Why was TōTV, a private station, able to secure the concert broadcast rights?
Even with the meme, "as long as the world isn't ending, anime won't stop airing," TōTV didn't have the same clout or funding as NHK, Asahi, or Fuji TV.
It wasn't that Japan had changed or that money and influence no longer mattered. The key lay in the TōTV Broadcast Alliance, a network made up of TōTV, Hokkaido Broadcasting, Aichi TV, Setouchi TV, Osaka TV, and TVQ Kyushu. Together, they covered over 70 percent of the nation—a reach far more valuable to those in power.
With only a day's notice, the team had to settle for a quick daytime promo blitz. Luckily, the scope was broad enough that it worked. TōTV even canceled their scheduled variety show Go Home With You! Go!
At least tonight, there were more people than usual glued to their TVs, waiting for the broadcast.
Unlike in China, televised concerts were still quite popular in Japan, largely due to a thriving idol culture.
On platforms like Ameba and Mixi, netizens were actively chatting about the "Uplift Japan" concert.
"OK48 is on the guest list! My favorite group ever. I hope Kan-san and Kim-san perform first."
"So many singers I love... I'm genuinely moved."
"Jakku's performing too? I thought he was still in training?"
"Koguchi's most handsome friend is coming too. That man's face is a national treasure."
Most posts focused on which stars were performing, showing how the Japanese audience didn't see the concert as anything more than a celebrity showcase.
Korean idols drew the most attention. Since the 2000s, Japan's entertainment market hadn't shrunk, but its dominance had waned. K-pop had essentially taken over.
Even so, for the 60,000 attendees who had paid hefty ticket prices, the concert meant something special.
"You have to watch it, okay? Promise me, Wa-chan."
"Okay... I will."
"I'll wait for you to join us at..."
"No time. Have fun, everyone. I can't make it, I'm sorry."
Ishii Yoshinobu hung up as if escaping something. He stumbled to his feet. Thick curtains blocked out all daylight, turning the room into something out of a vampire flick.
That "chan" at the end of the caller's name—it spoke volumes. In Japan, only children or the closest of friends used it. The caller, Arasu Nobu, had been his close friend since high school.
Nobu had all but begged him to watch the earthquake-relief concert on TV.
Ishii wanted to refuse. He didn't want to watch anything, least of all a concert.
But hearing Nobu call him "Wa-chan," a name only used back in their high school days, made it impossible to say no.
Fine. He'd watch. It wouldn't make a difference either way.
With that numb acceptance, Ishii glanced at the time. Just past 7. Still over an hour to go. First, food.
His seven-tatami apartment held only a low table with a TV, a wardrobe, and a futon on the floor. In theory, it should've felt spacious—but one corner of the room was piled high with trash, making it feel cramped.
In Japan, garbage disposal wasn't simple. It cost money, and specific waste could only be thrown out on certain days—plastics on Monday, burnables on Tuesday, and so on. Each building had a designated bin outside, and someone came by to collect it.
Back in China, people could sell their old electronics for cash. But in Japan, getting rid of a broken appliance could cost a small fortune. Thankfully, with the internet, many people just listed their junk online. Some would even give things away for free, as long as you paid for transport.
Ishii hadn't left the house in over six months. Taking out the trash wasn't even on the radar.
He dug through the mess on the floor and finally unearthed a cup of instant noodles. Every time he ordered takeout, he just tossed the plastic bag onto the pile.
He was almost out of food. Checking his call history, he found it filled with only one number: the local 7-Eleven.
Japan still lacked a solid food delivery app. Most people just called in directly.
He didn't want to make the call yet. Even speaking on the phone exhausted him. Instead, he used his battered electric kettle to heat some water.
As steam rose, Ishii's thoughts drifted into smoke and ash. Suddenly, he was back home again.
