Chapter 38: Peerless Defiance

Gu Cheng never imagined that the two hours he spent rambling and dispensing “toxic chicken soup” in foreign language class on his last night at S-M Company would have such a profound impact on Quan Baoya.

That day, he had simply spoken whatever came to mind, making it up as he went along.

The content, as always, was just him promoting his “gamification of learning” theory, which he’d developed from the “auxiliary learning-type biological CPU”: Whatever you do, always set small goals for yourself, like aiming to make your first hundred million, so you can frequently motivate yourself with the thrill of achievement...

When training, don’t waste time slaying those “grey-named” trash mobs just for the satisfaction, if they don’t grant you any experience points. Always progress step by step, challenging monsters that aren’t above your level—no, rather, honing skills that are on the edge of mastery and unfamiliarity...

The year 2000 was still an era lacking in “toxic chicken soup.” With his decades of additional experience and his naturally sharp tongue, Gu Cheng’s words were especially potent.

A pure-hearted girl who had spent years diligently studying with little thought for life’s bigger questions found herself ensnared by his words, and in the following months, disciplined herself by them—so, she learned the basics of speaking Chinese, tried her hand at composing music for Japanese lyrics, practiced handling variety shows in English, and set herself goal after small goal to keep motivated...

From that moment on, Quan Baoya’s own “loli development plan” was thoroughly poisoned by this eccentric uncle, Gu Cheng!

This was truly a sorrowful tale.

“This debut album should sell about seventy thousand copies in its first week. The company’s paying me a commission of 1.2 per copy, in USD—so, I’ve already achieved my first small goal.”

When Gu Cheng heard this news, he was momentarily dazed: in his first week after transmigrating, he’d knocked out his first hundred million; now, Baoya too had made her first hundred million in her debut week.

Of course, this was thanks to President Lee’s generous treatment of Quan Baoya: a commission of 1.2 dollars per album was unthinkable to other artists in the company. Years later, when the Dongyi Shinki group debuted, the five members together only received a third of what Quan Baoya earned per album. No wonder that, eventually, three out of five members left; the exploitative contracts forced them out.

Quan Baoya’s high salary was also due in part to her family’s connections—her father was an official in the Ministry of Culture, so the company dared not exploit her.

But on the other hand: to break into such a chaotic industry, you had to have something to fall back on. If a girl could rely on her own father, it was better than depending on a “sugar daddy.” At least with the former, she could keep her dignity intact.

“After you settle things with Han Geng tomorrow, I hope you can stay true to yourself and do something proper from now on.” After finishing her last glass of wine, Quan Baoya stated her wish with a blank expression.

Gu Cheng could tell that, ever since he’d revealed his behind-the-scenes dealings with Han Geng, the girl’s attitude toward him had cooled considerably.

The more she drank, the thinner her mask became.

But he couldn’t explain himself, so he just forced a bitter smile and drained his glass as well: “I will.”

Pan Jieying, seeing that Quan Baoya had drunk a fair bit, offered to take her home.

The siblings accompanied Quan Baoya all the way to her apartment on Han-dong Road and helped her into the elevator.

Only after pressing the floor button and watching the elevator doors close did Quan Baoya finally collapse, squatting down and hugging her head as she sobbed softly.

“I can’t believe you’re this kind of person! I thought you gave up your dreams because you had no choice, but you did it all for money! What happened to making music and becoming famous together?”

...

Cheongdam-dong was a long way from Jamsil Hall, separated by a good part of Seoul. Normally, they should have taken a taxi back to the hotel.

But Gu Cheng felt stifled and needed to clear his head with a walk.

Pan Jieying walked with him along the street back to the hotel.

She hesitated, searching for words: “I can tell that ever since you said you left the company because you blackmailed Han Geng for money, Baoya’s attitude toward you has gotten much colder.”

Gu Cheng sighed, “Naturally.”

Pan Jieying was indignant: “Is it because she and Han Geng are close or something?”

Gu Cheng gave a wry smile: “Don’t jump to conclusions. Baoya and Han Geng barely know each other. She’s just disappointed in me. She’s an idealist, likes to befriend people who stay true to themselves. When I’d just been fired and ran into her at her brother’s place, she gave me the cold shoulder too.

But at least back then, she thought I’d left on impulse, against my will, and we made up. Now that she knows it was all premeditated, she must feel awful.”

Pan Jieying sighed into the night air, gazing at the moon: “Acheng, there’s something I want to ask you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you actually have any dreams, or a sense of purpose? Or is making money all you care about?”

“Of course I do. Money is just a means to an end. I need some initial capital.”

Pan Jieying pressed him: “Then what exactly is your ambition now? If you never confide in anyone, how can they possibly understand you?”

Gu Cheng was stumped. He mulled it over for a long while, struggling to find the right words.

He knew perfectly well what he wanted to achieve in this lifetime, his sense of purpose could not be clearer.

The problem was, he couldn’t explain it in terms anyone in the year 2000 would understand—too many dragon-slaying skills involved, too many prerequisite technologies that hadn’t yet been developed.

“It’s a long story. I’ll try to make it simple.” Gu Cheng thought for a moment, then carefully began,

“For instance, Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon, once observed that with the advent of the internet, the barriers to publishing books dropped dramatically.

