"Of course, it depends first on how many years and which regions you want to authorize the publishing rights for."
As he spoke, without waiting for Lin Baicheng to ask further, Xie Yunshan continued:
"Normally, we sign a ten-year authorization with writers. Ten years is the baseline, and the more years you authorize, the higher the royalties we'll pay.
As for your novel, Mr. Lin, it definitely won't be sold to Western countries—we simply don't have those channels. But for Southeast Asia, Hong Kong, Macau, Taiwan—we have the networks there. If you're willing to authorize all those regions, we'll raise the royalties accordingly."
"My novel is really that popular?"
Lin Baicheng shook his head; it all sounded somewhat unreliable.
"Mr. Lin, you misunderstand. Your novel has only just begun spreading in Hong Kong. It hasn't even become a full sensation here yet, let alone elsewhere."
Xie Yunshan smiled, then added:
"But the regions I mentioned either share the same culture or have large Chinese populations. These are natural markets. Take Jin Yong and Gu Long for example—their novels are wildly popular in those places.
As long as your novel truly explodes in Hong Kong, then the chances are high it will do the same in those other regions. That's why we at the publishing house are eager to sign with you now. Even if it doesn't work out later, that risk is ours, not yours."
"I see what you mean."
Lin Baicheng nodded. This Haohan Publishing was essentially betting on the future: pay a modest price now for the rights, and if the novel really took off regionally, they'd strike gold. If not, the loss would be manageable.
"Mr. Lin, there's one thing you may not know."
Xie Yunshan leaned forward:
"In Hong Kong, the copyright system is indeed sound. But piracy is rampant. Those little workshops that churn out pirated novels? You can't sue them—you can't even find them. Unless a writer is willing to pour a fortune into endless lawsuits, it's hopeless.
But big publishers like us—we're in the business legitimately. We don't pirate, but we know exactly who does. That means if we publish your work, very few of our peers would dare pirate it.
And we ourselves, as a large company, can't touch piracy either—we're too visible, too easy to catch. That's why we need to sign proper authorization contracts with authors like you.
So, working with a major publisher is truly your safest choice. Otherwise, once piracy spreads, your rights will be worth far less."
"That's true."
Lin Baicheng's heart stirred. He knew the man wasn't threatening him—it was simply the truth. Piracy was indeed rampant in Hong Kong at this time, just as it would later be in mainland China in the 1990s. That was the reality of the times.
"Mr. Xie, if I were to sell my publishing rights to your company outright—permanently—how much would you be willing to pay?"
"This—"
Xie Yunshan was taken aback. Out of goodwill, he reminded:
"Mr. Lin, selling the rights outright may get you a lump sum now, but with authorization, you'd receive royalties year after year. If the novel holds its quality, that's a very steady income stream."
"Thank you for the reminder, but I have my own plans."
Lin Baicheng smiled politely. What he wanted most was a large sum of cash up front. Only then could he invest in the business he had already envisioned—one that could earn far more than royalties ever would.
"As long as Mr. Lin knows what he's doing."
Xie Yunshan didn't press further. After all, they had only just met. Advising once was kindness, but pushing too much would only be annoying.
"Mr. Lin, you also know that I came today to discuss authorization. I hadn't expected an outright sale of rights, so I'll need to report this back to the company. They'll have to decide."
"No problem, go ahead. I'm not in a rush anyway."
Lin Baicheng nodded, adding:
"Besides, my novel has only serialized about a hundred thousand words so far. It's too early to sell the rights now. Once it's a third or halfway through, by then you'll know whether the story holds up or fizzles out. That's when your publishing house can make an informed decision.
Even if you decide right now, I still wouldn't sell immediately."
"So you're confident in your novel, and just waiting for the right moment to drive up the price, eh?"
Xie Yunshan laughed. He could see Lin Baicheng's thinking clearly enough—but it was human nature. He'd do the same.
"Of course!"
Lin Baicheng chuckled. Selling the rights this early, with only a fraction serialized, would only invite the publisher to lowball him. If he waited until a third or half was released, whether the story would collapse or not would be obvious. At that point, the publisher couldn't use uncertainty to suppress the price, and he could sell for much more.
Since no deal was struck, the two simply chatted a little more before parting ways.
Over the next few days, Xie Yunshan didn't contact him again, and Lin Baicheng naturally didn't reach out either. He focused on continuing his novel—though in truth, now all he needed to do was dictate, and the copyists would handle the writing.
Whether a deal with Haohan Publishing would come through or not, the publishing rights would have to be sold eventually—it was only a matter of timing.
So Lin Baicheng turned to Hu Zhiwen to ask about the specifics of the publishing industry at this time.
Hu Zhiwen explained that the current system was disadvantageous to individual authors. As Xie had said, piracy was rampant. Only by licensing rights to a professional publisher could a writer realistically earn royalties.
Hu also advised Lin Baicheng to insert one condition when licensing Hong Kong rights: make sure the published volumes lag behind the serialized newspaper version by at least 100,000 characters.
As a 25% shareholder in The Star Daily, Lin Baicheng of course agreed immediately.