Chapter Thirty-One: The First Generation of Online Water Armies

September 7th. Schools across the nation had only just begun their new term, and campuses that had lain tranquil all summer were once again alive with youthful clamor.

Tang Wei, a freshman who had only just reported to the Central Academy of Drama, had attended less than a week of classes before requesting an extraordinary month-long leave from the school.

This incident quickly made her well-known among the new students.

The freshmen of the Academy this year had spontaneously created a QQ group—a chat app immensely popular among young people, almost everyone had an account. In their idle moments, they would chat, gossip, banter, and flirt in the group.

“Does anyone know that girl Tang Wei? I heard she just asked for a huge leave. Isn’t she bold? Surely she’s already taking private gigs outside before classes have even started?”

“She’s in my class. I’ve only seen her at three lessons so far—every time she comes and goes like a shadow.”

“But she’s really beautiful... drooling emoji.”

“Don’t you guys know? She’s already starring as the female lead in a movie. The film’s about to premiere, and she’s been super busy.”

“Wow, that’s impressive! Which movie? Question mark emoji.”

“‘The Butterfly Effect,’ written by Gu Zhi. It’s been a hot topic recently. The director is Ning Hao, a student from the Beijing Film Academy next door—they even said they’d surpass Feng Xiaogang...sarcastic face emoji.”

“I heard it’s a science fiction movie, and the main crew are all newcomers.”

“Hmph, what kind of decent script can a third-rate writer like Gu Zhi produce? And science fiction, no less. I’d call it fantasy.”

“Gu Zhi didn’t even finish high school but thinks he can write science fiction? That’s a joke...picking nose emoji.”

“How can you call our Gu Zhi a third-rate writer? Have you read his books? His new release, ‘Those Years,’ has sold over 700,000 copies globally. His works have topped the bestseller list for a year straight. Our Gu Zhi is a first-rate writer, okay? Roaring emoji.”

“Yes! If you haven’t read Gu Zhi, don’t run your mouth. Otherwise, you’ll just show your ignorance.”

“I’m definitely going to support Gu Zhi’s movie at the cinema. I wonder when ‘Those Years’ will be made into a film...fangirl drooling emoji.”

“I’ll go too!”

“Count me in!”

“...”

“A bunch of brainless fans. This country can’t possibly produce a real science fiction film. Our test-driven education has stifled all creativity. A sci-fi movie? Keep dreaming! Picking nose emoji.”

“Exactly, if even the island nation can’t make it, how could we? What a joke...laughing emoji.”

“...”

“Have you heard of Science Fiction World magazine? Have you read any of the works published there? Have you even seen ‘The Butterfly Effect’? If you haven’t, stop spouting nonsense and insulting people. What right do you have to be so loud here?”

“I bet the ones criticizing Gu Zhi haven’t read his books, either. What a bunch of uncultured people, lowering the average quality of our incoming class.”

“I’m leaving the group...vomit, bomb, smile (all emojis).”

User “Shi Yu” has left the Central Academy of Drama Freshmen Group of 2000.

...

The departure of a newcomer didn’t interrupt the discussion. The debate over Tang Wei, Gu Zhi, and “The Butterfly Effect” continued to rage in the QQ group.

And not just here; similar conversations were happening in the freshmen groups of Beijing Film Academy, Shanghai Theatre Academy, Beijing Normal University, Renmin University, and countless other institutions.

Indeed, in almost any QQ group, someone would pop up to stir the conversation toward “The Butterfly Effect” or Gu Zhi.

Be it praise or scorn, discussion of “The Butterfly Effect” had suddenly become the mainstream on QQ.

The mastermind behind all this was none other than Gu Zhi.

After learning his film would be competing with two formidable rivals, a sense of indignation spurred him to take radical action. Rather than relying on the uncertain promotional resources of China Film Group, he decided to leverage his own influence on Tencent and engage in online marketing.

More precisely: QQ marketing.

