Panhai Group Holdings Limited.

The General Manager’s Office.

Jing Hong sat behind his executive desk, holding this week’s one-on-one meeting with Zhao Hanqing, the General Manager of Panhai Group’s Investment Department.

Jing Hong was thirty-two years old this year. His eyes were somewhat phoenix-like—slightly narrow and elongated, with smooth, subtly upturned corners and narrow double eyelids. His irises were somewhat light in color and positioned slightly high, their lower edges just grazing the lower eyelids. It was a look verging on “three-white eyes,” which gave him a cool, detached aura, but his presence was formidable. However, his fair complexion, smooth facial contours, and slender neck softened that aloofness.

Jing Hong had been at the helm of Panhai—a trillion-dollar empire—for exactly one year.

Panhai was founded by Jing Hong’s father, Jing Haiping, in June 1997. It started with personal homepages and emails, later expanded into other social networking tools, and eventually broadened its commercial empire into numerous facets of the internet. It had rung the opening bell on Nasdaq many years ago. As US stocks climbed higher and higher, Panhai’s market value at its peak reached a staggering number—one followed by the word “Trillion.”

If Panhai’s operations were to falter, Wall Street would run red with blood.

Naturally, as Jing Haiping’s son, Jing Hong studied computer science, earning both his bachelor’s and doctoral degrees from Stanford. However, because his technical skills were already advanced during high school and he could leverage his father’s network, he began interning at major companies like Google and Facebook as a freshman. Later, he went to Wall Street’s top investment banks, known as the “Bulge Bracket①,” such as Goldman Sachs. In the investment banking division, he engaged in core businesses like equity underwriting, debt issuance, mergers and acquisitions, and restructuring. For his doctorate, Jing Hong originally intended to pursue a different direction. But in 2006, after Geoffrey Hinton proposed the concept of “Deep Learning,” Jing Hong acutely sensed the undercurrents of Artificial Intelligence, chose AI, and supplemented his studies with a master’s minor while interning at Amazon and Microsoft in Seattle.

Upon graduating with his PhD at age 25, Jing Hong immediately joined Panhai. At first, Jing Haiping did not reveal his son’s identity. Jing Hong was just a manager in the “Social Networking Business Group”—the division Panhai started with—where he launched two new features. A year later, he was transferred to the “Corporate Development Business Group,” where he spearheaded several mergers and acquisitions within the investment department and did a brief stint in marketing.

After a year and a half in the Corporate Development Business Group, just as his former colleagues were wondering about his rapid career shifts, Jing Haiping announced his identity and transferred him to his side as an assistant. Jing Haiping intended to groom him, often asking Jing Hong to review and think through matters first. The results delighted Jing Haiping, who realized Jing Hong might even surpass him. Several new features that Jing Haiping liked but Jing Hong disliked turned out poorly, with some being pulled offline within a single day.

Consequently, the following year, when Panhai underwent a seismic structural reorganization—turning the “AI Lab” into the “AI Business Group”—Jing Haiping ordered the head of this new business group to report directly to Jing Hong. AI was truly too “new,” a weak point for Jing Haiping, but it was precisely Jing Hong’s specialty; he was among the earliest cohort in the world to encounter deep learning. Jing Haiping wanted to give his son a massive business group to manage, and the AI Business Group seemed perfect. Though anxious, Jing Haiping trusted his son. As it turned out, the products Jing Hong went “All In” on—such as medical imaging—became the dominant trends a year later.

After serving as an assistant for about three years, Jing Hong grew increasingly confident. Around this time, Panhai’s original CSO (Chief Strategy Officer) and President of the Corporate Development Business Group abruptly resigned to become the CEO of a bank. Due to the sudden vacancy, Jing Hong concurrently took over as the new President of Corporate Development. After all, the acquisitions he had spearheaded years ago had yielded astronomical returns, and the sectors he had disliked back then had since proven to be poor choices.

