Chapter Thirty-Nine: Courtesy Before Force

Signing with a record company and the huge sales of his two singles, aside from bringing about a sudden leap in financial security, had not really changed or impacted Ye Zhao’s life all that much. Since his debut, he had only appeared on television once; even if he walked down the street without any disguise, few people could call his name. In this respect, that taxi driver who recognized him at a glance was truly perceptive.

Being a singer-songwriter was, relatively speaking, a more relaxed and comfortable profession. Apart from being busy during recording sessions and promotional periods, as well as the intense months of nationwide tours, there was not much else—after all, inspiration was finite, and as long as one could ensure the release of one or two records a year, the task was considered satisfactorily complete. As an artist under BEING, he had little need to run promotional events, and as for touring, that was a distant prospect for a singer with only four songs. Thus, Ye Zhao now was, in every sense, a free man.

In his previous life, when he was as busy as a dog, Ye Zhao had longed for the day when, having earned enough money, he could retire early, lazing about at home and sleeping as he pleased. Now, when he truly held in his arms enough wealth to squander over a lifetime, he found himself completely uninterested in idleness. With such a powerful trump card in this second chance at life, if he were to live merely as a layabout, his existence would be little more than a salted fish encrusted with diamonds.

With both wealth and leisure at his disposal, Ye Zhao’s first thought was not to “conquer the world,” but rather how to better himself. Even with his golden finger and the innate abilities of a reincarnator, enough to let him ride the waves from 1994 to 2017, if he did not develop real strength and a broader vision, such success would be fragile and fleeting. Nowadays, he not only continued to study arrangement with Akashi Masao and pestered Oda Tetsurō for composition insights, but had also quietly enrolled in a screenwriting school to learn the craft of scriptwriting.

In the ‘90s, while the RB record industry was thriving and TV dramas were reaching ever higher viewership, the domestic film market was in dire straits, utterly overwhelmed by foreign films. It was precisely because of this decline that a large number of film professionals switched careers to television, raising the standards of TV productions and ushering in the golden age of Japanese drama. In stark contrast, the domestic film industry, drained of talent, fell into a vicious circle of producing ever worse films that fewer and fewer people watched.

Among the discs Ye Zhao had brought along, besides records, there were also DVDs of classic films and dramas. Since he had been given the chance to live life over, he naturally aspired to reach the top of his field. Aside from riding the golden age of music, it was also necessary to make a mark in film while the RB movie industry was at its nadir. However, unlike music, which could be monetized easily, transforming moving images back into words on a page—a script—was far more difficult, especially since the craft of scriptwriting differed greatly from writing novels.

Retelling a story was simple, but weaving it into a layered script was a far more complex affair. Just as he had no wish to rely on outside arrangers, Ye Zhao did not want to be a mere “idea man” who recounted stories for professionals to turn into scripts; besides, true scriptwriters would never stoop to being mere ghostwriters.

The finest flowers bloom in the worst soil. Achieving success in the golden age of records was only to be expected, but to succeed in the dark era of film would require constant exploration.

…

That day, just after finishing a two-hour class, Ye Zhao left the school and was stopped by a young man in a black suit.

“Do I know you?” Ye Zhao asked.

“Mr. Ye Zhao, I’m with BRUNING Agency,” the young man introduced himself. “Our Director Kawanishi would like to meet you.”

“BRUNING Agency?” Ye Zhao scrutinized the young man, suspicion in his eyes. The young man, seeing this, pulled out his work ID from his suit pocket and handed it to Ye Zhao. It read “BRUNING PROJECT” and gave his name as Hiroshi Nanino.

Once Ye Zhao had confirmed his identity, Hiroshi Nanino gestured across the street. “Director Kawanishi is waiting in that café. Would you come, please?”

Why not? Ye Zhao was quite curious what business BRUNING, a rival of BEING, had in seeking out one of BEING’s artists so suddenly.

Kawanishi Naruo, BRUNING’s publicity director, was not only deeply trusted by Suo Yukio, but also served as a key liaison for BRUNING’s external affairs. Nearly fifty, his cheeks were slightly plump, but his shrewd eyes gave him a formidable presence—a pressure Ye Zhao could not ignore, a reminder not to take this man lightly.

“Director, Mr. Ye Zhao is here,” Hiroshi Nanino whispered as he approached him.

