“Jiang Man again. Why is she everywhere?”
Lin Wanwan was pondering the connection between this matter and Jiang Man when she was interrupted by the vibration of her phone.
At that moment, her phone was receiving hundreds of messages per second, becoming so hot she could barely hold it. She had to place it on the table, set to silent mode, watching the numbers on the screen skyrocket.
Lin Weiguo sat beside her, clutching the yellowed manuscript paper, not uttering a word.
He had been staring at it for a full hour, repeatedly rubbing the corners of the paper until they were nearly worn through.
Xu Jia was on the phone, one call after another, her expression growing increasingly complex. Her phone was also running low on battery, so she searched for a power bank while taking calls.
After hanging up the eighth call, Xu Jia walked over and sat down in front of Lin Wanwan.
“What’s going on?” Lin Wanwan asked.
Xu Jia looked at her, silent for two seconds, then said, “You’ve gone viral!”
“Not just ordinary viral, but inexplicably viral.”
She paused. “A lot of people are looking for you.”
Xu Jia’s phone rang again.
She glanced at the caller ID and raised her eyebrows.
“Who is it?” Lin Wanwan asked.
Xu Jia turned the screen toward her, showing the incoming call: “China Music Copyright Association.”
Lin Wanwan was taken aback.
“The China Music Copyright Association, the most authoritative copyright organization in the industry.”
Xu Jia answered the call, putting it on speakerphone.
On the other end was the voice of a middle-aged man, polite but with an official tone: “Is this Ms. Lin Wanwan’s agent?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Hello, I’m from the legal department of the Music Copyright Association, surnamed Chen. We’ve seen the evidence provided by Ms. Lin and have been following the online discussions. May I ask if Ms. Lin could provide the complete chain of evidence? Including the original manuscript, contracts, and audio recordings.”
Xu Jia glanced at Lin Wanwan.
Lin Wanwan nodded.
Xu Jia said, “Yes. When?”
“The sooner, the better. We’ve already formed a special task force and are preparing to initiate an investigation. If the evidence is verified, we will legally recommend to the relevant authorities that the original copyright registration be revoked.”
After hanging up, Xu Jia looked at Lin Wanwan. “It’s rare for the Music Copyright Association to reach out proactively.”
Lin Wanwan remained silent, thinking to herself, “Who is driving the momentum of this matter?”
She looked down at the yellowed manuscript paper in her hand. These were all her grandmother’s handwriting, every stroke written by her grandmother herself. After more than thirty years, someone was finally going to investigate.
Real-time trending topics exploded again:
#Music Copyright Association Involved in Investigation?# (Explosive)
#Zhou Haoran Remains Silent!# (Explosive)
#Who Owns the Copyright for “The Person in the Dream”?# (Explosive)
Under the topics, the comments had gone wild:
“The Music Copyright Association has stepped in. It’s confirmed!”
“Where’s Zhou Haoran? Speak up!”
“Weren’t they going to sue Lin Wanwan? Go ahead and sue!”
“Thirty years. It’s time to pay back!”
Just as netizens were frantically tagging Zhou Haoran, another trending topic quietly climbed up the list.
#Wang Wushi: I’m Also a Victim!#
Clicking into the video under this trending topic, the footage showed a man in his fifties, wearing an old cotton-padded jacket, sitting in a shabby living room, crying into the camera.
In the background were peeling walls, an old wooden table, and stacks of yellowed manuscript papers piled on the table.
“My name is Wang Wushi, I’m a songwriter.” His voice was hoarse, carrying a local accent. “Thirty years ago, I wrote twenty songs for Starlight Publishing House, but I never received a single cent. Those songs later became someone else’s, and none of them were credited to me.”
He took out a stack of yellowed manuscript papers and flipped through them for the camera. “These are what I wrote back then. That song ‘Spring Meteor Shower’ was later sung by Zhang Wei, credited to Zhang Wei. That song ‘When Missing You’ was later sung by Li Na, credited to Li Na. And this one, ‘The Great River of My Hometown,’ was later used in a TV drama, with neither the lyrics nor composition credited to me.”
He wiped his tears, his hands trembling. “Lin Wanwan, thank you for standing up. I didn’t dare, I was afraid of them. But since you’ve stepped forward, I want to try too.”
“I’m sixty-three this year. If I don’t try now, it’ll be too late.”
This video was instantly shared over a million times across major trending platforms, with comments filled with tearful emojis.
After Wang Wushi’s video, a second victim came forward.
She was a woman in her sixties, with completely white hair, sitting in a wheelchair.
