Chapter Twelve: First Steps into the Company

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Entertainment at Your Side (No pop-ups)
Recommended song: BoA – “No.1”
Time of story: November 2004
Statement: This work is entirely fictional. Please do not associate it with reality. Any resemblance is purely coincidental!

The day after Jiang Yihan’s twentieth birthday, he signed a contract—a very unusual contract.

On the 23rd, Li Tong personally went to Li Ran’s house to pick up both of them and bring them to the company. By now, everyone in the industry knew that this was Li Tong’s biggest, and last, gamble. If she lost, it would be hard to see a trace of ABC in the industry’s top ranks, or even secondary ones, for a long time. But if she won—no one could predict just how high the results would reach.

Before arranging Jiang Yihan’s training schedule, Li Tong needed to take him to meet the various testing instructors, so the company’s professionals could get a sense of him and decide how best to package and produce this new artist. Li Tong took Jiang Yihan alone, while Li Ran was sent to the company for classes to study the specifics of being a manager. Though Li Ran already had over a year’s experience with trainees, there was still much to learn.

Jiang Yihan and Li Tong walked together to the company’s practice room.

The first instructor they met taught acting. According to Li Tong’s initial plan, debuting Jiang Yihan as an actor was a safe and quick choice, so acting was chosen as the first test. The examiner was an elderly man, nearly sixty, known as Old Zheng. He had been in the entertainment industry for nearly forty years—a true veteran. He was actually close to retirement, but because he was a longtime friend of Li Tong’s father, he had agreed to help out. Normally, he wasn’t present at the company, but today Li Tong had specifically brought him in.

Old Zheng looked over Jiang Yihan, discussed with Li Tong, and then set the test. The test was strange; it could be seen as simple, or as difficult. “If you heard news that your girlfriend was getting married, but the groom wasn’t you, what would your reaction be?” Old Zheng and Li Tong agreed this was a common life scenario—any way of expressing it could work, but how it was conveyed would reveal much about whether someone had acting talent.

Jiang Yihan thought for a moment and began his performance. At first, he considered an exaggerated approach—perhaps crying or throwing things—but after some hesitation, he opted for a more restrained portrayal.

He steadied his breathing, blinked forcefully several times to induce a hint of fatigue in his eyes, then lowered his eyelids, dimming the light in his gaze. Dropping his head slightly, he hesitated, then turned as if to walk away. His figure paused, then he turned back, looked calmly up, the corners of his mouth slightly downturned, gazing at Old Zheng and Li Tong. And so his performance ended.

Jiang Yihan’s portrayal was subtle, using his eyes and posture to convey disappointment. Yet, because he’d never received any formal acting training, there was a gap between what he imagined in his mind and what he actually expressed.

Despite this, Old Zheng still saw his potential. After all, actors who know how to consider their approach can, with proper guidance, become outstanding. This result pleased Li Tong greatly. After all, there is a world of difference between a handsome idol and a truly talented actor. This was entirely beyond her expectations—how could she not be happy?

The second meeting was with the music instructors: a composer, a vocal coach, and an album planner.

As soon as Jiang Yihan appeared at the music classroom door, all three instructors took notice of him. But Jiang Yihan paid them little mind, instead observing the room, which was small but packed with all manner of instruments. His fingers itched to try them out, the urge to learn and experiment rising within him.

The instructors and Li Tong conferred quietly about Jiang Yihan and how best to test him, taking their time.

The composer spoke first. “You’re Jiang Yihan, right? Do you play any instruments? Have you ever written your own songs? I’d like to know if you might be able to compose in the future. If not, the company might need to train you. If you can’t play an instrument, learning will take time.”

Jiang Yihan was briefly stunned by the barrage of questions, but then answered, “Hello teachers, I’m Jiang Yihan. It’s my first time meeting you all, please guide me well. As for instruments, I play piano and guitar. I’ve written some songs for fun, but only my family has ever heard them, so I’m not sure about the quality. I haven’t had the courage to share them with anyone else.”

Hearing his response, the teachers nodded happily. A student with this level of musical ability would be much easier to train. The next step was to test his own strengths—if a newcomer’s voice had no unique quality or appeal, it would be difficult to market him. So the teachers asked Jiang Yihan to sing a few of his favorite songs to get a sense of his tone, pitch, and range.

