Haifeng leaned back in his office chair, calculating the next move.
China Star's chip supplier in Taiwan could deliver about 500,000 Kunpeng A2 chips per week. That locked their phone production into a natural seven-day cycle.
Haifeng didn't mind.
Weekly flash sales created hype, cleared inventory instantly, and avoided overstock.
"The most stable business," he murmured, "is selling what you make. Nothing more. Nothing less."
He turned to Liu Jianyu, who was already waiting by his desk.
Samsung's retreat from the flagship market here is an opening. We make the most of it."
"For the next stretch, we release a batch every week. No gaps."
Liu nodded and left to relay the orders.
Minutes later, China Star's official Weibo dropped the announcement:
"Harmony X2—second wave goes on sale October 27."
The internet caught fire immediately.
It had only been ten days since the first batch launched.
That was enough time for honest user reviews to flood online.
And the Harmony X2? The feedback was glowing.
Digital influencers called it a marvel. Posts praised its power, stability, and finish. Even return customers who had refunded Samsung phones now set their sights on the X2.
"Domestic beast. High specs. Smooth system."
That was the phrase circling forums and chat groups alike.
Even before the restock, demand was surging.
Haifeng, meanwhile, was deep in another rabbit hole—skimming automotive news out of habit.
And suddenly, he froze.
"Wanhong Group announces ¥2 billion investment into Yunque Auto to build budget family cars."
"Dafa Auto announces resurrection, with plans to re-enter the MPV market under original branding."
"Huanghai Auto sells 51% equity to Chengxiang Group for ¥180 million. Plans confirmed for urban SUV development."
Haifeng stared at the screen, stunned.
Those names weren't unfamiliar.
They were ancient.
Dead car brands—reviving all at once.
He read more. And then it clicked.
It wasn't a coincidence.
The government had quietly loosened import tariffs on auto parts and adjusted entry barriers.
And with that came a familiar term:
Production Access Qualification Certificate.
In short, if you wanted to build cars in China, you needed that certificate. It wasn't optional.
And getting one from scratch? Nearly impossible.
But there was a loophole.
You could buy out a dead brand that still held a certificate, even if it hadn't produced a car in a decade.
That meant acquiring their name, factory shell, and—most importantly—their legal qualification.
If you had money, you could skip the line.
That's why these zombie brands were crawling out of the grave.
"They're not here to build cars," Haifeng muttered. "They're here to flip quotas."
The plan was simple:
Revive a dead brand
Slap together a few 'qualified' cars
Hire an army of paid reviewers
Raise hype, burn through inventory
IPO off the back of a fake growth curve
Haifeng had seen this before. It was real estate all over again.
Short-term capital. Long-term nothing.
But the grift worked—as long as you moved fast.
Before he could get too deep in thought, Zhao Jianhua from Audi Motors called.
"President Lu, I've got a weird situation. Half the industry's trying to buy us out."
"Engines, gearboxes, chassis blueprints—you name it, they want it."
"They're offering to buy everything but the R&D. What should we do?"
Haifeng chuckled.
"Of course, they don't want to build their own. Who has time for that?"
"But we'd be stupid not to sell. The question is what, and how."
Since Audi Motors launched, they'd never sold external parts before.
They could barely meet internal demand.
But now, with dozens of these shell companies forming overnight, the tables were turning.
At least forty or fifty 'new' car companies were popping up, with another twenty half-dead ones still staggering around.
And now?
Everyone needed parts. Certification. Access. Legitimacy.
The government had delivered the message loud and clear:
"We're raising foreign costs."
"We're protecting domestic brands."
"We're giving you a window—use it."
Haifeng smiled.
"Time to make them pay for the shortcut."