His family had been ordinary. So had he. He grew up in North Daitō, Okinawa, went to high school there, later moved to Naha for college, and eventually found a decent job in Tokyo. He had plans—bring his parents and grandmother to live with him.
Everything had changed at last year's Ryūkyū Kingdom Carnival, Okinawa's biggest festival. The streets were filled with music and dancing, from Naha to his quiet hometown.
He had taken time off work to go back—half to visit family, half to join the festivities. Two birds with one stone.
On October 7, after a high school reunion, Ishii was too drunk to ride home. He stayed at a friend's place.
The next morning, he was jolted awake by a call from a local officer.
By the time he made it home, their two-story house was gone. Reduced to ash. Even the palm tree by the front door had burned to blackened wood.
Firefighters later told him the cause was a faulty water heater. His family lived near the foot of the mountains, far from any neighbors—no one was close enough to help in time.
Ishii hadn't seen the fire. Hadn't seen his family's final moments. But in his mind, he replayed it over and over.
"Keiki's back? Why didn't you wake Grandma that night?"
"I'm sorry. I wasn't there."
That voice, full of reproach, haunted his dreams.
He shook the thought away, trying to focus. He poured the boiling water into his noodles. With no daylight and no lights on, the room was pitch black. He used his phone flashlight to see.
Like a puppet on strings, Ishii finished the noodles quickly, barely noticing the heat.
Then he lay down and aimlessly scrolled through YouTube videos, not absorbing a single one. Just waiting.
At 8 p.m., he finally switched on the TV and tuned in to TōTV. He stared at the screen, blank-eyed. Anyone paying attention would've noticed his pupils weren't even focusing.
The first two performances didn't move him.
Then came a set by Thai artists. He didn't understand the language, but at least it was something different. His attention sharpened slightly.
The screen was packed with accolades.
[Nishen: Two-time winner of JOOX Best Song. Named Best Male Artist at the 2018 "Hand-in-Hand" Gmember Awards…]
Two upbeat songs followed. The subtitles explained the lyrics. The message was clear—"The world is still beautiful, so let's keep living."
~ "Forget the sorrow. Move forward." ~
Forget it? His inner palm tree had already been reduced to ashes. What was there to move toward?
Ishii understood Nobu meant well. But this was an earthquake relief concert. It had nothing to do with his family. Nothing to do with him.
No... Ishii no longer had a family.
Next up were Korean artists. Ishii disliked them. He kept his head down and went back to YouTube.
Bias changes everything. Seong Yun's performance could've been called majestic. Ishii thought it was the worst act of the night.
Then the screen shifted:
[Chu Zhi: 2019 Best Male Artist at the Shenwu 13th Music Awards, 2019 Weibo Night Best Singer, 2019 Cool Asia Best Mainland Album…]
He'd won a ton of awards last year, most of which had been accepted on his behalf by Niu Jiangxue. Not out of pride or aloofness—he was simply always traveling.
The most prestigious award, from the Southern Media Music Awards, hadn't even made the broadcast list. Maybe the Japanese staff didn't think it sounded grand enough.
"Oh. A young Chinese singer," Ishii muttered, glancing up from his phone.
Then, he heard something in Japanese.
A voice drenched in sorrow, yet somehow clear and warm, rooted him to the spot.
🎵 I once thought of ending it all, because apricot blossoms bloomed on my birthday.
If I were to doze in that slanting sunlight, would I become a bug's husk, sinking into the soil?
Peppermint candy, lighthouse at the port, rusted bridge, abandoned bike station, the stove in the wooden train stop… 🎵
It was heartbreak made sound. Ishii, already drowning in grief, felt himself being pulled under even deeper.
If only he'd gone home earlier.
If only he hadn't stayed over that night.
If only he'd been there when the fire started.
Would he have noticed the danger in time?
He had lived with that guilt ever since. After handling the funeral and receiving the insurance payout and settlement from the heater company, he returned to Tokyo... and crumbled.