Jing Haiping hadn’t intended for his son to take over so quickly. But life is unpredictable. A year ago, the old man was diagnosed with a tumor. Although he underwent surgery and chemotherapy, and pathology confirmed the tumor was at an early stage, a tumor is still a tumor—it could recur and become life-threatening at any moment. Considering his health, Jing Haiping decided to rest properly and focus on living well. Of course, this decision was made with full confidence in Jing Hong’s abilities; under Jing Hong’s leadership, neither the AI Business Group nor the Corporate Development Business Group had suffered any mishaps.

Thus, from that day forward, Jing Hong took over the reins from his father, accepting the imperial scepter to fully steer Panhai. He became the President of the entire Panhai Group, while Jing Haiping remained the Chairman of the Board.

Currently, the Investment Department managed by Zhao Hanqing reported to the Corporate Development Business Group. Jing Hong concurrently served as the President of the Corporate Development Business Group, and the GM (General Manager) of the Investment Department underneath was Zhao Hanqing.

After the two sorted through a few issues, Jing Hong asked, seemingly casually, “By the way, how is the merger between ‘Kunpeng’ and ‘Huawei’ coming along?”

Zhao Hanqing replied, “The other terms are mostly settled. After the merger, we will hold a 20% stake in the new company, and Qinghui will also hold 20%. However, we cannot reach an agreement on which side will take the CEO position in the merged entity.”

Jing Hong said, “Figures.”

“Kunpeng” was a startup invested in by Panhai, while “Huawei” was invested in by “Qinghui”—another member of China’s “Big Four” internet giants. Both Kunpeng and Huawei operated in the emerging sector of “Internet Banking,” and they were currently the only two internet banks in the entire country. An internet bank might sound strange at first, but its user potential was immense. Because it operated without physical branches or tellers, it could offer highly lucrative interest rates. In the United States, even institutions like Goldman Sachs had established their own internet banks.

At the end of 2015, the Central Bank announced the removal of the upper limit on deposit interest rates for terms longer than one year. Sensing the opportunity, Jing Hong moved decisively.

Initially, because VCs② universally believed Chinese depositors would only trust the “Big Four” state-owned banks, Kunpeng couldn’t secure any investment. When Jing Hong decided to invest, he felt entirely isolated, as if he were the only person in China doing so. Yet, less than a month later, Kunpeng’s rival, Huawei, announced the completion of its Series A funding. They proudly disclosed that the investor was Qinghui, and the person who brokered the deal was Zhou Chang.

Later, through Panhai’s mediation, Kunpeng secured insurance from China’s largest insurance company, covering “up to 100,000 per customer,” and obtained an official banking license, which brought peace of mind to depositors. From then on, their user base grew exponentially.

However, as China’s “only two” internet banks, Kunpeng and Huawei both offered massive subsidies to new users to defeat their rival and capture market share. For instance, Kunpeng promised that if a user referred another, the one-year fixed deposit interest rate for both would jump from 4.5% to 5.5%. Kunpeng’s own lending business couldn’t sustain this figure; it relied entirely on capital injections from Panhai. On the other side, Huawei faced the exact same situation. Both sides blamed each other for firing the first shot, but the result was that both Kunpeng and Huawei raised their subsidy rates higher and higher as their user bases swelled, burning through cash at an accelerating rate. Eventually, after round after round of capital injections, Kunpeng’s investor, Panhai, and Huawei’s investor, Qinghui, could no longer stomach the burn.

Money was flowing like water.

Both Panhai and Qinghui hoped to merge Kunpeng and Huawei—to shake hands, settle the dispute, share the market, and plan for the future. With cash burning so fiercely, combining the two companies was the logical solution. The market was only so big; spending fortunes to steal users from each other made little sense. It was better to stop the burn and split the market down the middle, rather than throwing money away only to maintain a 50-50 split. The person who brought both sides to the table was the head of Goldman Sachs China—she wanted to invest in the newly merged company, and while Panhai and Qinghui rarely saw eye-to-eye, she maintained excellent relationships with both.

Although everyone said that when it came to “investing in companies,” Panhai and Qinghui were essentially two cash cows giving a continuous stream of money instead of milk, it was always preferable to save money where possible.

But now… Jing Hong thought: the negotiations had stalled exactly where he anticipated—on the question of the CEO.

