"I'll have to reevaluate Koguchi-san's friend," Omori Genjin muttered after flipping through all three pages of the sales report.
The numbers didn't lie. According to the Kinokuniya chain's report, every store still had lines of over thirty fans on average who hadn't been able to purchase a copy. They could have sold even more.
"GZ boyband's first-day EP sales record has been broken," Omori Genjin said, sensing that other records might also be in reach.
First week: 471.8k
First month: 645.9k
"Koguchi Yoshihiro messed up!" Omori Genjin suddenly remembered something crucial. His face twisted in shock.
He had estimated that Just a Little More Hope for the World would sell around seventy or eighty thousand copies. At 1,600 yen profit per copy, the total would come out to about six million RMB. Giving a few percent in royalties wouldn't be a big deal.
But this? The sales were rocketing toward five hundred thousand. That was a huge loss. He had already lost out on at least half a billion yen in profit!
Omori Genjin was heartbroken. His eyebrows knotted tight, eyes bulging, mouth wide open showing yellowed teeth. His face twisted in anguish like he wanted to bite someone.
That's how you knew he was upper management. A true capitalist's instinct wasn't, "Our artist made us a fortune," but "How much more could we have squeezed from them?"
"Promotion!" Omori Genjin snapped, speaking to the air like a madman. "Use S-tier promotional channels for the EP."
He gave the order immediately. He also called the factory to print more albums. With enough push on distribution and advertising, they could sell another three hundred thousand. The thought only made his heart ache more.
Even as an executive, using the company's S-tier resources required a good reason. But the data report itself was more than enough. Nobody objected. If you weren't hungry to make money, something was wrong with your brain.
Everyone in the company, artists included, soon knew that another foreign singer had just gone nuclear in sales.
"With this level of promotion, even Chu Zhi's EP sold 340,000 copies!"
You can't blame the road for being rough if your own legs are weak.
Inspired by the sales report, Tateki suddenly shouted, "Singing and practice every day is exhausting. Who the hell isn't tired? But we're lucky to work hard for something we love! So many people would kill for this! Kuwata-san, if we don't give it our all now, we'll be eliminated in a few years and won't even have the right to release an album."
"Train, train, train! I'll push myself to the brink every day. I'm ready to risk my life for this. No more regrets! I'm done with releasing one album every two years!"
Kuwata Satoshi was stunned by his friend's sudden energy. It was like he had just been injected with pure adrenaline. After a while, he asked, "Tateki, how many hours a day are you planning to train?"
"One hour!" Tateki declared.
"…What?" Kuwata Satoshi almost thought he misheard. Since his own schedule wasn't too packed, he usually practiced for over two hours at home each day.
Looking at Tateki, Kuwata finally understood why his friend only managed to release one album every two years.
"Isn't daily vocal training a singer's most basic—" Before he could finish, Tateki raised a finger to his lips.
The head of the legal affairs department walked by behind them. He absolutely hated anyone making noise in the company hallways.
Kuwata Satoshi had a schedule today. After reporting in, he rushed off by subway instead of waiting for a chauffeur van—only established stars got those.
Sitting on the train with nothing to do, he pulled up Yahoo Music. The Yahoo platform, which included film, books, and music, was basically Japan's version of Douban. He had bought the EP yesterday and listened to it. All six songs had unique styles, and every single one felt like it could be a lead track.
Kuwata was curious to see what the listeners thought.
"I bought the album to repay a kindness. I've been suffocating under the weight of studies and my parents' expectations. My mom loves piano, so I wake up at 5 to practice. My dad loves baseball, so after school he trains me. At night I study foreign languages. I never have a moment to myself. Once, I thought about ending it all made me want to live again." [5.0 stars]
"I think I really do love this world after all." [4.0 stars]
"LEMON is full of pain. It reminds me of my mom's death. I thought I was heartless. I didn't shed a tear during her funeral or at the temple. Then one day after work, I bought a bento at the convenience store… and picked up an onsen egg—her favorite. At the register, I broke down crying. I couldn't stop the tears even with both hands." [5.0 stars]
"My kid is thirteen. He says the music I listen to is outdated. But both of us love butter-fly."
"Back in school, I made a bet with friends to court a girl who was missing a finger. I did it just to win, but after two months, I was drawn to her. Then a friend said, 'You don't actually like a girl like that, do you?' I really wanted to say, 'Yes, I do.' But instead, I said, 'Of course not, she's disabled.' I wish I could turn back time. I wish I could say it again." [5.0 stars]
The comments were overwhelmingly positive.
The only thing worth complaining about was how dumb Yahoo Music's scoring system was. You could only rate whole numbers. No 4.5, just 4.0 or 5.0. Despite that, the EP Just a Little More Hope for the World had a score of 4.7 out of 5.
"If it keeps up, or doesn't drop too much, it could rank top fifty," Kuwata thought. His feelings toward Chu Zhi had shifted from jealousy to casual fandom.
Sony Music's influence in the Japanese entertainment industry needed no explanation. With that giant backing Chu Zhi, the EP's second-day sales held strong—210,000 copies sold.
Unlike movies, albums usually peaked on day one. Films could do better on day two if reviews spread or a weekend hit. But music sales relied heavily on release day.
To put it bluntly, if fans wanted to buy, they could do it online in minutes. The ones who were going to buy already had.
So 210,000 on day two was insane.
Within two days, total sales exceeded 550,000 copies. At 50 RMB profit per unit, Chu Zhi had earned over 20 million RMB.
He hadn't realized it, but now it hit hard.
Back in Otaru, on set for a drama shoot, Chu Zhi received the news. He felt something crack open and awaken inside him.
Albums in South Korea were expensive too. Single discs could sell for 30 to 40 RMB, about half the price in Japan. Germany also priced single albums over 100 RMB. There were so many fans overseas waiting to be harvested!
"My adorable Little Fruits… your emperor has returned," Chu Zhi murmured. He was already planning a full album to rake in sales across Japan.
Songs like Empty-Handed, Fireworks in the Sky, my.all, Don't Give Up, Riding on the Silver Dragon's Back, She Once Lived—he wanted to make an album all about death and surviving it.
If he could gather these tracks together, he'd become a legend. How many people could that album save from suicide? What would his status in Japan look like? Unbelievable.
"This god-tier album will be a nice little side quest," Chu Zhi said.
He couldn't speak Korean and had no plans to learn it. But he could still record a single. Just memorize the lyrics phonetically and sing it.
"Foreign fans really do bring in the money. Even with a million physical sales in China, you barely make anything."
Still mumbling, Chu Zhi walked from the hotel to the filming location. It was only a kilometer away. No need for the crew's van.
The Otaru City Library had half its space rented out by the production team. Most of the cast was there, but the director, Ozu Etsuji, wasn't.
Chu Zhi looked around. Hashimoto Maki seemed to notice his confusion.
"The director wants a different filming location," she explained. "Ozu-san doesn't think this place works."
Hashimoto Maki was seventeen. She played the second female lead, a high school girl named Ki. Despite her age, she had been scouted as a model at fourteen. Absolutely beautiful.
"So we're not shooting right now?" Chu Zhi asked.
"We're on break," Maki said.
Chu Zhi nodded and walked to the actors' lounge to rest. Of course, Liao Dazhong wasn't with him. No director liked someone else showing up to teach acting—it undermined their authority.
Hashimoto Maki carefully approached and asked, "Chu-san, could you sign this for me?"
"A signature?" Chu Zhi looked up. She held a photo card from his album.
Ah, a fan.