Chapter One: Rebirth

In the cramped studio apartment, barely ten square meters in size, the most valuable item was probably the Yamaha acoustic guitar standing in the corner. Its soundboard, marred by countless fine scratches from overuse, revealed its condition clearly under the sunlight.

A bottle of sleeping pills lay on the floor, now empty despite being originally filled with a hundred tablets. On the low table, beneath a pager, was a note scrawled on the inside of a cigarette pack: "Looking back, there truly isn’t a single thing worth mentioning."

Standing before the bathroom mirror, Ye Zhao gazed at a stranger’s face: clean-cut brows and eyes, a high, straight nose—features that were both refined and unmistakably masculine. In plain terms, he was a strikingly handsome young man, easily a ninety out of a hundred. Yet, accustomed to his own ordinary features in his previous life, Ye Zhao wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or sorrowful at this transformation.

Yes, Ye Zhao had crossed over—or rather, been reborn. About half an hour earlier, when he awoke from unconsciousness, he found himself inexplicably in Japan, inhabiting the body of a nineteen-year-old youth.

The boy’s name was also Ye Zhao, a Chinese descendant whose grandparents had immigrated to Japan and opened a Chinese restaurant in Yokohama’s Chinatown. Later, his father met his mother—also of Chinese descent—while in university. The two married and chose not to inherit the family restaurant, instead working as teachers at a private high school in Yokohama.

In his youth, Ye Zhao not only excelled academically but was also a talented guitar player. Coupled with his good looks, he seemed born under a lucky star. This streak, however, ended at seventeen. That year, he failed the entrance exam to Waseda University and, while attending a cram school in Tokyo, lost his tuition money to a pachinko addiction. He then quit school on his own accord and joined an underground band called "Capek."

His parents, half out of disappointment and half hoping he’d learn from hardship, allowed him to live alone in Tokyo—cutting off all financial support in the process.

Freed from parental supervision, Ye Zhao pursued his musical dreams. But whether due to lack of talent or ill fortune, the band failed every record label audition and ended up performing opening acts at Shinjuku nightclubs. It was there he met Mika Ogawa, a hostess eight years his senior. Naive and inexperienced, Ye Zhao quickly fell in love, but Mika saw him only as a diversion outside of work.

After living together for a time, Mika, having grown tired of him, unceremoniously ended the relationship. The string of setbacks proved too much for Ye Zhao, who, after the breakup, suffered a complete breakdown and chose to end his brief life with sleeping pills.

Surveying the small apartment, Ye Zhao could still see traces of their cohabitation, though Mika had taken her belongings when she left. The wardrobe, chaotic as it was, clearly had empty space where her clothes once hung. In addition to rock star posters, several featuring 光GENJI—Mika’s favorite—were taped to the walls.

The room’s only major appliance was a fourteen-inch old color TV. Underneath the TV stand, scattered sheet music and music CDs lay about, with B’z singles making up the bulk. The desk calendar’s last torn page was May 18, 1994, and the pager displayed May 20.

Ye Zhao crumpled the “suicide note” and tossed it in the trash. Clutching his cramping stomach, he stepped into the narrow kitchen—barely big enough to turn around—where he found about two handfuls of rice at the bottom of the sack next to the rice cooker, a small bag of spoiled, blackened bean sprouts, and a packet of mayonnaise two months past its expiration date. Vegetables and meat were out of the question.

But his predecessor hadn’t lived in such poverty that even food was a constant worry. Although money was tight, he could meet basic needs. He played accompaniment at nightclubs and worked part-time at a convenience store during the day, rarely at home, so most meals were convenience store bento or instant noodles.

He dumped all the remaining rice into the cooker. There wasn’t enough for proper rice, but it would make porridge. Even without any side dishes, after two days of hunger, the plainest gruel tasted delicious. With food in his stomach, his frail body regained a measure of strength, and lying on the tatami, Ye Zhao was finally able to consider his next move.

In his previous life, Ye Zhao was neither a prestigious scholar nor a corporate warrior. He operated a second-hand CD shop. His death was not due to a car accident or illness; he died while taking stock of inventory. He accidentally knocked over a shelf, fell off a ladder and hit his head, then was buried alive by tumbling CD cases.

Those discs—over ten thousand, spanning from the 1970s to 2017—were his pride and joy, sourced from all over the world, covering music and films alike.

Recalling the almost comical cause of his transmigration, Ye Zhao pressed his hand to his face in resignation. At that moment, a stabbing pain pierced his head, growing so intense he couldn’t help but clutch his skull and curl into a ball.

He had no idea how much time passed before the pain finally receded and his consciousness slowly returned. To his astonishment, all the music and films from those CDs that had buried him were now stored in his mind!

It was the golden age of CDs in 1990s Japan; in the peak year, twenty-eight singles sold over a million copies each. Thanks to thorough copyright laws, even writing a single hit could provide a carefree life through royalties. Now, with the music of the next twenty years at his disposal, Ye Zhao essentially possessed an unimaginably vast treasure. If he wished, he could take just a tenth of it and dominate the Japanese entertainment industry, gaining everything he could desire.

His former band mainly performed covers. Though they had five members, they couldn’t write anything of quality, which was why record companies always turned them away. Any band that relied on outside composers rather than writing their own music was hard for labels to take seriously—unless they wanted to become a manufactured idol group, but they weren’t nearly good-looking enough for that.

Now, though, as long as Ye Zhao provided a few high-quality songs, the band’s prospects would soar. As for why he didn’t simply go solo, it was mainly because the band members were all decent people; they’d struggled together for over a year, and abandoning them at this point felt wrong. Besides, even if he debuted with the band, he could still pursue a solo career later. There was no need to go independent now and leave behind a tale ripe for endless gossip.

As Ye Zhao’s thoughts raced, the pager on the table suddenly beeped. He hadn’t seen such an antique in years and found its presence oddly novel. He went downstairs to the public phone, dialed the number displayed, and after just two rings, the call was answered. A low voice asked, “Xiao Ye, why didn’t you come yesterday?” It was Riku Watanabe, the band’s bassist.

Watanabe was the band’s organizer. He’d first spotted Ye Zhao performing in Ueno Park and recruited him, looking after him ever since. In Tokyo, he was one of Ye Zhao’s few friends.

Ye Zhao gave a dry laugh. “Something came up unexpectedly. I didn’t have time to let you know.” He certainly couldn’t say that he’d died yesterday.

Fortunately, Watanabe didn’t press the matter. He got straight to the point: “If you’re free now, come to the club. Yuta says he has something to announce.” He was referring to the lead singer, Yuta Kojima.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. He said he has to tell everyone in person.”

Ye Zhao hung up and returned to his room, rummaged through the wardrobe for a clean plaid shirt, washed his face, and ran his fingers through his hair in front of the mirror to tidy up. Presentable at last, he stepped outside and boarded the train from Ikebukuro to Shinjuku.