After delivering the final chapters of Kaitō Kid, Alice returned to the editorial department of Hinotori Publishing. That same evening, the management team held an urgent meeting. The result was unexpected: the Detective Conan compilation volume would go on sale on September 11, just one day after the official release of Detective Sherlock.
At first glance, the decision seemed unwise. Unlike a magazine, a compilation volume requires much tighter logistical scheduling. Takumi had modified the manuscript with very little margin. Publishing it so quickly was, quite simply, a publishing miracle. And with the two bonus chapters of Kaitō Kid added, the final price was set at ¥1,320, slightly above what was anticipated.
But when Hinotori made the announcement official, media across the country erupted in criticism.
"Detective Conan's retirement is a tacit admission of defeat." "The sales duel becomes a mockery: Conan fails to reverse his disadvantage." "The myth of the original author crumbles; adaptations continue to monopolize the industry."
It didn't matter if the reader understood the editorial reasons. The headboards simplified everything. Publishing later meant losing. And in a culture where the time of exit determined the protagonism, this could only be seen as a surrender.
Even among fans, the disappointment was palpable. Many thought that if Hinotori had released the volume before the 10th, it could have at least threatened Detective Sherlock's numbers. But on the 11th... The 11th was another story.
In his luxury apartment, Hayama Makoto — better known as Mach — had the TV on as he opened a bottle of red wine. His girlfriend, a young model he had met the week before, threw herself into his arms with enthusiasm.
"I told you, honey. Hinotori Publishing was scared as soon as they saw me arrive. They surrendered without a fight."
The model, intoxicated by fame and wine, let out a high-pitched laugh.
"Mach-sensei, you are amazing. Some of my friends said that Mirai-sensei's drawings were better than yours... but now they have nothing to say!"
Mach adjusted his white shirt, pursing his lips slightly in vanity.
"Do you know what they say? That 'Mirai' doesn't even exist. It could be the pseudonym of several artists. Most likely he has ghostwriters hired."
Two days earlier, he had bought the latest edition of Weekly Shonen. The cover... a heart-stopping illustration, with a mysterious figure over an illuminated city. Mach had been paralyzed for a few seconds.
Could anyone really draw like that?
The easiest theory circulated on the internet. Many said that a single artist could not achieve that level with such a lack of regularity. That if he was so good, why didn't he illustrate each chapter in that style?
Mach was quickly convinced: "Sure. You pay a professional illustrator just for the cover. The rest he draws like any other. It's a strategy."
His girlfriend hugged him tightly.
"How unfair! Intimidate you like this, being you Mach-sensei. Those unknown, ugly, frustrated guys... they just want to steal attention."
Mach settled down with satisfaction and lowered his head to kiss her forehead.
"Don't waste time talking about failures." He lifted her in his arms effortlessly. "Let's do something cheerful."
And so, while the industry burned, while Detective Conan was attacked from all sides... he celebrated as if he had already won.
The day dawned clear, with the kind of sun that turns routine into spectacle. The streets of Osaka were slowly coming alive, and even though it was Sunday, something different was in the air. It was September 10, the date set by Tatsuryū Publishing for the official launch of Detective Sherlock, the manga adaptation of one of the most influential works of the century.
A far cry from Takumi's domestic calm, a black Audi rolled slowly toward the main square of Takamura's Book Town, the region's publishing heartland. The area was surrounded by LED screens playing promotional short films and pre-recorded interviews with Hayama Makoto. Just in front of the main building, a blue carpet with gold letters announced the title: Detective Sherlock, the manga that promised to redefine the mystery.
The square was packed.
"Look at that, Shuhei! I never imagined so many people gathered so early..."
Makoto rolled down the window slightly, hidden behind dark glasses and a beige hat. The only thing visible was his smile. The model who accompanied him hugged him with a festive air, as if they were about to enter an awards ceremony.
The publisher had prepared an unprecedented deployment: clerks dressed in custom uniforms, mobile booths with special edition volumes, moving holograms, merchandising, and cameras that transmitted everything in real time for the local network.
Billboards showed Sherlock with his monocle in the foreground, looking at viewers as if assessing his intelligence through paper.
"You can tell this is going to sell like hotcakes."
Shuhei adjusted his tie from the driver's seat.
"If this works, Tatsuryū is going to give you another novel. Maybe something more youthful. This was a test, after all. The company bet big... and you see."
