The Birth of a Hit Song

The Black Magic Tower had become my absolute supporters, nodding along no matter what I proposed. That ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was why they hadn't opposed my purchase of Kraken for 160,000 gold coins — but outside the Black Magic Tower, or more precisely, in the communities and galleries where the news landed, the reaction was a mix of anticipation and sheer disbelief.

People expected Kraken's chronic weaknesses — its dated design, its buffering, its low video quality — to finally be fixed. And some even asked why the money went into buying Kraken at all: wouldn't building a brand-new platform have been far cheaper? The reactions ran every which way, but most of them leaned toward excitement. And I delivered on that excitement, immediately.

Even at the moment of its acquisition, Kraken was already pulling in over 100 million daily visitors. Across the entire dimension. It had swallowed everyone — elves and dwarves, certainly, but even numerically massive user bases like the orcs — and the resulting growth curve had been steep. And just as that growth began to falter, I started pouring every one of the monstrous technologies I'd stockpiled for platform development straight into Kraken.

These were technologies I'd developed in advance, so applying them wasn't difficult. The parts of Kraken that had been criticized as weaknesses were dramatically overhauled, and the illusion mages I'd hired were put to work on the homepage design and streamlining the button layouts. And above all, I rushed through improvements to Kraken's recommendation algorithm — the single biggest complaint about the platform. The result?

Kraken, which had been slowly dying under the weight of its technical limitations, began to come back to life. Daily visitors climbed past 100 million and started closing in on 200 million. The video-recording spell built into the even smoother, more capable net pages was met with nothing but praise.

And yet — there was still no revenue. And a revenue-less Kraken remained, for the most part, a collection of videos that individuals uploaded for fun. The quantity of content was vast, but genuinely high-quality videos were still in short supply.

"We're going to start inserting ads into Kraken."

That was precisely when the Third Elder and I decided to introduce advertising.

"Ads?"

"Ad delivery is essential if we want to monetize Kraken. We'll start at a level viewers won't find too annoying, then gradually scale up the ad load."

"........Hmm, that's not bad, actually. Unlike ads on galleries or other net pages, Kraken has long pure watch times, doesn't it? That means exposure duration per ad is that much longer... We could charge an enormous premium on these ad rates! A fortune!"

"Yes, exactly. But we need the ads for something even bigger than that."

"Bigger?"

"You remember Net Novel's ad-revenue sharing model, right? We passed a portion of the ad revenue back to the authors."

"We did."

"We're going to apply that exact model to Kraken. People will start making videos professionally, and we'll make it so they can earn a living on ad-revenue sharing alone."

"You want to create professional video producers as individuals?"

"That's precisely it."

".......So the variety of videos and genres will expand, and the quality will get far more professional, won't it? And once that happens, users will have even more reason to spend even more time on Kraken!"

"That's the plan."

"Excellent! Let's run with it, Elsy!"

Full-scale ad integration, and sharing that ad revenue with the video creators. I threw myself into the project with everything I had. The potential was absolutely there. Speaking of Earth for a moment — people only started making money off ad revenue after the 2010s, when smartphones became widespread. But in the Wirod Dimension, everyone could connect to Soul Net with a simple 1st-level spell and see, hear, and enjoy everything it offered. It was as if the entire population had been born with a phone strapped to them. So in this market, the possibility that people who lived off video production alone — creators, in other words — would emerge from day one was already more than real.

And my prediction proved exactly right.

The moment the ads went live, public outcry over the inconvenience erupted. It was only natural — you're enjoying a video and ads keep popping up at the bottom of the screen; of course it's irritating. But that chorus of frustration began to die down at remarkable speed.

As testimonials poured in from people who'd started earning money just by uploading videos, the backlash against the ads died down fast. And in its place, a new wave of hope spread: so if I land one big viral hit, I can make money too? My prediction had been right again. People started trying to produce videos professionally. People quit their towers, their jobs, their adventuring careers to focus solely on making videos. And those people's videos made Kraken richer and richer in turn. A virtuous cycle had begun. As Kraken's ecosystem flourished, that very abundance drew in ever more viewers.

A video of an orc wolf rider casting a combination of magic and shamanic buffs on his wolf and tearing along at 340 kilometers per hour racked up tens of millions of views. A video of someone successfully casting an 8th-level spell did much the same. And then—

The man who had led Kraken's golden age — Pipo, the apprentice mage of the Crimson Magic Tower — finally succeeded at the very spell he'd once fumbled and botched, and the video of that triumph exploded into a massive viral sensation, tens of millions of views strong. And so Kraken was rapidly cementing itself as the one indispensable, utterly irreplaceable video platform of the dimension.

But we weren't stopping there.

"Elsy! It's done! We've pulled off the deal — a sweeping contract with the major bard galleries and the bards' guilds!"

"Really?"

"Absolutely! They've agreed to supply the music they make exclusively through our Kraken! And beyond them, we've lured in all sorts of famous musicians and composers as well!"

Kraken wasn't hot enough yet. Music as a content category was still on the table.

