------------------
HELIO SCANS
[Translator - Hestia]
[Proofreader - Kaya]
------------------
Chapter 26: Summer Comic Market (2)
It’s already been three weeks since 'Fullmetal Alchemist' began serialization.
Since I usually spend all my time working in the studio, I completely lost track of the days once vacation started.
The only thing keeping me tethered to the calendar is Matsuda dropping by on scheduled days for meetings. That's when I bother checking what day it is.
“What are you always drawing when I show up?”
“Hey now. Off-limits. This is my hobby. You're trespassing on my personal time.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re working on the manuscript for the series…”
“Tsk-Tsk.”
With 'Fullmetal Alchemist' getting serialized way faster than I anticipated, my workload has ramped up.
But I’m not complaining—far from it.
Thanks to that, I’ve actually managed to push my plans forward by about a year or two.
'Fullmetal Alchemist' turned out to be a much bigger hit than I expected.
It’s currently neck and neck with 'D Note' in the popularity polls.
Fueled by high survey rankings and passionate reader support, it was greenlit for official serialization.
And with that wind in my sails—
“Here’s the contract. No rush—look it over carefully and get it back to me.”
I received a new contract.
Most manga artists sign separate serialization contracts for each work.
Veteran artists sometimes operate under exclusive contracts, which means they can still collect a salary even without putting out work.
But that’s not something a rookie like me qualifies for.
The contract Matsuda handed over was for the serialization of 'Fullmetal Alchemist'.
“Everything looks fine, but there’s one part I’d like to revise.”
“Hmm? You think the page rate’s too low?”
The 'Fullmetal Alchemist' contract had a few differences compared to the one for 'D Note'—
Things like manuscript fees and signing bonuses, for example.
A big-name weekly like Shōnen Jump doesn’t mess around with shady numbers, so that wasn’t my concern.
“It’s this clause right here—I’d like to revise this one.”
I pointed to a specific clause, and Matsuda read it aloud.
“No side jobs allowed... obligation to report outside activities?”
“Right. The clause banning dual publication with other publishers is totally fair—no issues there. But I’d like to make this part conditional.”
Matsuda scratched his chin, letting out a low hum.
It’s usually only veteran artists who have the leverage to negotiate terms in a contract.
Rookies wouldn’t even dream of it.
But the clause I’m flagging is a bit... unique.
“No side jobs” and “mandatory disclosure of outside work.”
Literally, it means I’m barred from doing any work outside of this series, and if I do take on something unrelated, I’m obligated to report it.
Almost no artists break this clause—or rather, they ‘can’t.’
Most weekly manga artists don’t have the luxury of time.
Barely scraping together 19 pages a week is hard enough. Who’s got the bandwidth for side gigs?
“Of course, I’m fine with the conditions. I’ll never take a break from the current series, and I’m fine keeping the other essential clauses intact.”
But I’m not like most.
I’ve got a buffer of completed manuscripts saved up.
Even while serializing two series weekly, I still have time to work on other projects.
Plus, now that Takada-sensei is back, 'Fullmetal Alchemist' has scaled back to just one chapter per week.
“I’d like to explore some outside creative projects, but if something small ends up clashing with the contract, that’d be a headache.”
“Hmm… It’ll come with a few strings attached, but changing this clause shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“I’d really appreciate it.”
“Alright. I’ll check with the office and get back to you.”
This should go through without too much trouble.
Times have changed, sure, but even back when I was an editor, we made clause exceptions like this from time to time.
And if this gets approved—
Then I’ll be free to make bigger moves.
＊ ＊ ＊
"Enju? So it's pronounced Enju, huh? What's their deal?"
Manato, the deputy leader of the circle [ Field Scroll ], looked at the laptop screen Sanae, the leader, had handed over and asked with wide, curious eyes.
“Someone who can draw like ‘this’, and I’ve never even heard the name? Maybe they used to go by a different pen name?”
“Yeah… I’m not sure either.”
“What?”
“They emailed us after seeing the recruitment post. From what they said, they’ve never done any doujin (fan-made) work before. Just said they’ve done a bit of professional work, but wouldn’t say more—just asked us not to ask about the previous projects because they’re ‘embarrassing.’”
“Ah… a commercial artist…”
It’s not that rare for commercial (professional) artists to participate in NatsuComi (Summer Comiket).
Artists actively working on serialized projects are usually way too swamped to show up at events like this, but it’s not unusual to see those who’ve wrapped up a series taking part.
And there are plenty who show interest in circle activities and collaborate in this kind of setting.
The problem is—
“Commercial artists are expensive…”
Manato let out a deep sigh as he stared at the screen.
Given their background, the quality of the artwork was unsurprisingly excellent.
Enju was probably a pseudonym to separate their doujin identity from their professional one.
Hiring a pro-level artist is a pricey endeavor, sure, but it’s not like there’s a surplus of available artists during this crunch time.
Even if the rate is steep, there really isn’t much choice but to try and lock them down.
“Sanae, let’s just go with whatever price they name. I’ll figure out a way to—”
“Actually…”
Sanae interrupted, scratching her head with an awkward look.
“This artist’s kind of weird. They said they don’t need much money—Instead, they asked if we could sell their book at our booth, just use any extra table space we’ve got.”
“Wait—what? What does that even mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. They don’t care about the pay. They just want us to print a book from the data they send, using any printing service we know, and put it out at the booth. Oh, and one more thing…”
“There’s more?”