Jiang Yihan stood there for quite a while, unsure what to sing, and in the end chose a song that came to mind. First, he sang Fan Weiqi’s version of Pu Shu’s “Those Flowers,” a song with a comfortable key and soothing melody.

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“Those Flowers” is a healing song by Pu Shu, also covered by Fan Weiqi. The lyrics express longing for friends who’ve left, though it could also be about a lost lover. The song is gentle but comforting. After singing it, Jiang Yihan’s voice was warmed up. Next, he chose David Tao’s “Angel,” a challenging song with intricate transitions between head and chest voice.

When he finished, Jiang Yihan felt he’d done okay, but the teachers said nothing, so he kept his doubts to himself, worried about his performance.

Then the teachers opened the piano to test his vocal range. Range refers to the lowest to highest notes a person or instrument can produce, typically spanning seven degrees (C, D, E, F, G, A, B)—from middle C to high C is one octave. After some exercises, Jiang Yihan’s range proved impressive—two and a half octaves, which is rare and means he could handle many difficult songs.

The instructors conferred quietly again, clearly pleased. They all felt that with proper packaging, an album from Jiang Yihan would surprise the market.

Finally, it was time to test his songwriting. Naturally, Jiang Yihan had to sing one of his own pieces, which made him quite shy. He’d only ever written for his own amusement, and now had to present his work to complete strangers. But Jiang Yihan wasn’t one to be coy; gritting his teeth, he made his choice: “Castle,” a song he wrote himself, both lyrics and music—a sorrowful ballad with a high melody.

After clearing his throat, he began. The song was difficult, with complicated transitions, but since he’d already sung several songs and this one was tailored to his own voice, he was confident. When he finished, though the lyrics were in Chinese, the beautiful melody, magnetic voice, and natural transitions drew applause from the teachers, who sent Jiang Yihan and Li Tong away with satisfied smiles.

The last meeting was with the dance instructor, a young man nearing thirty named Jin Yiyun. With nearly a decade of stage experience and a discerning eye, Jin Yiyun was also the leader of Korea’s YY Dance Troupe. Friendly and approachable, he greeted Jiang Yihan enthusiastically as soon as he arrived.

“Hello, I’m Jin Yiyun. You must be Jiang Yihan? I’ve been waiting for you for ages.” Jin Yiyun smiled broadly, extending his hand.

Jiang Yihan hurried to shake it. “Hello, I’m Jiang Yihan.”

Without much discussion with Li Tong, Jin Yiyun began to assess Jiang Yihan’s physique, checking if his build was suitable for dancing. “Jiang Yihan, what’s your height and weight?”

“Ah, I’m 180 centimeters and 55 kilos.” Jiang Yihan answered without hesitation.

“So slim! I wonder about your stamina. Dancing is exhausting work—you might need to sing and dance for five minutes on stage, or keep moving for hours at a concert. Without stamina, you’re limited to ballads.” Jin Yiyun expressed his concern.

Jiang Yihan replied confidently, “Don’t worry, I used to run long-distance at school, so my stamina should be fine.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed!” Jin Yiyun looked him over again and smiled. “I’ll put on some music—just dance freely, so I can watch your coordination.”

Hip-hop music started to play. Jiang Yihan tapped out the rhythm with his foot, found the beat, and began to move. Though he didn’t know any specific choreography, his overall sense for music brought a smile to Jin Yiyun’s face. After five minutes, Jin turned off the music, satisfied with the initial impression.

“Your coordination and balance are great, and your stamina seems fine. You’ve got a good musical sense too. I’m really looking forward to teaching you dance.”

With Jin Yiyun’s test finished, the day of evaluations was over. Next, the company’s planning team would design a training schedule and future development plan for Jiang Yihan, with Li Ran fully involved as his manager.

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After discussion, the company decided to change previous plans. Rather than starting with ads or television dramas, they would debut Jiang Yihan with an album, choosing “Castle”—the song he had sung—as the title track. This news shocked Jiang Yihan; he never imagined a song he’d idly composed would be chosen.