The garbage monster in the corner had grown from two small bags into a mountain. It was like some living creature feeding on the dark, swelling until it threatened to consume what was left of the room—and of him.
"If I want things to change tomorrow, I have to act now. I know that. I do. But…"
🎵 I once thought of ending it all, because my heart was already empty. Maybe the reason I cry for things I lack... is that deep down, I crave a life that feels full. 🎵
That line—cut straight into him. He didn't want to be like this forever.
He wanted to work again. He really did. But even if he got his life together, his parents and grandmother would never move to Tokyo. Never again.
Tears streamed down. Beneath the guilt, he realized what he had really been hiding was fear. Fear of living alone in this world.
Maybe dying when the money ran out wasn't such a bad plan. At least, that was the thought that lingered.
But then, like water to a dying tree, the song poured into him.
His eyes blurred with tears. He rubbed them away and looked hard at the singer on screen.
This Chinese artist—he had known despair. Ishii could see it in his eyes.
🎵 I once thought of ending it all, because I hadn't met you yet.
Because someone like you exists in this world, I've started to like it just a little.
Because someone like you is here, I've started to hope just a little. 🎵
Someone like you… Ishii didn't know who Chu Zhi was referring to. But right now, it felt like he meant him.
When the song ended, Ishii stared at the screen, waiting—hoping for a final message.
"Stay alive."
Just two words. But stronger than any hollow motivational quote. Ishii whispered, "Am I really alive right now? Do Mom, Dad, and Grandma want me to stay alive?"
Then came a foul smell. Strong. Rotten.
He twitched his nose. The odor got worse.
He yanked the curtains open.
Sunlight burst into the room like a blooming flower.
The smell was coming from the trash pile. He hadn't noticed it until now.
Half a year's worth of garbage. It had finally crossed the line.
"When I grow up and start earning money, Grandma, do you have any dreams? You wouldn't want me to live without any, right?"
"I just want you to do what you love, Keiki. Make friends, too. Friends like your mother had, those are the good ones."
Ishii Yoshinobu recalled his grandmother's gentle voice. He also thought of his parents. A typical Japanese family: his father worked hard to provide, while his mother kept the home running smoothly.
His father had once hoped he'd grow into someone who could give back to Okinawa. His mother had simply wished he'd find a good girl to marry. Now, both hopes felt impossibly distant.
Childhood memories, moments from his youth, both joyful and painful, unfurled in his mind like a flipbook.
"Stay alive," he murmured to himself.
Half an hour had passed while he was lost in thought. To anyone else, zoning out that long might seem strange, but for someone who felt like a puppet drifting through the world, it wasn't even surprising.
He pulled out his phone. It had been so long since he'd paid attention to the outside world, he didn't even know where to begin. After hesitating, he opened Facebook. He didn't need to search—right at the top of the Japanese trending page were two hashtags:
#IOnceThoughtOfEndingItAll
#ChineseSingerChuZhi
Over fifty thousand comments from Japanese users already, even though the concert had aired less than an hour ago.
"Sometimes I wonder what the point is, living in this country, going through the motions, marrying, having kids just to boost the birthrate. Was I born just to be a link in the chain? Thank you for reminding me—I'm here to find the people who make life feel worthwhile."
"I'm bad at tying shoelaces, worse at holding onto people. But I'm still trying to live."
"Dropped out, on meds, watched my parents worry... I can't change society, can't even control my emotions. When will I get better? So many people care about me."
"Thinking about death all the time probably means I care too much about life. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"I used to think about ending it all, but then remembered—I haven't played my new game yet. I wanted to finish that first. Then another game came out. For me, games are what keep me here."
Some posts hit even closer to home:
"I'm not from a disaster-struck area, but my father racked up 8 million yen in gambling debt at pachinko parlors. My mother worked three jobs to pay it off and send me to school. Her health collapsed.
I graduated and started working hard, even picked up side jobs during holidays. I never wanted my mother to worry, but I've thought about dying more times than I can count.
