3: Chapter 3 Naming...

When Park Jiyeon led Jiang Zhiyu out of the meeting room, there were even more people in the corridor than before.

News had likely spread—a foreigner with god-tier visuals had been picked up by Kim Tae-hoon from the banks of the Han River, and after sitting in the meeting room for less than half an hour, he had written a song that Park Jiyeon greenlighted on the spot. Such stories weren't unheard of in the SM Entertainment building, but they usually came with a degree of exaggeration. Today, however, the protagonist of the story was standing right there in the corridor, wearing a sophisticated, well-tailored deep gray suit with an unrecognizable silver brooch pinned to the lapel. Under the fluorescent lights, his makeup looked refined without being heavy, making him look like a youth who had stepped right out of a pictorial.

Jiang Zhiyu felt those gazes.

Some were curious, some were scrutinizing, some held a hint of defiance, and others were simply so captivated by his face that they forgot to look away. He didn't avoid them, nor did he try to cater to them; he simply kept his eyes slightly lowered, following half a step behind Park Jiyeon with a steady, unhurried pace, as if he had walked through this building a thousand times. This composure wasn't an act; it was something honed bit by bit during those five years at TG Entertainment, through countless visits to the headquarters of entertainment companies like ASB, TKS, and CECY.

Park Jiyeon stopped in front of a glass door, swiped her ID card, and pushed it open.

"This is the A&R department's work area," she said in English, her speaking pace slightly slower than before as if deliberately accommodating Jiang Zhiyu's language level. "Songwriters, producers, and arrangers are all on this floor. You'll be coming here often for meetings, to submit demos, and to communicate with producers."

Jiang Zhiyu scanned the layout of the workspace. Open workstations were arranged along the floor-to-ceiling windows, with desks piled high with various equipment—monitor headphones, MIDI keyboards, portable sound cards, and stacks of sheet music and project proposals. Several employees were working with headphones on; hearing the door open, they looked up briefly, their gazes lingering on Jiang Zhiyu for a moment before they buried their heads back in their work. This focused atmosphere felt familiar to him, somewhat similar to the technical department office at Tianzhou Group, except the equipment on the desks had changed from code editors to digital audio workstations.

"Over here are the recording studios," Park Jiyeon said, leading him through the work area to a heavy, soundproof door. "Studio A is primarily for recording main vocals, while Studio B is for harmonies and backing vocals. Producers usually stay in the control room here to monitor the recording."

She didn't push the door open—it was likely in use, as the red indicator light above the door was lit. Jiang Zhiyu glanced through the small window on the door. Two or three people were sitting in the control room, discussing something in low voices while looking at the waveforms on a large screen. Behind the soundproof glass of the recording booth, a young girl stood before a microphone wearing headphones. Her hand was on the edge of the headphones, her lips were almost touching the pop filter, and her eyes were closed as she recorded a chorus.

Jiang Zhiyu's gaze lingered on the girl for two seconds before he looked away.

Her pitch was good, but her breath control still had room for improvement. The high notes were a bit tight, likely due to nerves. This was a professional habit he had developed while training trainees at TG Entertainment—whenever anyone sang, he would subconsciously analyze their technique, timbre, and emotional expression, then formulate suggestions for improvement in his head. This habit had stayed with him for five years and would likely continue to do so.

Park Jiyeon took him through several floors. The practice rooms were located from the first basement level to the third floor. Through the small windows on the doors, various trainees could be seen rehearsing. Some were alone, meticulously refining their movements and repeating the same eight-beat sequence over and over; some were in groups, their reflections in the mirror moving in perfect unison, the muffled sound of footsteps echoing behind the soundproof doors; others sat in a circle on the floor, listening to a coach, their expressions serious and weary. Looking at those young faces, Jiang Zhiyu thought of Kim Soo-yeon and Park Eun-sung sweating in the practice room, of Kim Ji-yeon's stubbornness as she adjusted her facial expression management over and over in the mirror, and of Kim Youjung's tenacity when she was punished with fifty repetitions for a single incorrect move, crying on the floor only to get back up and continue.

