After everything settled, Su Ming received over a thousand private messages. Most were from creators. Some asked how to protect their rights when their articles were plagiarized. Some asked if they could get back a design that someone else had already registered for copyright. Some said that after what happened to Fang Zimo, their company had finally returned their copyright to them.

Su Ming read through them one by one. Half a month later, he posted a Weibo: "I've started an Original Creators Rights Alliance. It's not a company, not an organization — just a group. If you've written something and someone copied it and you don't know how to fight back, come find me. I don't charge money, I don't take your work, I don't take anything."

After that Weibo went out, his WeChat got flooded with requests.

The first person to add him was a girl who ran a WeChat public account. Her articles had been scraped by over a hundred accounts, and three months of complaints had gotten her nowhere. Su Ming looked it up in the Copyright Vault, pulled the original registration records, screenshotted them, and sent them to her: "Take this and file another complaint." Three hours later, she messaged back: "All of them are gone. Thank you."

The second was a designer. His client had taken his LOGO, registered it as a trademark, and then sued him for infringement. Su Ming checked the Copyright Vault — the timestamp on the original design file was four months older than the client's trademark registration. "Take them to court. You'll win."

The third. The fourth. The fifth. Su Ming replied to each one. Zhou Yuan helped share the load in the group — he knew the evidence-gathering process for music copyright and could directly tell songwriters and lyricists what to do. The group grew from seventeen people to sixty-four, then to a hundred and thirty.

One evening, an illustration artist added him and sent a twenty-page PDF — a complete record of plagiarisms over the past two years. Taobao sellers had printed his illustrations directly onto T-shirts and sold them, without even changing the colors. He'd reported it countless times. Every time, the platform said "insufficient evidence." Su Ming organized the timestamps from the original creation files, exported them in the official Copyright Bureau-readable format, and sent him a single line: "Give this to a lawyer. Not only can you get them taken down — you can get compensated."

The guy asked: "Is a lawyer expensive?"

Su Ming thought about it, then asked in the group. Within ten minutes, three people replied — one said he knew an IP litigation lawyer who'd take the case at a low rate, one said he was a lawyer and could offer free consultation, and another just sent a law firm's business card with a note: "Bro Su's friend is my friend." Su Ming screenshotted it and sent it to the guy: "You're not alone anymore."

The guy said in the group: "I thought I just had to put up with it."

Su Ming replied: "You don't have to put up with it anymore."

A poet added him too — someone who wrote classical-style poetry, whose work had been used by a cultural account for an entire year without credit or payment. Su Ming initially thought poetry would be hard to fight for, but when he checked the Copyright Vault, he found that the cultural account had registered the copyright for those poems — with someone else's name listed as the creator. Su Ming pulled the original registration records and discovered the poet had registered under a pen name three years earlier. The cultural account had back-registered later. Su Ming sent a comparison to the poet: "You registered two years before him. He's infringing."

The poet replied with a single line: "I've been writing poetry for twenty years. This is the first time someone has spoken up for me."

Su Ming stared at that line and didn't know what to say. He thought about it, then typed two words: "It's my job."

Teacher Zhao called and said some of his students had also been taken advantage of by clients and wanted to join. Su Ming said of course they could. Teacher Zhao added that he had a friend at the Copyright Bureau, and said if the alliance wanted to grow bigger, it would need formal credentials — he'd ask around about what documents were needed.

"Teacher Zhao, thank you."

"For what? What you're doing is right. This industry doesn't lack talented people — it lacks people willing to stand up for others. Your dad would be proud if he were still here."

Su Ming held the phone in silence for a few seconds. Teacher Zhao's voice had been lighthearted a moment ago, but when he said "if he were still here," his tone suddenly dropped. It wasn't a casual mention — it was a sentence he'd weighed carefully before speaking, like he wasn't sure he should bring it up.

"Teacher Zhao… you knew my dad?"

There was a silence on the other end too. Su Ming heard the sound of pages turning in the background — like Teacher Zhao was looking for something, or giving himself a moment. "He was my student. I taught him for three years. He was very sharp. Full of ideas. A shame he didn't end up in this field. One day, he came running to me and said he'd found something more important than teaching. I didn't understand at the time. I thought he was giving up on the straight path. Now I get it."

"What was it?"

"He found the Copyright Vault."

Su Ming held the phone. His fingers went a little numb.

Teacher Zhao went on: "He never told you, did he. That was his nature — he never talked about the things he did. I only reconnected with him later. That's when I found out what he was doing. He was doing exactly what you're doing now. He just didn't make as big a scene as you have."

Su Ming hung up and sat in his studio. He held his phone for a long time — his father had never told him he'd taken Teacher Zhao's classes, never told him he'd found the Copyright Vault, never told him he'd been helping people defend their rights all along. His father used to work at a cultural institution, nine to five, a man of few words. Sometimes on weekends he'd go out, said he was meeting friends. Su Ming had always thought he knew his father. Now he wasn't sure anymore.

Outside the window was the Pengcheng afternoon sun. The shadow of a banyan tree swayed on the desktop, shifting with the wind like it was underwater. The Copyright Vault was still there — all those registration records, original files, all those works waiting to be seen. But now he knew how to use it properly. His father had used this database too. He'd looked through those records. He'd done what Su Ming was doing now.

That evening, Zhou Yuan changed the group name to "Original Creators Alliance." Su Ming posted a message in the group: "Hi everyone, I'm Su Ming. There are no big shots or bosses here. Just a bunch of people who make things. If you made it, it's yours. We don't take what's other people's, and we don't let anyone take what's ours. That's the rule." The group was quiet for a moment. Then someone sent a thumbs-up emoji. Then a whole row. Then a full screen.

Su Ming put down his phone and got up to pour himself a glass of water.

He walked to the window. The autumn evening breeze in Pengcheng slipped through the gap in the window frame, carrying a faint chill. He remembered a few months ago, sitting in this same studio while eight million people cursed him. No one spoke up for him. Back then, he thought the world was pretty pointless. He'd revise design drafts until three in the morning while the client's messages kept piling up, his phone flooded with hateful DMs. He sat in front of his computer, the screen's glow on his face, feeling like nothing he did mattered.

Now he was still sitting alone in this same studio, but there were over three hundred people in his phone waiting for him to reply. He didn't know if that was a good thing, but at least it didn't feel pointless anymore. He remembered those days of being harassed online — every time his phone buzzed, he'd tense up, expecting another wave of abuse. Now his phone buzzed too, but the buzz was different — someone sending "Thanks, Bro Su," someone sharing their new work, someone posting lyrics they'd just finished writing, someone discussing the rights-protection process in the group. Same phone. Same vibration. Completely different feeling.

The banyan tree outside the window swayed in the wind, leaves rustling. His phone buzzed again — someone else applying to join the group. The verification message read: "Bro Su, my illustrations have been printed on clothes by a Taobao store and sold for two years. I just found out yesterday. Can I still fight for my rights?"

Su Ming put down his glass and approved the request. "Yes. As long as I'm here, you can."

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End of Chapter 7: A New Contract