I felt like I existed just to work, like a money-making machine. Exhaustion, angry bosses, a stolen bike... the little things piled up.
But this song reminded me there's still hope in my life. I just hadn't noticed it, buried under everything else.
I can pay off 100,000 yen a month. Forty-plus months to go. Less than four years and my mom and I can finally live a normal life. I'll hang in there."
"So many people... are trying their best to live," Ishii whispered. He had never realized.
"Chu-san is truly a remarkable singer."
Scrolling through more posts, he noticed a pattern. People resonated with the sorrow in the first half of the song, but found strength and hope in the second.
The entire online conversation shifted. Earlier buzz about idol groups and K-pop stars disappeared.
PR departments that had planned to promote their celebrities' performances went radio silent, drowned out by the wave of emotional reaction.
Even the president of StarFour Co., Kojima Yasutomo, was stunned by the internal feedback report. He reread it several times. The summary rating? [Overall: Class B]
"So this was kept quiet," he muttered, tossing the report onto his desk.
In Japanese, saying something was "kept quiet" could either mean praise or, like now, subtle reproach—his assistant hadn't informed him in advance.
"President Kojima, we haven't even used any of our standard enhancement methods yet. Still got a Class B," Secretary Yokota said quickly.
StarFour Co. handled many government-related projects and had internal metrics for gauging public response. When reports were less than glowing, they'd often apply "assistance methods"—inflated metrics, cooked stats—raising a D to a B was standard practice.
They'd publish the optimized data in newspapers or magazines to satisfy government oversight. Whether it reflected the truth never really mattered. That's how the Japanese government's budget spending always appeared neat.
Kojima's expression darkened. He knew the game well. Out of the 300 million yen budgeted, his company had pocketed just 80 million. It was still over 4 million yuan—more than enough to stage the concert, even in Tokyo.
But no way had they spent the whole sum on the event. The plastic chairs alone were the cheapest rental model.
Kojima had seen everything in this business. Yokota wouldn't dare lie over something like this. Which meant… the people really were this easy to please now? That cheap lighting and sound setup was enough to earn a B?
Maybe... they'd gone too far this time. Maybe it looked too good.
Regret stabbed him. Should've shaved a bit more off the top.
"We looked into the feedback. Many of the Class A responses praised one performer in particular," Yokota said quickly. "Specifically, the Chinese artist Chu Zhi, sent by their Ministry of Culture."
"Would you like to take a look, sir?"
"No need. What's so special about a Chinese singer's stage?" Kojima waved it off. "But since public satisfaction is so high, push the promotion. That singer's success is good for StarFour."
"Understood."
That night, StarFour Co. reached out to several news outlets.
Meanwhile, Chu Zhi landed in Beijing after 10 p.m. He had a film audition the next day—for director Wang Anyi's new project.
Wang Anyi was a classic case: a domestic filmmaker better known abroad. Likely because of his time studying overseas.
The film, titled The Eleventh Young Master, bore a faint resemblance to Farewell My Concubine. A parallel world might follow a different entertainment path, but some echoes always found their way through.
Chu Zhi had received a partial script in advance, thanks to his reputation. The role demanded a strong background in traditional opera, something his performance in Drunken Concubine: New Edition had shown off.
Though he had often said he wasn't looking to become a full-time actor, he wasn't opposed to starring in a few films that could etch his name into cinema history.
"If you land this role, Chu-ge, that'd be incredible," said Niu Jiangxue.
"We'll see. Director Wang has extremely high standards. Giving a great script to a weak actor is a waste," Chu Zhi replied. He knew his limits. But he had one ace up his sleeve—his gift for portraying the emotionally unwell.
The next day, Japan was still reeling.
