Chapter 48

P.S. This book starts its recommendation push tomorrow—two updates today, please support with recommendations and investments.

A rare and wonderful song!

This was everyone’s first impression; most here aren’t professional musicians, but they still have basic aesthetic sense—though they’ve never composed, even just the a cappella was incredibly catchy!

“This is the lead single from the album—should fit market taste well, right?” Though phrased as a question, Luo Quan’s tone was utterly confident.

I won’t claim anything else, but “Firstlove” is unquestionably a divine hit.

As the lead single from Utada Hikaru’s debut album, this song is undeniably its masterpiece, in both quality and vocal performance—the pinnacle of solo female singers of that era.

With only two singles released beforehand, the album sold 2.2 million copies in its first week, shattering all relevant Asian records.

Its final sales reached a staggering 7.65 million copies, still unmatched today, hailed by Japan’s music industry as a landmark album.

To break records, you must use a song that has already earned such honors—“Firstlove” is the perfect choice, which is why Luo Quan made it the lead single.

“Absolutely no problem!” Ikeda Yuka beamed, “This is classic J-pop, loved by people over 25—the demographic with the strongest purchasing power!”

Luo Quan smiled and stood up: “I’ll start recording right away. Please handle the promotion, Director Ishimura.”

Director Ishimura nodded: “Rest assured about promotion. As for the contract, we’ll offer the market’s highest price—is that acceptable?”

Luo Quan asked curiously: “What’s the market’s highest price?”

“Exclusive global licensing, bundled price… 150 million yen, with additional royalties from album sales,” Director Ishimura paused, then named a staggering sum.

In Huaxia, a top-streaming singer’s album licensing fee of ten million is not uncommon, but albums are almost always digital—fans pay around ten yuan, most access via VIP streaming, some even for free.

For Huaxia’s music platforms, paying heavily for exclusive licenses is pure loss-leader marketing; recouping costs through album sales is nearly impossible. They care more about the fanbase and traffic the star brings—that’s where the real profit lies.

But Japan is different. Though the physical music market has declined from its former glory, even a dead camel is bigger than a horse—Japan’s music market remains the world’s second-largest and Asia’s number one, with physical sales hitting 200 billion yen and easily surpassing a billion units.

In such a market, a breakout album brings terrifying profits—so as long as it sells well, recouping costs is no concern.

Take Luo Quan’s first mini-album: it’s sold 2.4 million copies, generating 3.1 billion yen in revenue. After taxes, promotion, and miscellaneous costs, net profit still exceeds 2 billion yen.

Of this massive sum, over half goes to the company, about 30% to record stores, and the remaining 15% is split among producer, composer, lyricist, Japan Music Copyright Association, and vocalist.

The producer gets the most—10%—while the vocalist gets the least: just 1%, even less than the lyricist or composer.

This is the ecosystem of Japan’s music industry: producers and creators earn the most outside of distributors and retailers, while the singer—the very person fans pay for—earns the least, the exact opposite of Huaxia.

This is why most Japanese singers have strong creative abilities; few outsource their entire albums. Even if they can’t write good melodies, they’ll strain their minds to write lyrics—because if you only sing, you earn far too little.

After all, not everyone is Luo Quan—her album hasn’t even started recording yet, and she’s already earned over a hundred million yen in licensing fees. That’s the treatment of a major female artist.

Notably, every song Luo Quan has ever released was entirely her own work—from instrument sampling and arrangement to recording—all producer duties, no one else taking a cut.

So when Sony “divides the gold by weight” in a few days, Luo Quan will receive an enormous sum—even larger than this sky-high licensing fee.

Luo Quan walked toward the door: “I’ll head to the studio now. I’ll record the lead single first; other material will take some time—I’ll finish within three days.”

If she pushed hard, she could finish in a day and a half—she knew exactly how to produce an album; no technical hurdles existed.

But why rush if you can drag it out? She wasn’t a corporate slave…

When Luo Quan got home, it was already eight p.m. She’d said she didn’t want to overtime, yet she’d sat in the studio for over ten hours, eating instant noodles for lunch.

Deep in every Huaxian’s bones lies a gene for diligence—“Take pride in hard work, despise laziness”—this is a life creed every youth recites since elementary school. Though Luo Quan’s education was modest, she understood these principles.

She’d wasted half her life before; now that she had something to do, she’d work hard. It was a simple, humble value—otherwise, she’d truly become a parasite on society.

When Luo Quan returned home, she found her two “parasites” had also eaten simply: spinach and lean pork congee—with no spinach leaves, no diced pork.

“Luo Luo, you’re finally back~~~” Wen Xia and Junko sat dazed by the table, seeing Luo Quan enter like a savior.

Junko looked hopeful: “I’m starving! Did you bring us food, Senpai?”

Luo Quan blinked: “Didn’t I buy you vegetables and meat?”

She knew takeout was unhealthy, and since she often went to the company, she’d bought plenty of groceries days ago and stocked the fridge—enough for Wen Xia and Junko to eat for a week.

“Isn’t this big pot of congee delicious?” Luo Quan stared at the steaming, visually appealing bowl, puzzled.

“Taste it yourself,” Junko handed her a spoon.

Luo Quan eyed the two women suspiciously, noticing Wen Xia’s face flushed crimson, as if she’d done something shameful.

She scooped a spoonful and immediately spat it out:

“Pfft! Is this pig feed?!”

It was mushy, overly salty, with a faint meaty stink—obviously overcooked, the pork underdone, utterly inedible.

“You cooked this?” Luo Quan raised the spoon, asking Wen Xia.

Wen Xia nodded shyly: “I followed a video on my phone. It looked fine—I had no idea it’d taste so weird.”

Luo Quan chuckled helplessly: “You’re better off as an idol who never touches a kitchen—this ruins your image. Tonight, I’ll cook for you both.”