The top brass at Sony Music Japan had long enjoyed a close personal relationship with Koguchi Yoshihiro. To describe just how close, you'd only need to say this: his tendency to befriend people based on looks? That was something he picked up from Omori Haruto.
Back when he still had hair and no need for hats, Koguchi really was a handsome man.
The meeting took place at Sony's headquarters in Kita-ku, Osaka. Qin Fei barely said a word; Koguchi handled the talking, sounding more like a real estate agent than a music rep.
"The EP has arrived. As a creator, Mr. Chu possesses a level of artistry comparable to Matsuo Basho," Koguchi declared with flair. "Please, Omori-san, listen carefully."
In Japan, Matsuo Basho is revered as the saint of haiku, one of the three great haiku poets. Koguchi's stream of praise never repeated itself, each compliment more florid than the last.
"You're as enthusiastic as ever, Koguchi-san," said Omori Haruto, who served as both Head of Marketing and Executive Director at Sony Music.
Omori added, "I didn't expect to meet today. I thought our discussion was set for tomorrow. You couldn't wait, huh?"
"Pardon me. Allow me to make introductions. This is Mr. Qin Fei, Mr. Chu's business agent in Japan. Qin-san, this is Executive Director Omori of Sony Music."
In Japanese corporate structure, an Executive Director is essentially a board member. Most don't get involved in daily affairs. But when they do, their authority is absolute. Omori was one of those exceptions, nicknamed "Sony's Mitsunari" behind closed doors, referring to Ishida Mitsunari, whose strategic blunders helped topple the Toyotomi regime. Omori was seen as arrogant and self-important, but undeniably powerful.
In the conference room, they played the mini-album. And yes, Japanese meeting rooms still had disc players. Projectors might be missing, but DVD decks? Absolutely.
Each track ran about four minutes. In just under half an hour, Omori had listened to the full EP. Two of the songs brought a deep smile to his face, the lines around his mouth folding into steep valleys.
"It's the first time I've heard a foreign artist write Japanese songs so well," Omori said. "Mr. Chu's talent is truly eye-opening. I propose releasing the EP on November 15, giving us about two weeks for promotion."
Qin Fei, listening via a live translation earpiece, responded a beat late. "Wouldn't a longer lead time generate more buzz?"
Ideally, Lao Qian should've been here for negotiations. He spoke fluent Japanese thanks to an ex-girlfriend. But tonight, it was up to Qin Fei, relying on Koguchi to translate between parties. Thankfully, Koguchi's Mandarin had improved significantly, driven perhaps by sheer admiration.
"Our market data suggests the best conversion window for viral content is one to two weeks," Omori replied. "Also, Sony Music's annual Unity Gala is on the 15th. I'd like to leverage that event to promote the EP, with our artists endorsing it together."
The Unity Gala was Sony's annual internal showcase, attended by both top-tier talents and lesser-known staff. Fans could also vote for their favorite performance, creating a buzz not unlike a televised competition.
Qin Fei ran some quick calculations. Sony Japan housed several pan-Asian stars. Getting them to jointly promote Chu Zhi's EP could be a massive win.
Koguchi looked particularly pleased. He had pulled strings with Omori to secure this opportunity for Chu Zhi.
Everything from revenue shares to logistics had already been ironed out. With Koguchi's support, negotiations went smoothly.
Later, Koguchi even arranged high-end accommodations for Qin Fei. Not out of hospitality, but because Chu Zhi's growing stardom brought privilege.
Once the two had left Sony, Omori leaned back in his chair and muttered, "They really think breaking into Japan's music scene is that easy? Just because one song went viral?"
"Delusional Chinese idol," he scoffed. The 'two-week marketing window' was just an excuse. In truth, it was all part of a backstage arrangement with Koguchi.
From Omori's high-level viewpoint, sales had more to do with marketing than song quality. He found the EP, titled A World Worth Hoping For, just average. His earlier praise had been polite filler.
"Koguchi hasn't changed," Omori said. He called in his assistant.
"I heard TBS and TV Tokyo are both negotiating to buy Chinese variety show rights?"
"Yes, TBS made a higher bid. They're already in talks," the assistant confirmed.
The acquisitions weren't secret. Anyone paying attention in the industry already knew.
"Idolizing some Chinese celebrity," Omori scoffed again. "Spending tens of millions of yen for one Chinese variety show? What ROI does that bring? TBS would be better off renovating their busted-up conference room."
TBS was notorious for its run-down facilities. Their conference chairs looked like hand-me-downs from a war zone.
Meanwhile, in Thailand, news of the upcoming broadcast of the Hokkaido Uplift Concert made waves. Chu Zhi's friend, Su Shangbai, was there on serious business.
