Chapter 78: More Lies to Cover Up

Gu Cheng had to admit that his cousin's ability to learn was truly remarkable. While Pan Jieying was never one for wild creativity, she had a knack for refining and perfecting what others had already done, skillfully adapting foreign techniques to local needs—a talent that had always been her "innate skill."

This time, Gu Cheng had merely mentioned the grand goal of "promoting Alipay under the condition of binding physical addresses." Yet just two days later, Pan Jieying had already sifted through a mountain of old documents, absorbed countless operating experiences from predecessors, and produced a fresh proposal for promotion, dropping it onto Gu Cheng's desk.

Of course, along the way, she couldn't help but rope in the market research department, making them toil for two days.

"I looked into it. When Peter Thiel promoted PayPal two years ago, things didn't go smoothly at first. Americans were reluctant to use online electronic payments, feeling that the intangible nature made it less secure than cash. Thiel pushed for half a year with little progress, until he finally resorted to 'cashback for new users,' which broke the deadlock.

Our current situation is even less favorable than America two years ago—at least back then, over a hundred million Americans were accustomed to overdrawing credit cards and spending ahead of their means. So the psychological leap from credit cards to electronic payments wasn't too drastic.

But here, at least ninety percent of people are still in the age of saving. Domestic lending products are almost exclusively for business customers; ordinary consumers rarely overdraft or borrow."

Pan Jieying outlined the bleak situation, then offered her conclusion: "If you want rapid promotion, you have to give new users tangible gifts. When Thiel launched PayPal, each new user got a free $10 credited to their account. If they registered through an invitation link, the referrer got $10 as well. This triggered viral social spread, giving users incentive to bring their friends and family on board. As a result, PayPal's average acquisition cost per user was $20.

Considering that the financial value of Chinese users is far less than that of Americans, we can't afford such high acquisition costs. After much thought, I believe it's better to give away music CDs, movie discs, or game cards instead."

Gu Cheng nodded in approval, appreciating his cousin's prudent approach.

When Thiel was acquiring PayPal's first million users, they lost $20 million—but fortunately, it was at the peak of the dot-com bubble, so after gaining those users, the company's valuation soared to $500 million, and they secured $100 million in funding.

Now, during the winter period, Gu Cheng certainly couldn't afford to spend recklessly like those in the bubble's heyday.

He followed the train of thought, asking, "So how exactly do you plan to distribute the gifts?"

Pan Jieying flipped to the last slide of her presentation, pointing to several icons as she explained: "For each new Alipay registrant, we'll give a free CD sold on Dingdang.com, defaulting to 'Meteor Shower.' If they're referred by an existing user, the referrer gets one as well.

In addition, the account holder will receive a '1 Yuan first-charge for Legend game points' via Alipay. If they don't play 'Legend,' they can save this opportunity for any future game we operate."

The market price of a genuine CD was about 20 yuan. With both the new user and the referrer receiving one, that's two CDs. Add to that the 30 yuan game card, and the acquisition cost per new user totals 70 yuan.

Converted at the current exchange rate, that's under $10, about 60% less than PayPal's acquisition cost, yet still sufficiently enticing.

Compared to Thiel, Gu Cheng's greatest advantage was that he ran numerous content businesses himself, so all the gifts were his own products—not actual dollars given away.

A CD priced at 20 yuan, minus creator royalties and production costs, actually cost just seven or eight yuan. Game cards had even more room for margin; after all, with bandwidth and server rentals allowing for 200,000 concurrent users, idle capacity was simply wasted, so more players just meant a bit more electricity. The more, the merrier.

Gu Cheng basically agreed with his cousin's plan, only adding a final touch:

"This is a good approach, but let's take it a step further—we don't need to say 'if you don't play Legend, you can keep the first-charge opportunity for another game.' Let's just tell consumers: for any game our company operates that's time-billed, the first top-up via Alipay is always 1 yuan per card. But each game account must be bound to a unique Alipay account, no multiple cards per account."

Giving away a timed game card could lure a player into a new online game—where else could you find such a great deal? The only thing to watch out for was multiple Alipay accounts topping up the same game account indefinitely.

Moreover, Gu Cheng's Alipay had strict entry requirements from the start, far more stringent than Ma Feng's in the other timeline. Users had to bind their ID number and bank card, so the chance of opening multiple accounts was eliminated.

This move seemed unimpressive now, but ten years later, when humanity entered the era of big data, it would produce crystal-clear user behavior mapping.

Pan Jieying took note, preparing to launch the upgrade during the summer promotion.

…

After Gu Cheng and his cousin finalized the grand strategy, the remaining details were left to the team below.

The publicity campaign could start warming up in advance. So two designers and a backend coder worked through the night, and the next morning, the official websites of Legend Entertainment and Dingdang.com displayed the very first promotional ads for "Alipay."

