“Osorezan Le Voile”: How Fan Creation Completed Shaman King

Note: In the autograph series, I use AI only in a supporting role—translation, research, and the like. The writing itself is done solely by the person behind Re:Context. This time, I want to share what I personally feel like saying about the intensely “hot” developments in Shaman King’s “Osorezan Le Voile” arc. I will go off on tangents again and again along the way, but I do so deliberately: by writing down Japan’s cultural background, its deeply internalized, felt, and intuitive sense, and the detours I actually take as I think this through, my aim is to let you trace—and re-experience—the way these thoughts come together for me. There appears to be a connection between this line of thought and the social and technological context of recent years.

Remakes of older works in the “Reiwa” era, and Japan’s intuitive sense of era names

Here, I want to take Shaman King’s “Osorezan Le Voile” arc as my point of reference. Many of you may already know this, but it may still be worth putting this background on record for Re:Context.

The content itself is wonderful, of course—but the way it unfolds is intensely “hot,” and it has been popping up at key moments on Twitter as well.

Shaman King is an anime based on a manga that ran in Weekly Shonen Jump. It was first adapted in 2001, and then—twenty years later—remade in 2021.

From around that time, I’ve had the impression that Japanese anime has been very actively remaking works that, by then, felt “a bit old.” As of late 2025, that trend is still going. Japan’s era-name system (gengō, the imperial era-name system) during World War II was Showa, and in the common Japanese sense of time, there is probably a felt split—early Showa and late Showa—between the prewar and postwar periods. When I google it, I do see “mid Showa” mentioned as well, but I wonder whether many Japanese people basically carry this early/late way of dividing it. In postwar Japan, the influence of GHQ was also strong (it isn’t my role here to judge whether that was good or bad—and if this text ever gets used as propaganda, I would strongly object), and it seems reasonable to think Japanese culture changed quite drastically. During the Meiji Restoration as well (I’d like to talk about this another time, together with Rurouni Kenshin. I don’t know whether I’ll actually do it, so please don’t wait with expectations. Also: Takei-sensei, the author of Shaman King, once worked as an assistant under Watsuki-sensei, the author of Rurouni Kenshin), Japanese culture dramatically absorbed Western culture; but under the postwar GHQ influence, I have the impression that Japan’s long-continuing cultural traditions were rewritten even more. That said, it seems unlikely that most Japanese people are consciously aware of this unless they’ve studied that period to some extent.

Now, Japan’s current era name is Reiwa. In the way many Japanese people intuitively track time, crossing an era-name boundary can make the line between “old” and “new” feel unusually sharp. With Showa in particular, I should say again that—given (1) how long that era lasted and (2) how huge the changes were around World War II—there is a strong sense that even early Showa and late Showa belong to distinctly different worlds.

For example, people born in Heisei often feel that people born in Showa are noticeably older—and if someone was born in early Showa, that tendency would be even stronger. The Showa era lasted 64 years (though Showa 64 was only the first week of the year, so in practical terms it is often felt as “Showa was basically 63 years”), and in that sense it is understandable that it registers as “old.” And if I push the same intuition further: people born in late Showa tend to feel that people born in early Showa are older; going back across two or three era names, those born in Taisho—the era before Showa—feel older still; and one step further, those born in Meiji are spoken of as truly long-lived elders.

The same kind of perception applies to works, too. Works associated with past eras, especially those that sit across an era-name boundary, tend to feel as if they come from “quite a long time ago.” In other words, Shaman King is a Heisei work, and seeing a Heisei title—an era just one step before Reiwa—get remade carries a strong sense of “an older work being remade.”

In the same stream of remakes, for example, there is Urusei Yatsura. That is a (late) Showa work, and having it remade in Reiwa produces reactions like “I can’t believe I’m watching Urusei Yatsura in Reiwa,” or “It’s Reiwa now, you know?!”—and on Twitter, Japanese accounts often respond in exactly that sort of way. With essentially the same meaning, people sometimes say “Reiwa, you know?!”—or in Japanese, “Reiwa zo?!”. The zo here is used as a joke, borrowing from its role as an emphatic particle in classical Japanese grammar. Many Japanese people study Heian-period literature in junior high and high school as part of their classical education; against that shared background, the zo associated with Heian aristocrats is implicitly repurposed as a self-aware, tongue-in-cheek in-joke—one that lightly slips into a “Heian-aristocrat mode” without needing to spell it out. At least, that is how I understand it (and I suspect many others do as well).

The synopsis of Shaman King and what surrounds it

In the Jump sense, Shaman King is a relatively straightforward “superpower battle” story—but it has its own flavor in how it weaves in shamanism and drives a tournament to decide the “Shaman King,” the king of shamans. That said, it is a shonen manga—but perhaps precisely because it is shonen, I feel that what Takei Hiroyuki draws reflects his philosophy, especially his view of life, quite strongly. It makes manga feel less like a purely commercial consumer product, and more like something drawn as the author’s self-expression.

