Chapter 74: The Layout

In order to counter Apple's iPod, Guo Cheng spent several days reviewing the current domestic startups in electronics that he could invest in. He wasn’t an expert in this field, so his so-called “review” was merely listing out company names and having a look; any company that managed to survive for decades and which he’d even heard of couldn’t be too bad.

Huawei and BBK were already big corporations by now, making it impossible for Guo Cheng to buy in. Among the small factories that started with MP3 production, Newman was still making switches, and Patriot hadn’t even been founded yet. After surveying the field, he found only one company with barely passable quality and reputation: Taidian from Guangdong Province.

“Isn’t the brand a bit low-end?” Guo Cheng hesitated for a long time, but eventually decided to go with it. “Whatever, it’ll do. Even BBK, with such a tacky name, rebranded with something more international like OPPO or VIVO, and a bunch of Southeast Asian folks took them as European or American brands. MP3s aren’t that technologically complicated anyway—we’re just trying to dig a pit for Jobs here. When the smartphone era arrives, worst case scenario, we can just join forces with Huawei and trade hardware for software.”

Muttering to himself, Guo Cheng set about handling the matter.

Taidian was now just a fledgling MP3 company, barely a year and a half old. The internet winter had caused a wave of MP3 music download sites to collapse, making survival difficult for MP3 companies as well.

When Guo Cheng approached them, most of Taidian’s major shareholders were preparing to withdraw and change industries, as they couldn’t see the end of the internet winter. Upon hearing of Guo Cheng’s intent to acquire, they were overjoyed. Aside from a few founding members with higher aspirations, the rest all cashed out.

With about ten million yuan, Guo Cheng gained control of what would later become the leading domestic MP3 company, holding 85% of the shares—the rest belonged to the founders and management. Just a year and a half earlier, the company’s fixed assets had amounted to twenty million, meaning they’d practically worked for nothing for a year and a half and sold their early investment to Guo Cheng at half price.

He then immediately described to Taidian’s engineers the three key innovations that distinguished the iPod from existing technologies, instructing them to draft patent applications for each. As for the company’s daily operations, he didn’t plan to interfere right away.

One mustn’t rush into unfamiliar territory.

The patent claims and specifications for the “pseudo-iPod” had to be rock solid. As for the implementation examples, a few flaws or ambiguities could always be addressed during the review process.

According to Chinese law, patents are divided into inventions and utility models. After filing, an invention undergoes an 18-month preliminary review period, during which the application is kept confidential unless the applicant requests early publication; otherwise, it’s disclosed and proceeds to substantive examination after 18 months.

Eighteen months later, Jobs would have already released the iPod, so Guo Cheng had no fear that the patent office wouldn’t understand the somewhat vague implementation examples attached to his applications.

Under the Paris Convention and other global patent treaties, each invention application allows for a one-time withdrawal and reapplication within twelve months, claiming “priority” from the earlier filing, as long as the technology hasn’t been publicly used or become prior art.

With this twelve-month priority period plus the 18-month secrecy phase, Guo Cheng could theoretically keep this set of “submarine” patents buried for 30 months—meaning he could lay the trap in May 2001, not needing to spring it the moment Jobs launched the iPod, but rather let it lie in wait, giving Jobs time to build up iPod sales and brand influence, then finally detonate it at the end of 2003.

This was “raising the fish in the pond”—waiting to extract larger licensing fees from Jobs, or force a more advantageous market-splitting agreement.

Of course, Guo Cheng didn’t necessarily have to wait that long; he’d also have to weigh brand building and the global growth rate of MP3 music penetration.

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By the time all these matters were dealt with, it was already June 2001.

Of his fifty million in spare cash, ten million had gone to acquiring Taidian and laying out the MP3 sector. Another ten million each went to Chen Shoufu’s “Alipay Security Guard” plan and the ongoing development and promotion of his own “Monkey Version Alipay.”

Guo Cheng was back to being strapped for cash, with just over twenty million left. Fortunately, his online game, TV drama rights, and audio-visual sales were still delivering a steady stream of income.

After running at full throttle for over a month, Guo Cheng finally had a chance to pay attention to his TV drama.

The first run of “Meteor Garden” had finished airing on CCTV, with an average viewership rating of 16%.

