I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 341

Two days had passed since Code Geass episode 22 aired, and the buzz hadn’t slowed down for a second. The internet was flooded with reactions, theories, and edits. On forums, people were still analyzing every frame, every line, every expression. The ending had spread like wildfire across countries. Even people who hadn’t watched Code Geass were now talking about it.

Evermark hadn’t poured much money into marketing for this episode, yet the results were staggering. Viewership was climbing with each passing hour, and social media was filled with clips, fan theories, and reaction posts. They had expected the episode to make an impact, but seeing it grow on such a massive scale was beyond what anyone had imagined, and they had helped create it.

Critics from every major region were writing about it.

The LA Magazine headline read:

“A once-in-a-century anime. Muzishiro has made a coming-of-age epic that blends multiple genres into one cohesive masterpiece, something few can even attempt, let alone pull off.”

The New York Review said:

“The three big directors—Wes, David, and Musfani—had collaborated before, but this time it’s different. This time, they’ve successfully created an anime that feels like one of those rare, once-in-a-generation collaborations.”

The London Post highlighted:

“Every character serves a purpose. There’s not a single element that feels wasted. It’s rare to see writing this precise.”

Le Journal France wrote:

“Through Lelouch, Muzishiro channels ambition, failure, and tragedy. It’s rare today to find a story that lets a character express such a full range of emotion.”

And back home in Japan:

“Muzishiro has done it again. Another tragedy, another flood of reactions. Fans now call themselves ‘cliffhanger enjoyers.’ Are you one of them?”

Code Geass was trending everywhere.

Across the ocean, inside Maya Animation Studios, Michael sat at his desk, scrolling through articles about Code Geass. Page after page was the same: global headlines, award predictions, fan reactions. Every outlet was talking about it.

Beside him, John, the director of Crying for Rain, was reviewing scene composites. Their anime was scheduled for release next month, and everyone inside the studio believed it was going to sweep the Best Visual Animation category this year.

“John,” Michael said, his tone flat but curious, “you’ve seen the news, right?”

John didn’t look up from his screen. “Hard not to. It’s everywhere. You open any app, it’s Code Geass on the front page.”

Michael gave a half-smile. “Feels like the whole world’s talking about one show again. That hasn’t happened in a while.”

He leaned back in his chair. “So, what do you think of our chances of winning?”

John paused for a second, then said, “We’ll still win Best Visuals. I’m sure of it. But honestly? Against something like this, I don’t think Crying for Rain can take Anime of the Year.”

Michael didn’t argue. He knew it too.

He wasn’t jealous. He’d been in this business long enough to understand cycles like this. Every few years, a show comes along that changes everything, raises expectations, shifts standards, redefines what’s possible. Their studio had been trying to outdo itself each year in terms of visuals. But despite all their awards, they hadn’t won a single Anime of the Year yet, which said a lot compared to how many Best Visual Animation awards they’d taken home.

On the other hand, whenever Wes worked on an anime, it almost guaranteed both wins, Best Visuals and sometimes even Anime of the Year. That was something Maya Studio hadn’t been able to replicate yet. It had become his next goal: to win both in the same year and set a record that proved their studio wasn’t just technically brilliant but also capable of emotional storytelling on the same level.

But he didn’t want to win when there was no real competition. He didn’t want people saying they’d won because there were no strong contenders that year. Seeing Code Geass create such a global phenomenon, and hearing that it would have a second season, fired him up. If this year Code Geass dominated the awards, then next year he wanted to make something that would top even that—an anime that could win both Best Visual Animation and Anime of the Year, making headlines around the world. He wanted Maya Studio to be known as not just the best in visuals, but the best in storytelling too.

Michael respected Wes. But he also hated losing to him.

John glanced over. “What are you thinking about?”

Michael shook his head slightly. “Nothing. I was just thinking. This year, we’ll surely win Best Visual Animation. But next year, I want us to win both Best Visual and Anime of the Year. That would really solidify our studio as one of the best in the world.”

John smiled faintly. “You’re thinking too far ahead. To become the best animation studio in the world, we need strong stories to tell. The technical part—we can control that. But finding a story that can win Anime of the Year every year? That’s the harder part.”

Michael didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on a blog page showing Code Geass’s new records: global streaming numbers, fan reactions, and critics’ ratings.

Finally, he said quietly, “I’ve decided. For our next work, I’ll find the strongest story possible, one that can win both Best Visual Animation and Anime of the Year. I’ll make something that creates even bigger momentum than Code Geass.”