Chapter Five: Decisively Choosing to Run Naked

To run into a future superstar on the street—this, after discovering his golden finger, was the second event that made Ye Zhao truly feel like the “protagonist.” Right now, if he were to let his imagination run wild, he could probably conjure up a sprawling 1.5-million-word epic chronicling the rise and fall of the entertainment world, with a thread of his own story intertwined with that of this future celebrity.

But alas, for the time being, the future superstar was just a middle school girl whose eyes shone with anticipation as she waited for him to introduce himself. And he, himself, was nothing more than a washed-up musician who had just quit his band and lost his job, with no clear future in sight. So, he quickly reined in the myriad emotions that had surged upon hearing her name, and replied with an even tone, “My name is Ye Zhao.”

“Ye Zhao?” Yuko Takeuchi repeated, clearly puzzled by the unfamiliar, somewhat awkward-sounding name.

“I’m from China,” Ye Zhao explained. Seeing that Yuko was still struggling with his name, he went a step further: “Hold out your hand.”

Yuko hesitated for a moment but obediently extended her right hand. Ye Zhao took it gently and wrote the characters for “Ye Zhao” in her palm. “Now you know, right?”

“I do!” Yuko nodded, then, after a moment’s thought, mimicked his gesture by taking his right hand. Her slender, delicate fingertips traced characters across his palm as she wrote her own name. “These are the characters for my name—don’t get it wrong.”

In this country, there are countless cases of names sharing the same pronunciation but written with different characters, not to mention the dual readings—native and borrowed. Even a common name like Yuki for girls, for instance, can be written in a dozen different ways: snow, Yuki, Yuki with various kanji, and so on. For those unfamiliar, it’s truly confusing.

“Don’t worry, I’ll never get it wrong,” Ye Zhao said with a smile. “Besides, who knows—maybe one day, your name and mine will be seen all over the streets and alleys of this country.”

“Are you talking about… wanted posters?” Yuko stuck out her tongue. “I’m a good student—I’ve never done anything bad.” As a middle schooler, Yuko had never even considered becoming a star.

“What are you thinking!” Ye Zhao laughed in spite of himself.

During their conversation, he learned that Yuko was there to meet a friend who had just transferred to Tokyo the previous year. They had arranged to meet at a nearby department store, but unfamiliar with the area, Yuko had accidentally wandered off the main thoroughfare and thus attracted the attention of a creep.

Recalling the location of the department store from memory, Ye Zhao decided to go the extra mile and escorted her there.

Yuko’s friend, Tomomi Kawada, had already been waiting outside the store for nearly half an hour, anxiously scanning the crowd. Suddenly, she spotted Yuko approaching with a strange man.

“Hey, Yuko!” the girl waved energetically.

“Is that your friend?” Ye Zhao asked.

Yuko nodded and waved back, calling out, “Tomomi!”

Tomomi Kawada hurried over to Yuko’s side, her face showing a hint of suspicion as she eyed Ye Zhao. Yuko took it upon herself to introduce them. “This is Tomomi Kawada. We used to be in the same class at our old school—she’s my best friend.”

Then she introduced Ye Zhao to Tomomi, “This is Ye Zhao. I got lost earlier and was harassed by some creep, but he helped me out and brought me here safely.”

“Hello,” Ye Zhao greeted Tomomi with a nod.

“Thank you for helping Yuko,” Tomomi said quietly, bowing her head.

“It was nothing, really. Just glad I could help,” Ye Zhao replied. Glancing at Yuko, he added, “Now that you’ve found your friend, I’ll be on my way. Goodbye.” After all, they were little more than strangers; knowing when to take his leave would only leave them with a favorable impression.

“Goodbye.”

At that moment, Yuko Takeuchi had no idea that this “goodbye” did not signal the end, but rather a beginning.

After paying his rent, Ye Zhao was left with about fifty thousand yen, including his remaining savings. Without the burden of rent, fifty thousand yen would suffice for a single man to live frugally for a month. Even so, Ye Zhao had no intention of sitting idly by, waiting for a reply from Sony Music.

He had never dealt with record labels before, but he knew that giants like Sony and Universal received hundreds, if not thousands, of demo submissions every day. The wait could be interminable; by the time they got around to his demo, the world might have changed several times over. As for the fantasy of marching into a record company, forcing his work into the hands of an executive, and having them so awestruck by his presence that they begged him to sign a contract—well, such daydreams were best left in the realm of fiction.

“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket”—a lesson handed down from his ancestors. Though Ye Zhao was confident in his music, he wasn’t about to pin all his hopes on a single opportunity. He had to consider other options. In this era, the lowest barrier to entering the music scene was, without question, busking on the street. Even club gigs required the owner’s approval.

However, in this country, performing on the street without permission was actually illegal. There might not be urban management officers chasing you down in pickup trucks, but the police doubled as enforcers of public order. If you were lucky, they’d simply shoo you away. But if you ran into someone less accommodating, you could end up with a hefty fine. To busk legally, you had to register at the proper office, pay a security deposit, and obtain a street performance permit that strictly regulated both time and location.

That said, the majority of street performers went without permits. After all, busking was usually just a way to make a bit of pocket money—hardly worth the trouble of official paperwork. If things got dicey, you simply packed up and left. Permits were really only necessary for those trying to support themselves through busking, since they also needed to sell self-produced CDs and required a stable spot.

Ye Zhao’s former self had been a well-behaved young man, and when he played in the park, he’d dutifully applied for a performance permit—which, of course, had long since expired. As for the current Ye Zhao, he neither had a family to support nor CDs to sell, and his temperament was anything but meek and obedient. So, he chose to take his chances and go rogue.

To join the ranks of street performers, he needed a solid repertoire. Street performances called for catchy songs with memorable melodies to capture the attention of passersby. Considering that his only instrument was an acoustic guitar, he had to rearrange his songs accordingly. Fortunately, as a former lead guitarist, he found such adaptations came easily. The only real nuisance was…

A dull thumping against the wall interrupted his practice. Ye Zhao sighed and covered the sound hole of his guitar, pausing his rehearsal. The couple next door were a particular challenge—the man, an old-fashioned type who despised pop music and considered musicians to be nothing but hoodlums, would bang on the wall in protest whenever Ye Zhao played, even in broad daylight. Yet the same man would come home drunk every night after work, raising a ruckus loud enough for the whole building to hear.