WuYue Satellite TV’s broadcast lagged two weeks behind CCTV and would normally be expected to do worse. Instead, because many viewers had missed the early episodes or needed to catch up for other reasons, ratings unexpectedly surged to 18%.

Industry insiders were dumbfounded, admitting that the nationwide ratings champion for the year had already been decided.

Viewership ratings meant very different things in different eras. In 1998, when there was barely any internet in China, “Princess Pearl”—the hottest show of the 1990s—could hit a 25% average. By the dawn of the new century, during the internet winter, an annual champion would be happy with 12% to 15%. When YouTube and Tudou appeared in 2005, “Drawing Sword” won the year with a mere 8%. By the 2010s, annual champions were down to 3–4%—hardly anyone watched TV anymore.

Domyoji and Hanazawa Rui, the two male leads, became so popular their popularity seemed to break the sound barrier. Even the Polo shirt Guo Cheng wore in the show sold out nationwide. Luckily, Taobao hadn’t launched yet, or the “find the same style” shops could’ve made billions.

Technically, Domyoji was the main lead and should have commanded more attention, but Guo Cheng’s looks were even more striking and aloof than Jerry Yan’s, and his presence in the show was even more magnetic. He instantly became the idol of youth everywhere, the poster child for cool.

Professional critics in the industry had to admit, “The actor playing Hanazawa Rui is the only one in the entire cast who can really act.”

“Guo Cheng’s performance isn’t just a display of personal skill; it’s about leadership over the entire scene. For example, in the car racing and basketball scenes, his control of the rhythm elevated the dramatic impact to a whole new level.”

Comments like these became the standard assignment for film school students that summer.

In other words, Guo Cheng’s presence was like a point guard in basketball or a quarterback in American football—a true field general.

Why is it that, even in the NBA and NFL where Black athletes are dominant, the positions of point guard and quarterback still have a higher proportion of white players? Because these positions require brains. Ball skills are secondary; vision and leadership matter most, and the low intelligence of Black athletes often makes them unsuitable.

The same applies to acting. It’s not just about individual expressions or gestures—true acting is about carrying the whole production, commanding the scene with effortless poise.

How could the professionals at the National Academy of Chinese Theatre Arts or Beijing Film Academy not notice the subtle gestures with which Guo Cheng orchestrated the action during the basketball scenes?

Suddenly, countless brands came waving stacks of cash, hoping to hire Guo Cheng for endorsements—over in Taiwan, Jerry Yan and Vic Chou had already picked up several deals worth three million each.

But at this moment, those outside the entertainment circle were shocked to discover that Guo Cheng wasn’t even managed by the same agency as the other F4 members! He came from an investment institution called Eslite Audio & Video, and Zhiping Chai had no authority over him.

It was only when they asked Zhiping Chai for advertising opportunities that they learned Guo Cheng was actually one of the main investors in the drama.

He bought his way into the production? That’s not how the script usually goes! Since when do investors deliver such performances?

Rich, talented, perceptive, and handsome—how could anyone compete?

Undeterred, the brands dug deeper and finally found Pan Jieying as a lead—since Guo Cheng was underage, all his companies listed his cousin as the legal representative.

“So he has a cousin running ‘Legend’ for him? No wonder he’s so lucky—he’s got a benefactor!”

Compared to Guo Cheng, who seemed to have nothing, Pan Jieying’s “Qianjiang University MBA” at least comforted other entrepreneurs—a relief that “at least it wasn’t a high school student who pulled off the success of ‘Legend.’” Otherwise, many diploma-worshipping overachievers might have been driven to despair.

They readily accepted the narrative that Guo Cheng was just a pretty boy riding his cousin’s coattails, and tried to persuade Pan Jieying to get her cousin to accept endorsements.

Unfortunately, all these efforts failed.

Guo Cheng refused all endorsements. He wasn’t interested in small change; more importantly, he valued his reputation and image above all.

Of course, accepting interviews for his own business ventures didn’t count as advertising in his eyes, nor would it damage his image—Jack Ma would accept interviews for Taobao, Robin Li for Baidu, and Zuckerberg for Facebook.

Legitimate media exposure and commercial endorsements were not the same.

Thus, just as the entire nation’s entertainment media was ravenous for any information about Guo Cheng and hoping to catch him on camera, he finally gave them a chance.