Chapter 23: Where in Life and Death Is There Not Illusion?

"Those who steal a hook are executed; those who steal a nation become lords."
"Kill one man, and you're a murderer; kill a million, and you're a conqueror."

Gu Cheng unleashed a barrage of arguments, swift and relentless, battering away at Ding Sanshi’s psychological defenses.

Perhaps, indeed, the price Ding Sanshi would pay today to cooperate with Gu Cheng was higher than what any future client might offer. Yet the allure of being “the world’s first company to do this sort of thing” was a temptation he could not resist. After all, the law can never punish the inventors of new criminal methods; it can only chase after those who follow suit. When you’re the first to taste the forbidden fruit, the law hasn’t even defined it as a crime yet—has it?

Now, such an opportunity lay before Ding Sanshi. Not only could it raise the company’s valuation by another twenty percent, but it was also perfectly safe—there’d be no fear of being exposed and criticized in the future.

“You’re certain no one else can ever get direct evidence?”

“I’m certain.”

Ding Sanshi’s mouth twitched, as if mourning the fact that, for all his influence, he hadn’t managed to bargain the price down.

He made a final attempt. “Two point six million. That’s my offer. We’re both busy men—let’s not haggle like old housewives.”

Gu Cheng refused again, much to Ding Sanshi’s frustration.

Gu Cheng considered for a moment, then decided to change tack and play his ultimate card.

“Mr. Ding, can we put the money aside for now? You’re about to ring the bell at Nasdaq; surely the Wall Street Journal will be watching.”

“Of course they’ll be watching—but don’t think you can threaten me with exposure. The so-called evidence you have means nothing. If I don’t pay, I can always claim it’s a rival company trying to frame me.”

Ding Sanshi was no fool; he knew the rules of the game.

Gu Cheng smiled innocently. “I would never threaten you. I’m negotiating in good faith. But since you care about media attention, this should be easy. You must have seen the February 16th issue...”

“How could I possibly read every issue?” Ding Sanshi thought to himself: I’m a busy man.

“No matter, I have a copy. You can check—it’s genuine.”

As he spoke, Gu Cheng produced a copy of the Wall Street Journal from his pocket, dated February 16th. He had prepared this back in the Eastern Isles, smuggling it home at great risk; passing through customs had been nerve-wracking, as China in 2000 was strict about publications entering the country. The internet wasn’t yet developed, and the authorities feared the influx of subversive ideas that might enlighten the masses. Years later, with proxy VPNs everywhere, the authorities barely cared. But not now.

With a snap, Gu Cheng flipped the paper to page seven and laid it before Ding Sanshi. Both men’s English was good enough to handle a financial commentary.

“This article lavishly praises an online payment company called PayPal, declaring it worth half a billion dollars. As soon as it was published, Wall Street investors went crazy for the company. PayPal’s founder, Peter Thiel, raised $100 million in venture capital for twenty percent equity in just three weeks.

While I was in the Eastern Isles, I heard a story: an internet venture fund there, without any negotiation or contract, wired $5 million in cash directly to PayPal, asking for a one percent stake. They didn’t even include a sender’s address, so Thiel didn’t know how to return the money, even if he wanted to.

He did all this by March 8th. Then, on March 10th, the Nasdaq hit its all-time high of 5048 points; the following Monday, it crashed by a thousand points—a fact you know better than I. If not for the 3/13 crash, you probably wouldn’t be rushing to list on June 30th—you’d want to hold onto your company and let it appreciate even more.”

Gu Cheng paused, letting Ding Sanshi digest this.

He knew that, until he told this story, Ding Sanshi still had one last card to play: delaying the IPO! If Gu Cheng could boost daily active IPs through covert means, Ding Sanshi might well think it was worth postponing the listing by a month to find a “cheaper substitute” for Gu Cheng.

But Gu Cheng’s example was crystal clear: on the eve of a total collapse, escaping quickly is far more important than reaching the peak. If Peter Thiel hadn’t been saved by that Wall Street Journal article, would he still have worn the crown of “creator of the world’s first Alipay”? Would he have become a major shareholder in Facebook, or a central figure in the PayPal Mafia?

The fate of internet moguls often hinges on a knife’s edge. Sometimes, one part effort, nine parts luck. Behind every successful tycoon are dozens who did everything just as well, but lacked that stroke of fortune.