At this time, netizens were still relatively naive, and group chats were a newly-emerging feature. Anyone who requested to join was generally accepted without suspicion.

Gu Zhi exploited this innocence, coordinated with Tencent’s internal contacts, and spent 50,000 yuan to hire two hundred “water army” members on QQ, each paid ten yuan a day.

Their daily mission was to infiltrate various QQ groups and, by any means, spark conversation about “The Butterfly Effect,” maintaining the buzz until the film’s release.

Initially, Gu Zhi worried that ten yuan per day might be too little, but it turned out many were already spending their days in internet cafes, and ten yuan covered a day’s internet fee—so much so that people competed for the job.

These were among the earliest internet “water army” in the country.

Later, Gu Zhi gathered them all into a single QQ group, planning to keep them on standby; he foresaw many future uses for their services.

The country’s internet was developing rapidly, and the web was the primary battleground for publicity. If you didn’t seize it, others would. Gu Zhi felt it his duty to cultivate this water army.

...

Today was the day China Film Group held the screening for “The Butterfly Effect.” As an internal event, only the film’s creators, several high-ranking executives including Han Sanping, and two officials from the National Radio and Television Administration attended—no outsiders.

China Film Group had specially invited these officials to get their preliminary feedback, intending to send the film for formal review immediately after the screening.

Any film, once completed, had to undergo this process. If any scenes violated regulations, they would have to be recut, revised, or even reshot before the film could be released.

Present among the creative team were Gu Zhi, Ning Hao, Tang Wei, Liu Ye, along with Zhang Yishan, Yang Zi, several supporting actors, and the core crew.

At this moment, Gu Zhi felt a lingering unease. Though the sustained QQ marketing efforts had given him some confidence, he couldn’t help feeling anxious as the film was about to be scrutinized by others.

Ning Hao, Tang Wei, and Liu Ye were even more nervous. Unaware of Gu Zhi’s behind-the-scenes maneuvers, they could only worry about whether the executives would be satisfied, their nerves stretched taut.

The screening began promptly, and the hall fell silent.

First, the words “The Butterfly Effect” appeared onscreen, followed by the names of director Ning Hao, producers Han Sanping and Gu Zhi, the China Film Group as production company, and other crew members in turn.

Then, centered on the screen, a sentence appeared: “It is said that the mere flutter of a butterfly’s wings might eventually cause a hurricane on the other side of the world.—Chaos Theory.”

A second later, the text vanished and the film began in earnest.

One hour and fifty-five minutes later, “The Butterfly Effect” concluded.

As the credits rolled, the executives and officials present instinctively broke into applause, generous with their praise. Soon, everyone rose to their feet, the sound of clapping echoing throughout the theater.

The creative team, their faces long tense, now beamed with joy; Ning Hao was so moved he was nearly in tears.

“Incredible! I never imagined that a team of complete newcomers could produce a film of such high quality. Honestly, when I first decided to invest, I didn’t expect you could make something this good, this polished! Truly excellent!” Han Sanping clasped Ning Hao and Gu Zhi’s hands, unable to stop praising them.

The two grinned so widely they could barely speak.

Han Sanping turned to the current chairman of China Film Group. “Boss, what do you think? At least we didn’t let you down!”

The chairman, his hair nearly white, nodded solemnly.

“This is an outstanding film, rare and precious. It very much has the flavor of a Hollywood blockbuster. Domestic cinema shouldn’t just chase awards and ignore box office. You young people have done brilliantly, producing a homegrown science fiction film. This is just the shot in the arm our market needs.

Rest assured, China Film Group will give you our full support. If you have new ideas in the future, keep experimenting—our industry needs fresh blood like yours.”

Gu Zhi nodded repeatedly. “Thank you, sir. The future of our cinema is the commercial film era. We can’t stagnate and let our own market become a cash cow for Hollywood.”

The creative team, along with the executives and the officials, chatted and laughed together, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Watching this vibrant group of young people, Han Sanping was overjoyed.

They were the future of the nation’s film industry.