“They said they can do a 100-page manuscript, not just 50.”
“What?”
Even with all that Sanae was saying, Manato couldn’t quite make sense of the situation.
It was just too suspicious from the get-go—someone offering to draw 100 pages and asking for almost no money?
Before even getting into whether that’s doable or not, their behavior was just... off.
But then—
“Wait, they said they already finished 15 pages in less than a day?”
“What IS this? Are we sure this isn’t a group of people, not just one person…?”
“Hah…”
Manato flipped through the attached PDF file in the email and let out a small sound of awe.
It was hard to believe it had really been completed in such a short time, but the quality of the manuscript was beyond excellent—flawless, even.
It wasn’t even remotely comparable to the work they’d been expecting from the original artist they had lined up.
“It’s suspicious, yeah…”
“But it’s not like we have any other options.”
Manato and Sanae exchanged glances and nodded in silent agreement.
Then, fingers flying across the keyboard, they started typing up a reply to Enju.
[Thank you so much for drawing all this. If you’re really okay with it, we’d like to proceed with the arrangement you suggested. Also—]
That email, typed up by Sanae herself, soon arrived in the inbox of—
“Hehehe… NatsuComi, confirmed…!”
—an eerily giddy middle-school manga artist.
＊ ＊ ＊
Summer Comiket (NatsuComi) is a massive event where tons of people gather, so naturally, competition for booths is fierce.
Originally, they used a first-come, first-served rule—but concerns about fairness led to a full lottery system for booth assignments.
Because of this, it’s not unusual for even the most popular and well-established circles to be rejected.
“Aaaargh! We didn’t win the booth lottery!”
“I swear I’ll stand atop the booths one day.”
“Toho Project? Those guys didn’t even get a booth—just nobodies now, huh?”
Big-name circles are influential enough that even if they fail the lottery, they have backup plans.
They might rent space from another circle, join a collaboration table, or consign their merch through major platforms.
But that kind of flexibility only exists if you've got connections and a fanbase.
[We’ll be selling goods from the ‘K-Trick’ circle at our booth! We’re excited to see their fans drop by too!]
When a well-known circle puts their merch at your booth, people flock over—and your own work gets exposure too.
That’s why people are eager to offer up space… but what if someone with no network or name wants to participate?
“Please please please please pleaaase...”
All you can really do is send in your application by mail and pray to the Comiket gods.
The application deadline is in early February. Lottery results come mid-to-late April.
And Summer Comiket? It’s held around August.
So when I finally got curious about joining NatsuComi—just last month—it was already way too late.
It didn’t have to be this summer specifically, but Winter Comiket (FuyuComi), the next one, is even more competitive.
Since I can’t run a booth myself, I’d need to rent space or consign through someone.
But who’s gonna go out of their way for a no-name artist?
Sure, if you dig deep online, you’ll see big circles offering leftover space—but obviously, that doesn’t apply to someone like me.
“Maybe I’ll just keep it on the shelf and post it online later…”
Offline is a brutal battlefield. Which means, online’s all I’ve got.
These days, Twitter serialization is considered a fast lane to a book deal—but this was before smartphones were everywhere.
Back then, offline presence carried way more weight.
That’s why I ‘really’ wanted to participate in Comiket.
But realistically, this year was probably out of the question.
Just as I was about to close my browser after casually scrolling through listings, this popped up—
⋮
>【URGENT】Looking for a manga artist to draw our original Summer Comiket game manuscript!
Due to unavoidable scheduling conflicts, the comic adaptation for our original game ‘Field Scroll 2’ has been delayed.
We have a full storyboard ready for a 50-page manga. If needed, we can adjust the page count.
Since time is tight, we’re willing to negotiate and raise the page rate.
If you’re confident in your drawing speed, please send previous work samples and contact us via DM or at [[email protected]](mailto:[email protected]).
⋮
The second I read that, I didn’t hesitate.
I fired off an email, tossed out a bold offer to get the gig—heck, I even started drawing the manuscript before they replied, just to show how serious I was.
And the result?
“Ehehehe… I’m in. NatsuComi, here I come…!”
This was pure luck, no other way to put it.
When I looked into it, I found out that ‘Field Scroll’ was a relatively new circle—a rising dark horse that had blown up over the past few years.
They’d consistently participated in Comiket. Sure, they weren’t huge, but they’d built a respectable fanbase.
On top of that, this year’s release was a major project they’d been prepping for an entire year.
The booth would definitely be drawing a crowd.
“Looks like things are about to get hectic.”
Stretching out my fingers, I looked down at my tablet.
I had the 100-page game adaptation to knock out—plus my ongoing serialized work.
The page count wasn’t impossible at my usual pace, but it was still my first time working on this kind of full-length manuscript with an actual deadline breathing down my neck.
Thunk.
And that wasn’t even all—I’d also decided to release a separate doujin manga for NatsuComi.
There’d be no time to rest.
My drawer was packed with draft manuscripts and storyboards.
I pulled out two labeled folders and laid them on my desk.
These were the two stories I’d be turning into volume-length books for this summer’s Comiket—
[Dora Tora], [Art Sword Online]
Both titles were works I was confident would sell like hotcakes if I released them in today’s market.
------------------
HELIO SCANS
[Translator - Hestia]
[Proofreader - Kaya]
------------------