Kawanishi Naruo nodded and pointed to the seat opposite. “Please, Mr. Ye.” He signaled a waiter. “An espresso for this young man.”

That domineering disregard for Ye Zhao’s own preference made him frown slightly, but he did not protest. Kawanishi noted his reaction, the corners of his downturned mouth lifting ever so slightly.

“I wonder what business brings you to me, Mr. Kawanishi?” Ye Zhao asked.

Instead of answering directly, Kawanishi said approvingly, “You are truly a striking figure, Mr. Ye. With looks like yours, not becoming an actor is a great loss to the screen.”

Ye Zhao didn’t bite, replying with a joking tone, “If I became an actor, wouldn’t the music industry be the one to suffer?” Given the success of his two hit singles, this was indeed more apt than Kawanishi’s flattery.

Kawanishi laughed twice. “You’re refreshingly candid. Your musical talent goes without saying, but I also see great potential in you as an actor.”

“I appreciate your regard, but I know my own limits,” Ye Zhao replied.

“Don’t say that. True geniuses are rare; most people are shaped by nurture,” Kawanishi smoothly segued into his pitch. “You know of BRUNING’s strength, don’t you? Our resources in film and television are among the best in the industry. If you join us, we can make you a star actor in under a year.”

Turning a complete novice into a top star within a year—such bold words could only be spoken by an industry giant like BRUNING. By now, Ye Zhao was well aware that BRUNING was once again up to their old poaching tricks.

Looking back on BRUNING’s rise, one can never overlook their penchant for talent raiding. Their rapid expansion owed much to their aggressive tactics—coaxing and coercing talent away from other agencies, a practice that had afflicted the entire entertainment world. Even Johnny’s, now so powerful it could end a promising career with a word, had once lost their star Hiroshi Kyogo to BRUNING, and had been powerless to do anything about it.

“So what you’re saying, Mr. Kawanishi, is that you want me to sign with BRUNING?”

“No, to be precise, we want a full contract—including your recording rights,” Kawanishi corrected.

“My recording contract is already signed with BEING,” Ye Zhao reminded him. “And President Nagato put in a lot of effort to launch my mainstream debut; I can’t just turn my back on him.”

“Turn your back? Forgive me, but what did President Nagato really give you? Your fame you earned yourself, the lyrics and music you wrote yourself. From start to finish, even if not with BEING, any company could have brought you the same success. If anything, it’s President Nagato who’s profiting from you. Other than your share of royalties—which is rightfully yours—what do you really gain at BEING? It’s just a small record company that, until a few years ago, couldn’t even sign recording contracts. Even now, their media resources are almost nonexistent. Someone as talented as you is simply wasting your time there,” Kawanishi coaxed.

Ye Zhao, who had no intention of getting involved with the industry’s number one dark power, rejected him flatly. “Sorry, Mr. Kawanishi, your offer is tempting, but I must decline. I’m a newcomer; if I switched agencies for profit, what would people in the industry think of me? I don’t want to be a thankless traitor.”

“I suggest you think it over,” Kawanishi said, rolling his neck. “An artist must seize good opportunities decisively, or who knows—one day you may stumble badly over something trivial.” The casual tone thinly veiled a threat.

Ye Zhao smiled. “Who goes through life without stumbling? Just get up and carry on.”

“‘Just get up and carry on?’” Kawanishi repeated, then suddenly smiled broadly. “In that case, I’ll be watching with interest.”

Ye Zhao didn’t dwell on Kawanishi’s words. Since everyone knew BRUNING and BEING were competitors, he simply pushed the coffee cup forward, stood up, and said, “If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.” With a slight nod, he turned and left the café.

Watching Ye Zhao’s retreating figure, Hiroshi Nanino came over from the bar. “Director, how did your talk with Ye Zhao go?”

Kawanishi looked quite pleased. “We failed.”

“Failed? Then why are you so happy?” Hiroshi was puzzled.

“This Ye Zhao is far more interesting than I imagined,” Kawanishi replied, ignoring the question. “Go tell PR to stop holding back. Next week, start the offensive as planned.”

“It’s his own fault for not knowing what’s good for him. If he’d listened, there’d be no need to—”

“Rather than seeing him disappear from the industry,” Kawanishi cut him off, “I’m more curious to see how he’ll climb back up after he falls.”