"The Hokkaido Uplift Japan Concert brought hope to thousands. Performances by overseas guests Chu Zhi, OK48, and more." —Tokyo Morning News
"Who would've thought the year's best Japanese song would be written and performed by a Chinese artist?" —Excite News
"Stay Alive: The most powerful voice of the year." —Hokkaido Shimbun
Despite the small size of the nation, Japan had an incredibly strong print industry. Two of the world's top ten newspapers by circulation were Japanese.
The five major papers—Asahi, Sankei, Yomiuri, Mainichi, and the Nikkei—dominated the landscape.
"A voice that brought redemption to millions: Chu Zhi, singer from China." —Nikkei (front page)
That was unexpected. Nikkei focused on financial and political reporting. Why cover this?
Because Nikkei was the largest shareholder of TōTV.
That alone made the article significant. And the nickname Japanese netizens gave Chu Zhi: "The Voice of Salvation."
To be blunt, no Chinese singer had made this big a splash in Japan since the millennium began. Even China's own Ministry of Culture had been surprised. They had just sent a few performers as a formality—no one expected any real impact.
But Chu Zhi had broken through diplomatic decorum. His song had touched a nerve. Suddenly, China stood at a moral high ground.
With attention surging, TōTV announced an immediate rebroadcast of the concert. Viewership soared.
Curious fans began digging for information.
[After watching the Hokkaido Uplift Concert, I found myself most drawn to Chu Zhi, the Chinese singer. I wanted to understand the source of that deep sorrow in his voice, so I searched Chinese forums…
Chu-san is one of China's most extreme cases among young artists. A year ago, he was falsely accused and slandered online. The phrase "I once thought of ending it all" wasn't a metaphor. Chu-san was diagnosed with severe depression. He once attempted suicide by overdose and nearly succeeded. He only stopped because of a recording left by his mother.
To this day, Chu-san still suffers from intense psychological issues. He takes multiple medications daily just to function. This is not rumor. It's more real than the Golden Pavilion Temple.
"I Once Thought of Ending It All" was a cry from the depths of despair. And that's why it reaches us as a song of hope.
The one who saved millions… is someone who still needs saving himself.]
Posted by a user called "義理の床" (Giri no Yuka), no one knew where they got this level of detail—including the recording, the medication, everything. But the post spread like wildfire.
===
If you've already made it this far into the story, thank you so much for reading. (｡•́‿•̀｡)♡
Before we dive in, I just want to mention something—At the end of Chapter 120: Trending, I also now included a brief explanation about bullying culture in Korea.
If you're curious about how it compares to Japan's, you might want to revisit that chapter. It can help you better understand the differences in bullying dynamics between the two countries.
Now, in this section, I want to talk about what Ishii Yoshinobu did. So let me introduce you to a phenomenon called Hikikomori (引きこもり).
It comes from two Japanese words:
"Hiku" (引く) – Meaning "to pull" or "to withdraw."
"Komoru" (こもる) – Meaning "to seclude oneself" or "to stay inside."
When combined, "hikikomori" (引きこもり) literally translates to "pulling inward and staying confined."
The "hiku" (pull) reflects how these individuals retreat from society, as if withdrawing into a shell.
The "komoru" (seclude) captures their physical and social isolation, often locked away in their rooms for months or years.
—
In Japan, there exists a hidden generation of people who have withdrawn completely from society. They are called hikikomori—shut-ins who live isolated in their rooms, sometimes for years or even decades. They don't work, rarely see friends, and often rely on their families for survival. At first glance, it might seem like extreme laziness, but the truth is far more complicated.
Why Does This Happen?
Japan is a society built on harmony, conformity, and relentless pressure to succeed. From a young age, children face intense academic competition. Failure—whether in school, work, or social life—can bring deep shame. For some, the fear of humiliation becomes so overwhelming that retreating into solitude feels like the only escape.
But it's not just about pressure. Japan's culture strongly values fitting in. People who stand out—whether because of their personality, interests, or background—often face exclusion or bullying. This isn't always violent; sometimes, it's quiet ostracization, being ignored or treated as an outsider.
