Chapter 18: Riding the Hype
A moment later, Hikaru Hoshino shook his head.
What did it matter if it was Shinomiya or Fujiwara? They were titans of the political and business worlds, while he was just an apprentice in the entertainment industry; they were worlds apart.
Come to think of it, since both series were works by Aka-sensei, and the easter eggs suggested they existed in the same world, why was it that aside from Ruby, no one else ever encountered characters from *Kaguya-sama*?
For instance, if Kamiki had tried his predatory games on someone from the Shijo family, his body probably would have been found floating in Tokyo Bay the next morning.
Hikaru thought such a development would be quite interesting—as long as the person being sunk wasn't himself.
He climbed out of the bathtub, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked into the study. The room featured two large bookshelves filled with various Japanese literary masterpieces. To his surprise, there were several books he recognized—books with distinct suicidal overtones.
The Japanese sometimes have a penchant for *mono no aware* and self-destruction, and that was fine; if someone wanted to go, they went. But why, Kamiki? You were the one reading books about suicide, yet you directed your malice toward others?
Hikaru was speechless. How could someone even be wired like that?
He turned on the computer and clicked over to YouTube. Since he had broken away from his previous company, he didn't plan on finding a new one to join. A star is merely a tool in the hands of capital; no matter how high you climb, you can never truly escape the shackles of an agency. Hikaru's ambitions went beyond that; rather than being someone else's cash cow, being his own boss suited him better.
However, joining a company wasn't without its perks. Stars from major agencies could secure invitations to popular shows the moment they debuted or get "gold-plated" roles in blockbuster dramas—things a "lone wolf" could never achieve.
Agencies would even move behind the scenes to obstruct the development of independent talents. In the already calcified Japanese entertainment industry, programs were resources, and those resources were monopolized by the big firms. For a star without a company to lean on, standing out meant snatching resources from the giants, and they would likely join forces to shut him out.
In the end, it seemed he was getting stuck at the very first hurdle: re-debuting.
Hikaru sighed, slumping into his executive chair like a salted fish that had lost its dreams. After a while, the fish flipped over; Hikaru sat up with a sudden burst of energy, but accidentally sent his towel fluttering to the floor. He sat there awkwardly for a moment, staring at his own naked reflection.
*Actually, this body has a pretty good build...* Fair skin, defined abs, and arms and legs that looked lean but felt like solid muscle to the touch. It was a well-trained, aesthetic physique. No wonder the original could play the "pretty boy" and deceive so many girls.
Hikaru returned to the bedroom, opened the two-meter-tall white solid wood wardrobe, and picked out a plain white T-shirt from the dense rows of clothing. Once dressed in a shirt and underwear, he hurried back to the study and resumed staring at the YouTube homepage. As an actor, Hikaru Kamiki hadn't opened a YouTube channel; his usual updates were posted on Twitter.
Ai, on the other hand, had her own channel with 1.36 million subscribers, and monetization had long been approved. In comparison, B-Komachi had 1.57 million followers—only 200,000 more than Ai's solo count.
Hikaru planned to debut as a singer, but he wasn't sure of the best method. First, he needed a team. He'd need an arranger, though a band was optional since accompaniment can be produced directly on a computer nowadays. He also wanted a team capable of making music videos in various styles; since he didn't know the first thing about video production, that would undoubtedly have to be outsourced.
Distribution platforms, profit-sharing contracts, copyright management... the more Hikaru thought about it, the more his head ached. He almost felt like just joining a company with a complete system already in place. That way, he'd only have to sing and wouldn't have to worry about these tedious behind-the-scenes tasks.
He wished he could be like the protagonists in other books—just join a talent show, leech off their professional team, shock the world with one song, and begin a legendary life of dominating the industry.
Unfortunately, the "soil" here wasn't right.
In modern Japan, there were hardly any talent shows like that. Music competition programs appeared in Japan back in the 80s and 90s, and time had proven that the Japanese audience didn't have a taste for them. Talented amateurs usually performed in live houses for a few years first; if big agencies wanted high-level talent, they just sent scouts to the live houses rather than looking for a needle in a haystack on a TV show. The professional level of those selected by shows wasn't always guaranteed to be up to par, anyway.
Music programs were mostly "Otaban" (music variety) slots launched by major networks and agencies, fighting for ratings every day; they didn't tolerate outsiders. Resources were fixed—why would they give a slice to a random amateur?
Hikaru couldn't help but lament. *The industry is doomed.*
In the end, even debuting was difficult. Having talent didn't guarantee a break; there are far more pieces of gold buried deep underground than there are shining on the surface. Music programs on TV were basically out of the question—the guest slots were all pre-arranged.
So, should he perform in live houses for a few years? Hikaru couldn't afford to wait.
Fortunately, times were indeed changing. The biggest change was... the Internet.
The new medium that broke traditional forms of profit distribution was right here. In a few more years, Japanese television music shows would face a decline; except for the enduring *Kohaku Uta Gassen*, other ratings would start to slide. This was because streaming services were gradually replacing the role of TV music shows, becoming a major avenue for music releases. Streaming numbers would eventually become a key standard for judging a song's success.
Hikaru opened the registration page, spent ages finally passing the CAPTCHA, and registered an account. He thought for a moment and typed in "Hikari."
A prompt quickly popped up: "Nickname already registered."
He changed it to Japanese; it still showed as registered. Hikaru pondered for a long while and figured that the frequency of Chinese usage on YouTube might be lower, so he changed it to the three kanji characters for "Hikari"—**希卡利**.
This time, it actually passed, which surprised Hikaru. Perhaps because Ultraman Hikari didn't exist in this world?
Now that the account was registered, he obviously couldn't just post a song immediately. Without accompaniment, without recording conditions, and without a good MV creator, Hikaru couldn't produce a high-level finished work on his own. Moreover, posting a video on a new account without any groundwork would mean even high-quality content would sink into obscurity.
Rely on a music titan to give him a boost? The hope was too slim; Hikaru decided not to dream.
How could he ensure that he'd go viral as soon as he posted a song, or that his videos would get tens of thousands of views? Countless YouTubers had pondered this question.
The answer, naturally, existed.
If he had no hype of his own... couldn't he just ride someone else's?
In the end, it was still a society of connections. The next morning, Hikaru sighed as he once again hailed a taxi to Strawberry Productions.