Roben and Ribery followed Madam Flynn into the magazine office on trembling legs.
Not because they were scared. They had no idea Flynn was a dragon; there was nothing frightening about a somewhat scatterbrained big sister and a sub-dragon shorter than a person, wearing a bow tie while reading comics.
The main thing was that Madam Flynn had thoughtfully ridden them here on her bicycle. Who knew a bicycle could be ridden so wildly?!
They couldn't stay upright, simply couldn't. Their heads spun, and they desperately wanted to throw up.
"You mean these two are the submissions?" Drogo asked uncertainly.
It wasn't that he didn't believe in two kids who looked even younger than Aisha. Mainly, he didn't believe in this world's comics industry.
He had clearly provided Blazing Teens as an example, yet they couldn't even reskin it. It seemed they still clung to the reserved dignity of artists, always wanting to create some profound theme or ideological depth.
They utterly failed to understand that comics were first and foremost commodities—printed on the cheapest paper, sold cheaply enough that a thick volume cost only a few copper coins, something readers could toss away after finishing without feeling bad. Their first priority should be providing fun.
They needed an otherworldly Osamu Tezuka to teach these artists what it meant for entertainment and art to bloom side by side.
So far, aside from a few adaptations of legendary tales that had some promise, and one artist who had originally drawn satirical comics but had now switched to comedic episodic strips and showed considerable potential, the rest had all failed at a glance.
But they still lacked a long-running serial that could keep drawing people in—the kind of orthodox hot-blooded manga that ran for more than a decade, letting shipping fans squeal