Chapter Forty-Two: The Lighthouse of Enoshima Is Hard to Describe

The journey from Tokyo to Kamakura takes about an hour by train. When they set out, it was not yet five o’clock, and since they’d avoided the rush hour of commuting office workers traveling between the two cities, less than half of the first-class carriage was occupied. One was a singer who had only appeared on TV eight times since debuting and hadn’t shown her face in front of the camera for over a year—a figure so low-profile she was almost invisible. The other was a newcomer whose song was a hit but who herself was still unknown, having appeared on television only once. Even without any disguise, neither needed to worry about being recognized by their fellow passengers.

Over eight centuries ago, Minamoto no Yoritomo established the first shogunate in Japanese history here in Kamakura. Like Kyoto and Nara, this is a city steeped in ancient tradition. In summer, Kamakura is packed to the brim with tourists, but once autumn arrives, it regains its leisurely atmosphere. Ye Zhao and Izumi Sakai got off the train at Shichirigahama Station. It was a bit late when they arrived; the shops along the way were already beginning to close, and the fiery red sun, like a burning sphere, slowly dipped below the horizon, leaving only a great arc in the sky.

There were few pedestrians on the seaside road; instead, stray cats occasionally wandered across the street and disappeared into the nearby houses. Ye Zhao and Izumi Sakai strolled along the avenue as if they were just out for a walk. When they reached Kamakura High School Mae Station, Ye Zhao had an idea and ran to the opposite side of the crossing, suggesting, “Izumi, wave to me!”

“Huh?” Izumi Sakai was taken aback for a moment, but though she didn’t quite understand, she still waved to Ye Zhao across the street.

Ye Zhao broke into a wide grin and waved back energetically. Seeing this, Izumi Sakai chuckled softly. “So you watch Slam Dunk too, Ye?”

“Of course—that’s what youth is all about!” Ye Zhao gazed at Izumi Sakai’s face. The red traffic light flashed in turn, the crossing barrier slowly descended, and the sound of the approaching train—clack, clack—grew louder, momentarily separating Ye Zhao and Izumi Sakai.

Dinner was at a small restaurant converted from an old house. The owners were an elderly couple. When Ye Zhao and Izumi Sakai entered, the old lady straightened her reading glasses, stared at Izumi Sakai for a moment, and then said, “Welcome. It’s been almost two years since you were last here, hasn’t it?”

“So you still remember me?” Izumi Sakai beamed with delight.

They sat at a small two-person table by the counter, where two handwritten menus had been placed. Izumi Sakai didn’t bother with the menu and ordered directly, “I’d like Grandma’s signature set meal.”

“I’ll have the same,” Ye Zhao said, putting down the menu.

The old lady glanced at Ye Zhao and asked kindly, “And this young man is?”

“He’s my little brother from the family,” Izumi Sakai replied quickly.

“What a handsome young man. Good genes in your family,” the old lady praised, then turned and went into the kitchen.

While they waited for their food, Ye Zhao asked curiously, “Have you come here often before, Izumi?”

“Only once. Two years ago, I happened by chance to walk in, and I didn’t expect Grandma would still remember me,” Izumi replied.

“I see,” Ye Zhao nodded.

The signature set meal was a typical Japanese comfort meal: sliced boiled pork, mixed vegetable stew, miso soup, and rice. Beneath the pork were slices of lettuce and onion, and to counteract any greasiness, a small dish of spicy grated daikon was served on the side. After dinner, when they stepped out of the restaurant, the sky was already fully dark and the streetlights illuminated the coastal road, which stretched away in a long, winding line.

“That’s Enoshima over there,” Izumi Sakai pointed to the small island across the water, aglow with lights.

“What’s that thing that’s always shining?” Ye Zhao asked.

“That’s the lighthouse at the top of the hill.” As a sea breeze blew, Izumi Sakai tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “That year, when I was being chased by the media and feeling miserable, I bought a random ticket at the station and came to Kamakura alone by train. While walking along the coast, I saw that lighthouse, and for some reason, staring at the light, I suddenly felt as if hope was right there in front of me.”

Ye Zhao was moved. “So you brought me here tonight just so I could see this lighthouse?”

“Well,” Izumi Sakai looked out at the sea as if she were speaking to it, “I’ve been through almost the same thing as you. I know how painful it is to want to explain but have no way to do so. Having felt the same, how could I stand by and do nothing? But I don’t have the power to help you out of your predicament, nor do I want to just offer empty words of comfort. So, after thinking it over, I decided to bring you here to see this ‘hope’ for yourself.” She let out a gentle breath and relaxed her shoulders.

That was the kind of person Izumi Sakai was: reserved yet tender. When she faced public criticism, she didn’t issue statements or argue with magazines; instead, she responded with a song—“Don’t Give Up”—and then withdrew from the limelight for over a decade, devoting herself to music production. Through her consistent output of outstanding music and her actions, she gradually changed how the world saw her, and the rumors eventually faded away. Now, when she wanted to encourage Ye Zhao, who was under similar attack, she didn’t utter empty platitudes, but instead, drawing on her own experience, invited him on this “train of hope” and shared with him the lighthouse that once gave her light.

