She got a text. That’s how she found out her father was dead. Not a phone call. Not a knock at the door. Just a message, abrupt and unceremonious, that shattered everything.

On May 26, 2021, Yuka Miura’s world changed with the sudden death of her father, Kentaro Miura—the legendary creator of Berserk. For fans, it was the loss of a genius. For Yuka, it was the collapse of a myth. “He was larger than life,” she recalls. “When I was little, I thought he was a god. And honestly? I never really stopped feeling that way.”

Now, as the author of the internationally successful Kannazuki Series, Yuka Miura walks a precarious line between reverence and reinvention. Her journey from private grief to public authorship is riddled with suspicion, scrutiny, and an unwavering commitment to storytelling.

SY: How did you find out?

YM: I got a text.

SY: You were at work?

YM: Yeah. At first, I didn’t believe it. When you have a parent with a public life, rumors happen. I called his phone. Voicemail. Texted him. Called the studio. Nothing. Then more messages started coming in. And finally, my mom called.

SY: That’s when it became real?

YM: It wasn’t denial. I just wanted to call him. I had so much to say. He was always busy, always working. But to me, he was everything.

Kentaro Miura’s death was a seismic blow. Revered in Japan and around the world, his art style was unmistakable. Berserk defied the typical decay of long-running manga and remained persistently relevant, despite its infamous hiatuses.

YM: Cleaning out his estate was probably the worst day of my life. So many books, so many tools. We couldn’t keep it all. We donated most of it, especially the books. Some went to libraries. We kept the personal things.

SY: This was before plans to continue Berserk?

YM: Way before.

SY: Are you involved at all in the new chapters?

YM: Not at all. Kouji Mori and the team made that decision. I made it clear I was staying out. As a family member, I’m not allowed to comment. I’m just glad his legacy didn’t die with him. That’s what he would’ve wanted.

SY: Do you think he had a clear ending in mind?

YM: Absolutely. But he was always evolving. He might’ve surprised even himself.

SY: Were there sketches or notes that stood out?

YM: Yes. A lot. But I don’t think it’s my place to talk about them. Some things were never meant to be seen.

When the dust settled, the studio made its choice. Miura’s longtime assistants, under Mori’s guidance, continued Berserk. The decision wasn’t universally accepted—how could it be? But it was rooted in love, not commerce.

YM: He had a plan. I knew that as a kid. He lived for those characters. So when they continued it, I was relieved.

SY: Is that when you started writing?

YM: No. That was during the estate stuff. The hardest part.

SY: So when?

YM: About a year later. My therapist suggested I write about it. The funeral, the studio, all of it. It helped. At first just a little. Then more. Then I started writing about him, about our life.

SY: Do you see his influence in your work?

YM: Oh, definitely. I don’t copy him, but he shaped how I see stories. That sticks with you.

SY: If your books became an anime, who would direct?

YM: Doesn’t work like that. People are busy or they’re not. They care or they don’t. I’m just happy where things are.

But things haven’t always been smooth.

Her debut, The Beast of Akune, was accused of plagiarism by critics and anonymous online voices. They claimed she was lifting from her father’s unpublished work.

YM: It was tough. I expected scrutiny. But not like that. My editor told me to keep my head down. So I did.

Despite the backlash, the Kannazuki Series found its audience. Millions of copies sold. A manga adaptation in progress. For someone accused of riding coattails, she has walked a very different road.

YM: I think it’s good. I’m nervous. It’s not my father’s work. I hope people aren’t expecting that.

SY: The fourth novel, Streets of Fire, comes out this month. What have fans said so far?

YM: I haven’t read any of it.

SY: Not even one?

YM: I’m the worst critic. I see every flaw they don’t.

SY: Do you think your father would approve?

YM: No. And I’m not going to explain that. Nothing I did was ever good enough for him. I don’t think he liked his own work.

SY: What would he have said?

YM: That it needed to be changed. Always. But later I realized that was the medication talking. When he was on it, he wasn’t interested in anything. Off it, he couldn’t sit still.

SY: Medication?

YM: Schizophrenia. From a young age. He never told anyone—not friends, not colleagues. In Japan, mental illness has a heavy stigma. He wanted to be seen as a creator. Nothing else.

SY: That must have been hard.

YM: As a kid, I didn’t even know. I thought all dads were like that—vacant one moment, intense the next. On meds, he was silent. Detached. Off them, he worked in a frenzy. Days without sleep. Total extremes. Only later did I understand what was happening.

SY: He never talked to you about it?

YM: Never. He thought it made him weak. Or worse, that people would say his brilliance was a symptom. He buried it. Let his work speak.

SY: Some people online say you’re capitalizing on his death. What do you say?

YM: I’d tell them to hug their parents. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

SY: That’s it?

YM: They’re grieving too. Blame gives them focus. Some are mad I’m not the villain they want.

SY: But you make money from these books?

YM: Very little. But I’ll be okay. That’s not what matters.

SY: Then what does?

YM: The stories. The art. That’s what he lived for. And now, it’s what I live for too. I don’t write for profit or validation. I write because I have something to say. Because I want to create worlds people can get lost in. If that’s all I inherited from him, it’s enough.