The Man Who Missed Out on 1.2 Billion Dollars

So far, besides Li Dan Niu, not a single person in this world had ever laid eyes on “The Lord of the Rings.” Burns was the first to learn of the book’s existence, but as far as he was concerned, Li Dan Niu—the supposed author—possessed no literary talent whatsoever. He had shown no aptitude for writing since childhood, nor had he ever achieved anything noteworthy in the literary field. Burns remembered clearly that the leave of absence he processed for Li Dan Niu was from the Computer Science department at Harvard. If Li Dan Niu claimed to have developed some groundbreaking software, Burns might believe him; after all, Harvard had produced plenty of tech talents over the years. But literature? That wasn’t a field where typing speed determined success.

Therefore, for the sake of maintaining his own dignity as His Majesty the King, Burns had never requested to see the manuscript Li Dan Niu spoke of.

The next person to learn of the book’s existence was Castro, whom Li Dan Niu had brought with him to America. Castro wasn’t as cautious as Burns, and as the lawyer responsible for negotiating the book’s publication, he should, in theory, have read the manuscript to gain some advantage. However, Castro did not dare.

There’s an old saying: to serve a king is like living with a tiger. Though the Tuvaluan royal family had only reached its second generation in recent decades, and the late king had never earned a reputation for cruelty—in fact, he was beloved by his people—who could say what kind of temperament his successor, Li Dan Niu, possessed?

No one in Tuvalu truly understood Li Dan Niu, who had just announced his ascension to the throne after spending over a decade in the United States—leaving Tuvalu at age six and returning at twenty-three. Only the late king and queen, and a nanny who had cared for Li Dan Niu, truly knew him. But the king and queen had perished in a plane crash, and the nanny, having been dismissed when Li Dan Niu turned eighteen to cut expenses, later obtained a U.S. green card after living in America for over twelve years with no criminal record. She never returned to Tuvalu.

Castro’s instincts told him it was absolutely unwise to request the king’s manuscript—there would be no safe way to comment on it.

Say it’s good? On what grounds?

Say it’s bad? Guards, take him out and shoot him.

Castro was deeply concerned such a conversation might occur, so from the moment he left the house with Li Dan Niu until now, sitting in the chief editor Harry’s office, he had not so much as glanced at the manuscript in his hands.

The only person to whom Li Dan Niu actually handed part of the manuscript was Harry. But Harry showed no interest whatsoever; he flipped through the pages, checked that nothing was out of order, and immediately suggested self-publishing.

Li Dan Niu almost feared that the original author of this book might materialize out of thin air and strangle Harry in a fit of rage.

“So, have you made your decision?” Harry asked indifferently. “The self-publishing price really can’t go any lower, and I’ve already waived our standard per-book handling fee.”

Li Dan Niu was thoroughly disappointed in Harry—not only had he failed to recognize the book’s true value, but he even seemed intent on fleecing them. Perhaps Harry saw Li Dan Niu and his companions as naïve islanders from an isolated little country, and so he padded the self-publishing costs.

Although Li Dan Niu had never lived in America, search engines existed in this world, and he’d already researched the printing costs of books before coming. Depending on the quality and materials, a book could cost anywhere from a few dollars to several dozen. High-end magazines, for instance, used top-grade coated paper, and in a country like the U.S., with its high labor costs, the price per copy could reach dozens of dollars, including distribution.

Yet up to this point, Harry hadn’t even specified the printing style or the number of volumes—he merely tossed out a flat five dollars per book. If you printed the book on newspaper stock, no matter how much of a classic it was, nobody would want to buy it.

“Mr. Harry, I have a few questions before I can make a decision,” Li Dan Niu said, ignoring Castro’s helpless glance. Now he had to take matters into his own hands.

“It’s my duty to answer your questions,” Harry replied, though he clearly cared little for the deal. Even if it went through, at most he’d carve out a few thousand dollars in commission from the costs. He didn’t believe the book would sell. In his eyes, it would be lucky to land in a few bookstores before gathering dust in a warehouse, ultimately destined for the scrap heap.

Still, this was a king sitting before him. Chatting a little more would at least give him a story to brag about at parties, wouldn’t it?

“First, I’d like to know what the sample copy looks like at five dollars per book.”

Hearing the question, Harry realized this king wouldn’t be so easily taken in. Clearly a man who cared about his image—he’d have to settle for a slimmer profit margin.

“Very similar to this one.” Harry pulled a novel from the shelf behind him—a standard market edition.

After inspecting it, Li Dan Niu found it acceptable; the edition of “The Lord of the Rings” he’d purchased looked much the same.

“Second question: I intend to publish my book in three volumes, each about half the thickness of this one. How will this affect the cost?”

“Well…” Harry now regretted accepting the king’s questions. Why should a self-publishing fame-seeker care so much about details? Three volumes? Did he think that would boost sales?

“The exact price depends on the print run, but splitting into volumes will definitely raise the total cost, since each requires a separate print job. A set would cost about eight dollars.”