Trainee life was the same everywhere.

"Do you still want to be a trainee?" Park Jiyeon asked, turning to look at him at the end of the corridor.

Jiang Zhiyu shook his head, the corners of his mouth curling slightly—not quite a smile, but more like a confirmation. "I told you, I want to write songs."

Park Jiyeon nodded and didn't press further. She had seen too many young people attracted by the glamour of being a trainee, fighting tooth and nail to enter the system only to leave in disappointment due to the brutal elimination rate. Yet, the youth before her said he didn't want to be a trainee, and there wasn't a hint of 'playing hard to get' in his tone—he truly didn't want it. Such clarity was rare in someone his age.

They returned to the meeting room on the fourth floor.

Park Jiyeon poured him a cup of coffee—an Americano from an automatic machine, its color as dark as herbal medicine. Jiang Zhiyu took a sip; the bitterness exploded on his tongue, but compared to the herbal teas he was used to, it wasn't exactly hard to swallow.

"Now, let's talk about practical matters." Park Jiyeon sat across from him, opened a folder, and pulled out a blank contract template. "How much do you know about the South Korean legal system?"

"Almost zero," Jiang Zhiyu answered honestly.

"Then I'll get straight to the point." Park Jiyeon tapped her finger on the contract. "Your current status is a US citizen who entered South Korea on a B-2 tourist visa. This visa does not allow you to work in Korea, whether as an employee or a freelancer. If SM pays you directly, both you and the company will face legal risks."

Jiang Zhiyu's hand holding the coffee cup paused slightly. He had expected this issue, but his heart still sank a bit when he heard it. In the Tianxuan Continent, he had never worried about 'status'—he was from the Middle Continent and held a legal overseas work visa for the Nanming Kingdom, with all procedures handled perfectly by Tianzhou Group's legal department. Now, he was a foreigner without any legal work status, and the passport in his pocket could only prove who he was, not what he could do.

"So, what's the solution?" he asked, his tone as calm as if he were asking about the weather.

Park Jiyeon glanced at him. This youth's reaction was far too calm—so calm that it didn't look like how a sixteen or seventeen-year-old should react to hearing 'you can't work legally.' Either he didn't realize the gravity of the situation at all, or he had enough confidence in himself to believe the problem could be solved. She leaned toward the latter.

"There are a few options." Park Jiyeon held up her fingers. "First, we sign an informal agreement under the guise of an 'overseas songwriting collaboration.' You'll contribute as a 'consultant,' and the company will settle payments through an overseas account to avoid a domestic employment relationship. But this plan carries risks, and the royalty split you'd receive would be much lower."

Jiang Zhiyu listened without taking a stance.

"Second, SM helps you apply for an artistic and athletic talent visa—but this requires you to have a certain level of industry recognition, such as published works, awards, or industry recommendations. Starting from zero, this is very difficult for you."

"Third," Park Jiyeon tapped the table, "you enroll in a language school and switch to a D-4 visa, which allows for limited part-time work and internships. We can collaborate with you under the title of an 'internship' and then transition you once you obtain a formal work visa."

Jiang Zhiyu set down his coffee cup, his thumb slowly tracing the rim. Three options, each with its own set of troubles. The first was too rogue; he didn't want to cross legal red lines right at the start in this world. The second was too slow; he couldn't afford to wait. The third... a language school would take money and time, but since his current Korean was barely enough to ask for directions, attending one wouldn't be a waste.

"I'll choose the third," he said. "But I need to solve a more basic problem first—I don't have the money for language school tuition, nor do I have a place to stay."

Park Jiyeon was silent for a few seconds before picking up the internal phone on the desk and dialing a short extension.

"Chief Kim, please come to the fourth-floor meeting room."