After Kunpeng and Huawei merged, who would become the CEO of the new company? The original CEO of Kunpeng, or the original CEO of Huawei? Obviously, Kunpeng’s CEO belonged to Panhai’s camp and would favor Panhai in the future, given Panhai’s years of investment and early patronage. Conversely, Huawei’s CEO belonged to Qinghui’s camp and would certainly favor Qinghui.

“The CEO holds real executive power,” Jing Hong said. “We still need to secure it.”

Zhao Hanqing: “Yes. I know, I am still fighting for it.”

Shareholders could only control so much; the CEO was the one with operational authority.

For the new company post-merger, Jing Hong wanted it to answer to him, not to that Zhou Chang.

Jing Hong did not like Zhou Chang.

Zhou Chang was also thirty-two years old, and like him, had taken over his father’s business last year. In fact, within the circle of second-generation entrepreneurs—a group often overrun by playboys—only he and Zhou Chang had successfully taken the helm.

Everyone said they were similar, and indeed they were. Both in their early thirties, Ivy League/elite university graduates with stellar resumes, stepping into the limelight early. Entirely different from the typical “second-generation wealth,” both Jing Hong and Zhou Chang chose technical paths, studying computer science up to the PhD level and gaining substantial hands-on experience in American tech companies. The only difference was that Jing Hong returned to China immediately upon graduation, while Zhou Chang worked at McKinsey in San Francisco for five full years doing IT management consulting—initially in corporate management, then in investment management, rising all the way to Director. He only returned to China at age 30, immediately taking over Qinghui’s core business group.

According to industry rumors, the project that made Zhou Chang famous at McKinsey was a massive layoff initiative for a tech giant. Zhou Chang was responsible for designing the global downsizing plan. He acted ruthlessly, cutting one-third of the workforce, which shocked the industry. But afterward, the client company—finally freed from its bloated structure—took off, and its stock price soared.

Last year, Zhou Chang’s father, Zhou Buqun, made a severe gaffe during a bout of drinking. Once sober, Zhou Buqun terrified himself. Fearing repercussions from higher authorities, before anything even materialized, he handed Qinghui over to his son and fled to Europe to retire. Zhou Buqun had thought it through: by proactively stepping down, he ensured the company’s operations remained normal and that the business stayed in the Zhou family’s hands. Ultimately, the gaffe incident did blow over.

After the succession, fierce infighting broke out between the “Old Qinghui Faction” and the “New Qinghui Faction”; the transition was nowhere near as smooth as Panhai’s. However, Zhou Chang ruled the board with an iron fist. He proved to be a master of corporate infighting; anyone who tried to oust him ended up ousted themselves. After two or three rounds, no one dared speak up again.

Even netizens said Zhou Chang was handsome but wicked—or wicked but handsome, the meaning was the same, just with a different emphasis.

In the previous generation, Jing Haiping had looked down on Zhou Chang’s father. In this generation, Panhai and Qinghui clashed across every internet sector, their competition frequently reaching a white-hot intensity. Consequently, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang had no overlap. They would nod or exchange pleasantries if they crossed paths at conferences, but privately they had zero contact—they hadn’t even added each other’s contact information.

Jing Hong was the golden child, historically peerless, and he viewed himself as unique. Now, suddenly, with everyone constantly proclaiming “the two of you are exactly the same,” it annoyed him immensely.

“Alright, nothing else then.” At the end of the meeting, Jing Hong reached for a dark red folder on his desk, indicating he had other matters to attend to. “Just one thing: we cannot yield the executive power of the CEO position once Kunpeng and Huawei merge.”

Zhao Hanqing repeated, “I understand.”

“Thank you all for your hard work.” Jing Hong was still young and tried to remain pleasant with his subordinates. “I know this isn’t easy, but I’m waiting for your good news.”

…………

Working until past seven o’clock, Jing Hong’s secretary informed the driver that the executive was wrapping up and to wait for him downstairs. At Panhai, the former Jing Haiping and the current Jing Hong shared a private elevator that led straight to their parking spots; others were prohibited from using it. Every night, the driver would wait at the elevator exit. A few other top executives at Panhai shared a separate private elevator.

