More than ten of Sony Music's veteran artists, including Tanimura Hajime, Nagabuchi Takuro, Mori Shingo Haruo, and Hamazaki Chiyoko, all gave promotional support to Chu Zhi's latest EP.
Among them was Omori Gennin, known in the industry as "Sony's Mitsunari". Like Ishida Mitsunari of the Toyotomi clan, Omori wielded tremendous authority inside Sony Music, where his word held near-absolute power.
Chu Zhi had assumed Omori would only oversee youth promotion, but even national treasure-level singers like Mori Shingo Haruo were arranged for promo? That was another level entirely.
Mori Shingo Haruo, dubbed the "King of Enka," held the unbroken record for consecutive appearances at NHK's Kōhaku Uta Gassen. The level of exposure made many newly signed artists envious.
For instance, Kuwata Satoshi, age twenty-four, had just signed with Sony Music and only released one album per year. Compared to Chu Zhi, who had multiple in-person sales events and massive buzz, Kuwata could only grit his teeth in frustration.
"Keep your voice down. I heard it was Executive Director Omori who arranged it," said Kenkabu, a fellow Sony artist, trying to soothe Kuwata's frustration.
"Omori? So what?" Kuwata's voice dropped to a whisper. "Still, giving all the promotional firepower to a non-Japanese artist seems excessive."
"Maybe it's just the hype. Chu Zhi's name has been everywhere these last couple months," Kenkabu said calmly. He'd only released one record in two years, but his family was wealthy, so he had no particular ambition.
"Singer strength comes from the quality of songs!" Kuwata fumed, then added, "Sure, 'I Once Wanted to End It All' is a good song, but just one hit won't last."
Kenkabu suddenly looked nervous, glancing behind Kuwata. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Daimon Gorou just passed by."
Silence. Kuwata shut up immediately.
Daimon Gorou, the lyricist behind "It's Not Over Yet," had his work included in Japan's Ministry of Education textbooks. That one song had carried him through an entire career.
"Let's go eat. It's already six," Kuwata muttered after calming down.
"Sushi's on me," said Kenkabu.
But Kuwata wasn't a foodie like Luo Jianhui. He had no appetite. Just as Kenkabu pulled out his wallet, Kuwata suddenly changed course.
"Let's go buy Chu Zhi's EP."
"Huh?"
Aside from a handful of dedicated record shops, bookstores remained the largest offline sellers of music in Japan.
Japanese bookstores didn't just sell books, but manga, AV DVDs, and CDs too. Kuwata and Kenkabu, both masked up, entered the nearest Tsutaya store.
"No banners? No posters?" Kuwata frowned. With all that promo from the Unity Showcase, he'd expected more.
They headed straight to the second floor and searched the new releases. Nothing.
"Excuse me, is Chu Zhi's new EP sold out?" Kuwata asked a staff member.
The employee, in a green-and-white striped uniform, bowed apologetically. "We're very sorry, but we did not stock Chu Zhi's EP."
"Not stocked?" Kuwata couldn't believe it. Sony Music had distribution deals with every major chain—Kinokuniya, Tsutaya, Yurindou, Eslite... how could his album not be here?
"The fuse-switch guy, the Chinese artist Chu Zhi, the one who sang 'I Once Wanted to End It All,'" Kuwata clarified.
"You're a fan too? 'Ragdoll's' EP released today, but our store wasn't allocated any stock," the clerk replied.
"Ragdoll" is Japanese fans' affectionate nickname for Chu Zhi. Much like Japan's tradition of giving idols cute monikers—think "Bunny" for soft features or "Kitten" for charm—they chose "Ragdoll," the most ethereal of cat breeds.
Ragdoll is famous with it delicate beauty—a perfect match for his ethereal looks and weak stomach. The Chinese characters for "Ragdoll" (布偶, Bù'ǒu) even spawned playful mishearings: in Chinese, it sounded like "so much of you" (那么多你, Nàme duō nǐ)), while Japanese fans cheekily parsed it as "Nandomo ni" (何度もに, "time and again")—a double-layered pun that made the name stick.
Since Tsutaya was out of stock, Kuwata insisted they try Kinokuniya next. Determined to get the EP, they hailed a cab.
At Kinokuniya, they were told to check the third floor—but expect a wait.
Wait? For what?
The queue stretched from the register all the way to the escalator. They joined the line.
Still no posters. No standees. No promo.
"Excuse me, are you also here for Chu Zhi's EP?" Kuwata asked the woman in front of him, who wore a yellow cap.
She nodded eagerly. "I've been waiting over a month for Ragdoll's EP!"
"Ragdolls music is great," Kuwata added politely.
The EP, titled "Slightly Look Forward to the World," was so popular fans had swarmed in and bought multiple copies. To prevent chaos, the staff moved the stock to Register #3.
After twenty minutes, Yellow Hat Girl reached the counter.
"Can I buy six copies?"
"I'm so sorry, but we're almost sold out and others are still waiting."
