Chapter Three: The Two Titans

Lin Zhi had spent over a decade forging a path in the garment industry, establishing her own clothing factory in Shenjian City. Her main business was producing cheap knockoff apparel. In those days, domestic brands in China were few; aside from the fledgling Li Ning, the market was flooded with miscellaneous copycat products—shoddy replicas of foreign brands. Poor workmanship paired with low prices made these garments the favored choice for most people below the middle class.

Though the clothes sold cheaply, their costs were even lower. It seemed there was little profit to be made, but once sales accumulated to staggering numbers, the resulting transformation was unimaginable. Fundamentally, this was one reason for China’s economic boom—a colossal, natural market of over a billion people, whose population dividend was beyond comprehension.

Riding this wave, Lin Zhi’s net worth in 1999 was approaching a milestone that even Wang Jianlin would have called a “small target.” But after Taobao officially launched in May 2003, Lin Zhi missed the opportunity to get in early, while her competitors seized the fast lane of online shopping and soon surpassed her in every way.

Foreign brands then flocked to China: Nike, Adidas, Uniqlo from Japan, trendy Western labels, and domestic upstarts like Vancl, intensifying competition in the garment industry. From then on, Gu Zhi’s family finances steadily declined.

Fortunately, Gu Zhi was reborn.

Now, to him, rescuing his mother Lin Zhi’s company was merely a minor task. With a few pointers in the right direction, he could completely change its fate. But the most crucial matter was to catch the last train of China’s internet boom!

Gu Zhi remembered clearly: in March 2017, Penguin’s market value surpassed Alibaba, becoming Asia’s most valuable company. Two months later, Penguin pressed forward, its stock price soaring to a peak of 247.8 Hong Kong dollars, its total value breaking $300 billion for the first time. Alibaba was not far behind; a week later, its stock rose 2.69%, reaching a historic high and crossing the $300 billion threshold. Calculated at the exchange rate then, both companies were valued at nearly two trillion yuan, not only leading Chinese enterprises but standing among global giants.

Including Baidu, China’s three internet titans were known collectively as BAT. Yet Baidu had gradually waned in recent years, its market value dwindling to a mere fraction of the other two, trailing far behind. Multiple egregious incidents further disgusted many Chinese, leading to widespread aversion and resistance.

Strictly speaking, China had only two true internet giants: Alibaba and Penguin. Behind every internet-related industry in China, their presence loomed, without exception. The fierce rivalry between Kuaidi and Didi, Meituan and Ele.me, OFO and Mobike—all mirrored their competition. Much like proxy wars between nations, China’s internet industry had become their gladiatorial arena.

1999 marked the founding of Alibaba and the beginning of China’s internet ascent.

After his rebirth, Gu Zhi was determined not merely to observe from the sidelines, but to become a participant—or even a puppet master behind the scenes!

Compared to this ambition, Lin Zhi’s company was but a tiny ripple.

Gu Zhi stood at the window, withdrawing from his reverie and pondering his next words. Once resolved, he opened his door and headed to the living room.

It was Sunday, a rare day of rest. The family seldom had time together; Lin Zhi was busy with her business, and his father, Gu Wenzhi, was burdened with teaching at Shenzhen University.

Founded in 1983, Shenzhen University was then severely understaffed. Gu Wenzhi had to teach both undergraduates and graduate students, his workload considerable.

In the living room, Gu Wenzhi and Lin Zhi sat on a worn, yellowed leather sofa, watching their newly purchased 29-inch Panasonic color TV. At the time, Japanese brands dominated the world, and a small Japanese TV was a standard item for ordinary city dwellers. China’s television industry was just starting out, laboriously catching up until around 2013, when affordable quality products finally reclaimed the domestic market.

On screen, the prime-time drama slot was airing the 1998 version of “Water Margin,” whose viewership had reached 78%, making it a hit of recent years. The couple had watched it once last year; though it was a rerun, they were still engrossed.

“Dad, Mom, I want to discuss something with you.”

Gu Zhi walked over and sat beside the sofa. His parents saw his serious expression, so different from usual, and recalling his absent-mindedness over the past three days, their hearts tightened.

They exchanged a silent glance, and Gu Wenzhi picked up the remote and turned off the TV.

“Son, did something happen at school?” Lin Zhi asked with concern.

Gu Zhi had just started his second year of high school, and had never worried his parents academically. To Lin Zhi, if something was wrong, it was either a failed romance or a fight with classmates. After all, what trouble could a high schooler have?

“Mom, Dad. I need the family’s support.”

“Support? Is it for buying textbooks? Or is there something you want? How much do you need?” Gu Wenzhi found his son’s request odd, but felt relieved.

As far as material needs went, both Gu Wenzhi and Lin Zhi believed they could easily provide for their son.

“At present, I need seventy-five million.”

Gu Zhi spoke calmly.

The living room fell silent.

Gu Wenzhi and Lin Zhi were utterly stunned, mouths slightly agape, staring at the composed Gu Zhi, words failing them.

After a long pause,

“Son, what did you say the amount was?” Lin Zhi asked again, afraid she’d misheard.

“Seventy-five million. If that’s too much, sixty-five million will do.”

…

Five hours later, Gu Zhi returned to his room.

Convincing his parents to hand over such a vast sum was an almost impossible task, especially without revealing the fact of his rebirth. For an underage youth, this goal was nearly unattainable.

Fortunately, though his body was young, Gu Zhi’s soul was that of a seasoned adult.

He said just one thing, which stunned Lin Zhi and Gu Wenzhi:

“I know what will happen in the next twenty years, so I need this money to invest.”

Wasn’t this tantamount to revealing his rebirth?

Gu Zhi had no other choice. He figured he could be reborn at a hundred and still not solve this problem. Asking for tens of millions in 1999—without dropping some earth-shattering information—was impossible. No one was that foolish.

After that, everything proceeded naturally.

From China’s political and economic development to global power shifts; from the successful Olympic bid in 2001 to the grand opening in 2008; from the dominance of Nokia to the meteoric rise of Steve Jobs and the explosion of domestic smartphones; from the weak, discriminated Chinese to the “strong nation” image in Hong Kong and Taiwan’s eyes…

Finally, he focused on Lin Zhi’s company, pointing out its problems and hidden dangers. If she missed the opportunity brought by the internet, every misstep would compound, leading ultimately to its disintegration.

Gu Zhi said much, yet never explicitly revealed his rebirth.

After the conversation, Lin Zhi and Gu Wenzhi sat in silence for a long time.

They still found it hard to believe what their son had said, but reason told them it could all be true. Especially the part about Lin Zhi’s company—Gu Zhi’s analysis was so accurate it matched her own plans. The predicted outcome left her deeply unsettled.

“Son, how do you know all this?”

“I don’t know how I know. I woke up two days ago and these memories were just there, maybe Heaven told me.”

After all, rebirth was certainly Heaven’s arrangement.