Chapter 38: Sakura
"..."
Takashi Kadomori fell into a dead silence.
Only after a prolonged pause did his voice echo back through the speaker: "I originally called to comfort you and tell you not to take those comments to heart, but it seems that was entirely unnecessary."
"In that case, I'm hanging up."
"Wait, wait, wait," Hikaru Hoshino hurriedly interceded, rubbing his chin as he spoke. "Uh, Kadomori–no, wait, Ace Manager–do you happen to have any channels to contact a click farm company?"
"What on earth is a click farm?" Kadomori asked back in sheer bewilderment.
Hikaru briefly explained the concept–hiring internet commentators to actively steer the direction of public opinion, flooding threads with positive remarks, and systematically suppressing negative voices.
"Oh, so you're talking about 'Sakura,'" Kadomori let out a helpless laugh, his voice sounding exceptionally deep against the backdrop of the night.
"You are hands down the very first artist I've ever encountered who proactively requested to look for a 'Sakura' network."
In Japan, a phenomenon similar to China's "water army" click farms was referred to as "Sakura"–essentially meaning shills or decoys. These individuals were employed by specialized online public relations agencies, tasked with flooding social media, video platforms, and major discussion forums with glowing reviews, deleting negative criticism, and even fabricating artificial hype around specific topics.
However, this industry operated with extreme stealth, primarily because everyday netizens universally detested shills–they loathed them to such an extent that it was widely considered a structural red line. If an artist was ever exposed for employing a "Sakura" network, it was virtually synonymous with absolute reputational annihilation. Not only would they hemorrhage fans instantly, but their commercial endorsements and industry resources would be terminated overnight, and they would likely face contract termination from their agency alongside a permanent industry blacklist.
"You're a sharp kid, but I strongly advise you to lay off the dirty tricks," Kadomori warned, his tone turning heavy and solemn. "The exact second artificial review manipulation is uncovered, your public reputation will collapse into complete ruins. You're currently in the ascending phase of your career with infinite potential–don't gamble your future away on a whim."
Hikaru pursed his lips and didn't press the matter further.
Kadomori tacked on one final sentence: "Do not meddle in this affair. Don't do a single thing, and don't offer any elaborate explanations."
Although Japan monitored this domain with far greater scrutiny, rendering the consequences of exposure significantly more severe, this by no means implied that such services weren't strictly in demand.
*The greater the storm, the higher the value of the catch.*
The systemic demand would never vanish; it would merely bury itself deeper and deeper into the shadows as regulatory oversight intensified.
In reality, massive, top-tier entertainment conglomerates like Xini Entertainment possessed a highly covert crisis management protocol internally for whenever an artist encountered a severe online firestorm. They strictly prohibited the artist themselves from interfering or directly participating; instead, senior executives or the legal department would spearhead the operation, scattering the tasks across multiple tiers of external outsourcing to mitigate operational risk and eliminate traceability.
To break it down specifically, the corporation would generally avoid contacting a "click farm" directly. Instead, they would first commission a trusted, third-party public relations consultant or a specialized law firm. Subsequently, these PR consultants–operating under benign labels like "market research" or "brand maintenance"–would sub-contract the actual comment-steering and narrative-manipulation requirements to online PR firms that specifically specialized in this underground trade–otherwise known as the "Sakura" operations.
The entire workflow was meticulously linked, with all directives issued through encrypted communications or face-to-face negotiations. Furthermore, payment and partnership details were funneled through a complex web of multi-layered accounts, maximizing the concealment of the original corporate client.
Having thoroughly deciphered Kadomori's underlying subtext, Hikaru lapsed into silence.
"Is there really no need for me to make a statement on social media?" he suddenly interjected. "I was actually planning to post a status claiming I genuinely like Ai, and just keep pushing the couple dynamic."
A profound silence stretched across the line. Kadomori didn't utter a single syllable, and the call was abruptly disconnected.
Hikaru stared at his phone screen, a helpless, wry smile crossing his face.
"Would it kill you to at least drop a subtle hint whether that's a go or not?" he muttered.
The following morning, just as the very first rays of dawn began to break, Hikaru arrived at the Strawberry Productions office. He headed straight to the top floor, pushing open the door to Ichigo Saitou's private office.
The moment he stepped inside, his eyes landed on Ai. Today, she was draped in a long, beige trench coat, standing quietly behind Ichigo Saitou. Old man Ichigo was perched before his computer monitor, staring at the screen with an utterly frazzled, stressed expression, while Miyako stood to the side, systematically organizing various newspapers and printed printouts of webpage screenshots. The twins were both nestled on the sofa; Aqua's face was incredibly grim, while Ruby was still furiously scrolling through her phone.
When Ichigo spotted Hikaru walking into the office, he let out a cold snort and sharply turned his face away, visibly throwing a tantrum.