"Three, then?"
"Thank you for understanding."
She paid 12,540 yen in cash for three EPs.
For context: Japanese EPs average 3,800 yen (about 198 RMB), singles go for 1,800 yen, and full albums about 6,000 yen. Chu Zhi had released a Japanese EP.
Kuwata bought one copy and caught up to Yellow Hat Girl.
"Why three copies?"
"Photocards, obviously."
To boost purchases, labels include random, unreleased photos of the artist—collector's items. It's just like the Water Margin hero cards from snack packs. Fans would buy dozens of copies to complete the set.
Kuwata asked around. Not one fan mentioned the Unity Showcase promo. They were all already fans.
"Zero promo support? That's kind of unfair," Kuwata muttered. His perspective was shifting.
The first day ended with the EP flying off shelves. The frenzy continued the next day.
"How many copies did Chu Zhi's EP sell yesterday?" Omori Gennin asked the marketing chief as he passed by.
"The sales report will be ready by 9 a.m., and compiled by 10 a.m. It'll be on your desk, sir."
"Thanks."
On his way to his office, every staffer he passed bowed deeply. Omori Gennin, all 163 cm of him, seemed like a towering giant compared to the bowing employees.
Though his office wasn't far, he took ten full minutes to arrive, stopping to greet, advise, and scold along the way.
At 9:45, his assistant brought the report.
The first line caught his eye:
["Slightly Look Forward to the World" EP Day 1 Total Sales: 345,190 copies (combined online and offline)]
What the hell?
345,000 in a single day?
If memory served, the all-time day-one EP sales record was 167,000 by the boy group GZ. Chu Zhi had just doubled that?
Omori calmed down and read on. Something didn't add up. The initial print run was only 50,000, and most of those had gone to brick-and-mortar stores. That meant nearly 300,000 were sold online.
Seventeen thousand sales came from South Korea alone.
"He's that popular in Korea?"
Even discounting Korea, domestic sales still hit 170,000—still more than GZ's record.
"Even with the buzz from the Hokkaido music show, this is absurd."
Three back-to-back questions filled his mind.
Omori couldn't wrap his head around it. GZ had been on the scene for years and toured all over Japan. How had Chu Zhi, a relative newcomer, built this fanbase?
But when you're sitting at the top, you rarely notice the crowd at your feet.
Chu Zhi wasn't even trying. If his team hadn't kept the release quiet and discouraged his Chinese fanbase, "Little Fruits," from buying, day-one sales would've hit a million.
Why not unleash the domestic fans?
Because of how Japanese record revenue is split:
Singer: 1%
JASRAC (royalty agency): 0.5%
Lyricist: 2%
Composer: 2%
Arranger: 8%
Record Label: 45–55%
Retailers: 30%
Manufacturers: 1%
Compared to China, where singers get a bigger cut, Japan gives the performer the smallest share. Without writing the songs, a singer might earn just 1 RMB per 100 RMB sale.
Chu Zhi, who handled his own lyrics, composition, and arrangement, negotiated a 25% share, while Sony Music took 43.2%.
Still, that was about the best you could get on foreign turf. Without Koguchi Yoshihiro's help, even 20% would've been a struggle.
Chu Zhi loved cultivating fans—and reaping profits—but he wasn't about to let foreign companies take the lion's share.
===
JASRAC: Japanese Society for Rights of Authors, Composers, and Publishers
"曾经我也想一了百了" (Céngjīng wǒ yě xiǎng yīliǎobàiliǎo) = I Once Wanted to End It All
The "Sounds-Like" Wordplay
In Chinese:
布偶 (Bù'ǒu) = "Ragdoll" (the cat breed)
Pronounced: "Boo-oh" (like a ghost sound + "oh").
Misheard as "那么多你" (Nàme duō nǐ) ≈ "So much of you" (or "That much you")
Pronunciation: "Nah-muh dwaw nee"
To a Chinese ear
"Bù'ǒu" (布偶) → Can blur into "B'ǒu"
"Nàme duō nǐ" (那么多你) → Colloquially shortens to "N'muh-d'nee"
The overlap lies in the rhythmic cadence and vowel sounds:
Both have a "buh/dwuh" → "oh/nee" flow.
This is a homophonic joke—the syllables sound similar when spoken aloud, even though the meanings are unrelated.
Example:
It's like English "ice cream" being misheard as "I scream"—playful and catchy.
or how English speakers hear "Kissin' Kate" in "Case in point".
In Japanese:
Japanese fans took it further by linking it to "Nandomo ni" (何度もに) ≈ "Over and over again"
The phrase "Nandomo ni" implies devotion ("I'll support you over and over!"), which fans loved.
Think of it like this:
Chinese fans: "Haha, 'Bù'ǒu' sounds like 'Nàme duō nǐ'—cute!"
Japanese fans: "Ooh, 'Nàme duō nǐ sounds like 'Nandomo ni'—perfect for an idol we'll support forever!"