Chapter Thirty: A New House, A New Beginning

How much is sixty-eight million yen? The exchange rate from yen to renminbi is roughly 100 to 6.5 or 7, and from yen to US dollars is about 100 to 1. In other words, this sum amounts to approximately 4.5 million renminbi or 680,000 US dollars—a fortune by any standard. Even among Japan’s elites, those who earn ten million yen annually are rare, and most are men over fifty. Just that morning, Ye Zhao had been worrying about rent and living expenses, and by noon he’d leaped straight into the ranks of the wealthy. Though he knew in his heart that owning such assets would make this inevitable, the reality left him a bit lightheaded. After all, knowing you possess a treasure mountain and actually extracting its riches are two entirely different things.

Of course, things were not so simple. Firstly, the reason he could receive so much money at once was that this was an underground single. There were fewer parties taking a cut, and several portions that would ordinarily go to others instead belonged to him. If this had been a regular single, the payout would have been much less. Secondly, the sixty-eight million yen included untaxed income—it was not his net profit.

Still, if releasing an underground single could net so much, why bother signing with a record company and sharing the pie? One reason was convenience. If he remained an underground artist, every album would require his personal involvement from demo to production. It sounded simple on paper, but in practice it meant endless running and negotiation. Since he meant to do something big, he couldn’t focus on such minutiae.

Moreover, though it seemed now was an era when songs could sell on their own, real success still depended on media support. The popularity of “Summer Color” owed not just to its catchy tune, but mostly to the promotion by Keisuke Kuwata and “CDDATA,” plus the weather that year which gave the song topicality. Strength and luck joined hands to produce the result; otherwise, its sales would be uncertain. Don't believe the saying that good wine needs no bush—even a low-profile company like BEING still gets tie-ups, buys ads, and promotes its artists.

As the saying goes, life consists of food, clothing, shelter, and travel. With sixty-eight million yen in hand, food and clothing would pose no problem; the most important thing now was to move out of his shabby little single room and into a better environment.

He didn't need to contact a real estate agent or worry about finding a guarantor. Simply stating his budget and requirements, the staff would handle everything for him.

In the entertainment industry, fortunes rise and fall—one day you might live in a luxury apartment with a rent of two million yen a month; the next, you’re in a cheap suburban flat. Real estate agents won’t give preferential treatment just because you’re an artist; in fact, their scrutiny is stricter. But with his company as guarantor, none of these were issues. All Ye Zhao needed to do was view properties and pay.

His requirements for the rental were not demanding: a well-lit, conveniently located 1LDK would suffice. LDK stands for Living Room, Dining Room, Kitchen; the number indicates the separate rooms. 1LDK units are typically over 15 square meters but rarely exceed 50—an archetypal single-person apartment.

The staff tasked with finding him a place joked, “With all those royalties, I thought you’d at least want a luxury apartment costing over a million yen a month!”

Ye Zhao smiled, “As long as the place is comfortable, that's enough.” Not quite. Deep down, Ye Zhao still held the traditional Chinese idea that a bought house is home, while a rented place is just a stopover. If he were buying, he’d choose the best within his means. For a rental, anything better than his old single room would do.

In the end, he chose a 30-square-meter, 250,000 yen per month 1LDK in Sangenjaya, Setagaya Ward. Sangenjaya, along with Kichijoji and Jiyugaoka, is one of Tokyo’s best residential areas: moderate rent, rich cultural atmosphere, and an abundance of cafes and izakayas—a harmonious blend of sophistication and simplicity.

There’s a peculiar custom in Japan’s rental market: when signing a new lease, besides paying a deposit equal to one or two months’ rent, you must also present the landlord with “key money” of the same amount. Including brokerage fees and insurance, Ye Zhao’s first month’s expenses totaled 1.29 million yen—more than five times the monthly rent.

The money bought him much comfort. The apartment’s layout was sensible, decorated mainly in white, and furnished with basic items. What pleased Ye Zhao most was the floor-to-ceiling window leading to the balcony. When he viewed the place around eleven in the morning, sunlight streamed in, filling the living room with a sense of ease.

After signing the contract, the agency arranged for a locksmith to change the locks. Once he had the new keys, Ye Zhao could finally bid farewell to the cold, damp little room he’d endured. But before moving in, he needed a trip to the nearby department store. With a new apartment, it wouldn’t do to bring old bedding; besides, he used to sleep on the floor, but the apartment now had a 1.8-meter bed—entirely different.

In the supermarket, Ye Zhao pushed his cart among the aisles, adopting a “only buy expensive, not necessarily right” approach, swiftly gathering bed linens, cookware, toiletries, and daily essentials. After paying, he lugged his bags out, caught a taxi back to the apartment. Entering the elevator, he found himself with a forty-something woman who, startled by his near-neck-level load of shopping, eyed him keenly and asked, “Young man, which supermarket is having a sale?” Clearly ready to dash out and splurge.

Ye Zhao replied, “No, I’m just moving.”

“Oh,” the woman nodded, disappointed, losing all further interest.

Inside, Ye Zhao unpacked his purchases: dishes went in the cupboards, towels and bath products in their places, then made the bed, covered the duvet. After tidying the whole apartment, he dove onto the bed with a satisfied cry: “I finally have a bed to sleep on! ...Gurgle.”

Don’t misunderstand—the final “gurgle” was not him swallowing, but his stomach protesting. Outside, night had fallen.

The neighborhood was well-equipped, with affordable restaurants just five minutes’ walk away, so meals were conveniently settled. Ye Zhao slowly climbed off the bed, changed, went downstairs, and wandered the street searching for a place to eat. He soon spotted an izakaya converted from an old house.

Izakaya are a Japanese specialty, originally places where liquor shop owners offered simple dishes so customers could drink on site. Over time, they evolved into eateries serving both drinks and meals.

Ye Zhao’s impression of izakayas came mainly from the drama “Midnight Diner,” about a place that opened only at midnight, offered only a pork set meal, but would cook anything requested. People drank, ate their favorite dishes, discussed the day, or quietly savored their sorrows, weaving stories full of warmth and humanity through the show.

With curiosity and expectation, Ye Zhao entered the izakaya called “Tsukiyama.”

There was no calm-faced, skilled chef-owner, nor patrons with stories to tell—only boisterous salarymen drinking and boasting, punctuated by drunken shouts of “Where’s my grilled chicken skewers? Hurry up!” The chef worked tirelessly at the cooking station, staff darted between tables, and when Ye Zhao entered, they barely had time to greet him: “Welcome!”

Almost instantly, Ye Zhao was disappointed. He was about to turn and leave when the aroma of grilled chicken skewers wafted from the kitchen, and his stomach rumbled in timely protest.

Well, surrendering to food is nothing to be ashamed of.

The izakaya was crowded, every barstool and table taken. Near the door, a tipsy, balding man danced with his tie wrapped around his head. Ye Zhao carefully avoided the drunks, searching for a seat.

Just then, a voice called out from a corner, “Hey, young man, want to sit with us?”

That familiar invitation, familiar vibe... Ye Zhao looked toward the source. In the izakaya’s corner at a two-person table sat two young women, facing each other. The woman sitting closer to him had her back turned, so he couldn't see her face, but the one opposite, with short bobbed hair and a baby-faced youthful look, Ye Zhao recognized.

He walked over and said, “I told you before, ‘young man’ is too frivolous a nickname.”

Hearing that, Yuki raised her face and gave him a happy smile.