In the era of print books, a title needed to sell at least five thousand copies to be worth publishing. Anything less was essentially wasted effort, left to gather dust. But with e-books, if even five hundred people are willing to pay, an author can at least eke out a living—on Amazon, more than half its sales come from these niche, personalized, independent needs.

It’s the same in other fields. The founder of E-BAY, for instance, didn’t start out trying to compete with brick-and-mortar stores or wage price wars. He just wanted to buy a particular, limited-edition jewelry box for his wife, and after searching all over Los Angeles couldn’t find it. So, in a fit of romantic frustration, he founded E-BAY—his goal was to ensure that no matter how obscure a need, as long as it existed somewhere in the world, suppliers and demanders could find each other.

In the traditional era, limited by physical space, a product wouldn’t be mass-produced unless at least a hundred people in a given community wanted it. But in the internet age, as long as there are a hundred people on earth who want something, their demand can be aggregated, prompting a maker to fulfill it.”

The concept Gu Cheng was laying out would later be known as the “long tail effect,” a term that wouldn’t be coined by Chris Anderson in Wired magazine until 2003.

For now, with no such summary available, Gu Cheng could only explain it in lengthy examples.

Pan Jieying found it novel and could just barely grasp the idea.

But what Gu Cheng said next seemed more and more fantastical to her.

“What I want to do is something similar, but focused on the entertainment and content industries: in the future, there will be millions of hours of independent films shot every year; hundreds of thousands of songs and novels created; tens of thousands of games developed.

But the outdated business models from the industrial era can’t help these works find their audience, leading to colossal waste of creative resources, driving good people to compromise and become hacks. Meanwhile, billions of consumers cry out: ‘There’s nothing new to read! Nothing to watch! No games to play! It’s all copycats! All hacks!’

Don’t you think such a world is absurd? Don’t you think someone needs to save the entertainment industry? When will our search engines be able to create personalized recommendations for each person, instead of lumping everyone together into a cold statistical average?

The traditional industrial era brought efficiency, but at the cost of standardization, sacrificing individuality. Consumers’ needs were mashed together by market research into an indistinct mass. The future of a highly developed internet is destined to help humanity regain customization, individuality, and niche needs, as long as the additional costs aren’t too high.

My lifelong goal is to create a highly efficient platform that reintegrates the world’s personalized artistic needs with personalized creative resources. Isn’t that more meaningful than personally creating a few hundred masterpieces or legendary films? Even if you offered me sales beyond Michael Jackson’s records and more Grammys, or more Oscars than Cameron or Spielberg, I wouldn’t trade! Because what I want to do is to be a true savior.”

Pan Jieying was deeply shaken by Gu Cheng’s vision, overwhelmed by the feeling that she, a humble sparrow, could never comprehend the aspirations of a soaring swan.

She almost thought she was hallucinating: Eh? Why does little brother Gu seem to be glowing?

“Do you… do you think that’s really possible in the future? I just don’t see a clear path or any practical means.”

“Of course it’s possible,” Gu Cheng declared confidently, though he swallowed the rest of his sentence.

What he didn’t say was: In 2006, a University of Toronto professor named Geoffrey Hinton, whose later status would eclipse Alan Turing, would invent a neural network architecture called “deep learning.” After thirty years of development, it would lead to super artificial intelligence assistants. No matter how niche or bizarre the owner’s needs, the AI of that era would find exactly what the user wanted.

Of course, Pan Jieying would never believe any of this if he said it.

Fortunately, Pan Jieying had always believed in her brother’s dreams. Even if he didn’t explain much and only made bold assertions, she was willing to trust him.

The siblings fell silent for a long time, until finally Pan Jieying asked, somewhat unwillingly, “Since you have such grand ambitions, and Baoya misunderstood you as a money-grubber, why didn’t you just explain it to her?”

Gu Cheng’s answer was blunt: “She never asked, so why should I explain?”

Pan Jieying was exasperated, feeling she’d worry herself to death over him: “Ahh, you’re going to be the death of me! Can’t you be a little more proactive with girls? A real man should take the initiative!”

“It wouldn’t help—just now, even you, a twenty-year-old college student, barely understood what I said. How could a thirteen-year-old middle schooler possibly get it? What’s the point of explaining? Even if the whole world misunderstands me, history will prove me right. In a few years, she won’t misunderstand me anymore.”

Gu Cheng’s failing was, at root, his excessive pride.

Having once played the part of a “cold and aloof CEO,” how could he stoop to explain himself to others? Truth is always in the hands of the few.

And besides, while he’d been a notorious heartbreaker in his past life, he had never truly loved any woman—he’d only played with them.

Of course, he did so with his own code and principles.

He only played with women who willingly threw themselves at him, who chose to objectify themselves. He would never sleep with a female solo artist, or any other woman who had earned her own success, or a decent woman.

He would never force anyone.

In all honesty, in two lifetimes, he’d never even had a first love. Emotionally, he was hopelessly immature.

At his core, his unruliness was like that of the “Eastern Heretic, Western Lunatic.” Even Yang Guo, in Jin Yong’s novels, was no different.

Pan Jieying could never understand why her brother had turned out this way. But she could only accept it. She decided to chalk it up to something bad that must have happened to him in those two years in Dongyi.

She felt exhausted and decided not to meddle in matchmaking between her cousin and Quan Baoya anymore. For now, she would just let things take their course.