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549 — Isn’t It Normal to Have Dog Sleds in Hokkaido?
🕑 Added 2025-09-27 16:17:07 +0000 UTCShimomura Tetsuya’s expression kept shifting.
This man, who had climbed step by step from assistant editor to editor-in-chief—from eating promises to feeding them to his subordinates and authors—didn’t even realize he was currently experiencing a whole new kind of “CPU.”
Sure, it had the effect of PUA, but not once had a word of blame come out of Hojou Kyousuke’s mouth.
On the contrary, every sentence was about making excuses for him, painting his mistake as if it were some necessary contribution to a brighter future.
As if Shimomura’s blunder wasn’t a setback at all, but a noble offering to their shared cause.
In short— ‘You messed up… but it’s fine, I don’t blame you.’
When Shimomura suddenly began slapping himself across the face, Hojou’s eyes widened.
He had only wanted to make Shimomura remember the favor, not expect such dramatic results.
CPU? PUA? He didn’t know the first thing about that stuff. He’d always treated people with nothing but sincerity.
And everything he’d just told Shimomura had been from the heart.
After all, it really wasn’t fair to push the blame onto him.
Editors were human too—if they couldn’t reach their author, of course they’d get lonely and start looking for someone else to talk to, right? …Right? …Heh.
‘Smack—!’
A sharp crack jolted Kyousuke from his thoughts.
Nice slap, Editor Shimomura! Clean execution, crisp sound, firm impact—no one gets that good without at least ten years of apologizing experience.
With that kind of skill, no mistake could ever go unforgiven!
Kyousuke mentally recorded that perfect slap into his brain’s hard drive.
He had a feeling this might come in handy someday.
But just as Shimomura looked ready to unleash the advanced technique “Consecutive Self-Slaps,” Kyousuke quickly grabbed his hand.
“Enough! Are you trying to make me look like the bad guy, Editor Shimomura? If you keep this up, I’ll have no choice but to join you!”
He raised his own hand, clearly about to smack himself too.
“Wait—!”
Shimomura flinched.
His own pudgy face, already round from years of indulgence, could handle a little swelling.
But Hojou-sensei’s face? That was an asset.
An author’s face still had to be used for publicity—there was no way he could let him ruin it!
Now it was Shimomura’s turn to grab Kyousuke’s hand.
The scene looked less like a scolding and more like some historical reenactment of some kind of weird show.
At that moment, Hojou noticed something dangerous in the older man’s gaze.
‘Uh-oh. This “CPU” thing works a little too well…’
Startled, he quickly let go, leaning back into the sofa and placing his briefcase firmly on the table between them.
“Shimomura-san, let’s look at this first.”
He pulled out a thick stack of printed pages.
“This is…?”
Shimomura picked it up with a murmur.
The title on the cover read boldly: Detective Conan.
The very mystery manga he’d been waiting for.
“But didn’t you say the character designs weren’t even finished? How did you suddenly draw so much?”
He frowned.
Sure, Hojou had said he’d already prepared everything during their last call, but after knowing him for so long, Shimomura had seen through the bluff.
Those earlier designs had been obviously rushed on the spot.
“What do you mean not finished? I’ve been preparing this ever since you told me you wanted me to try drawing a mystery series.
These chapters were done long ago. I just didn’t want to pressure you while you were still unsure about serialization, so I held them back. You know my work speed, Shimomura-san.”
Hojou’s voice carried a hint of irritation.
‘So that’s it,’ Shimomura thought.
‘That really does sound like something Hojou-sensei would do.’
‘Always so considerate, his kindness bleeding through even in the smallest details…’
Wordlessly, he lowered his head and flipped open the manuscript.
On the first page—yes, it was exactly what they’d discussed: a high schooler with a knack for soccer who punished criminals with his skills.
The character designs were nothing like Hojou’s previous works.
In One Punch Man and Attack on Titan, unless the character was deliberately stylized, proportions were mostly realistic—slightly adjusted for beauty, but still grounded.
Even the concept art he’d shown before had been proportionate.
But this draft reflected Shimomura’s advice: the heads were larger, edging toward chibi.
“Oh ho—using a globe this time?” Shimomura blinked. “Kick something like that at an old man’s skull, and he’ll never survive!”
Most people only remembered the roller-coaster murder case at the start of Detective Conan.
Shinichi Kudo gets dragged into an alley, drugged, and winds up discovered half-naked and confused.
But before that roller-coaster scene, there had been a smaller case meant to showcase his reasoning skills and athleticism.
A rich old man hosted a party, inviting numerous guests—including his intended victim.
The wealthier people are, the more they value their reputation, so even murder had to be done with their own hands.
The old man put on a display of acrobatics, staged a sloppy locked-room shooting, and claimed his leg injury made him incapable of such feats.
The police were baffled.
Then Shinichi stepped in, declaring outright that the old man was the culprit.
His reasoning wasn’t divine—it was downright over-the-top.
Not only did he lay out the crime step by step as if presenting a magic trick, he even knew the old man’s leg had healed three months ago.
So much for medical privacy!
And when the old man stubbornly insisted his leg was injured, Shinichi casually grabbed the globe off the table and hurled it.
The old man dodged with reflexes worthy of a martial artist. Only Inspector Megure could fail to notice.
Kyousuke thought even half his old baseball teammates wouldn’t have been able to react that fast.
Finally, when the culprit tried to flee, the “soccer star detective” launched another globe-kick, flooring him instantly. Not dead, of course—just “scientifically” subdued.
The original manga only spent a few pages on this, but even recalling it now made Hojou sweat.