“My name is Chen Xiuying, and I’m also a songwriter. Forty years ago, I wrote a song called ‘White Clouds of Hometown,’ which was taken by the publishing house. Later, this song became a hit sung by a Hong Kong singer, renamed ‘Hometown Clouds,’ with neither the lyrics nor composition credited to me.”
She took out a photo of her younger self, standing beside a piano.
“I’ve been paralyzed for twenty years, and I’ve always wanted to see my own name in my lifetime.”
Third victim:
“My name is Liu Zhiming. I’ve been writing songs for thirty-five years, and not a single one has ever been credited to me.”
Fourth victim:
“My name is Zhang Guifang. I’ve been writing for twenty years, and I’m still writing now, but none of the published songs bear my name.”
Fifth victim:
Sixth victim:
Tenth victim:
…
By noon, eighteen lyricists and composers had stepped forward to speak up for themselves.
They were all elderly people with gray hair and wrinkled faces, all of whom had been writing songs for decades but had never had their names credited.
They brought out yellowed manuscripts, old contracts, and letters from the past.
As their evidence piled up like a mountain, the trending topics updated:
#Eighteen Creators Jointly Report!# (Explosive)
#We Are All Lin Wanwan!# (Explosive)
#Music Industry Earthquake!# (Explosive)
Zhou Haoran’s Weibo, after six hours of silence, finally updated.
The update wasn’t a lawyer’s letter or a statement, but a video.
In the video, he wore a white shirt and sat in front of the camera, with a wall of books in the background. His eyes were red, his voice hoarse, and he looked much more haggard.
He said, “I want to say a few words about the song ‘The Person in the Dream.'”
“Over thirty years ago, I was just a young newcomer, knowing nothing. The publishing house gave me this song to sing, claiming it was their copyright and had been bought outright. Back then, I was too eager to become famous, only focused on singing the song well, and never thought about the copyright or the issue of authorship.”
“All these years, I always thought this song was my own work. I didn’t know there was an original author behind it, let alone what she has been through… all these years.”
He lowered his head, wiped the corner of his eye, and paused for a few seconds. “Ms. Lin Wanwan, I’m sorry to you, and I’m sorry to your grandmother.”
“If I had known the truth, I would have contacted her immediately and given her the respect she deserves.”
“I am willing to return all earnings from this song. At the same time, I will establish an original creator fund to help those whose rights have been infringed upon to defend themselves.”
He looked up at the camera. “Please give me a chance to make amends.”
As soon as this video was posted, the comments instantly surpassed a million, but the court of public opinion was not what Zhou Haoran had expected.
“Thirty years, and you claim you didn’t know?”
“Jiang Min’s name was written on the contract—couldn’t you see it?”
“Couldn’t you see that line in the supplementary clause either?”
“It’s too late to apologize now that you’ve been exposed!”
“Return all the earnings? Is that really up to you?”
“You’ve been singing it for over thirty years, earning hundreds of millions, and now you say ‘return all the earnings’?”
“You played dumb when infringing, and now you act pitiful after being exposed?”
“Zhou Haoran, get out of the entertainment industry!”
Zhou Haoran’s comment section was flooded with backlash from netizens. His fans tried to control the narrative, but it was impossible.
Simply because there were too many bystanders, too many creators whose rights had been infringed upon, and too many angry people.
The comments under the official Weibo account of Starlight Publishing House had already exceeded five million, all demanding answers: “Speak up!”
“What’s the deal with those contracts?”
“How many people have you cheated?”
“Hand over the list of original authors!”
“Stop hiding, come out!”
But some netizens discovered that Starlight Publishing House’s official website was inaccessible, and media reports claimed that no one was answering the company’s phone.
Journalists stationed outside reported back: the doors were tightly shut, the inside was pitch dark, not a single person was in sight—it seemed they had fled!
At this moment, the hashtag #StarlightPublishingHouseFlees trended on social media.
Lin Wanwan started another livestream.
This time, she didn’t say anything. She simply pointed her phone toward the window.
Outside, the sunlight was bright. In the yard, her supporters were still there.
Old Zhou was patrolling with his team, and Brother Li stood at the entrance, back straight and unwavering. They had been guarding for two days and two nights, without shifts or complaints.
In the distance, a few elderly people stood outside the crowd.
Lin Wanwan zoomed in with the camera and said, “Those are some of the creators who have come forward.”
“They are Wang Wushi, Chen Xiuying, Liu Zhiming…”
They had arrived at some point, standing there with hunched backs, looking toward the house.
Lin Wanwan spoke to the camera. “Do you see them?”
“Those people, who wrote songs for decades, never once had their names credited.”
“They’re here today.”
“To see if they can reclaim justice.”
The comments flooded the screen:
“I see them!”
“They’re outside?!”