Bullying (ijime) is a serious problem in schools and workplaces, often targeting those who don't conform. This isn't necessarily xenophobia (fear of foreigners) but rather a deep-rooted xenobic tendency—an aversion to anything that disrupts harmony.
For some hikikomori, the pressure becomes unbearable. They might have faced relentless bullying, failed an important exam, or simply couldn't meet societal expectations. Whatever the reason, their response was the same: withdrawal.
Rather than endure constant judgment, they retreat. The outside world feels hostile, and isolation becomes their only escape.
How Hikikomori Live Inside Their Isolation
For a hikikomori, their room isn't just a living space—it's their entire world. And like their mental state, the condition of that world varies drastically. Some keep their space meticulously clean, almost obsessively ordered. Others let trash pile up, their surroundings collapsing into chaos. The difference isn't random—it's a mirror of their inner struggle.
For some hikikomori, keeping their space spotless is a way to cling to stability. When the outside world feels unpredictable and hostile, a clean room becomes the one thing they can control. They might arrange objects with precision, follow strict routines, or obsessively avoid clutter. This isn't just tidiness—it's a silent rebellion against the chaos they fear. If they can't function in society, at least here, in this small space, they can impose order.
But this control often comes at a cost. The cleaner the room, the more rigid the mind. Some withdraw into rituals—gaming, reading, or watching the same shows on loop—anything to keep the outside world from seeping in. The room stays perfect, but life inside it becomes smaller, quieter, until even opening the door feels impossible.
Then there are those whose rooms become extensions of their despair. Empty food containers, unwashed clothes, and scattered belongings form a landscape of neglect. This isn't laziness—it's paralysis. Depression saps the energy to clean, and shame makes it harder to ask for help. The mess grows, and with it, the weight of their isolation.
For these hikikomori, the state of their room reflects a deeper surrender. When society has rejected you, why bother keeping up appearances? The trash piles up like unanswered expectations, the clutter a physical manifestation of a mind overwhelmed. Some don't even notice the decay anymore—it's just part of the walls they've built around themselves.
What both types share is the absence of time. Calendars go unchecked. Day and night blur together. A clean room or a dirty one—both exist outside the flow of normal life. The hikikomori isn't living in their space so much as fading into it.
And that's the cruelest part. Whether neat or ruined, the room is still a cage. The difference is only in how they endure it.
-
Leaving hikikomori life is hard. The longer someone stays isolated, the more terrifying the outside world becomes. Some eventually re-enter society with therapy or family support. Others remain trapped, their lives passing by in quiet rooms, hidden away from a world that once rejected them.
This isn't just Japan's problem. Similar isolation exists everywhere, but Japan's extreme social expectations make it especially visible there.
-
If hikikomori represent withdrawal into isolation, the jouhatsu (literally "evaporated people") take it a step further—they don't just hide in their rooms; they erase themselves completely.
蒸 (jou) → "Evaporate," "steam," or "vaporize"
発 (hatsu) → "Emit," "release," or "disappear"
Together, 蒸発 (jouhatsu) literally means "evaporation"—like water turning to vapor and vanishing without a trace.
These are people who, one day, simply stop existing in their old lives. They might abandon their jobs, leave their families behind, and relocate to a new city—or even assume a new identity—without a word.
What's startling is how normalized this has become in Japan. There are entire companies, like "Move Support" services (引越しサポート業者; Hikkoshi sapōto gyōsha), that specialize in helping people vanish. They don't ask questions. For a fee, they'll quietly relocate a client's belongings, secure a new apartment under a different name, and ensure no one from their past can trace them. Some even provide fake documentation.
Both hikikomori and jouhatsu are symptoms of the same sickness: a society where failure is so stigmatized that disappearing—whether into a bedroom or a new identity—feels like the only way out.
And as long as that fear exists, so will the ones who choose to disappear.