In less than two minutes, a man in his early thirties pushed the door open and entered. He wore a navy blue suit, his hair was perfectly groomed, and he held a tablet; he looked like a precision-engineered machine. Park Jiyeon quickly explained Jiang Zhiyu's situation to him in Korean—from Kim Tae-hoon finding him by the Han River to his writing the song that she had greenlighted, and then his lack of a visa, a place to live, money, and even his inability to speak Korean. Chief Kim's expression shifted from a polite smile to a subtle, heavy look that suggested 'this won't be an easy job.'

"So," Park Jiyeon concluded, "help him arrange things. Are there any vacancies in the company dorms? Let him stay there for now. Check the upcoming enrollment dates for language schools. As for the visa, contact our legal consultant."

Chief Kim glanced at Jiang Zhiyu, his gaze lingering on his face for two seconds before he looked down and quickly typed a few lines on his tablet.

"There is one vacant room in the dorms upstairs, originally intended as temporary housing for overseas producers," he said in English with a noticeable accent, though his expression was clear. "It's very small, but enough for one person. The rent will be deducted from your future royalties."

Jiang Zhiyu nodded. "Thank you."

"As for the language school," Chief Kim continued scrolling through his tablet, "one starts next week in Gangnam District, about a twenty-minute walk away. The tuition... I'll advance it for you first and deduct it from your royalties later."

Jiang Zhiyu nodded again. "Thank you."

"Is there anything else you need?" Chief Kim looked up at him.

Jiang Zhiyu thought for a moment. "A phone charger. My phone is dead, and I don't know what model it is."

Chief Kim blinked and held out his right hand. Jiang Zhiyu pulled the dead black phone from his pocket and handed it over. Chief Kim turned it over a few times, confirmed the port type, said "I'll have someone buy one," and made another note on his tablet.

Watching this, Park Jiyeon's lips curled slightly. It wasn't a warm smile, but rather a look of satisfaction that things were finally on track. She slid the blank contract template back into the folder and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, writing down a few numbers and an address.

"This is the company's standard revenue split for external producers," she said, sliding the paper toward Jiang Zhiyu. "Take a look. We'll finalize the formal contract once your visa issues are resolved. Until then, for every song you write, the company will pay a portion as an advance, which will be deducted from future royalties."

Jiang Zhiyu picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the numbers. The split was close to what he had expected, and the advance amount was reasonable for a newcomer with no track record. He didn't haggle—not because he thought the terms were perfect, but because he currently had no leverage. What he needed was a foothold, not to negotiate a perfect contract from the start.

"This works," he said.

Park Jiyeon raised an eyebrow slightly, seemingly surprised by his decisiveness, but said nothing more. She pulled a temporary Memorandum of Understanding from the folder, filled in the discussed numbers and terms in the blanks, and pushed it toward him.

"Sign here."

Jiang Zhiyu picked up the pen and wrote his name in the signature block—Jiang Zhiyu. The handwriting was neat but carried a hint of awkwardness, as if the person writing it wasn't accustomed to the stroke order of Latin characters. Park Jiyeon noticed this but didn't ask. There were too many things about this youth that didn't add up—his aura, his manner of speaking, his musical talent, his expensive suit, and that subtle awkwardness when writing English letters. Every detail felt like a puzzle piece, but for now, she couldn't see what kind of picture these fragments would form.

She didn't ask.

In this industry, some things are better left unasked.

The signing process was quick. Jiang Zhiyu signed everywhere necessary, Park Jiyeon stamped the company seal on every page, and then she handed a copy to him.

"Welcome to SM Entertainment," she said. Her tone wasn't exactly warm, but it wasn't cold either; it was a professional, perfectly measured temperature.

Chief Kim led Jiang Zhiyu out of the meeting room, through the corridor, and to the elevator bank. While waiting for the elevator, Chief Kim suddenly spoke. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," Jiang Zhiyu said. "I'll be seventeen in December."

Chief Kim nodded, his gaze sweeping over his face. "You look older than sixteen."

"Many people say that."

The elevator doors opened, and the two stepped inside. Chief Kim pressed the button for the ninth floor. As the elevator ascended, Jiang Zhiyu watched the floor numbers tick up, silently counting—the fourth floor was A&R, the basement to the third floor were practice rooms, so what was on the ninth floor?