Makoto adjusted his hat triumphantly.
"Of course it works. This city needs idols. I give him that and more. Look at them, they haven't even read the first chapter and they already consider me a legend."
He got out of the car calmly, with the overacted elegance that characterized him. There were no cameras nearby, but his expression did not change: he was acting even for himself. In the crowd, a saleswoman in uniform saw someone wearing hoods and glasses approaching. He didn't recognize it right away.
"Miss..." Makoto cleared his throat on purpose. "What's selling here?"
The saleswoman, Miyuki, turned quickly, watching the customer. In seconds he deduced what he thought it was: an introverted otaku who approached without really knowing what it was about.
He smiled professionally.
"It's the launch of Detective Sherlock. It is the manga of the moment. The author is Mach-sensei. Today all of Osaka is watching this. Believe me, sir, if you don't buy it now... you will regret it. It will sell out in minutes."
Makoto hid his smile in the shadow of his hat.
"Fanatic? No... but she is well informed."
The girl picked up an edition of the volume. The cover shone under the reflection of the lights. He nodded, picked up the volume, and kept walking as if he had never been there.
A few streets away, in a more discreet bookstore, Takumi entered without making a sound. There were no holograms or costumed shop assistants. Only shelves, dark wood, and books organized by genre. But Detective Sherlock was also there: in the center, like a jewel in a display case.
Takumi took it without hesitation. He went outside and sat down on one of the stone benches in front of the station. Traffic passed slowly. A group of students were chatting a few meters away.
He opened the volume.
I had already read the original novel, the one that inspired all this. He knew how cases were solved, he knew the profile of the protagonist. But what I was looking for was another type of reading: what voice did the drawing have? What emotion did he convey in the pauses, in the framing, in the way he drew the hands of a witness or the gaze of a murderer?
He turned page after page.
And he didn't have to fool himself: Makoto drew well.
His technique was polished. The proportions were correct. The expressions, elegant. The funds, worked.
It was clear that he was not a filler illustrator. The experience of ten years as an entertainment mangaka was there, visible in every panel.
Takumi closed the volume. He stared at the cover for a few seconds. Then he put her down on his lap and looked up.
"But is that enough?"
Because he could admire the technical prowess, without being moved. I could respect the line, without wanting to be part of the world I created.
The difference, he understood, was not in the aesthetics. It was in the soul.
And that... It was not at the first reading.
Takumi calmly closed the volume, but his thoughts swirled behind his eyes. He had been restless ever since he saw it in the window: the shiny poster, the gleaming display cases, the enthusiastic vendors. Everything about Detective Sherlock exuded perfection.
And yes, the drawing was impeccable. There was no denying that Mach mastered the technique. Each character seemed carved with an artistic scalpel, elegant, firm. The expressions were clear, the profiles memorable.
But as he read, something began to bother him.
The original novel—the Holmes he had read in the dim light on his desk—had a silent mystery that caught him from the margins. It was cold and logical, yes, but it was also imbued with a dense atmosphere: the shadows of the alley, the discomfort of deduction, the tension between right and moral.
The manga... I didn't. He only shone on the outside.
Takumi thought it was like a bottomless showcase. A jewel without weight.
"The form was good... but not the soul." He thought about it without having to write it down.
The problem was not the stroke. It was that Mach had drawn Holmes as if he were a model on a catwalk, not as a man who walked through the darkness of crime. There was no fog. There was no pause. There was no anguish.
The reading had been visually delightful, yes. But emotionally... Hollow.
Then he understood. Mach was a powerful illustrator. But he was not a narrator. He could dress a character, but not transform him.
Takumi looked at the copy again, twisted it between his fingers, and smiled with restrained calmness.
"I like that they adapt novels... That opens up space for 'originals' like me." He thought about it honestly. "If they were all real original authors... maybe it wouldn't have entered the market."
And at that moment, as if his heart was aligning with his own words, he took a deep breath.
He had no natural enemies. I just had a different path.
On the stone bench, surrounded by students and quick footsteps, Takumi leaned his back and closed his eyes for a second.
Won.
Not to crush the other. But because her story had something that the other could not copy. A real heartbeat. A gaze that stayed with the reader. A shadow that returned in the next chapter.
And that... It didn't come with the glossy paper. It came from the interior.