"Tsk, tsk. This critic certainly knows how to spin a narrative." Light Inksworth shook his head, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips as he hit send on the message. "But he isn't entirely wrong."
The general public might view it as a coincidence, but as the author, how could he not know?
The plight of the Ghouls and the mutants shared a tragic symmetry. The breach of the 20th Ward's safe zone by the CCG mirrored the way William Stryker's forces had raided the Xavier Institute in the past.
Light had simply thought that the manga from his previous life—accessible now only through the System's archives—would be interesting to the American market. He knew the bloody, stylized violence would find a niche here. What he hadn't fully anticipated was how deeply the political subtext would resonate with the current social climate.
Ever since the last sales explosion, Uncle Andy had realized that Edward, the vocal comic critic, was an unwitting but effective tool for fueling the flames of popularity. Light's latest works were creating waves that refused to settle.
Buzz. Buzz.
Light picked up the phone.
"Uncle Andy? Is the animation team ready? Good. I'll be there shortly."
Andy informed him that the staff had been assembled. Production could start at any time. The first project on the slate: One Punch Man.
Light knew that once the anime aired, it would feed back into the manga sales. Even though Shonen Jump was moving hundreds of thousands of copies a week, that was merely a ripple compared to the ocean of the entire United States population.
The audience for animation was vastly wider than that of comics. In his previous life, One Punch Man was a prime example; before the anime aired, most casual fans had never heard of it. The same applied to Attack on Titan and Tokyo Ghoul. Their art styles were unique, sometimes rough, yet they became global phenomenons. Why?
The anime adaptations. The opening songs alone were marketing powerhouses—who could forget the anthems that dragged people who had never touched a comic book right into the fandom?
Animation was the ultimate amplifier for 'Fan Value.' Once people watched the show, many would be impatient to know what happened next and would switch to the manga, funneling points directly into Light's System account.
'I wonder,' Light thought, stepping out of his apartment. 'Does the System count an animation adaptation as a separate 'published work'? If so, the point generation will be exponential.'
There was a massive demographic of people who found reading comics too strenuous but would binge-watch a season of anime in a day. Light himself had been one of those people in his previous life; he rarely read the source material unless the anime hooked him deeply.
Leaving Gali at home to rest, Light headed to Marvel Comics alone to meet the new production team.
The Marvel offices had expanded significantly. They now occupied the entire floor, moving far beyond the scale of a small studio. The staff had grown to over twenty people, most of whom were specialized production artists.
Light sat at the head of the conference table, his gaze sweeping over the assembled team.
"I'm not an animator by trade," Light began, his voice steady. "I don't know the technical jargon you might use to discuss frame rates or keyframes, but I have two non-negotiable requirements."
He held up a finger. "First: The visuals must be exquisite. I want 'Sakuga' quality. No off-model characters, no lazy animation, no melting faces. If the art collapses, the immersion breaks."
He held up a second finger. "Second: The pacing. Do not drag the plot out. I don't want five minutes of staring contests or recycled flashbacks to fill time. The rhythm needs to be fast, snappy, and loyal to the adrenaline of the manga."
A man in his thirties, the lead animator, raised a hand to object. "Mr. Inksworth, with all due respect, that kind of production quality requires a massive budget. And if we pace it that fast, we'll burn through the source material in no time. We'll catch up to the comics and have nothing left to adapt."
This man was an industry veteran, poached by Andy with a high salary. His concerns were valid and practical. He knew that a good manga artist didn't necessarily understand the logistics of animation. In the current US market, high-quality animation was rare because it burned money like water. Furthermore, if the anime outpaced the weekly comic release, they would be forced into the dreaded "filler arc" territory.
"You can proceed with peace of mind," Light smiled, leaning back in his chair. "Don't worry about the budget; make it beautiful. As for the plot running out... don't worry about that either. The first season of One Punch Man will tell a complete arc and then stop. We won't stretch it. The content I have ready is more than sufficient."
One Punch Man might have had fewer chapters currently released, but the Boros arc provided a perfect, natural conclusion for a first season.
'If the story isn't finished, it just means I haven't traced the finale yet,' Light thought with amused confidence. 'But for this season, we are covered.'