It was practically rubbing every mystery fan’s IQ into the dirt.
No wonder Conan was never truly regarded as a “mystery” manga.
No wonder early Conan was always said to be for kids—because really, it was perfect for them.
Just that one line—Shinichi Kudo announcing that the old man’s leg had actually healed three months ago—sure, it made the protagonist look all-knowing and unstoppable, but it outright violated one of the core principles of mystery writing:
“The detective must not solve the case using clues that the reader has never been given.”
Mystery novels aren’t just about showing off how amazing the detective is.
Well… okay, fine, that’s at least half the fun.
But the real thrill comes from letting the reader join in, piecing together the clues and experiencing that rush when everything clicks.
Even Holmes never pulled answers out of thin air.
The joy is in watching the threads of logic come together, not the detective suddenly receiving divine revelation and shouting, “It’s him!”
That’s not deduction—it’s cheating!
Even kids would call foul: “Why do you get to know his leg healed and I don’t? I’m a reader too, damn it!”
As a proper mystery novelist himself, Hojou Kyousuke couldn’t stomach that kind of nonsense.
Releasing a scene like that would shred his reputation.
Even if he put a disclaimer that it was a kids’ series, the readers who came expecting The Devotion of Suspect X levels of brilliance would flip on him instantly, showering him with hate mail.
The next reader survey results would be brutal.
He could accept writing to make a living, but he still had his pride.
So, while he believed Aoyama-sensei had his reasons for success, Hojou still made a few tweaks.
Nothing major—just enough subtle hints to suggest the old man’s leg was already healed.
It didn’t weaken the protagonist’s brilliance, but it did make the logic a lot more convincing.
As for the globe-to-the-head moment… yeah, that stayed.
Couldn’t be helped.
From here on out, Conan would dish out so many acts of vigilante justice that it basically became his trademark.
“This is way too lively. Doesn’t feel like one of your works at all, Hojou-sensei,” Shimomura murmured with amazement.
The scene was supposed to be a grim murder investigation with shady, dangerous figures.
Yet the moment Shinichi’s name appeared, everyone—civilians and men in black alike—suddenly turned into rabid fangirls.
“Ah! That’s the famous high school detective, Shinichi Kudo!”
“The savior of the Japanese police force!”
“Look, look, it’s him!” squealed a schoolgirl.
“C-Can I shake your hand?!”
Meanwhile, the headless corpse still lay in the background, utterly ignored.
“Ridiculous as it is… readers will love it. That feeling of everyone’s eyes glued to the hero.” Shimomura nodded.
As an editor, his concern wasn’t realism—it was whether the manga grabbed attention. Entertainment was the only truth.
“Heh… heh heh…” Kyousuke chuckled dryly.
Honestly, his rigid science-trained brain had screamed at him to rewrite it all, but in the end, he chose to trust Aoyama-sensei’s instincts.
Shimomura kept reading, quickly finishing one pass.
Without a word, he immediately started a second. That’s when his brow furrowed.
“Hojou-sensei…” His voice was low.
“What? Is something wrong?” Kyousuke grew tense.
Sure, in another world Conan was a juggernaut, but who knew if it would work here?
Shimomura had been at the helm of Weekly Shonen High for years—his judgment was absolute.
“This manga… you finished it this morning, didn’t you?” Shimomura lifted his gaze, confusion and disbelief in his eyes.
“What are you talking about? No way I drew all this in one morning. Don’t joke with me.”
Kyousuke flatly denied it.
The stack he’d handed over already covered the roller-coaster murder case, the shrinking into Conan, the perverted detective moving in with the Mouri family, the kidnapped girl rescued with a dog… basically enough to showcase the entire flavor of the series.
He’d even made a few adjustments.
For example, Conan riding a dog? Changed to a dog-pulled cart.
Sure, a kid riding a dog looked funny on paper, but it wasn’t scientific, and worse, it set a terrible example.
If the manga succeeded, countless kids would read it.
If even one of them tried to ride their pet dog afterward… disaster.
Dogs simply aren’t built for that.
Iron skulls, tofu spines—the canine body just wasn’t meant to be a mount, even for a child.
A sled, though? That could work. Back in Hokkaido, dog sleds were common knowledge.
A dog pulling a cart was perfectly reasonable, even healthy—strengthening the bond between pet and owner.
So yeah, no way this was all done in a single morning.
If he admitted that, he’d never again have an excuse for missing deadlines. He’d be treated like a workhorse for life!
“You liar. Look—there’s a timestamp right here!”
Shimomura jabbed his finger at the corner of a page, where the last modified date was printed clearly.
Kyousuke froze.
‘…Ah. That must’ve been Utaha-senpai’s doing.’
He quickly reasoned it out.
Neither he nor Eriri would ever leave such obvious evidence—they were too seasoned in the art of procrastination. They knew how to hide last-minute rush jobs.
But Utaha? It was her first time working on manga.
Overlooking a detail like that was only natural.
Wait.
On second thought, Utaha Kasumigaoka was a notorious procrastinator too.
Her editor, Machida, had often stormed into the dorm to drag her out of a slump.
And every time, Utaha would put up a bold front, claiming everything was fine… until Machida caught her red-handed, keyboard still clacking at the deadline.
So maybe it wasn’t inattention at all.
Maybe leaving the timestamp was just her habit.
“See? I was writing right up until the very last second. Have mercy on me~~”
That was probably the message.
And knowing Machida-san—who’d been looking after Utaha since middle school, even calling her “Shi-chan” like a doting mother—it all made sense.
