The next morning, Haruki did something unusual: he ignored the reader count. Not because he’d suddenly become mature, not because he’d developed discipline — because he was afraid. The ranking drop bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Yesterday he’d been rank twenty-nine; now he was thirty-three. Objectively meaningless. Emotionally, it felt like losing.
So instead of checking analytics, he opened Chapter Three. Work first, panic later — a surprisingly effective strategy. The black thread mystery had energized him, and the Chapter finally felt dangerous. Not physically. Narratively. Someone was looking for Ren. Someone knew he was different. Questions were turning into consequences, and that was progress.
His stylus moved across the screen, panel after panel — the woman from the train stepping onto a crowded platform, phone at her ear, while Ren tried convincing himself everything was normal, a difficult task considering he’d spent the previous Chapter discovering a hidden world beneath Tokyo. The contrast amused him.
A notification interrupted his focus — not the system, not the platform. Social media. Someone had tagged his series. Curious, he clicked. A small manga discussion account had posted: Threadless Gate has a cool concept, but Blade Campus Rebellion is still the strongest new series this month. Below it, dozens of readers were arguing — some agreeing, some not. Most importantly, people were comparing them.
Haruki stared at the screen. A strange feeling settled in his stomach — not anger, not jealousy. Competition. For the first time, another creator stopped being a number on a ranking board and became real. Someone else was drawing. Someone else was publishing. Someone else was fighting for readers. The thought sharpened his focus.
A blue notification appeared.
[Industry Insight]
Competition creates growth. Avoid emotional comparison. Focus on measurable improvement.
Haruki laughed. "That’s much easier to say than do." The system offered no further wisdom.
Around noon, a platform notification arrived carrying a username: KurodaRyu commented on your series. He blinked — the name sounded familiar — and clicked. Then froze. Kuroda Ryu. Author of Blade Campus Rebellion. Rank one. The creator currently crushing everyone else in the category.
The comment was short: Interesting mystery setup. Good atmosphere. That was all. No insult, no mockery, no superiority. Just a simple comment, and Haruki found himself staring at it for nearly a minute. The number one creator had read his Chapter — not all of it, probably, maybe just a few pages, but still. His first rival had acknowledged him, and it felt surreal.
His phone buzzed before he could think further. Takeda.
"Did you see it?!"
Haruki held the phone away from his ear. "You’re very loud."
"Did. You. See. It?"
"See what?"
"You got noticed!"
He sat back. "It’s just a comment."
"It’s a comment from Rank One." Fair. Annoyingly fair. "You know what this means?"
"That he was being polite?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Now you have to beat him."
Haruki nearly choked. "That’s not how this works."
"It absolutely is."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
The argument ran on for several minutes with neither side learning anything, and Takeda eventually hung up, completely convinced he was right. A dangerous state.
Haruki went back to work, but the comment stayed lodged in the back of his mind — not because he suddenly wanted revenge, but because it shifted his perspective. Until now, other creators had felt distant, abstract, names on screens. Kuroda’s comment reminded him that real people stood behind those names — people who worked, worried, competed, created. The industry suddenly felt larger. More alive.
The afternoon moved quickly. Chapter Three kept growing: Ren discovered that the black thread could interact with other people’s destiny threads, an accidental encounter nearly exposed him, and the woman from the train reported his existence to an unknown organization. Pressure increased. Movement increased. Conflict increased. The story felt stronger — a lot stronger.
By evening, Haruki finally checked analytics.
Readers: 267
He blinked, checked again — still 267 — and a smile appeared. Not because the number was enormous, but because it had kept growing despite the ranking drop. Readers were staying. That mattered, maybe more than rankings did.
A new comment appeared: Chapter Three feels more intense already.
Another: The black thread is way more interesting than the gate.
Then: Finally, someone is chasing the protagonist.
He sat quietly, reading, thinking. The comments weren’t always right, but they revealed something valuable — how readers actually experienced the story, not how he’d intended it. That distinction mattered.
A blue notification appeared.
[Optional Mission Progress]
Retention Increase: 11% Required: 15% Status: Ongoing
Haruki nodded. Close, not complete. The challenge remained — for the first time, a mission wasn’t solving itself immediately. Good. That made the eventual win mean something.
Outside, rain began falling over Tokyo, drops tapping softly against the window, streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement below. Inside, Haruki looked at his unfinished Chapter, his growing audience, and the comment from Rank One still sitting in his notifications. Competition had finally arrived — not as an enemy, not as a villain, but as a reality. There would always be stronger creators, more popular creators, more talented creators. The question wasn’t whether they existed. The question was whether he could keep creating anyway.
He opened the next page, picked up his stylus, and returned to work.
Because rankings changed. Reader counts changed. Trends changed. The next page still needed to be drawn, and nobody else could draw it for him.