There are plenty of works that, to me, look as if they were reproduced by drawing only from within the same medium—manga drawing only on manga, light novels drawing only on light novels. By contrast, I feel depth in works that go beyond that: works that express themselves through manga, light novels, or anime while taking other genres, concepts, scholarship, and thought into account. Takei’s work, to my mind, exemplifies this. I would situate it within a lineage that goes back to Osamu Tezuka.

Among manga artists who lived around the same time as Takei (and I am sure there are many others), I personally feel a particularly strong philosophical current in the works of Fujisaki Ryu, the author of Hoshin Engi, which was also adapted into an anime. I also want to mention Sakuratetsu Taiwa-hen, a manga of his that quite directly plays on Socrates’ Dialogues. That said, his serialization in Weekly Shonen Jump was unfortunately canceled early… Personally, I find that almost all of his manga resonate with me in one way or another, and quite a few of them feel like clear hits for my own tastes. I would also single out “WORLDS,” the short story that shares its title with the collection, as a work I am particularly fond of.

By the way, Takei has an earlier work titled Butsu Zone, and like Shaman King, it treats religion as a theme. I take this as one of the foundations of his expression: an understanding of religion and thought, and his own philosophy.

And this is my own view, but I feel an extraordinary sensibility in the way he turns images into a distinct visual language. Shaman King is of course like that as well. For example, I personally think the “Oversoul” designs that appear in the series—especially Kurobina—are outstanding. At the same time, I feel that this sensibility is brought out to its fullest in his next manga work, Juki Ningen Yumboru (Jumbor Barutronica). Even the idea of pairing it with heavy machinery feels original.

Up to this point, I have given a personal explanation of Shaman King itself and what surrounds it. From here, I turn to the “Osorezan Le Voile” arc within Shaman King.

The “Osorezan Le Voile” arc is an important part of Shaman King when it comes to the protagonists’ backgrounds. However, in a weekly serialized shonen manga—especially in Weekly Shonen Jump—it was received poorly at the time. In Weekly Shonen Jump, where continuation is often said to depend on reader survey results, pacing matters a great deal. An arc whose rhythm makes some readers feel that “the story isn’t moving much week to week” may have been painful—at least for the group that actually sends in those surveys. Even though that is precisely what gives it its depth. In fact, I remember that the series ranking in Jump at the time (also said to reflect survey results) stayed near the bottom, and not long after this arc, the manga ended up being canceled. It is deeply regrettable that something this deep and interesting did not land with that readership. That said, in a later development, a Shaman King “complete edition” was published and carried all the way to the end—an emotionally charged, distinctly “hot” turn of events.

A “revival after cancellation” in Weekly Shonen Jump is rare, but there are other examples. One that sticks in my memory is the golf manga Rising Impact: it ended once around the end of its second volume, but then the serialization resumed in response to fans’ requests. However, unfortunately, even that ultimately ended up being canceled… And I think it is fair to see this too as part of the “Heisei remake” frame, but more recently—in 2024, in the Reiwa era—it was adapted into anime on Netflix.

Let me return to the main thread after that tangent. The 2001 anime version of Shaman King aired right around the time this arc was being serialized. Because of that, the old anime did not depict the “Osorezan Le Voile” arc. It seemed to me that, among fans, there remained a sense that something was missing.

The “Osorezan Le Voile” arc, and Japan’s fan-creation culture

This is where the narrative truly begins.

In the “Osorezan Le Voile” arc, each chapter is punctuated by a short poetic verse spoken by a character within the story. These verses carry a quiet melancholy—which makes sense, as the arc itself centers on loss, separation, and emotional absence. This sensibility resonates, I feel, with what I have elsewhere described as a Japanese aesthetic of “emptiness” (in the sense discussed here). When all of these verses are read together, they form a single, unified poem. Its title is “Osorezan Le Voile.” In 2010—roughly ten years after the arc was serialized—a Vocaloid producer known as Kapitaro, who was still in middle school at the time, set this poem to music and released it on Nico Nico Douga under the same title, “Osorezan Le Voile,” sung by Hatsune Miku. In Japanese, I would normally refer to him as Kapitaro-shi. The suffix -shi is a form of honorific, used much like -san, and is not uncommon in general writing. At the same time, within subcultural contexts, it can carry a distinctly “otaku-like”—or more specifically, “wota-like”—tone. I should note that I do not consider myself an otaku or a wota; in my understanding, those terms are better reserved for people with far broader and deeper knowledge than my own.

Nico Nico Douga (commonly known as Nico Nico) is a Japanese video-sharing platform that was, at the time, strikingly new—a site built around the idea of letting viewer comments flow directly across the video itself. This interface was deeply shaped by Japan’s fan-creation culture. These flowing comments also draw on the traditions of a famous massive online bulletin board known as 2ch (later renamed 5ch). On 2ch, there were live-commentary boards where users reacted to ongoing broadcasts in real time (a practice that still exists on 5ch today). Nico Nico adopted this same ethos: treating content as something to be watched, commented on, and collectively experienced at once. Through broad licensing frameworks, it also provided an environment in which fan creations could circulate relatively freely. In this sense, Japan’s fan-creation culture has often functioned, I think, as one lived expression of a broader respect for freedom of expression—an expression that seems to be upheld with pride within Japanese society.