The next step was training, covering acting, dance, and music. The training plan was quickly finalized. Since he was still in the pre-debut stage, his days would be filled with classes and practice. When classes weren’t scheduled, his daily routine was: wake up at 8 a.m., train from 8:30 to 11:30, lunch break from 11:30 to 1:30, training from 1:30 to 4:30, free time from 4:30 to 6:30, training from 6:30 to 9:30, a half-hour break, then training again from 10 to midnight. The training included familiarizing himself with Korean songs, listening to various genres—pop, blues, R&B, jazz—to broaden his musical knowledge and seek inspiration for composing; acting practice and studying different performance styles; collecting jokes and honing personal skills for variety shows; learning all kinds of dance—breaking, locking, jazz—as well as physical conditioning. His schedule was packed—practice time was never enough, and there was never any free time. Though the days were tough, Jiang Yihan found the content interesting, and the novelty of it all kept him from feeling tired.

After a period of training, he would begin recording and training simultaneously. Li Tong hoped to make the New Year’s release window, at least for a single, and an album if possible. ABC Entertainment was investing heavily—Jiang Yihan had just signed, had hardly trained, with no transition period, yet was going straight to recording and debuting. This was quite different from the usual Korean system, but Li Tong was confident, and Jiang Yihan saw only one thing to do: work hard.

During this time, Li Tong sat Jiang Yihan down for a talk, listing all the dos and don’ts—so many rules it was overwhelming. As Li Tong went on and on, Jiang Yihan tuned out, seeing only her endlessly moving mouth, spouting what seemed like endless nonsense. Finally, he couldn’t help himself and interrupted, “Uncle Li, aren’t you tired?”

“Huh?” Li Tong, lost in his rules, didn’t react at first.

“Nothing, nothing,” Jiang Yihan snickered. Li Tong finally caught on. “You rascal, you weren’t listening, were you?” he said with a wry smile, helplessly watching his protégé.

“Uncle Li, why do we have to follow all these rules?” Jiang Yihan asked, turning serious.

“There’s no ‘why’,” Li Tong explained. “Don’t you know? Stars are created. The public image of a celebrity is mostly crafted by the company, step by step—so there are a lot of dos and don’ts.”

“So, the artists people see aren’t really themselves?”

“That’s not quite right. The company’s plan is tailored to the artist, bringing out their best qualities and hiding their flaws. So what the public sees is the artist’s best self—what many would call ‘perfection.’ That’s why idols can’t date, or use crude language in public, or talk about going to the bathroom, and so on. It’s all about turning an ordinary person’s strengths into the qualities that everyone admires. That’s the ‘star-making plan.’ And when it comes to star-making, the biggest dream factory in Korea is MS Entertainment. They’re masters at creating idols.”

“Oh, is that so?” Jiang Yihan pulled a face. “But, Uncle Li, can’t I just be myself? I think the real me is pretty good.”

Li Tong was taken aback by this. He looked Jiang Yihan over and thought about everything that had happened since they met. There was something about Jiang Yihan—an indefinable charm that drew people in, made them want to support him. Perhaps all these rules were unnecessary; perhaps, as he was, Jiang Yihan was already a star—already the person others aspired to be. Maybe being the real Jiang Yihan was good enough. Li Tong smiled, patted his head, and said, “Yes, that’s pretty good.”

Perhaps the star-making plan did not suit Jiang Yihan—this was Li Tong’s final decision.

Jiang Yihan worked hard, and at the same time, TVXQ from MS Entertainment finally exploded in popularity. On the 21st, TVXQ performed at a radio awards show, holding yellow roses (symbolizing farewell) and pleading with their fans not to let the group break up, not to let Kim Jaejoong leave. During the show, one of Jaejoong’s teammates (the “broken cat”—it was probably Mickey Yoochun) changed the last line of their song “Believes” to “I never let you go, you are the only one.” After coming off stage, that teammate was beaten up—the situation was very serious.

Afterwards, Kim Jaejoong called Jiang Yihan, crying the whole time. “Bro, maybe I’m just going to leave like this.” Hearing him cry, Jiang Yihan didn’t know what to do—he felt terrible, but there was nothing he could do. A single person meant nothing to a company as big as MS.

November brought winter to Korea—a cold that seeped into the bones. And now, not only the weather, but their hearts, were beginning to freeze.