The richest man started taking advantage of loopholes after joining Alibaba.

Beijing, China World Trade Center Phase 3, 58th floor.

The decor of this conference room is more expensive than the presidential suites in many five-star hotels.

The long walnut table was polished to a shine, and there was a bottle of mineral water in front of each seat. It was from Fiji and cost 28 yuan a bottle, but no one drank it.

A pop-up screen is embedded in the center of the desktop, refreshing data in real time—the fund account monitoring panel of Weiguang Technology at the three major banks.

Sun Zheng sat at the end of the long table. He had changed into a new pair of gold-rimmed glasses, but his eyes behind the lenses were bloodshot. He hadn't slept much for three days.

The humiliation at the closed-door summit was still burning in his mind, so Lin Che, in front of the leaders of the Supreme People's Court, exposed his entire chain of vested interests.

At that moment, he felt like he was already dead, a social death, which was even more painful than actual death.

But he didn't die.

Alibaba headquarters held an emergency meeting overnight, and there was only one conclusion: Sun Zheng is still useful.

It wasn't because he was highly capable, but because he held the core terms of the agreements with Tencent and Baidu Union.

If it were someone else, this alliance would fall apart within three days.

So he's still sitting here.

Tencent's Vice President of Strategy, Qian Minghui, sat to his right, while Baidu's Head of Commercialization, Zhou Guoping, sat to his left.

The core combat personnel of the three giants were crammed into the same room.

The numbers on the big screen remained unchanged.

The meager 50 billion yuan lay dormant in the accounts of the three major banks, like a stagnant pool.

There were no large transfers, no fund allocations, and even daily supplier settlements were 30% less than usual.

"It's the third day." Qian Minghui broke the silence, his voice not loud, but his legs under the table were trembling. "Three days, not a single penny has been touched."

Zhou Guoping adjusted his glasses: "Could it be that they're waiting for us to make the first move?"

Sun Zheng remained silent.

He stared at the string of numbers on the screen, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table.

The rhythm is fast, like a heartbeat.

"No," Sun Zheng's voice was still hoarse, still recovering from the fright he'd been at the closed-door summit, "Lin Che... he doesn't wait for anyone."

Qian Minghui turned his head.

"He never plays defense," Sun Zheng's fingers paused, "From the very first day of micro-light analysis, he has never played defense. Every time we thought he was lying in wait, looking back, it was all part of his strategic planning."

"So?" Zhou Guoping asked.

"So the quieter he is now," Sun Zheng swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, "it means he's holding it in."

The meeting room was quiet for a few seconds, the hum of the air conditioner particularly clear.

Qian Minghui's expression darkened: "He just obtained a pilot license for government-assisted credit reporting, backed by the state. If he uses this 50 billion yuan to subsidize credit payments in a positive light..."

"Then we're playing against the national team," Zhou Guoping finished the sentence.

Sun Zheng stood up.

The chair slid back half a meter, its wheels making a dull thud as they rolled on the carpet.

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, where the night view of Beijing's CBD stretched out beneath his feet, the lights as dense as a circuit board.

"We can't wait any longer."

He turned around, his expression no longer that of the trembling man huddled on the sofa three days ago, but more like someone who had lost a gamble and decided to throw all their last chips onto the table.

"Billions in subsidies, launched ahead of schedule."

Qian Minghui was stunned: "The original plan was for the three days before Double Twelve..."

"We can't wait. Start now," Sun Zheng's voice grew increasingly firm. "The three companies will join forces, doubling the subsidies and covering all product categories. I want to lock down all the traffic in the lower-tier market before Lin Che makes his move."

"This is like fighting with thin air—"

"Fighting even thin air!"

Sun Zheng patted the glass of the floor-to-ceiling window, causing the entire window to vibrate, and Qian Minghui's words were swallowed back down his throat.

"You don't understand this person," Sun Zheng's forehead pressed against the cold glass, his voice suddenly lowering, "I do understand. He has 50 billion in his hands that he doesn't touch, not because he hasn't figured out how to spend it, but because we can't see where he's going to spend it."

Zhou Guoping and Qian Minghui exchanged a glance.

"So we must first define the battlefield," Sun Zheng turned back, sat back in his chair, and opened his laptop. "We'll fight on our turf, using methods we're familiar with: billions in cash, price wars, grabbing users, diverting traffic, forcing them onto our chessboard."

He started typing, his fingers moving very quickly.

The three giants' joint operation plan for billions in subsidies has begun to be built from scratch.

There is only one objective—to kill the glimmer of light.

No one knew that the person they were going to kill was currently squatting in a dilapidated factory, arguing with someone over two cents.

...

Yongsheng Garment Factory, Yangtze River Delta.

At 7:30 p.m., only two light bulbs were still lit in the factory, one of which was flickering.

Lin Che sat at a folding table with a missing leg propped up by bricks, with a handwritten agreement spread out in front of him.

The factory manager stood opposite him, his hands in his pockets, looking down at the numbers on the agreement for a long time.

Six pieces.

Fully guaranteed sales.

exclusive.

"If I sign, will all future orders be yours?" The factory manager's voice was muffled, as if he were asking himself.

"From now on, we'll split the orders 50/50," Lin Che picked up a pen from the table, twirled it twice, and said, "You just handle production, I'll handle sales."

"Then wouldn't I become your workshop foreman?"

