Chapter 86: An Experience Entirely Unworthy of Boasting

“This time you’re releasing two sakura-themed songs?”

“Yes, although they’re spring singles, both use cherry blossoms as a metaphor. And if you put the two titles together, it carries the meaning of ‘Sakura is a beautiful flower.’”

“That was all Tamori-san’s idea,” Ye Zhao added. “Last time we were on MS, Tamori-san suggested, ‘Why not release a spring single?’ So we followed your advice.”

“In that case, you’ll have to pay me a royalty for using my idea. By the way, since these are sakura songs, do you both have any memories of spring or cherry blossoms?”

“When I was living in my hometown of Nagasaki, I spent some time near Matsushima. There’s a small hill there called ‘Sakura Slope’ where I often used to take walks.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. Next time you write a sakura song, you should use that as your theme.”

Ye Zhao overheard and couldn’t help saying, “Tamori-san, be careful or you’ll predict it again.”

“That’s right. If Tamori-san gets it right again, do we have to pay another idea fee?” Masaharu Fukuyama chimed in with a mock-calculating look.

“If that’s the case, I might as well quit working and just make money off royalties from my prophecies.” The audience burst into laughter at Tamori’s words. Then Tamori turned to Ye Zhao, “And you, Ye-kun, do you have any memories of cherry blossoms?”

Ye Zhao thought for a moment. “When it comes to sakura, it has to be this. Before my debut, I used to busk in Ueno Park. Once, while I was performing, I got really into the song. Suddenly, a gust of wind came and I ended up eating a cherry blossom petal.”

“You really are something!” Tamori laughed heartily.

Noticing the stage was ready, Satsuki Arihara took over, “Next, please enjoy a special medley of ‘Beautiful Flower’ and ‘Sakura’ performed by Masaharu Fukuyama-san and Ye Zhao-san.”

Ye Zhao and Masaharu Fukuyama picked up their microphones, stood up from the stands, and headed toward the stage.

...

The day after their appearance on MS, Ye Zhao once again arrived at the NTV headquarters.

As soon as the decision to produce a special drama was made, the idea of turning it into a full series was also put on the agenda. The impressive ratings of the special gave the production team a shot of confidence, and so the regular version of “The Kindaichi Case Files” was officially set for the summer slot, airing Saturdays at nine, beginning July fifteenth.

Japanese TV dramas divide their seasons by quarter—winter, spring, summer, and fall—each lasting three months, twelve weeks, with one episode per week, so most series run about ten episodes (excluding NHK’s year-long dramas). During the brief interludes between seasons, various specials fill the gap.

Beyond their shorter episode counts and weekly airing schedule, Japanese dramas are also produced differently from domestic ones. In domestic productions, film companies shoot the entire series in one go, then sell the finished product to the network.

Japanese dramas, in contrast, are produced by the TV networks themselves. Typically, two to four episodes are filmed before the series premiere, after which filming continues while the show airs. This allows the network to adjust the script in response to ratings. For a ten-episode series, filming often wraps up around episode seven or eight.

With such tight schedules, attracting viewers relies heavily on the script, so the creative control of a Japanese drama usually lies with the writer, while the director becomes more of an executor.

It was the same meeting room, and Ye Zhao arrived fifteen minutes early as before, but this time, aside from the head producer’s seat, everyone else was already present. With both writer and director in attendance, the atmosphere was slightly more serious than when only the actors gathered.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ye Zhao said with a slight bow.

Director Yukihiko Tsutsumi, whom he’d met before, waved him over and pointed to the empty seat beside him. The director’s face, which had seemed a bit stern at their first meeting, now looked much more approachable.

After Ye Zhao sat down, scriptwriter Masaki Fukazawa, seated on Tsutsumi’s other side, nodded in greeting, and Ye Zhao quickly returned the gesture. Tsutsumi spoke to him in a low voice, “Ye-kun, the music you composed for the special was excellent—really impressive.”

“Thank you, Tsutsumi-san. I watched the special when it aired; your directing style was fascinating. That sense of mystery works perfectly for a detective drama.” After so many years in the business, such polite small talk came naturally to Ye Zhao.

Tsutsumi smiled. “Thank you. The person who provides the words is Fukazawa-san, I’m the one who brings them to life on screen, but the person who creates the atmosphere for those scenes is you, Ye-kun. In that sense, I work more closely with you than anyone else on this production. I really enjoy your music, and it’s an honor that you appreciate my directing.”

