Entertainment Creator System: Building an Anime Empire

Chapter 3: Chapter 3: The First Page

The hardest part wasn’t drawing. It wasn’t writing, and it wasn’t even creating a story worth reading. The hardest part was the first page — Haruki discovered this at eight-thirty the next morning, staring at a blank canvas on his tablet with the stylus hovering above it, doing nothing.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. The page stayed empty, and the irony was almost painful. Yesterday he’d confidently decided to become a creator. Today he couldn’t even draw a single line.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Outside, Tokyo was already awake — cars in the streets, people hurrying toward offices, stores opening for business, the world moving forward without him while an aspiring creator lost a battle against a blank page. Not encouraging.

A blue screen appeared.

[Current Mission Progress: 0 / 25 Pages]

Haruki frowned. ”You didn’t need to show me that.”

The system remained completely indifferent.

He looked back at the canvas. The problem wasn’t the story — the concept still excited him, a world where destiny was visible, a protagonist born without one, conflict and mystery already built in. The problem was that ideas looked significantly better inside his head than they did on paper. That had probably been true for every creator in history.

He sighed, then made a decision: stop thinking, start drawing.

The stylus touched the screen. A rough circle appeared, then another, then guidelines. The beginning wasn’t pretty — the first face resembled a confused potato, and the second wasn’t much better. Haruki stared at it and laughed. The sound surprised him. Three years ago a bad drawing would’ve annoyed him; today it felt different, because a bad page could improve and a blank one couldn’t. The distinction mattered, more than he expected.

His hands started moving again — slowly, carefully, hour after hour. Lines became shapes, shapes became characters, characters became scenes. By noon the first page existed. Not finished, not polished, but real.

Page One. The first page of his first manga. Nobody would remember it, nobody would celebrate it, and yet it felt important. Every journey started somewhere.

His phone buzzed. Yui — naturally. At this point she seemed to possess a supernatural ability to sense progress.

He answered. ”How many pages?”

He blinked. ”You didn’t even say hello.”

”I know what you’re doing.”

Fair.

”A proper greeting still exists.”

”How many pages?”

”One.”

Silence. Then: ”One?”

”Page one is important,” he said, immediately defensive.

”Haruki.”

”It establishes atmosphere.”

”Haruki.”

”It introduces the world—”

”Haruki.”

”...It’s one page.”

”Thank you.”

The conversation felt deeply unfair. Yui laughed — a familiar, comfortable sound, the kind that always made stressful situations feel smaller. ”Send it.”

”It’s not finished.”

”Send it anyway.”

He glanced at the unfinished artwork and sighed. Resistance was pointless. A few moments later the page landed in her inbox, the call still connected, and he sat listening while she looked at it — more nerve-wracking than exams, more than job interviews, because her opinion actually mattered. He hated how true that was.

Finally she spoke. ”The city looks good.”

He relaxed a little.

”The protagonist looks nervous.”

”He’s supposed to.”

”Then that’s good.” A pause. ”The hand is weird.”

He looked. The hand was, in fact, a horrifying mutant hand. The realization landed like a physical blow.

”I hate you.”

”You asked for feedback.”

”I didn’t.”

”You sent the page.”

”...Fair.”

She laughed again, and the criticism didn’t sting — if anything, it helped, because she wasn’t pretending everything was amazing. She was taking the project seriously, and that landed harder than praise would have.

”Keep going,” she said, then hung up. Simple, direct — exactly like Yui.

Haruki went back to work. This time the blank-page problem was gone; Page One already existed, and Page Two came easier. Then Three. Then Four. His protagonist took shape on the page for the first time — Ren, a seventeen-year-old boy living in a world where destiny floated above every person’s head like a glowing thread. Children saw them. Adults saw them. Everyone saw them, except Ren.

The idea still excited him. Every scene he drew opened new questions, new conflicts, and the story kept growing past his original notes — a feeling that fascinated him more than he expected.

By evening he’d finished four pages. Not an incredible number, not enough to impress professionals, but far more than zero. He stretched and checked the mission.

[Current Progress: 4 / 25 Pages]

A small improvement, but progress was progress. Then a new notification appeared — one he hadn’t seen before.

[Creator Observation]

Most beginners quit between Pages 3 and 10. Reason: Motivation decreases. Workload becomes real. Recommendation: Continue.

Haruki stared at it, then laughed quietly. The system really did understand how creators worked. Starting a project was exciting; continuing one was hard. The middle was where dreams usually died.

He looked back at the unfinished pages — Ren standing on a crowded street, every person around him carrying a visible destiny, everyone except him. The first Chapter was starting to take shape. Not perfectly, not professionally, but undeniably. The story existed now, and the thought filled him with energy.

Outside, the city lights lit up the night. Inside, a creator sat alone with four completed pages and twenty-one more waiting. The task was still difficult, the deadline still intimidating, the future still uncertain — but none of it felt frightening anymore, because for the first time he wasn’t wondering whether he should begin. He already had. And sometimes the most important step wasn’t becoming successful. It was proving to yourself that you could keep moving after the excitement faded.

Haruki picked up his stylus again.

Page Five waited. So did the future.