empty cubicles were now just a reminder of dead dreams, and the remaining staff lived in a state of perpetual anxiety.
Light pushed through the revolving doors and headed for the elevator. His journey to conquer the Marvel Universe started now.
...
7th Floor, Inksworth Publishing.
The atmosphere inside the office was funereal. Dust motes danced in the beams of light cutting through the blinds.
A man with messy hair and ink-stained fingers walked into the main office. He didn't look up as he approached the large mahogany desk at the end of the room. He slid a white envelope across the polished surface.
"Andy," the man said, his voice flat. "I'm done. Here's my resignation."
Behind the desk sat Andy, a burly man with graying hair and tired blue eyes. He stared at the envelope as if it were a bomb. "You're not even going to consider staying? We can renegotiate in a month."
The artist shook his head. "There's nothing to negotiate, Andy. The ship is sinking."
He turned and walked out without another word.
"Damn it," Andy muttered, rubbing his temples. "Ungrateful kid."
He knew why they were leaving. It wasn't just the money. It was Light. The heir apparent hadn't shown his face since the funeral. To the employees, it looked like abandonment. Why would they stay loyal to a company whose owner didn't care?
The industry was brutal. Job security was a myth. Why go down with the ship for a boss who was never there?
"Uncle Andy," a voice cut through the gloom.
Andy looked up, startled. Light stood in the doorway, looking sharper and more composed than he had in weeks.
"How bad is it?" Light asked, walking into the room.
Andy sighed, slumping back in his chair. "You finally decided to show up. It's bad, Light. That was the last lead artist. We're down to two assistants and five admin staff. Everyone else cleaned out their desks this morning."
Andy's voice rose, frustration bubbling over. "You can't run a publishing house without talent, Light! We have deadlines. We have distributors. Without content, we're dead in the water."
"Let them go," Light said, his tone shockingly indifferent.
"Let them—" Andy sputtered, his face reddening. "Did you hear me? We have no cartoonists. The company cannot survive on air!"
"I'm not asking it to," Light said calmly. He reached into his bag, pulled out the thick stack of bristol board, and slammed it onto the desk.
"I'll do it myself."
Andy stared at him, bewildered. "You?"
He looked at Light as if the boy had grown a second head. He knew Light had gone to art school, sure, but drawing for a commercial release? That was a different beast entirely. And writing? Since when did the kid write?
Skeptical, Andy reached out and pulled the manuscript toward him.
The cover page was striking, yet confusing. It featured a man in a yellow suit and a white cape. He was bald. The angle was from the back, hiding his face, but the posture radiated a strange mix of power and apathy.
Andy frowned. The art style was clean—professional, even. It was on par with, if not better than, the artists who had just quit. That was a relief, at least. The kid had chops.
He turned the page.
Scene: The ruins of City A.
A massive, purple skinned humanoid monster stood amidst the rubble of a destroyed skyline. Explosions of energy—drawn with incredible dynamic force—obliterated civilians and buildings alike.
Text: "I am the Vaccine Man! I was created by the Earth to cleanse it of the virus known as humanity!"
Andy raised an eyebrow. The art was spectacular, he had to admit. The destruction felt visceral. But the premise?
Cut to: A small apartment. A bald man in a superhero costume is watching the news report on TV with a blank expression.
Dialogue: "I guess I'll go."
Andy's frown deepened. "A hero theme?"
He looked up at Light. "Light, the art is great, really. But... another superhero story? The market is choking on these. Everyone is doing 'Justice' and 'Honor.' Readers are bored. Last week's sales data showed a 15% drop in the genre. We need something new, not a generic clone."
He looked back down at the page. The monster design was derivative—it looked like an alien warlord mixed with generic alien tropes.
And the hero?
"Saitama," Andy read the name aloud. "And his motivation..."
He flipped the page to the confrontation. The Vaccine Man was monologuing about the environment and destiny.
Saitama stood there, looking like a poorly drawn egg in a cape.
Saitama: "I'm just a guy who's a hero for fun."