The reason Gu Cheng knew all this, and had sought out the February 16th copy of the Wall Street Journal, was simply that, in his previous life, he’d read Peter Thiel’s memoir, “Zero to One.” Some things he couldn’t tell Ding Sanshi, but others he could.

“If I told you that Peter Thiel paid that Wall Street Journal editor $2 million in commercial bribery for the article, would you still think my price today is high?

His logic was simple; he didn’t care what it cost the Journal to run the story. He just said plainly: if you publish the article and I raise funds, I’ll give you two percent of whatever I raise.”

When the capital winter is coming, offering kickbacks to VCs to secure funding for survival is perfectly normal. Sometimes, the money goes to a risk assessor hired by the VC fund; the entrepreneur says: forget what you found in the financials or market reports—just tell your boss there’s no risk, get him to invest, and I’ll give you two percent personally.

If you’re dealing with someone from the Wall Street Journal, or a “technical fraudster” like Gu Cheng, doubling the fee is perfectly reasonable.

Gu Cheng had calculated Ding Sanshi’s psychological limit; in this crisis, he was sure Ding would be willing to pay up to five percent of the additional funds raised for salvation.

In other words, if Gu Cheng’s manipulations could boost Huang Yi’s valuation by $100 million and raise an extra $20 million at IPO, Ding Sanshi would happily give five percent—$1 million—to Gu Cheng as a kickback.

The higher Gu Cheng inflated the valuation, the more he earned. Fair and square.

From Peter Thiel’s dazzling heights to the brink of suicide, it was only a matter of days.

This example struck Ding Sanshi to the core.

“Fine. I accept your offer.”

Gu Cheng breathed a sigh of relief and quickly rattled off some transactional details.

“Great. Then I’ll continue at this pace. You must pay me the first installment in ten days—I can offer you a $1 million credit line, but once that’s used, you’ll need to pay $2 million at once, leaving $1 million with me as a security deposit. We’ll alternate payments this way.”

He had to mention this additional term; his own capital was too limited, barely over half a million, and he couldn’t afford to front the costs.

A glint of cunning flashed in Ding Sanshi’s eyes.

“Seems Mr. Gu’s own capital isn’t that great, is it?”

Hearing this, Gu Cheng’s palms were slick with cold sweat. But his face remained impassive.

“Mr. Ding, this kind of business can’t stand the light of day. If I risk too much money, I’m not safe either…”

“All right, no need to explain. The PayPal example you gave was very persuasive. We’ll do as you say.”

Ding Sanshi was straightforward, not the sort to haggle endlessly. He held no grudge against Gu Cheng; his initial bargaining was purely business. Petty disputes that harmed both sides were beneath him.

At last, Gu Cheng had weathered the initial crisis.

“It’s settled, then. Goodbye.”

…

By the time he left Huang Yi’s office, night had fully fallen.

Gu Cheng felt utterly drained, his nerves shot. It wasn’t that his composure was lacking or that he couldn’t handle Ding Sanshi; it was simply that his own capital was too small—he could not afford to lose.

He would have to stay in the capital for some time, arrange the transaction, and front payments to his “supplier” in the Eastern Isles. Until he received the first payment from Huang Yi, he dared not leave.

Hotels near Zhongguancun were expensive; just a dozen days would be a real drain. So he checked the map, took the subway out past the North Fifth Ring, crossed Anheqiao, and found a cheap hotel to stay in. The facilities were basic, but as long as the room had internet, that was enough.

Once inside, Gu Cheng took a hot bath to relax, but ended up falling asleep in the tub. When he awoke, he dried off and reached for his phone, only to realize he was still using the Samsung CDMA he’d had in the Eastern Isles—useless in China.

He didn’t even have a watch and had no idea what time it was. Starving, he dressed and went downstairs to find food, only to discover it was so late that even the Lanzhou noodle shops had closed. In the end, he made do with a cold noodle stall of dubious hygiene.

He even forgot to tell the vendor to hold the chili oil, so his southern palate was scorched, forcing him to order two bottles of cold beer just to douse the burn.

Sipping his beer, Gu Cheng was overcome by a wave of homesickness and loneliness. Unlike other time travelers, who at least returned to their own homes with family still around, he had awoken in a foreign country, a stranger in a strange land, for more than a month already.

“Tomorrow, I’ll buy a new phone, get a local number, and call my cousin—at least let them know I’m back.”

(End of chapter three!)