A man who looked thoroughly happy sat across from me. His name was Teddle. He was from Quirltere... no, was it Quirletele? I couldn't remember. A shepherd from some minor backwater kingdom in the Wirod Dimension who'd met Her Highness Gunhild, princess of Valerheim, on Soul Page and married his way into royalty — the protagonist of a legendary romance and a bona fide celebrity.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Elsy. I am—"

"It would be stranger if I didn't know who you are, wouldn't it? You're Teddle, aren't you? Anyone with even a passing interest in Soul Net could never fail to know your name. How's married life treating you?"

"Quite well, thank you. Her Highness Gunhild has been very considerate of me. I expected the Valerheim royal family to despise me, but they treat me surprisingly well."

"That's good to hear. Congratulations on your marriage — I'm rather late in saying it."

Teddle... this infuriatingly handsome man scratched the back of his head, looking a little embarrassed.

"Might I ask what brings you to see me?"

"It's nothing complicated, Teddle. Music — are you still playing?"

"Yes, of course. Her Highness asks me to sing for her every night before she falls asleep, you see. So these days I often find myself collecting and arranging Valerheim folk songs she might enjoy. I'm planning to upload them to my Soul Page before long."

"Perfect. In that case, how about this: upload them to your Soul Page, yes, but why not put them up on Kraken as well?"

"On... Kraken?"

"Kraken has been working hard lately to import music videos on a grand scale. Masterpieces. Famous bard ballads and hit songs from throughout the Wirod Dimension. We're in the process of signing formal contracts for that content to be uploaded to our Kraken."

Teddle clapped his hands together, delighted.

"Ahh, I see! So you were planning to suggest I upload my songs to Kraken too!"

"I'm not simply asking you to upload songs. As videos — that is, productions where the music and the imagery merge into something like stage direction. What do you think about that kind of video?"

"Stage direction... and music?"

"You said you're arranging Valerheim folk songs. Valerheim is a kingdom of warriors, isn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it? What about videos that pair your arrangements with footage of warriors hunting — grand, sweeping productions of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the very scenes those folk songs sing of? Not just music, but videos that stir a sense of narrative as well. That's the kind of music video I'd like you to make."

At my words, Teddle's smile faded bit by bit, his expression turning serious. He mulled something over intently, and before long, he nodded.

"I think that's an excellent direction. As it happens, the songs I'm arranging are all deeply martial — brisk rhythms, quick tempos, bright and rousing tunes. Staging charging Valerheim armies or hunters alongside them, or bringing to life the scenes woven into the folk songs themselves — yes, that would be undeniably majestic."

"It ties into the honor of Valerheim, too. It's a chance to broadcast the kingdom's character and pride to everyone in the Wirod Dimension. It would do your standing proud as the prince consort."

At that, Teddle's eyes darted rapidly back and forth, as if some powerful ideas were sparking to life.

"I'll do exactly as you suggest, Lord Elsy. It should be a fascinating project — for me personally, and for the Kingdom of Valerheim as well."

"I'll provide the personnel you need for production. Illusion mages and stage producers capable of truly dramatic direction — our Tower Master happens to have connections in that world."

"That's... possible? Then, honestly, you have my deepest gratitude."

"No trouble at all. And it isn't just for you, Teddle. It's a service we offer to every bard and hit-song composer we bring on. I wish you great success."

"Of course! I'll give it my absolute best. Thank you, Lord Elsy!"

Teddle had been just one candidate among the many bards and hit-songwriters we'd met in our campaign to recruit them. And frankly, he was one of the candidates I hadn't expected all that much from. His music was lovely, yes — but it was gentle, quiet, pastoral. The songs were certainly good; whether they would succeed was another matter entirely. So he was one of the people I'd pitched to casually. Honestly, the Tower Master and I had pinned far greater hopes on the other famous bards and hit songs.

But.

"The response is, erm......"

"Our top-viewed song barely cracked ten million views, I see."

"Still, it means something. The musicians are all going to upload their songs to Kraken now, aren't they? Let's hope and wait for that."

The songs from the other candidates we'd pinned our hopes on were failing to generate anything close to a spectacular response. Then, considerably later than everyone else, Teddle's new composition went up on Kraken — a marching song for the warriors of Valerheim called Charge of the Wolves. And it was a completely different beast from anything Teddle had ever written. Ferociously fast, exhilarating, bold and unyielding — as if the very spirit of Valerheim had been poured into the music, it was a joy to listen to. And the video itself, filmed with Princess Gunhild and her knightly order actually charging, boasted staggering, heart-pounding intensity. On top of all that, in the way of the devil of a man who had once set Soul Net ablaze, his name and face were known to everyone.

And when all of that combined—

"Tower Master!"

"I saw it, Elsy!"

"It EXPLODED! Wahahaha! It exploded!"

Teddle's new song passed 100 million views within a single day of upload. And then—

"One billion! A billion views, Tower Master! We broke one billion!"

"Enough! Enough already! Every musician in the dimension is about to flood straight into Kraken!"

Sparking an utterly absurd craze, it was born as a mega-hit so enormous that it would be fair to say every sentient being in the dimension knew its name.