The long-awaited English translation of Osamu Tezuka’s most popular for-adults character continues in this exciting, and surprisingly moving, second installment. Far less overtly grotesque than those in the first volume, these adventures of the suture-scarred and famously unlicensed surgeon shows off the author’s humanism more than anything else. It’s almost as if Tezuka, who selected the order of the stories for the definitive Japanese collections upon which Vertical has based this series, wants to pull back and slow things down: “Now that I’ve grabbed you with outrageous horror and crime”—the first book features a story in which Black Jack shoots a patient and then operates on him—“I’ll explore the character development side of things, providing backstory and accenting psychology wherever I can.”

Not that there’s any shortage of crime (the brutal “Kidnapping,” “Hospital Jack,” and “Helping Each Other”) or sheer darkness (the tragic “Dirtjacked”), but the absence of outright creepiness is notable. I look forward to it returning in future volumes, but I must admit that the slight change-up in tone adds satisfying dimensionality to both the character and the series; instead of just being another anthology of twenty-page stories, this second hand of Black Jack (sorry) feels much more like an episodic novel even if such intentions have been retro-fit onto the original material.

Still, some readers may feel let down by bordering-on-preachy tales such as “Emergency Shelter,” “To Each His Own,” and “The Ballad of the Killer Whale” (which can be perused in its entirety, including its wonderful seascapes, here). But even while I’m tempted to venture the perhaps heretical notion that these represent “lesser Tezuka,” I’m going to refrain because in the grand scheme of things such an evaluation is probably pointless—even Tezuka in a less dazzling mode is head-and-shoulders above most everything else. The story “Where are Thou, Friend?” might fall into this category were it not for the crucial history it provides. For whatever reasons, it’s often difficult to tell that much of Black Jack’s face has the skin tone of a person of a color, but this story does not sidestep the issue of race for even a moment.

Taking place during Black Jack’s childhood, it recounts how his “half-black, half-Asian” friend Takashi supplies the necessary skin graft when all the other possible donors balk. Through this key tale we learn why, even years later, Black Jack is loathe to have plastic surgery to “correct” the way his face looks. Without question it’s terrific story of friendship, one that certainly doesn’t need the explicit environmental and geopolitical messages with which Tezuka overlays it.

The strongest stories in Black Jack, Volume 2 combine solid narratives with memorable themes in a seamless way that recalls canon short stories. “Granny,” with its echoes of Maupassant, sneaks up on you and then hits like a ton of bricks. “Assembly Line Care,” with its O. Henry-like moralistic twist, is similarly powerful. The final story, “The Blind Acupuncturist” is perhaps the most interesting because it’s one of the rare stories in which Black Jack has something both to learn and to teach. It’s also fascinating because the literary figure Tezuka seems to influenced by here is himself: when the mysterious and sightless healer travels the countryside through howling winds it’s almost as if he’s wandered in from Dororo.

This particular story also highlights another thing this volume does well—explore ethical and philosophical questions in healing, medicine, and institutional healthcare. And if that sounds cerebral or dull, think again: these issues are dramatized in ways that involve suspense and plot reversals of the most compelling order. So, yes, there’s a lot of “medical drama” on hand, but it’s apt to be unlike any other medical drama you’re familiar with as Black Jack’s resourcefulness is tested again and again. Of course Tezuka’s resourcefulness is also being tested, since working in the short-form requires an emphasis on efficiency of storytelling that one could say requires strategic decisions of a “surgical” nature.

Which means that if you’re a fan of Tezuka’s other works you might regret that there are fewer intricate backgrounds on display and no floor-to-ceiling panels. And although Tezuka the artist occasionally breaks the grid format in wonderfully fluid ways, it’s nothing compared to how Tezuka the writer cuts through genre boundaries to play with readers’ expectations, using his creativity to light fires in both the heart and the brain. No doubt about it: Black Jack is what pop culture looks like when it reaches its most enduring heights.