Chapter 23: The Exchange of Signature Rights

Less than a minute after Li Mu finished speaking, Zhang Kexuan hurried to the lounge, grabbed twenty thousand yuan in cash, and stuffed it straight into Li Mu's arms.

“Brother Mu, keep the money first. As for that music website you mentioned, the four of us are at your disposal—no matter how dangerous, just say the word.”

Li Mu was surprised. He hadn’t even played a single song, and already twenty thousand had been thrown his way? Well, the more straightforward the person, the better the cooperation.

“Don’t rush the music website just yet—I haven’t started it. Once there’s a prototype, I’ll let you know.”

The four nodded rapidly, as if pounding garlic.

Chen Wan felt her worldview collapsing. These four, usually arrogant and defiant, had somehow been thoroughly subdued by an eighteen-year-old? Especially Ye Tianming, the drummer—his father was one of Nanjing’s top real estate tycoons, and she’d known him for years. When had he ever yielded to anyone?

But these four rich second-generation heirs, instead of simply enjoying their privileges, harbored a rock ‘n’ roll dream. The most absurd part was that any one of their families could easily sponsor a national band competition out of pocket money. Yet they refused to buy victories—they’d spend on equipment or buy songs from Li Mu, but never purchase rankings. At least they had some integrity.

Li Mu pocketed the cash and waved grandly, “Bring paper and pen, I’ll write the lyrics for you now.”

Though Li Mu could play a bit of guitar, truth be told, he couldn’t write music notation. That required solid theory and years of ear training. He could only jot down the lyrics and chord progressions, teach the four the basics, and once they got the hang of the accompaniment, coach them through the vocals.

Zhang Kexuan looked at the lyrics, a bit baffled. “Brother Mu, I can mostly follow, but what does ‘If I could do it again, I’d choose Li Bai’ mean?”

Li Mu waved it off, “Just for the rhyme. Don’t overthink it.”

“True enough.” Zhang Kexuan shrugged and continued reading with the others. The lyrics’ deeper meaning was unclear, but there was certainly a hint of rebelliousness.

To help them nail the accompaniment, Li Mu had Zhang Kexuan hand over the electric guitar so he could listen and learn the melody.

Thankfully, though their skill was average, their basic accompaniment was adequate.

As soon as the rhythm of Li Ronghao’s “Li Bai” kicked in, the vibe was immediate.

Zhang Kexuan listened to Li Mu and the band’s prelude, unconsciously tapping out the beat, lyrics in hand, waiting for Li Mu to start singing.

Chen Wan edged closer; she was more eager than the band to hear Li Mu’s “original” piece.

“Most people want me to study and observe the world’s opinions; I diligently learned the world’s opinions, worldly till dawn…”

Li Mu didn’t particularly like this song—mainly the lyrics. They sufficed as a pop song, but on close inspection, they felt somewhat forced. Still, the melody was solid, catchy, and rhythmic—it was easy to follow, and the atmosphere live would be fantastic.

So, after Li Mu sang just two lines, Zhang Kexuan was already bouncing with excitement.

Nothing but brilliant!

The other three, busy with accompaniment, couldn’t express themselves too freely, but their faces radiated the kind of happiness that couldn’t be hidden.

Li Mu sang three times, and Zhang Kexuan had already picked it up. His musical intuition was decent—after a few rounds, he’d mastered the melody and rhythm. All that remained was to capture that casual, carefree attitude.

For the four band members, Li Mu’s song felt even better than the previous two. As beginner rockers, their lack of depth could be forgiven, but Chen Wan was far more discerning; she sensed the gap between “Li Bai” and the other two folk-style songs was considerable.

While the band was energetically rehearsing “Li Bai,” Chen Wan quietly asked Li Mu how he managed to write songs with such different styles. His answer left her speechless.

“‘Li Bai’ was written when I was a freshman in high school—young and impulsive, my mind was restless then.”

Damn it.