The team leader nodded slowly. "Okay, boss. If the budget is clear, we can do it."
Although he was surprised that Light, so young, was both the owner and the lead creative, the promise of a flexible budget was every animator's dream. Usually, studio heads wanted to cut corners—reduce frame counts, simplify designs, and churn out cheap content for quick cash.
But the boss here was the creator. He clearly wouldn't let his work be butchered.
Still, the team leader worried internally. 'It's a business. It's about money. If we spend this much and the ratings flop, the loss will be catastrophic.'
Marvel had failed at animation before. It was a sore spot. He shook his head secretly; well, if the boss wanted to burn cash, that was his prerogative. At least the paychecks were signed.
With the direction set, the animation team went to work with terrifying efficiency. These were masters of their craft, after all. By the afternoon, they had already put together a conceptual clip.
Light watched the footage. The fluidity, the impact—it matched the original picture in his mind perfectly. He nodded in approval. This was the work he wanted.
In his previous life, One Punch Man had dominated its season thanks to high investment and a strong lineup. He didn't need to micromanage the rest.
As he prepared to leave, Andy walked over, looking flushed with excitement. "Light, you've done it again. Your new comics have turned the city upside down. It's not just the media anymore; protesters opposing the Mutant Registration Act are waving copies of Shonen Jump in the streets."
"The cultural impact is even bigger than the last launch. You've even suppressed the news cycle regarding the space mission. Those five astronauts preparing for launch? No one is talking about them."
'Five astronauts?' Light thought, pausing. 'That would be Reed Richards and his team—the Fantastic Four, plus Victor Von Doom.'
Light nodded, understanding the timeline. "It was likely triggered by that critic, Edward, online."
Andy's face changed slightly, looking surprised. "Huh? What do you mean by that?"
"Do you really think I wrote a political manifesto?" Light rolled his eyes playfully, waved his hand, and headed for the elevator. "People see what they want to see, Uncle Andy."
He paused at the door. "Oh, and Andy? I'm going to add two more long-form comics to the third issue. We might need to expand the magazine again."
"What are they called?"
"You'll know when you see them."
Times Square, New York City
Huge digital billboards illuminated the evening crowd, flashing headlines that captivated the pedestrians below.
"Welcome to the Midday News. Today, Twitter experienced a massive server outage. Engineers have traced the traffic spike to a thread by comic critic @EdwardV_Reviews. His detailed conspiracy theories regarding Shonen Jump have caused a digital tidal wave."
"The New York Times: Shonen Jump captures the zeitgeist again. Citing Edward's analysis, two new comics are being interpreted as allegories for the Mutant Registration Act currently before Congress. The vague comment from Marvel's elusive chairman has only added fuel to the fire."
"Senator Kelly: The vocal proponent of the Registration Act criticized Marvel Comics today, stating, 'Corporate entities should be cautious in their words and deeds. They shouldn't grab eyeballs with inflammatory political commentary. Cartoonists should stick to drawing cartoons.'"
"Update: Senator Kelly's Twitter account has reportedly been flooded by outraged fans."
"Opinion: A decorated WWII veteran has called for a ban on Shonen Jump, claiming the depictions of violence are 'un-American' and corrupting the youth."
"Business News: Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, remains missing. It has been two weeks since his convoy was ambushed in Afghanistan. Police and military sources have ruled out simple kidnapping for ransom, but no demands have been made."
"Military Watch: Since the mysterious explosion at the Culver University labs, the military has been conducting frequent maneuvers. These movements are suspected to be related to the 'monsters' rumored to be roaming the countryside. General Ross declined to be interviewed."
The news anchor delivered the reports in rapid succession.
Light stood in the middle of Times Square, looking up at the massive screens.
'The military? That must be the Hulk,' he thought. 'The timeline is converging.'
When Tony Stark returned to New York as Iron Man, the era of heroes and monsters would truly begin. A dance of demons was approaching.
Light looked at the happy tourists and busy New Yorkers around him. He wondered how many would flee when the Chitauri eventually rained down from the sky. The United States was about to become a very eventful place.
Hell's Kitchen
Light had called Gali out to play for the day. He needed to relax; holding the System's ghost-trace steady for hours on end was mentally exhausting work, even if his hand didn't cramp.
