There's only one way to make money from cover songs on YouTube: when the original artist agrees to share the profits. While there are various conditions and details, the fundamental requirement is the original artist's consent to profit-sharing. Channels like Hyungnimban Teacher's channel hardly generate any revenue. Songs like "Cold Night," "Rising," and "Fly High" generate income because their original artists permitted profit-sharing, alongside a few cases where impressed creators allowed Yeonwoo’s arrangements and older songs with expired copyrights. Surprisingly, fewer than 10 out of countless videos actually earn revenue.
The song "Looking Up at the Sky" was removed after the original artist, upset by fan criticism and Yeonwoo’s reinterpretation, requested its deletion. This triggered the takedown of three more recent uploads.
“Yeonwoo, it’s okay the video was removed. Alright?”
Yeonwoo hated hearing that. Four videos featuring Chae Hayoung singing his arrangements had vanished. He buried his face in his studio cushion, visibly sulking—though he didn’t cry, his frustration was obvious.
“Yeonwoo? It’s really okay,” Chae Hayoung coaxed beside him.
“Shin Yeonwoo! How long will you mope? You’re not a child!” Shin Jiyeong snapped.
“But Yeonwoo… is still a kid,” Chae Hayoung muttered awkwardly.
“This is a company! Yeonwoo is the CEO!” Jiyeong retorted.
Yeonwoo flinched. “I improved their mediocre music, and they demand I delete it?!”
“…They’re embarrassed,” Jiyeong said.
“Then they should learn! Himari texts me daily to exchange tips!” Yeonwoo shouted before storming into his studio.
“Wait… The Himari? The jazz musician?”
Jiyeong sighed. “It’s not his connections—it’s his grandmother’s. She taught Himari. And Shunji Datemura played in a band with my mom in the U.S.”
Chae Hayoung’s eyes widened. “Your grandmother must’ve been remarkable.”
“She was legendary. Korea’s just not a jazz hub, and she retired decades ago.”
As they spoke, Yeonwoo flung open his studio door. “Auntie! I need a lyricist! I’m dropping a new song on my channel!”
Jiyeong blinked. “On YouTube? Like a debut?” No Korean YouTuber had ever successfully transitioned to a singing career.
“If I release original music, no one can take it down!” Yeonwoo declared.
Jiyeong hesitated. While anyone could upload to streaming platforms, the line between pro and amateur hinged on sustaining a career.
“I can put it on Mango too, right?”
“Technically, yes…” Jiyeong trailed off. Some failed singers turned to YouTube, but few leveraged their followings into music success.
“Then I’ll do it!”
Jiyeong relented. “Fine. It’s your song—and you are Research’s trainee.”
“Ah, and you said you needed a lyricist, right?”
“Um...”
“Huh? What’s wrong, Chae-young?”
“Would it be okay if I tried writing the lyrics?”
“Sure!”
Yeon-woo agreed without hesitation.
Ji-young wondered if this was okay but decided to let Yeon-woo do as she pleased, just as she had said earlier.
“I’m going to see the VVX kids. Ha-young, don’t overwork yourself and leave early. Yeon-woo’s grandmother is coming to pick her up.”
“Yes, I understand.”
After Ji-young left, Yeon-woo invited Chae Ha-young into her studio.
“This is a song I came up with while arranging other people’s songs based on your voice. It’s not finished yet, but please give it a listen.”
“Sure, why not?”
Yeon-woo played the song she had created for Chae Ha-young.
The song was created based on data accumulated from arranging multiple songs tailored to Chae Ha-young’s voice.
Given her androgynous voice, one might expect a heavy or sad song, but surprisingly, it turned out to be city pop.
City pop, a genre that originated and became hugely popular in Japan, had recently gained enough popularity in Korea to form its own fandom.
It was puzzling. Shouldn’t their debut have been in Korea first? The genre felt deliberately aimed at Japan.
“Nakagami Ayuna is far from a city pop singer. If we were trying to emulate her, this genre would get us criticized. And the reason I came up with this… please listen to the end.”
As Yeon-woo restarted the music, Chae Ha-young listened intently.
The song flowed gently but was distinctly more refined than traditional old-school city pop.
Chae Ha-young closed her eyes softly.
She imagined herself on the subway after work, crossing the Han River as its bridges and skyscrapers blazed with light against the dark night.
The river shimmered under their glow, its waves catching the radiance.
Feeling sentimental, she yearned to hurry home, wash off the day, and crack open a cold beer.
This song perfectly captured that mood.
“This feels like a song made for someone like me—a working professional.”
“Exactly!! I created this based on what I saw on TV and YouTube. Don’t you think people would love it if we uploaded it?”