"You're not even a workshop foreman anymore," Lin Che put down his pen, his tone completely flat. "You're a bankrupt garment factory owner who owes the bank 470,000 yuan, is three months behind on employee wages, and whose wife took the kids back to her parents' house last week."

The factory manager's face twitched.

Xie Yu, who was squatting next to him, almost dropped his lunchbox on the ground—he didn't know when Lin Che had found out about these things, let alone why he had to say it to his face.

"How could you...?"

"I work in investigation."

Four words. The factory manager shut up.

Lin Che picked up the pen again and placed it next to the agreement, with the pen tip pointing towards the factory director.

"If you sign, your factory can still operate; if you don't, you won't even be able to pay your electricity bill before the Spring Festival."

In a corner of the warehouse, rats were gnawing on cardboard boxes, their rustling sound particularly jarring in the quiet space.

The factory manager picked up a pen.

My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from not having seen a way out for so long.

It's signed.

The handwriting was crooked and messy, but it was black and white on white paper, and a fingerprint was pressed on it.

Lin Che folded the agreement and put it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt.

Then he stood up and walked deeper into the warehouse.

Xie Yu followed, but his legs went numb from squatting for too long.

"President Lin," Xie Yu lowered his voice, "what exactly are you trying to do? Buy ten million hoodies... how much do you want?"

Lin Che didn't answer. He walked to the innermost wall of the warehouse and pushed open a half-rusted iron door.

Behind the door was the factory's backyard, overgrown with waist-high weeds, and moonlight shone on a row of abandoned shelves.

Lin Che took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Old Zhou, I'm sending you my location," his voice was soft, but Xie Yu heard every word clearly. "Open the logistics connection system for the East China node of Ark Cloud Warehouse. I need to forcibly merge it with the shipping system here."

What did the person on the other end of the phone say?

"Don't worry about format compatibility. Their system is just an Excel spreadsheet and a dot matrix printer," Lin Che said, taking two steps into the backyard and kicking aside a clump of weeds. "You can just open the API interface on your end, and I'll manually input the data. Let's get it done before tonight."

It's over.

Xie Yu stood at the iron gate, his mouth agape.

Ark Cloud Warehouse.

Weiguang spent two years and billions of yuan building an automated logistics system with twelve core city nodes, achieving 85% same-day delivery coverage.

Lin Che wants to connect this system to this dilapidated factory that doesn't even have Wi-Fi.

"It's not just this one."

Lin Che turned around, the light from his phone screen reflecting on his face, obscuring his expression.

"There will be three more tomorrow, and two more the day after. They're all these half-dead factories with lots of inventory, low costs, and no one wants them because their distribution channels are cut off."

"And then?" Xie Yu's voice trembled slightly.

"Then we take these factory goods, bypass all the middlemen, and deliver them directly to consumers," Lin Che put his phone back in his pocket, "factory to consumer, a hoodie for 9.9 yuan with free shipping, others' cost is 12 yuan, my cost is 6 yuan plus 2 yuan for logistics."

Xie Yu's brain finally started working.

Six plus two equals eight.

Selling it for 9.9 yuan, the gross profit is nearly 2 yuan.

It may not seem like much, but ten million pieces equals twenty million.

Moreover, this is not a fake low price created by subsidies; it is a real, profitable low price.

BAT (Baidu, Alibaba, Tencent) are spending billions on subsidies, but they're losing money on every sale.

Lin Che makes a profit on every sale he makes.

"C2M..." Xie Yu finally uttered these three letters.

"Stop using coded language," Lin Che said, already walking back, his cloth shoes crunching on the gravel. "It's about cutting off all the bloodsuckers in the middle, turning the factory directly into a business. It's not new, but nobody's ever done it before because nobody had the logistics."

He stopped in front of the folding table with the missing leg and patted the signed agreement on the table.

"I have."

...

On the same night.

Beijing, China World Trade Center Phase 3.

Sun Zheng's battle plan was finalized, a thirty-seven-page PowerPoint presentation, every single page representing money.

With billions in cash, three companies contributing proportionally, covering all product categories, and a full-scale launch before Double Twelve, the goal is singular: to crush the competition with physical-level pricing and drain the traffic from Weiguang Mall.

He stood up and closed his laptop.

"Notify the public relations department," Sun Zheng glanced at his watch; it was 11:40. "Tomorrow morning at 10:00, the three companies will make a joint official announcement. I'll review the press release."

Qian Minghui nodded; he was already sending the message.

"I want Lin Che to know," Sun Zheng walked to the door, placed his hand on the handle, and turned back, "that no matter how strong your skills or how prestigious your licenses are, they're all just paper in the face of real money."

He pushed open the door and went out.

The corridor was long, and his figure was reflected in the marble floor, showing off his sharp suit and shiny leather shoes.

Six hundred kilometers away, Lin Che squatted in the weeds in the backyard of the dilapidated factory, using the light from his phone screen to enter the data of the first exclusive sales agreement line by line into the Ark Cloud Warehouse system.

Mosquitoes buzzed around his ear.

He slapped his neck, his hands were covered in blood, but he didn't wipe them away and continued recording data.

Inside the factory, the factory manager, his hands trembling, pressed his fingerprint on the agreement again, as if afraid it wouldn't be clear enough.

In the conference room on the 58th floor in Beijing, the projector was still on, and the faintly glowing financial account data on the large screen remained motionless.

Five hundred billion, and it remains completely unchanged.

What Sun Zheng didn't know was that the 50 billion wasn't bullets at all.

It is the foundation of the ammunition depot.