"The ninth floor is part of the company dorms," Chief Kim said, as if seeing through his question. "It's for overseas producers, choreographers, and people in special circumstances. The rooms are small, but they have private bathrooms. The communal kitchen is at the end of the hall."

The elevator doors opened on the ninth floor. The corridor was carpeted in deep gray, the walls were white, and wall sconces provided soft light every few meters. Chief Kim led him to the end of the corridor and pulled out a key to open a door.

[part:gemini-2.5-flash]

The room was indeed not large. A single bed was placed against the wall, the white sheets neatly folded. At the head of the bed was a small table with a desk lamp and a small mirror. By the window was a desk and a chair, with a small, empty bookshelf above the desk. The wardrobe was built into the wall by the door, a sliding door, with a few hangers inside. The bathroom was at the other end of the room, compact but clean, with a shower, toilet, and sink.

Jiang Zhiyu stood in the center of the room, looking around.

This was much better than he had imagined. He had lived in that sea-view dormitory at TG Entertainment for five years, having knocked down the walls of the third-floor suite to create a large space, accustomed to comfortable living. But this small single room reminded him of an earlier time—the years he spent learning medicine with his master in Medicine King Valley. His room then was even smaller than this, with a window facing the back mountain, where he could hear the chirping of insects and the sound of the stream at night. Life was simple back then; every day consisted of memorizing prescriptions, identifying medicinal herbs, practicing cultivation, and being scolded by his master. He thought those memories had been overwritten by later experiences, but standing in this unfamiliar room, those scenes vividly reappeared, as if they had happened just yesterday.

"Here's your key," Chief Kim handed over the key. "There's a convenience store downstairs and restaurants nearby. The company cafeteria is on the second basement level; you can go there during meal times, just swipe your employee card."

He paused, then pulled a temporary employee card from his suit pocket. It had Jiang Zhiyu's name and a temporary number printed on it, but no photo.

"Your employee card will be ready in three days. Use this temporary one for now."

Jiang Zhiyu took the employee card and key, placing them with his passport into the inner pocket of his suit.

Chief Kim then gave him a few more instructions about trivial matters—how to sort trash, where the laundry room was, curfew times (no curfew, but swiping the card was required for late-night entry/exit), and emergency contact numbers—before leaving. The sound of the door closing was soft, but in the quiet room, it was exceptionally clear.

Jiang Zhiyu stood by the window, looking at the view outside.

The view from the ninth floor wasn't expansive; directly opposite was the glass curtain wall of another office building, reflecting the afternoon sun, making one's eyes ache. Further in the distance, he could see the dense cluster of high-rises in Gangnam District, like a compressed forest, with people bustling, anxious, and rushing for something in every building. He remembered the hundred thousand purple-blue light sticks at Huofeng Stadium, and the confession he had planned for a long time in his heart but never spoke.

He should have been in another world, on that stage, saying those words.

Regardless of the outcome, at least he would have said them.

But now, he stood in this ninth-floor room, with a temporary contract and a temporary employee card in his pocket. The view outside was not the autumn scenery of Baiyu City, but the concrete jungle of Seoul's Gangnam District. His phone was still charging with Chief Kim, his USB drive still held hundreds of songs that he didn't know if they would find an audience in this world, and around his neck hung that white life-saving pill—a pill that could save lives on Tianxuan Continent, but in this world, probably only served as an amulet.

Jiang Zhiyu reached into his suit pocket and felt the silver hyacinth brooch.

He took it off, placed it in his palm, and looked down at it.

The symbol of Zephyrus, he had worn it for five years. From the day they debuted, he had pinned this brooch closest to his heart, like a silent promise—I will be behind you, I will watch you fly higher and further. He did it. He brought them to Huofeng Stadium, before a hundred thousand people, to the pinnacle of Tianxuan Continent. Then, on that stage, he disappeared from their world.