In truth, Harry’s quoting method was irresponsible. The real cost couldn’t be known until after typesetting. But since he was just after a bit of commission, he tacked on a dollar or two. He didn’t dare add more, knowing Tuvalu’s economic situation—too high a price might scare them off.

Li Dan Niu was quite satisfied with this quote. If he set the retail price at twenty dollars per set, eight dollars would be forty percent in royalties. That meant he’d get the highest royalty rate in the industry—sixty percent—far more than the forty percent he’d expected. But, since this was self-publishing, it meant Li Dan Niu would pay for printing. Whether the book sold or not, the publisher would still pocket those eight dollars—a risk-free profit.

With traditional publishing, the publisher would front the printing costs, and if the books didn’t sell, they wouldn’t even recover the printing expenses, let alone eight dollars per copy. In some places, publishers deduct the printing costs before splitting the proceeds.

“My third and final question,” Li Dan Niu continued, pleased with the numbers but needing one more point clarified: “If this book sells, say, one thousand sets at twenty dollars each, do I keep all twenty thousand dollars?”

A thousand sets? Harry sneered inwardly at the modest ambition. “Of course, you keep it all. Self-publishing is costly. Many celebrities self-publish and only recoup part of the expense through their fame, if at all. Whether you recover your costs depends on the print run, and that usually matches your fan base. We at Lunar Press have worked with many celebrities, so you have nothing to worry about. Never mind a thousand sets—even if you sell ten thousand, every penny above shipping costs is yours.”

Listening to Harry’s insufferable words, Li Dan Niu was tempted to bypass the publisher entirely and go straight to a printing plant. But books require an official registration number, something only a legitimate publisher can provide. Besides, publishers have established channels with distributors and bookstores—that’s why writers favor big publishing houses: the larger the publisher, the wider the sales network. Without such distribution, even with a fan base, readers wouldn’t be able to buy the book.

Laugh while you still can, Li Dan Niu thought. When my book becomes a hit, let’s see if you’re still smiling. After indulging in this fantasy, he said, “Very well, I agree to publish the book with your company. Castro, please finalize the paperwork with Mr. Harry.”

Am I needed at last? Castro, who had been waiting patiently, finally had his moment to shine.

As a professional lawyer, Castro was certainly competent—otherwise Tuvalu wouldn’t have hired him as their legal counsel, even if they were the only country willing to do so.

The formalities were simple; Harry had a standard contract template ready. But Castro, following Li Dan Niu’s instructions, included several key clauses.

First, Lunar Press would have exclusive publishing rights only within the United States; all other rights to “The Lord of the Rings” would remain with Li Dan Niu.

Second, for publication in any other country, interested parties would have to contact Li Dan Niu directly—Lunar Press would have no say.

Third, the initial print run would be one hundred thousand sets, which Lunar Press would be required to distribute appropriately according to regional purchasing power.

Fourth, any reprints due to market demand would require Li Dan Niu’s authorization, and the right to reprint would belong to him. Lunar Press would have the right of first refusal only under equal conditions.

…

On the surface, the contract greatly protected Li Dan Niu’s interests—but only if the book sold and was accepted by the market.

Harry was willing to sign because he had no faith in the book’s prospects, nor did he believe a king could write. If it were the autobiography of the President of the United States, leader of the free world, sales might be strong. But the king of some tiny speck of a country, writing a bizarre tale of elves and dwarves? What cultural foundation could Tuvalu possibly have for such stories?

Once the contract was signed, both parties were satisfied—Li Dan Niu because he was about to make a fortune, and Harry because the king had ordered an initial print run of one hundred thousand sets, guaranteeing his monthly performance bonus.

Castro insisted that Harry stamp the original manuscript with the official seal and take photographs for the record before handing over a copy.

Harry, meanwhile, passed the manuscript off to his assistant with a sneer at Castro’s caution.

“Rest assured, Mr. Lawyer, Lunar Press has been in business for over fifty years—longer than your country has existed—so our reputation is solid.”

Castro forced a smile, saying nothing. It wasn’t that he distrusted Lunar Press, but professional paranoia and his fear of Li Dan Niu made him cautious. After all, Tuvalu was not like America; it still had the death penalty, and its laws were essentially at the king’s discretion.

What if Li Dan Niu turned out to be a tyrant? If he botched his first assignment for the king, he’d be finished.

Li Dan Niu, unaware of Castro’s inner turmoil, would surely have praised his prudence if he’d known—he might even have promised to reward him handsomely in the future. After all, he’d never killed anyone; the largest animal he’d ever dispatched in his life was a fish.

“Pleasure doing business!” Li Dan Niu, already laughing gleefully inside, ignored Harry’s scorn and offered his hand.

Because, in Li Dan Niu’s view, even if the book didn’t reach its once-legendary sales of 150 million copies, as long as it sold 100 million, the sixty percent royalty he’d managed to secure would amount to 1.2 billion dollars. And Harry, the editor who cost his company that twelve billion, would be doomed to a life of regret and obscurity. Why be angry with such a person?