As dusk approached, the city transformed. Manhattan was a tale of two cities. There was the Upper East Side, where the wealthy sipped fine wine and sang songs of prosperity. And then there was the West Side—specifically, Hell's Kitchen.
In the early years, it was a notorious slum. Poverty bred crime, and crime bred chaos. It wasn't just about homelessness; it was a chaotic melting pot of the underworld.
This was where Light lived. Gangsters came here to die. Businesses that couldn't survive in the light—smuggling, drugs, trafficking—thrived here in the dark.
This was the territory of the Kingpin of Crime, Wilson Fisk.
Light wore a newly bought white baseball cap and held the small hand of Gali, who was happily munching on a kebab. Walking through these streets, they passed scantily clad women on corners, wretched junkies, and tattooed thugs.
Light adjusted his hat. 'This reminds me of the Platelets,' he thought. 'Maybe I should draw Cells at Work next. It's educational.'
He'd heard that a plain white hat on Amazon cost only nine dollars, but if you embroidered "Platelet" on it, you could sell it for ninety-nine. He really admired the wit of businessmen.
It was a perfectly normal, relaxing day. Until it wasn't.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunshots rang out sharply from the street ahead. The pedestrians around them didn't scream; they simply turned and fled with practiced efficiency. There was no sheer terror in their eyes, only a resigned panic. Living in Hell's Kitchen forced you to get used to the sound of gunfire.
Light was used to it too. Since moving here, gunfire was practically his lullaby.
"Ignore them," Light said calmly.
He kept moving forward, much to the shock of the fleeing crowd. Why was this young man walking toward the shooting?
But Light wasn't the timid boy he used to be. Skill made a man bold.
The sound of gunfire intensified, and the acrid smell of sulfur and smoke drifted through the air. Under the dazzling, flickering neon signs, Light and Gali arrived at the center of the chaos.
At a glance, Light saw a man in a red, devilish costume flipping off a wall, retreating while being surrounded by gangsters.
"Well, look at that," Light murmured.
Daredevil, Matt Murdock. He was using the environment, bouncing off walls to fight back. Despite being blind—a result of a radioactive accident that heightened his other senses to superhuman levels—he was a formidable warrior. By day, a lawyer; by night, a vigilante fighting for the soul of Hell's Kitchen.
Daredevil's radar sense picked up two heartbeats entering the kill zone. Civilians. A young man and a child.
Whiz!
Two sharp darts flew from the shadows, glinting in the neon light as they cut through the air, aiming straight for Daredevil's throat and eyes.
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen didn't flinch. He swung his billy clubs, knocking the deadly projectiles out of the air with a metallic clang.
"What are you thinking, Daredevil? Oh... look what we have here. Two little mice."
Stepping out of the shadows was a man in a black trench coat. The most striking feature was the bullseye symbol carved into his forehead. He glanced at the entrance of the street, his eyes gleaming with sadistic intent as he spotted Light and Gali.
Bullseye. The professional assassin with perfect aim, currently serving as Kingpin's chief enforcer. In his hands, a paperclip was as deadly as a bullet.
"Grab them," Bullseye ordered the gangsters, gesturing toward Light.
The thugs grinned maliciously and advanced.
Bullseye knew Daredevil's weakness. He was a "hero." A goody-two-shoes. If Bullseye threatened hostages, Daredevil would be distracted. It would be an easy kill.
"You two must be idiots," a thug sneered. "Running toward gunfire?"
Daredevil shouted, desperation in his voice. "Asshole! Your fight is with me!"
He turned to rush toward Light, screaming, "Run! Get out of here!"
But as soon as Daredevil moved, Bullseye threw another flurry of projectiles, forcing the vigilante to defend himself, blocking his path to the civilians.
"Yeah, yeah, it's a gang war again. I've been dealing with nothing but gangsters these days," Light sighed, shaking his head helplessly as the thugs approached.
'First Frank D'Amico, and now this?' Light thought, annoyed. 'Well it was us who walked in the line of the fire... still, this is a public place, couldn't they fight... somewhere discreet? Crime should be done somewhere discreet, right? So, technically, it wasn't my fault... It's their fault! I'm right, once again. Tsk, tsk, tsk.'
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Word count: 2426
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