He wasn't just traveling. His actions mirrored George Soros's attack on the Thai baht decades ago, although with far less capital and a more targeted agenda: sugar.
Thailand, one of the world's top three sugar producers, accounted for 5% of global supply. Its sugar industry was vital, even hosting the world's largest candy expo. But Su Shangbai wasn't alone. He had backing from Singapore's Sugar King, an Indonesian cane dynasty, and several domestic allies.
Together, they aimed to collapse Thai sugar exports by exploiting systemic loopholes in Thailand's trade policies.
"I wonder how many people will lose their jobs when this plan goes through," Su Shangbai murmured.
Walking through Bangkok's Khlong Toei slums, he saw firsthand the cheap labor powering nearby sugar factories. If his "Shatter the Sweetness" plan succeeded, even these meager incomes would vanish. Domino-like shutdowns would ripple across the country.
He wasn't heartless, but he believed in China's dominance in the Asian sugar market. And to achieve that, he needed to "treat" Thailand and India with five years of economic pressure.
The plan was his own creation. Thinking about the consequences depressed him. Su Shangbai lacked the ruthlessness of a true capitalist.
Thankfully, seeing news of the Hokkaido concert cheered him up. Chu Zhi would be performing, and that was a comfort.
In Thailand, the concert promo focused on the "Delong Four," with Chu Zhi only briefly mentioned.
Japan's narrative control was effective. By emphasizing international rescue teams, they softened public backlash while dodging accountability.
In Korea, the reaction to the concert was even more explosive.
First, the OK duo, a popular local act, had major pull. While not as dominant as top-tier K-pop groups, they still had fans.
More importantly, there was Chu Zhi. Though his popularity in Korea had waned, his fanbase remained passionate. The mainstream media's constant criticism only strengthened their loyalty.
Cafe Chu Zhi, a Korean fan forum, erupted.
Fans were thrilled to finally see their idol again. But why hadn't the concert taken place in Korea? Wasn't Korea also plagued by frequent earthquakes?
"We have multiple tremors each year. Why hasn't the Ministry of Culture hosted a similar event for our victims? Do our people not deserve comfort?"
"Chu Zhi definitely speaks Korean. His first overseas appearance was on Masked Singer! That proves he cares about Korea."
"It's the media. They've blacklisted him. They're afraid."
"The old men running our networks are cowards."
Soon, their frustration turned outward. They invented enemies where none existed.
The Korean internet blew up, and Chu Zhi-related terms trended across the board.
OK fans accused Chu Zhi's fans of being traitors who idolized foreigners. Chu Zhi's fans fired back, mocking OK for their mediocrity.
The argument spiraled. Chu Zhi had taken too much attention and resources in Korea. Despite a stronger start, his Korean fanbase now faced coordinated pushback from other fandoms.
"What's so great about some Chinese singer crooning wordless melodies? What's with all this 'highest vocal range in Asia' talk? If high notes made you a star, why not worship sparrows?"
"Chu Zhi is a plague on the industry. His fans are viruses."
"We have Sung Yoon-sensei. Compared to him, Chu Zhi is a piglet."
"He only beat a fellow rookie on Masked Singer. Sung Yoon was a judge!"
Hateful comments poured in. Some fans lost faith and fell silent. Not everyone had the nerve to fight the whole industry.
In Korean, "piglet" is not a cute nickname. It's a vicious insult.
One could only imagine how Shin Yongwoo, the veteran singer Chu Zhi defeated, felt reading such venom.
Despite these storms, the world didn't stop spinning. Night followed day. The sun still rose.
And soon, it was the 28th.
===
Here's a new novel I'm currently translating! "My Daughter is the Empire's Lucky Charm"
What happens when a modern-day lottery winner gets yeeted into the body of an overlooked princess in a historical novel? For Yun Shu, the answer is simple: Keep calm and keep scrolling.
After her family's sudden windfall, Yun Shu was all set for a life of luxury—until she woke up in the body of the fifth princess of a dynasty she literally read about in a book. Good news? Her mega-mansion came with her as a cheat-like pocket dimension, complete with Wi-Fi (thank heavens for food delivery). Bad news? The original novel did not promise her a happy ending—just a quick exit as a cannon-fodder side character.
But there's a twist: Her new "dad" is the all-powerful Emperor Xuanwu, a man with a mysterious system that predicts the future… and keeps pointing to her as the key to saving the empire.
Yun Shu just wants to nap and binge fried chicken, but fate (and her suddenly very attentive imperial father) has other plans. Between dodging court politics and accidentally becoming the empire's secret lucky charm, can this transmigrated slacker survive—or will she end up crowned empress?
Feel free to give it a try, and if the blurb catches your interest, don't forget to add it to your library~ (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