Not Chen Wan, but Li Mu himself.

He felt his skin growing thicker and thicker.

Chen Wan was at a loss. Young and reckless in freshman year, but now—only a senior—had he matured already? What a strange boy...

No, a strange, godlike boy...

By the time the band had mastered the song, it was five in the afternoon. If Zhang Kexuan’s voice hadn’t given out, he’d have gladly sung “Li Bai” ten, no, twenty more times. He thought the song was incredible. Its lyrics, in essence, matched what he’d always wanted to write in “Mom, Please Take Me Home Soon,” but Li Mu’s version was more sophisticated, more subtle—simply brilliant.

After packing up their instruments, the four huddled in a corner and dispatched the bassist. Zhang Kexuan then hurried over to Li Mu, grinning apologetically. “Brother Mu, I’ll get your other two songs ready. We got so caught up with ‘Li Bai’ that we forgot.”

Li Mu felt a bit embarrassed. “You’re all older than me—just call me Xiao Mu.”

He then asked, “How should I address the others?”

The drummer, who had been acting cool but ultimately conceded, extended his right hand. “Brother Mu, I’m Ye Tianming—just call me Tianming. Don’t hold any grudges about earlier.”

The other guitarist reached out as well. “Brother Mu, I’m Xia Ji—like the summer season.”

Li Mu shook hands with each, politely. “Just call me Xiao Mu, or I won’t dare come back.”

He then asked, “Hey, where’s the bassist?”

Zhang Kexuan replied, “He’s Gu Wei—went out on some errand, he’ll be back soon.”

As he spoke, Zhang Kexuan quickly prepared Li Mu’s other two songs, burning several discs in lossless, mp3, and wmv formats.

When he finished, the bassist Gu Wei returned, carrying a brown paper bag, which he handed to Zhang Kexuan.

Zhang Kexuan peeked inside, then pushed it toward Li Mu and said honestly, “There’s sixty thousand here. The four of us discussed it—such great songs, two thousand isn’t enough. We each chipped in twenty thousand.”

Li Mu was puzzled and didn’t accept it, waiting for Zhang Kexuan to explain.

Blushing, Zhang Kexuan hesitated. “Well… it’s like this. We think, for the band competition, we need an original song. So…”

Li Mu instantly understood.

Zhang Kexuan wanted the lyricist and composer credit for “Li Bai.”

Honestly, eighty thousand for a solid song to perform wasn’t cheap, but not exorbitant either—if sold to a singer, say, a star performed Li Mu’s piece, the copyright would belong to the singer or their record company, and the song would be included in their album. But the cover, lyrics, and music video must credit the composer and lyricist: “Lyrics: Li Mu, Music: Li Mu.” Authorship matters—it’s the song’s creative pedigree.

Chen Wan caught on and felt it was a bit much, immediately protesting. “Hey, Li Mu’s already generous letting you sing his song—how can you ask for this?”

Zhang Kexuan was embarrassed.

It was about saving face. Think about it—a band’s supposed to be all original. Who ever heard of a group needing someone else to write their songs? It’d be humiliating. Domestic bands like Black Panther, Tang Dynasty, Overload, or foreign ones like Guns N’ Roses, Nirvana—they might cover classics, but otherwise, it’s all their own work.

Li Mu thought for a moment and calmly asked, “If I write songs for you in the future, you’ll want the authorship too, right?”

Zhang Kexuan looked mortified and lowered his head. “Brother Mu, name your price!”

Li Mu nodded. “It’s not impossible. But in that case, the music website will rely entirely on you for funding and support.”

Fair is fair. Since they’d be entering a national contest—multiple regional rounds, a couple of finals—they’d need at least three or four songs. If Li Mu gave up authorship, he’d need proper compensation.

Zhang Kexuan perked up. “Oh, is that all? No problem—just say the word. For the music website, funding and effort are all on us. Shares are yours!”

“Deal.”