Most of her subscribers were in their 20s and 30s—college students, early-career professionals, and overworked office workers.
Her channel name itself reflected a common modern profession: “Daycare Teacher.” Considering her audience, this was a song many could relate to.
“The lyrics are crucial. That’s why I was glad when you volunteered—I knew you’d write something relatable. My aunt and everyone around her live without caring about day shifts, night shifts, or schedules.”
“Ah, I see… By the way, our Yeon-woo has become so articulate! You sound all grown up now.”
Yeon-woo smiled shyly at the praise.
Chae Ha-young noticed the stacks of books behind her—fairy tales for her age, alongside recommended reads for elementary, middle, and even high school students.
“Is it because you read so much?”
“Yes. For things I can’t experience myself, I learn through books and videos. Aunt Himari said this is how I can make songs that resonate with people.”
Chae Ha-young regarded Yeon-woo with fresh eyes.
The girl she’d dismissed as a simple genius was putting in efforts beyond raw talent. A six-year-old reading advanced books to improve her music?
Compared to the typical daycare children she knew, Yeon-woo’s dedication felt extraordinary.
“You’re incredible. I’ll honor your hard work by writing amazing lyrics!”
“Yes!”
Chae Ha-young gently ruffled Yeon-woo’s hair.
Meanwhile, Shin Ji-young—who had left the company for VVX production—detoured to a quiet café in Yongsan.
The café near Hyochang Park sat in an old neighborhood, reachable only by taking a village bus down a hill and trudging up an alley barely wide enough for a single car.
The establishment was quaintly antiquated, teetering on the edge of being a vintage teahouse.
When Ji-young opened the creaky door of the seemingly dormant café, the hinges screeched like a rejection.
Inside, the decor matched the exterior’s dated charm. Only one customer occupied the space—the person she’d come to meet.
“Senior Yoo Jae-hyuk.”
He was none other than Yoo Jae-hyuk, the former rock ballad legend who had pursued Yoo-in through Kim Beom-shin.
“…….”
Yoo Jae-hyuk stared at her silently before motioning to the seat opposite.
Ji-young obediently sat down, watching as he hesitated with visible discomfort before finally speaking:
“…Where is Yoo-in?”
Like Kim Beom-shin and Park Sang-cheol before her, Ji-young felt a jolt of surprise at the sound of his voice.
During the heyday of rock ballads, Ji-young was someone who knew Yoo Jae-hyuk’s voice well.
However, she never showed it and said,
“I haven’t talked to Yoo-in yet. I thought it would be better for me to meet him first.”
“...I’m pretty sure I told you to ask if he’d give a song and come back.”
“Yoo-in doesn’t give songs to singers he hasn’t met in person or heard sing.”
“Yoo-in… hasn’t seen me?”
“This might sound rude, but he hasn’t seen you as you are now.”
“……”
“By the way, senior… your throat… are you okay?”
To Ji-young, it seemed impossible for him to sing. Even if he could, who would want to listen to such an unpleasant voice?
“Possible.”
“Possible?”
Ji-young made a troubled expression before standing up.
“I’ll step out to make a quick call.”
Worried Yeon-woo’s voice might be overheard, Ji-young went outside and dialed.
“Hey, Yoo-in.”
-Yeah?
“So… a famous singer with a ruined voice is asking for a song. What do you think?”
-Why’d you meet someone with a ruined voice, Auntie?
“He used to be an amazing singer. He was on par with President Kim Beom-shin. That’s why I came.”
-How bad is it?
“Ah, well… his voice is…”
That’s when it happened.
“Curious about my voice?”
Yoo Jae-hyuk, who had followed silently, spoke behind her.
Ji-young startled and turned. He glanced at her phone, then boomed in an uncharacteristically loud voice:
“This is my voice. They say I saved even Kim Beom-shin when he was past his prime. Think I can sing again?”
Yeon-woo, hearing the voice through the phone, blurted:
-It’s red…
“Huh? What?”
-I want to meet him.
“Oh… okay. If you insist.”
Ji-young hung up and faced Yoo Jae-hyuk.
“Eavesdropping is rude.”
“Sorry. I’m that desperate.”
“Why? You’ve achieved everything. You’re rich.”
He stared at her before answering:
“Singers… even if it kills them, they ache for the stage.”
Ji-young saw the raw longing in his eyes and sighed.
“Yoo-in wants to meet you. But his identity stays secret. You’ll sign an NDA.”
“Understood.”
“And don’t be shocked when you see him.”
“…?”
You’ll definitely be shocked.
With that thought, Ji-young set the meeting.