He didn't know what they would think. He didn't know what that beam of white light looked like to the audience. He didn't know how Wang Shuyun would handle the chaos after his disappearance. He didn't know when, or how, Baek Ji-xin—the person he had planned to find after the concert—would learn that he was gone.

Perhaps she would think he was just someone who left without a word.

Perhaps she would hate him.

Perhaps she would slowly forget him, just as people forget someone who appeared in their lives and then left.

Jiang Zhiyu re-pinned the hyacinth brooch to the inside of his lapel, against his shirt, invisible from the outside, but he knew it was there.

He turned from the window, walked to the bed, and sat down.

The mattress was softer than he expected. As his body sank in, he realized how tired he was. From the transmigration until now, he hadn't closed his eyes for over twenty-four hours. Last night, on the bench by the Han River, he had merely meditated cross-legged, maintaining mental clarity with the Evergreen Origin Technique, but his body hadn't truly rested. Now, in this small, quiet room that was all his own, the fatigue he had forcibly suppressed surged like a tide, engulfing his limbs and bones.

He lay down and closed his eyes.

The last image that flashed through his mind was that bench by the Han River.

The pre-dawn wind blew across the water, carrying a damp, cold, fishy scent. His suit flapped in the wind, his hand clutched a passport that had fallen from the sky, and in his pocket, he had over seven thousand Korean Won and a USB drive containing all his hard work. He sat there, looking at the unfamiliar sky, thinking of someone.

Then, day broke.

He opened his eyes.

But this time, he didn't see the morning light by the Han River again.

He saw the white ceiling lamp, with a small fly motionless on its shade, as if asleep.

Jiang Zhiyu lay there for a few seconds, then sat up.

Outside, the sky had already darkened. He didn't know how long he had slept—two hours, or three? The angle of the sunlight reflecting off the glass curtain wall of the opposite building had changed, turning into that golden-red, weary twilight.

He heard someone moving in the corridor, their footsteps light, as if deliberately keeping quiet. Faint music drifted from afar, a K-pop song he had never heard before, with heavy drum beats and bright synthesizer tones, completely different in style from the songs he had written on Tianxuan Continent. He needed to learn the musical language of this world, to understand its popular trends, to know what kind of melodies would resonate with the people of this country.

He still had too many things to do.

Jiang Zhiyu got up from the bed, walked to the bathroom, and turned on the faucet. Cold water gushed out, and he cupped some in his hands, splashing it on his face. The icy touch cleared his muddled mind somewhat. He looked at himself in the mirror—a sixteen-year-old face, his features almost identical to when he was twenty-four, just with a little less composure and a bit more of the sharpness unique to youth. The makeup on his face was a bit smudged, foundation leaving faint traces at the corners of his mouth and eyelids. He turned on the faucet and used cold water to wash away the remaining makeup little by little, revealing the clean, unadorned skin underneath.

The young man in the mirror had a bare face, with clear, handsome features. His skin appeared somewhat pale under the cool white light, and his lips were light in color but well-defined. He scrutinized himself in the mirror for a few seconds, then averted his gaze.

The door was knocked when he was drying his face with a tissue.

"Jiang Zhiyu? It's me, Chief Kim."

He walked over and opened the door. Chief Kim stood outside, holding a white plastic bag and a black power bank.

"I bought a charger, it's universal, should work." He handed over the power bank and a data cable. "Your phone is charged to thirty percent; you can use it for now. Tomorrow, I'll go with you to get a temporary phone card."

Jiang Zhiyu took the power bank and data cable. "Thank you."

Chief Kim then handed over the white plastic bag. "Dinner. I didn't know what you like, so I bought a convenience store bento. Make do with it. Starting tomorrow, you can eat at the company cafeteria, but it's too late today, the cafeteria is already closed."

Jiang Zhiyu took the plastic bag and glanced down—it was a tuna gimbap and a bottle of banana milk. He rarely drank such things when he was young in Middle Continent, but during those five years at TG Entertainment, Kim Soo-yeon and Park Eun-sung often bought them, saying it was "the most common trainee-era combination." When he saw the bottle of banana milk, the corner of his mouth curved slightly.