Seeing the two of them getting along so well, Fukazawa joined in. “These days, more and more artists are crossing over into different fields. Ye-kun, have you ever considered acting on TV?”

“Well, I’ve never acted before, so I don’t know if I have any talent for it. I haven’t really thought about it seriously. Besides, when it comes to drama, I prefer working behind the scenes to performing in front of the camera,” Ye Zhao replied.

“You prefer working behind the scenes?” Both Fukazawa and Tsutsumi were a little surprised.

“It’s probably just curiosity about things I don’t understand,” Ye Zhao explained. “I’m the type who, if something interests me, can’t help but want to figure out how it works.” That was why he loved learning new things—the process of unraveling mysteries brought him great satisfaction.

“That’s excellent,” Tsutsumi praised. “Curiosity breeds creativity. If you have time, Ye-kun, you should come to the set when we start shooting. Get a feel for the production process.”

That was exactly what Ye Zhao had hoped for. “If you don’t mind me getting in the way, Tsutsumi-san, I’d love to visit.”

“In that case,” Fukazawa suggested, “since actors are an indispensable part of any drama, and you’ll be visiting the set, why not also experience acting firsthand? Right now, we’re still in pre-production, and apart from the leads, many roles haven’t been cast yet. Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Do you mean a cameo?” Ye Zhao was tempted.

“Not necessarily. You could do a screen test. If it goes well, perhaps you could play a more significant role.”

What important roles are there in a detective thriller? There’s the loyal sidekick who follows the protagonist everywhere, the dimwit who makes the hero look even smarter, the villain who just has to commit the crime in front of the protagonist, the beautiful woman who drives the hero to distraction, and the various unlucky handsome men who make the hero jealous, only to turn out to be either the culprit or the victim in the end.

With that in mind, Ye Zhao said, “If I pass the audition, I’d like to play the villain.”

“The villain?” Fukazawa was surprised again.

“Well,” Ye Zhao scratched his head, “if I’m going to act in a detective drama, I’d love to try playing the character who outsmarts the hero at every turn. Even if he gets caught in the end, I’d like to at least give the protagonist some trouble.”

Tsutsumi’s expression turned slightly odd. “I didn’t expect you to have such a mischievous streak, Ye-kun.”

Fukazawa, on the other hand, was concerned about something else. “Aren’t you worried that playing a villain might hurt your image?”

“Not at all. If playing a single villainous role could hurt me, then my image must be too weak to begin with.” He joked, “Besides, my acting couldn’t possibly be good enough to make people take it that seriously.”

...

After the meeting, at Fukazawa’s suggestion, a private audition was held in the conference room just for Ye Zhao. The drama, scheduled to premiere on July fifteenth, so far only had a few cases selected for adaptation, and the only finished script was for the first episode, “The Murder in the Foreigners’ Village.” Since Ye Zhao wanted to play the villain, Fukazawa had him audition for the role of Jin Odagiri (Ryuichi Rokusei), the killer in that episode.

With both lead actors, Tsuyoshi Domoto and Rie Tomosaka, present, the audition’s supporting cast was unusually star-studded.

As for Ye Zhao’s acting experience—across two lifetimes, other than a few music videos with no plot and that awkward pager commercial before his debut, his only real “acting” was feigning a stomachache to skip class in school. Apparently, his performance was so convincing that even the sharpest teachers let him slip away and later showed genuine concern for his health.

Not exactly something to brag about.

The case of “The Murder in the Foreigners’ Village” was once adapted in the Chinese drama “Young Justice Bao” as “The Mystery of the Hidden Village,” with the core methods and motives largely unchanged. The murder method in “The Murder in the Foreigners’ Village” itself was inspired by Soji Shimada’s “The Tokyo Zodiac Murders,” so when Ye Zhao first read “The Tokyo Zodiac Murders,” having already seen “Young Justice Bao,” he felt like he’d been thoroughly spoiled from start to finish.

Fukazawa chose a scene for Ye Zhao to audition in, where the villain Jin Odagiri is unmasked and Kindaichi confronts him about deceiving Wakaba Tokita. In this story, Jin Odagiri—Ryuichi Rokusei—was raised by his mother to seek revenge since childhood. Though he loved Wakaba Tokita, he ultimately killed her for the sake of his vendetta.

Closing his eyes, Ye Zhao tried to immerse himself in the character’s mindset, imagining what expression and tone would best convey such emotion. After a brief moment of preparation, he opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and gave the signal that he was ready to begin.