As an aside, though somewhat tangential: Kawakami, one of the founders of Dwango (the company behind Nico Nico), often nicknamed “Kawango,” later sparked controversy by publicly clashing with crypto and blockchain communities on Twitter. That episode, however, seems to have largely cooled off after being addressed in a ReHacQ video.

Now then, Kapitaro’s “Osorezan Le Voile” video was well received, and its view count steadily grew. Then, in 2011, another video emerged: an “Osorezan Le Voile o utatte-mita” video—literally, “I tried singing ‘Osorezan Le Voile.’”

“Utatte-mita” is one of the most popular genres within Nico Nico’s fan-creation culture. In these videos, creators sing existing songs and upload their performances to the platform. Those who post such videos—the singers themselves—are known as utaite. Many artists who later made major-label debuts are also known to have their roots in creative activity on Nico Nico, including utatte-mita performances. One well-known example is ClariS, probably best recognized for Puella Magi Madoka Magica, among a number of their well-known works. They had also posted, prior to their professional debut, an utatte-mita video of “Kimi no Shiranai Monogatari,” the theme song of Bakemonogatari, which is widely known today. That video, distinct from the original version, stood out for the clarity and transparency of the singing voice.

At first, the aforementioned “Osorezan Le Voile” utatte-mita video was uploaded with no clear information about its production background. However, its craftsmanship was widely remarked upon. In particular, viewers noted that the singing voice bore a resemblance to that of Hayashibara Megumi, often affectionately called “Kakka,” who voiced the heroine Kyoyama Anna in the 2001 Shaman King anime. The background imagery was also said to closely resemble the art style of Takei Hiroyuki, the original manga author. As a result, speculation spread: could this be official? Hayashibara Megumi, of course, is one of Japan’s most iconic voice actors, widely known for roles such as Ayanami Rei in Neon Genesis Evangelion. Around 2001, when the cultural afterglow of Evangelion was still strongly felt, characters with “Ayanami-like” qualities were often seen as inseparable from Hayashibara’s voice and performance style—so much so that it was hard to imagine anyone else fitting those roles. Even today, that influence seems to remain strong, shaping character archetypes as well as the general direction of vocal performance in later works. Kyoyama Anna in Shaman King is very much one such character.

Later, it was officially announced that the video was indeed a collaboration involving the original creators, and the video gained even more attention.

By the time Kapitaro released the Hatsune Miku version of “Osorezan Le Voile” in 2010, Shaman King’s original manga serialization had already been discontinued. At the time of its original run, the “Osorezan Le Voile” arc was often said to be unpopular—perhaps so, at least, judging from the impression that it tended to appear lower in the magazine’s running order, which is often said to reflect reader surveys. Over the years, however, its evaluation appeared to have shifted. At least from my own impression—particularly on Twitter and other social media—there seemed to be many voices calling for a proper anime adaptation, drawn by what they saw as the arc’s depth. From what I saw, there were also many voices expressing the wish that this remarkable piece might someday be used in an official anime production.

And then—ten years later—Shaman King’s anime remake was announced. By that point, the manga had not only concluded its original run but had also been fully completed in its “complete edition,” and as a finished work, expectations naturally included an official anime adaptation of the “Osorezan Le Voile” arc. Fans had even attempted their own “pseudo-anime” versions on Nico Nico, layering drama CD audio over manga artwork—though unfortunately, those particular videos now seem impossible to find.

In the remake anime, just as fans had hoped, the “Osorezan Le Voile” arc was finally animated. But then came a surprise that exceeded expectations—or rather, the one that was precisely the ending fans had longed for. For the final episode of the “Osorezan Le Voile” arc, Kapitaro’s musical setting was formally incorporated as a special ending theme—finally giving the work its fully realized, official form. For many fans, it was an overwhelming emotional release.

In this way, Shaman King—a manga that had once come to an end amid lingering regret—returned, almost as if through a kind of reincarnation. And the “Osorezan Le Voile” arc, once undervalued (at least judging from the fact that it ended in cancellation), ultimately came to a close in the most definitive way possible.

Now, let me step back and think. This may feel abrupt, but for me, this line of thought arises almost immediately—as a continuous extension of what unfolded around the “Osorezan Le Voile” arc.

That is to say:

In an era where generative AI enables the mass production of content, the kind of drama that arises only through the accumulation of time—through layering, reinterpretation, and delayed recognition—cannot be replicated. Somewhere here, it seems to me, lies a hint toward the path by which we, as humans, may still find ways to prevail in the realm of content creation, even alongside AI.

“Osorezan Le Voile”: How Fan Creation Completed Shaman King

Remakes of older works in the “Reiwa” era, and Japan’s intuitive sense of era names

The synopsis of Shaman King and what surrounds it

The “Osorezan Le Voile” arc, and Japan’s fan-creation culture

Connecting this to recent social and technological contexts

Notes & sources