"Thank you," he said for the third time.

Chief Kim waved his hand and turned to leave.

Jiang Zhiyu closed the door, returned to his desk, and sat down, opening the plastic bag. The gimbap's plastic packaging was easy to tear; he bit a corner with his teeth and pulled gently to open it. He picked up a piece of gimbap and put it in his mouth. The flavors of tuna, rice, pickled radish, and seaweed mixed together, similar to the taste of the tuna rice ball from the convenience store by the Han River, but this time he wasn't in such a hurry, chewing slowly.

While chewing the gimbap, he connected the power bank to his phone. The screen lit up, and the familiar boot animation appeared—not the interface of his phone from Tianxuan Continent, but a completely unfamiliar, minimalist operating system. No contacts, no chat history, no photos, no applications. The phone was like a blank slate, waiting for him to write new content on it.

He opened the settings, scrolled to the language option, and switched the system language from Korean to English.

Then he opened the browser.

The cursor in the search bar blinked, waiting for him to type his first question.

Jiang Zhiyu thought for a moment, then typed a line into the search bar:

"How to learn Korean fast"

Search results poured out like a tide—language schools, app recommendations, YouTube tutorial videos, grammar book rankings, free learning websites, language exchange forums. He scrolled through them one by one, as seriously as he used to pore over intelligence reports on Tianxuan Continent.

Outside the window, Seoul's night had completely fallen.

The neon lights of Gangnam District lit up, red, blue, green, purple, weaving into a flowing tapestry of light in the darkness. On a distant building's electronic screen, a girl group's music video played on a loop, several girls in sequined short skirts smiling, dancing, and singing in front of the camera. Jiang Zhiyu watched the screen for a few seconds, then lowered his head and continued browsing the web pages about how to learn Korean.

His phone vibrated.

It was a text message from an unknown number, written in English:

"This is Park Jiyeon from SM A&R. Just checking if you’ve settled in. We’ll set up a meeting tomorrow afternoon to discuss your first project. Get some rest. You’ll need it."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the text message, his thumb pausing on the screen for a moment.

Then he typed a few words:

"I will. Thank you, Park Jiyeon-ssi."

Send.

He placed the phone on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the ceiling.

The small fly was still on the lamp shade, motionless, as if asleep.

He didn't know what he would encounter in this world.

But at least he had a place to live, a temporary contract, a USB drive that could prove his worth, a pill around his neck that he didn't know if it could save his life, and a nearly empty bottle of Health-Preserving Pills.

That was enough.

Tomorrow, there was still much to do.

——

(My little Minjeong hehehe~~)

(07:30) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Good morning, Oppa! I woke up feeling especially refreshed today because I dreamed Oppa told me the story of the little bear stealing honey~ Even though I only remember one line, Oppa's voice is enough to make me happy all day! (◕ᴗ◕✿)]

(07:33) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [For breakfast, I had the yogurt and cereal Oppa recommended, with honey! Aren't I super obedient? Please keep praising me today too~ (Sends a photo of an empty bowl and spoon neatly arranged)]

(07:36) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [I ran into Senior Yoona during my morning workout, and she smiled and asked me, "Do you have someone special you cherish lately?" I was so flustered I almost threw my water bottle... Senior's eyes are really sharp! (Anxiously rubbing hands)]

(07:39) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [There's a pre-recording for Music Core today, and I'll wear the short skirt Oppa said "sparkles like a snowflake"! But it would be even better if Oppa could come watch... I'll secretly look for Oppa on stage! ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶]

(07:42) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [I screenshotted Oppa's reply, "The little bear actually stole the sweetest honey in the world," and set it as my phone wallpaper... This way, every time I look at my phone, I'll remember Oppa saying I'm sweet! (So happy I'm spinning in circles)]

(07:45) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Heading to the beauty salon now! Oppa, you should be as sweet as honey today too~ (Sends a bear emoji with a honey pot wobbling on its head)]