This was the first time the word "Alipay" appeared in public. Before this, it had no such name.

The trademark, logo, appearance, and all legal risks had naturally been covered and registered before public release. Gu Cheng would never leave loopholes for his rivals.

Looking at the ads on the site, Gu Cheng mused that he could finally return to being a hands-off boss and pursue a bit of "poetry and the distant horizon."

In just a week, summer vacation would begin, and his cousin would have ample time to handle the business for him.

"Legend" was delivering steady net profits of over ten million yuan per month, and Dingdang.com's June surge had also performed well.

With his funds flush once more, Gu Cheng was contemplating where he might go for some fun, perhaps paying for his family to enjoy a proper holiday. As for work, his cousin could manage remotely from abroad—it was all about balancing work and rest.

He also considered relocating from the small apartment he'd bought for over 200,000 yuan, though he'd only lived there for a year. Now that he was famous, he had to wrap himself up tightly every time he went out. If the neighbors discovered a celebrity and big boss living next door, who knew what kind of drama might ensue?

Next, he planned to buy a few cars for everyone.

As he pondered, he casually went online to check real estate listings.

And then he was frustrated: before 2003, the domestic real estate boom hadn't yet begun. In present-day Qiantang, villas were exclusively custom-built for officials and the wealthy—unless someone sold a second-hand place, there was no way to buy a finished property.

After much thought, he settled for the next best thing: first, buy an apartment with enough class, space, good environment, and security, and make do for two years.

At the same time, he asked around to see if anyone in his circle was selling land with private construction permits—like the newly hired content director, Mr. Gao, who knew even more influential people than Gu Cheng.

After switching to apartment hunting, the options were finally broader. Gu Cheng soon found online a development called "White Horse Apartments," ready for delivery this year, with an average price of 6,000 yuan per square meter.

That unit price was double the city average, but the complex was excellent, facing the municipal government and backed by the Grand Canal. On both sides were riverside park landscapes, high greenery, embodying the art of tranquility amid bustle.

He decided on it.

Gu Cheng didn't have a driver's license and initially planned for the company driver to take him, but thinking it was a family matter, he had Pan Jieying drive instead.

Work is never-ending; you have to delegate to your subordinates.

As it wasn't yet rush hour, the city center roads were clear. Pan Jieying drove quickly, with Gu Cheng in the passenger seat, gazing at the scenery and chatting about summer plans—buying cars, traveling, and so forth.

Just as the siblings were discussing "where to take the family for a break," Gu Cheng's phone rang.

He glanced at it—it was Quan Shunyu's number.

Gu Cheng was slightly surprised, as they hadn't been in touch for over half a year.

"Who is it? If you get a call, just answer it—what are you waiting for?" Pan Jieying saw her brother staring blankly at the phone, unable to resist her curiosity.

Gu Cheng snapped back: "Oh, it's nothing. It's Brother Quan's number. I'm just surprised he's calling me."

Pan Jieying's eyes lit up, encouraging him: "All the more reason to answer! Maybe it's Xiaoya using her brother's phone to call you—she must have realized you’re properly making music now, so she’s come to apologize for the misunderstanding last time. Hurry up!"

Whenever Pan Jieying got anxious, she tended to ramble. In fact, Gu Cheng had already answered before she finished speaking.

"Brother Quan?"

"Ah Cheng, you're really something now—I see you on KBS TV, no wonder you don't bother to contact me anymore." On the other end, Quan Shunyu started with some friendly banter.

Gu Cheng could tell he had serious business to discuss, so he replied directly: "Not at all, you helped me in my tough times, that's a lifelong bond. If you’ve got something, just say it."

Quan Shunyu seemed to take a few seconds to organize his words before speaking: "Honestly, I don't lack money, so I never expected anything from your success. This time, I really do have a favor to ask—do you remember last year when I accompanied you to the Kaesong Development Zone, the leader of the delegation? Yes, the Deputy Director from the Foreign Affairs Ministry, Mr. Pan."

Gu Cheng thought for a moment, then recalled.

That trip to Kaesong had been solely to retrieve ancestral relics from his grandmother's family—the 'investment investigation' was just a cover. So he’d barely bothered to get acquainted with most of the delegation.

But he did remember the Deputy Director who led the group—mainly because, in another timeline, when he was in kindergarten, that Mr. Pan later became Secretary-General of the United Nations. Last year’s normalization talks, and the subsequent Kaesong joint development zone, were all led by him.

Once he realized, Gu Cheng asked, "How did you get involved with Deputy Director Pan again? You know my last investment trip was just a formality."

Quan Shunyu replied, "I know, but I heard you bought a consumer electronics company last month? I want to ask you for a favor, help me out in a pinch."

"Help in a pinch? We’re talking business here—I won’t do reckless investments."