Thinking of her thoughtfulness, Ye Zhao felt as if a weight were pressing down on his chest. For a long moment, he didn’t know what to say. In the end, all he could manage was a simple, “Thank you.”

The night streets were quiet and empty. A taxi soon took them to Kamakura Station. As they had decided on this outing on a whim, neither had planned to stay overnight. The late-night train carriage was nearly deserted, and neither of them spoke on the way back. After the long journey, both Ye Zhao and Izumi Sakai were exhausted.

After getting off at Shimbashi Station and seeing Izumi Sakai into a taxi, Ye Zhao took another and returned to his apartment in Sangenjaya. As he approached the building, someone suddenly pressed a shutter—there was a blinding flash, and Ye Zhao instinctively squinted. Then, as if given a signal to charge, people brandishing microphones and cameras swarmed toward him like a pack of jackals, surrounding him completely.

“Ye Zhao, how do you respond to the Weekly Shincho’s report about you?”

“Ye Zhao, what do you have to say about your ex-girlfriend’s claims?”

“Ye Zhao—” A dozen microphones were thrust in his face, one nearly poking him in the nose.

Weekly Shincho? Though Ye Zhao was completely at a loss, he at least managed to keep his composure and didn’t answer the reporters’ questions on the spot. He silently pushed through the crowd, trying to get into the building. At that moment, several men broke through the circle from outside and flanked Ye Zhao, escorting him safely inside. The apartment manager shut the door, blocking the unwelcome guests outside.

Finally free from the reporters, Ye Zhao breathed a sigh of relief and glanced at the men who’d helped him: his assistant Akihiko Aragaki, Nagato’s secretary Kyo Suzuki, and several other BEING staff members.

“What’s going on?” Ye Zhao looked at Akihiko Aragaki.

But it was Kyo Suzuki who answered, “Let’s talk upstairs,” he said, scanning the area vigilantly.

Once inside, the small room suddenly seemed even more cramped with so many people. Suzuki instructed two of the men to wait outside; only he and Aragaki stayed.

“Ye, everyone here is one of us, so please, don’t lie.” Suzuki handed Ye Zhao a magazine, his expression grave. “President Nagato ordered me to get the full, truthful story.”

Ye Zhao took the magazine and immediately saw the bold headline on the cover: “Ye Zhao’s Wild Private Life Exposed! Confessions and the Truth from His Ex-Girlfriend.” He turned to the article and, upon seeing the two prominent photos at the top of the page, his face changed. He read the article in silence, and at last, unable to bear it, burst out, “Utter nonsense!”

“So you’re saying the report is false?” Suzuki pressed.

“It’s not entirely false. At least the part about having dated Mika Ogawa is true.”

“And these photos…” Suzuki’s face, which had softened a little, darkened again.

“The group photo is real. The rest is fake.” Ye Zhao briefly explained his relationship with Mika Ogawa, reiterating that it was just a normal relationship, nothing scandalous. “Other than that group photo, the entire article is fabricated.”

“I want to believe you,” Suzuki sighed, “but the problem is that there’s that one real photo.”

Indeed. As Masao Akashi had once said, in this industry, the most damaging attacks are always those that blend truth with falsehood. Because of the real elements, people instinctively believe the fabricated parts too. If the entire article were fabricated, you could take the magazine to court. But when it’s half-true, half-false, it’s much trickier. Not only do you have to admit to what’s true, but you also need evidence to prove what’s fake…

Prove what’s fake? Suddenly alert, Ye Zhao picked up the magazine again and scrutinized the two doctored photos.

The next day, along with the Weekly Shincho, newspapers hit the stands featuring a candid shot of Ye Zhao squinting at the camera as he was ambushed by reporters late at night.

After so many bland reports, the public had grown weary of the magazines’ rumor-mongering. But this time, Weekly Shincho’s combination of “photos as proof” was the final blow that reignited everyone’s curiosity and attention, instantly setting off a media firestorm. On the day of release alone, Weekly Shincho’s sales soared by 400,000 copies, and speculation ran wild. Since this time there was both testimonial and photographic evidence, most people chose to believe the magazine. Even television stations and advertisers who had originally planned to invite Ye Zhao began to back away.

Now, journalists were lurking everywhere around BEING headquarters and Ye Zhao’s apartment, ready to pounce on him or any company executive for an interview. For this round of turmoil, BEING had so far only issued a statement condemning Weekly Shincho’s false report and reserving the right to pursue legal action. Such vague official rhetoric was neither convincing nor intimidating, and the journalists, far from giving up, pressed even harder.

What puzzled the reporters most was that, after the incident broke, Ye Zhao seemed to have vanished into thin air. No one could find a trace of him at the company, his home, or any of BEING’s recording studios. Had he been unable to take the pressure and gone into hiding?

Of course not.