Chapter 4: Chapter Four: After Becoming Famous

The next day, the first thing Luo Quan did upon waking was open her phone to check the view counts of her three videos.

She had assumed that after one night, the total plays for her three songs would at least reach one hundred thousand—but to her surprise, each video’s play count had already surpassed two hundred thousand!

Every time she refreshed the page, the play count climbed by dozens upon dozens!

It was only nine in the morning; by noon, wouldn’t the cumulative plays break a million?!

Checking the comments section, Luo Quan found that a significant portion of the views came from fans of Shimizu Daisuke; when she visited his homepage, she saw he had posted a new video at 1 a.m. last night titled: “Tokyo Trip, Episode Three—Encountering a Beautiful Foreign Girl!”

At the start of the video, Shimizu Daisuke strongly recommended Luo Quan’s rendition of “Lemon,” and the middle section included an incomplete live version of her street performance.

It seemed Shimizu Daisuke had pitch-corrected this segment—it sounded even more pleasant than Luo Quan’s own recording.

This video caused tens of thousands of Shimizu Daisuke’s fans, like bees drawn to floral scent, to flood into Luo Quan’s personal page.

To the fans’ delight, besides “Lemon,” Luo Quan’s personal space contained two more songs; though the audio and video quality were poor, the songs themselves were of exceptionally high quality.

Especially “I Once Thought of Ending It All,” which resonated deeply with countless young Japanese people.

Since the video was posted at a time when most Japanese were asleep, there was still no buzz on major news sites like Livedoor—but Twitter was already on the verge of exploding.

A user named “Airi-chan” reposted the chorus of “I Once Thought of Ending It All,” adding: “I once thought of ending it all—but because people like my sister exist in this world, I’ve come to harbor a little hope for it.”

This tweet was posted at 4 a.m. and now had four thousand likes, with the number still rising visibly by the minute; comments had also surged past one thousand in minutes, all encouraging “Airi-chan” to bravely keep living.

Searches for “Izumi” and “I Once Thought of Ending It All” had already climbed into Twitter Japan’s trending top ten, and entering the top five was merely a matter of time.

Just as Luo Quan was about to apply for a Twitter account to promote herself, two emails appeared in her Gmail inbox.

One was signed by Avex Music Entertainment, the other by Sony Records.

Luo Quan’s heart pounded wildly—these two record labels were unquestionably music giants!

The former held the largest share of Japan’s record market, while the latter was one of the world’s three largest record companies—and now both had reached out to her simultaneously!

What did this mean? It meant these major companies had recognized her potential and intended to sign her.

The emails first introduced their companies’ illustrious histories—their artists and standing in Japan’s record market—then proposed signing Luo Quan as a new artist under their label.

Besides signing bonuses, they offered abundant promises of resources; for a newcomer, these terms were already quite generous.

But due to the system’s restriction task, Luo Quan could only politely decline all of these signing offers.

She then sent both companies polite, sincere emails declining the contracts.

Less than a minute later, Avex replied: “Our company has many top-tier female vocalists (equivalent to divas) and possesses a complete, mature system for cultivating female singers—please reconsider.”

Luo Quan could only reply with an excuse: “I’m a college student and currently have no intention of becoming a professional singer.”

“That’s such a pity,” came the reply. “Would you consider selling us the copyright to those three songs? We can offer one million yen per song!”

Seeing Avex’s offer, Luo Quan frowned; three million yen sounded like a lot, but it amounted to only two hundred thousand RMB.

She wondered whether this company, seeing her as a foreigner, was taking advantage of her ignorance of Japan’s music market—or whether they truly intended to fleece her like a lamb.

A naive college student might have sold the songs at such a pittance—but Luo Quan, fully aware of the songs’ true value, would never make such a shortsighted decision.

She simply replied: “Let me think about it.”

Reality had just given Luo Quan a timely chill—she had overestimated her appeal to these giants and underestimated how ruthlessly capitalists exploited the working masses.

There’s an old saying: Be decent in life!

After dealing with Avex, Sony Records replied—but their offer was night and day compared to Avex’s.

After Luo Quan declined their signing proposal, Sony didn’t press the issue; instead, they turned to propose purchasing the exclusive distribution rights to her three songs.

Not the copyright—just distribution rights; even if she signed the contract, the songs would still belong to her. The price was also remarkably fair: ten years of exclusive licensing, a lump sum of twenty million yen, post-tax, with additional profit-sharing on sales!

This price was nearly seven times Avex’s offer—and they weren’t even asking for the copyright. For a newcomer, this was an unbelievably generous deal!

The system only barred her from signing as an artist with these companies—it didn’t stop them from distributing her music. And Sony’s offer was so fair.

No wonder they were one of the world’s three largest record companies—look at their vision! Two labels competing in Japan, yet their treatment of newcomers differed so drastically?

Luo Quan wasn’t greedy; seeing the fair price, she made her decision immediately and replied with just two words: “Deal!”

Japan differed from China—it still had no official national ID card. Although the government had been promoting a “My Number Card” for years, fewer than twenty percent of Japanese citizens had applied for it.

So when Sony requested proof of identity, Luo Quan submitted her student ID.

Two minutes later, Sony sent her an electronic contract for the exclusive distribution rights.

After accepting it, she went downstairs, found a nearby convenience store with a printer, printed two copies of the contract, and signed her Chinese name and stage name.

Her Chinese name was Luo Quan; her stage name was the nickname she’d chosen herself: Izumi.

Soon, Sony would send someone to collect the contracts; once they signed, the contract would take immediate effect, and the twenty million yen should reach her account shortly.

Thinking of this massive sum about to land in her account, Luo Quan skipped all the way home, her face glowing with a radiant, joyful smile, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight.

Soon, the Sony representative arrived at her door; hearing the knock, Luo Quan grabbed the contract and opened it.

“Hello, are you Miss Luo Quan?” The man was young, dressed in a proper suit even in the sweltering summer, speaking with great courtesy.

“Yes.” Luo Quan nodded.

The young man produced his employee ID. “I’m the contract collector dispatched by Sony Records. Call me Miki.”

“Here’s the contract—I’ve already signed it.” Luo Quan handed Miki the distribution rights papers for her three songs.

Miki checked them, confirmed everything was in order, and said: “Once the contract is effective, the payment will be transferred to your account as soon as possible. For any future issues, please contact us via email. I must return the contract to headquarters for signing—won’t keep you any longer.”

With that, he turned and dashed down the stairs.

The screech of car tires on pavement pierced the quiet street; by the time Luo Quan looked up, all she saw was a trail of dust—the car had vanished at the end of the road.

“Did he really need to rush that much?” Luo Quan muttered, scratching her head.