"President?" Ai looked at Ichigo in confusion, before quickly realizing that he was directing his cold shoulder toward Hikaru. She immediately puffed out her cheeks in annoyance and said, "It's not like this is Hikaru's fault at all. Why are you taking it out on him, President?"
Ichigo's heart practically shattered into pieces at Ai's protective reaction, a profoundly crestfallen look surfacing on his face. "If he hadn't recommended you to participate in that garbage reality show, you wouldn't be getting thoroughly flamed online right now..."
Hikaru walked over to the reception sofa and sat down. The twins fluidly shifted aside in perfect tandem, clearing a spot right in the center for him.
"As long as Ai intends to eventually graduate from being an idol, facing an online firestorm was bound to happen sooner or later," Hikaru stated, as calm and steady as an old hound. "Detonating this trigger prematurely falls entirely within my parameters. If anything, having Ai participate in a reality show was explicitly designed for this exact purpose."
"I don't need you to remind me, I obviously know that," Ichigo retorted testily. "But the momentum of this narrative is a bit too massive right now, don't you think? Ai hasn't even officially confirmed a relationship, yet the fan base is already tearing itself apart like this."
*If things are already this volatile now, by the time Ai actually announces her graduation down the line, won't these fans straight up launch themselves into orbit?*
Ichigo thought pessimistically: *Wishing for Ai to smoothly graduate from her idol career in absolute peace is probably a complete pipedream at this point.*
"Could we potentially purchase a massive piece of breaking news to suppress the trending metrics?" Miyako paused her movements, suddenly chiming in with a proposal.
Hearing this, Aqua snapped his head up to look at her, a flash of approval darting through his eyes–he had been thinking along the exact same lines.
Miyako continued to elaborate: "A lot of tabloid outlets and weekly entertainment magazines hold a vast repository of juicy scandals regarding various artists, right? We could get in touch with a few agencies and have them drop an explosive scoop right now, which would effectively divert the netizens' collective attention."
"It would have to possess an astronomical level of impact to pull that off," Hikaru shook his head. "After all, Ai is a top-tier idol with an incredibly high level of fan retention; they aren't going to care about one or two minor industry scandals."
Ichigo let out a heavy sigh, navigating to the comment section beneath Ai's latest music video for *Hadashi de Summer*, before gesturing for Hikaru to come over and inspect the threads.
"Right now, they're even waging a war beneath the MV. A perfectly fine comment section has been completely polluted into an absolute toxic wasteland."
The top few highest-voted remarks were still standard positive reviews praising the release:
This MV is drop-dead gorgeous! Ai-chan's choreography blends flawlessly with the coastal scenery!*
*The production value is genuinely elite, every single frame is literally wallpaper material.*
There were even comments written in Chinese, which Hikaru spotted instantly.
*Perfection. I am literally licking the screen right now.*
Beneath it, someone had replied: *A perfectly standard ritual.*
But as one scrolled further down, the combative, toxic arguments began to dominate the feed:
*Ai has completely disqualified herself as an idol! Entering a dating show is a literal slap in the face to the fans!*
*Over a decade of dedicated fan support down the drain. My heart is completely frozen solid.*
*Dropping this fandom completely, I never want to see this person ever again.*
"What do we do now?" Ichigo threw his hands up in the air, leaning his entire frame back into his chair as he completely dumped the problem onto Hikaru's shoulders.
Hikaru continued to scroll down another two pages, successfully locating the exact flavor of comments he had been looking for.
*Ai has already worked incredibly hard, why do you all have to treat her with such malice?!*
*They actually exist... and it's only been half a day, right? Talk about extreme professional dedication–or did Xini Entertainment throw extra funding into the pot?*
Hikaru thought to himself, rubbing his chin. He signaled with his eyes for Ichigo to take a look as well. Furrowing his brows, the President sat upright, and a look of profound astonishment quickly manifested across his features.
This particular comment had been published at four o'clock in the morning, and there were several identical variations trailing beneath it.
*The shooting quality of the MV is genuinely spectacular, Ai's professionalism is on display for everyone to see.*
*She has worked tirelessly from the exact moment of her debut until now, she deserves absolute respect.*
Realizing something, Ichigo rapidly switched tabs over to Hikaru's official artist profile, discovering that Hikaru had uploaded a brand-new daily vlog featuring casual recording studio footage late last night.
Immediately following it was an album teaser update: *"My very first studio album is slated to drop soon. Thank you all for your unwavering support, I look forward to sharing these tracks with you."*
The comment section beneath his post was an absolute picture of harmony:
*Thank you for working so hard on the recordings, Oppa! Your dedication is truly inspiring!*
*Can't wait for the new album!*
*Am I the only one who thinks Hikaru and Ai actually look incredibly compatible together? Both of them are just so profoundly talented.*
Ichigo stared blankly at Hikaru, who was currently doing his level best to project a profound, mysterious aura, and felt himself completely lose the ability to maintain a straight face.
"So, you see..." Hikaru shrugged casually. "This is exactly why you guys are still just a tiny, run-of-the-mill agency."
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