“Lin Wanwan, let them come inside!”
Lin Wanwan stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open.
She called out to the elderly people:
“Teacher Wang, Teacher Chen, Teacher Liu, please come in and sit!”
The elderly people froze, looking at each other, unsure of what to do.
Lin Wanwan walked over and took Wang Wushi’s hand.
His hand was rough, covered in calluses, but warm.
“Since you’re here, come inside for a cup of hot water.”
Wang Wushi’s eyes reddened, and he nodded.
Inside, Lin Weiguo brought plastic stools, Xu Jia poured hot water, and Lin Wanwan offered her own bed for Chen Xiuying to sit on.
The elderly people gathered together, looking at one another, no one saying a word.
Wang Wushi sat on a plastic stool, hunched over, holding a cup in both hands. After a long silence, he finally spoke: “In my lifetime, I’ve written over three hundred songs.”
“Less than thirty were ever published.”
“Not a single one bears my name.”
He laughed, a bitter laugh: “I’ve gotten used to it.”
“I thought writing songs was just for others to use, whether my name was on them or not didn’t matter.”
“But today…”
He looked at Lin Wanwan, his eyes reddening again: “I saw you step forward.”
“I saw your grandmother’s manuscript.”
“I saw those words your grandmother wrote: ‘Subsequent earnings to be negotiated separately.'”
“Your grandmother knew back then that this song would be valuable someday.”
“She wasn’t writing it for herself.”
“She was writing it for you.”
Lin Wanwan said nothing.
Wang Wushi continued: “I have children too.”
“My daughter is forty now. When she was little, she asked me, ‘Dad, why don’t your songs have your name on them?'”
“I said, ‘It doesn’t matter, as long as the songs are good.'”
“She said, ‘But I want to see your name on TV.'”
He lowered his head, his voice hoarse: “My daughter has waited forty years, and she’s still waiting.”
The room suddenly fell silent.
Chen Xiuying sat by the bed, a blanket draped over her legs. Her voice was soft, as if afraid of waking someone: “That song of mine, ‘White Clouds of Hometown,’ was written in 1978.”
“I had just gotten married then. My husband had gone off to serve in the military. I missed him, so I wrote this song. It carried all my longing for him.”
“When the publishing house took the song, they said they’d put my name on it.”
“Later, when the song became popular, someone else’s name was on it.”
“I went to confront them, but they said the contract was signed and there was nothing they could do.”
She smiled, her eyes dry, as if she had long since cried all her tears: “I’ve been paralyzed for twenty years.”
“All this time, I’ve wanted to see my own name before I go.”
Lin Wanwan’s phone suddenly vibrated. She glanced down and saw a message from an unknown number, containing just one line: “Thank you for helping my grandmother seek justice.”
She froze, dialed the number back, but it was disconnected.
She stared at the message for a long time, then handed it to Xu Jia.
Xu Jia read it and fell silent for a few seconds before saying: “Another one.”
“Just like that ‘Capital Bane’ from last time.”
Lin Wanwan nodded.
The real-time trending topics updated: #ThankYouForHelpingMyGrandmotherSeekJustice#
Comments section:
“Who sent this?”
“Is it that mysterious person again?”
“Was their grandmother also a victim of infringement?”
“How many people are behind this…”
“Lin Wanwan isn’t just fighting for herself—she’s fighting for everyone.”
Just then, Xu Jia’s phone rang.
She answered, listened for a few moments, and her expression changed. After hanging up, she looked at Lin Wanwan: “The people from Starlight Publishing House have been arrested.”
Lin Wanwan was stunned: “What?”
Xu Jia said: “Just got the news. They tried to leave the country but were stopped at the airport.”
“Apparently, they had over a hundred original contracts in their luggage.”
“On those contracts…”
She paused: “Every single one had the original author’s name.”
The room fell silent.
The elderly looked at each other, unable to believe it.
Wang Wushi stood up, his hands trembling: “Arrested? Really arrested?”
Xu Jia nodded.
Chen Xiuying covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
Lin Weiguo stood nearby, clutching that yellowed manuscript, unable to speak a word.
After the news spread, the internet exploded.
Someone exposed parts of those contracts, which contained a long list of over a hundred names—all original creators whose rights had been infringed upon over the past thirty years.
Among those hundred names, some had already passed away, some had gone missing, and some were still alive but had grown old.
Comments from Lin Wanwan’s livestream:
“So many victims? This involves over a hundred lyricists and composers!”
“This isn’t an isolated case—it’s an industry chain in the music world!”
“Starlight Publishing House specializes in this!”
“There must be someone behind this!”
“Investigate! Get to the bottom of this!”