Exiting the office and taking the elevator to the parking garage, the driver was already waiting by the car. Seeing Jing Hong, the driver greeted him with a “President Jing,” then gently opened the rear door. Jing Hong stepped inside.

Buckling his seatbelt, Jing Hong told the driver, “Go to the old President Jing’s place tonight.”

“President Jing” or “Young President Jing” referred to himself, while “Old President Jing” naturally meant Jing Haiping. Jing Hong usually returned to the luxury flat near Panhai that he bought four years ago, but when he had a bit of free time, like today, he would visit his parents.

The old President Jing and his wife lived in a high-end villa district. The driver acknowledged the request, and the car smoothly glided out.

Jing Hong continued handling work. As he reviewed documents, his mind drifted back to the Kunpeng-Huawei merger.

Though he had told Zhao Hanqing, “I’m waiting for your good news,” he was actually prepared for the negotiations to fall through.

This had nothing to do with Zhao Hanqing’s work ethic. Jing Hong didn’t personally oversee every investment project at Panhai; the mere fact that he inquired about it—no matter how casually—indicated the project’s significance. Zhao Hanqing wouldn’t fail to understand this.

Nor did it have anything to do with Zhao Hanqing’s competence. Panhai’s investment department was the company’s elite core, established by a former Chairman of Goldman Sachs Greater China. Though small, the team boasted glittering credentials—individuals who had climbed from Peking University, Tsinghua University, and Bulge Bracket investment banks straight into Panhai’s investment arm, reaching the pinnacle of the financial industry’s hierarchy. Several top executives in the department were former high-ranking investment bankers, and Zhao Hanqing was no exception. Armed with deep roots across various industries and exceptional capability, nearly half of China’s unicorns③ over recent years bore Panhai’s footprint. Panhai’s investment conferences were the premier events in the industry; startups clamored to participate. Some even joked that if Panhai picked a company by drawing straws, that company’s stock would hit its daily upward limit the very next day.

The issue lay in the fact that just as he wouldn’t yield the CEO position, Zhou Chang wouldn’t either. And Qinghui’s investment department was equally top-tier in the industry.

Over the past year, after several clashes, Jing Hong had come to understand Zhou Chang’s personal style intimately.

It was indeed identical to his own.

Since the beginning of the year, the investment style of both companies had grown increasingly absolute. Flush with cash and fiercely assertive, their approaches were highly aggressive. They were determined to secure what they wanted, offering staggering valuations and rapid capital deployment. Whenever Panhai and Qinghui set their sights on the same target this year, a storm inevitably ensued.

Every single time, the industry would gasp, “Good heavens! Jing Hong and Zhou Chang have set their sights on the same new toy again!”

Jing Hong understood Zhou Chang. They were indeed alike, even though they shared no personal relationship. Jing Hong benefited from this understanding, yet he detested this inexplicable resonance.

As he was thinking, Jing Hong noticed that the road leading to the villa district was undergoing pipe maintenance.

This road originally had one lane heading north and one heading south, but one side was currently blocked, forcing drivers to coordinate passage among themselves.

Jing Hong’s driver saw a car approaching from the distance. However, since the other vehicle was still far away and they were closer to the blocked zone, he didn’t stop.

Unexpectedly, the driver of the oncoming Maybach was clearly accustomed to throwing his weight around. He slammed on the gas, attempting to enter the clear lane first, forcing Jing Hong’s car to a halt to steal the right of way!

Jing Hong usually preferred to keep a low profile; today he was riding in a Tesla, which paled in comparison to a Maybach 62S. As the CEO of a tech company, Jing Hong would never choose a 12-cylinder monster like the one opposite him. Such massive displacement was a pollutant to the planet.

Perhaps it was precisely because Jing Hong’s car was too modest that the opposing driver chose to bully them.

However, Jing Hong’s driver was clearly unwilling to take this insult lying down. Consequently, the two vehicles came to a dead stop, facing each other head-on in the single operable lane.

Jing Hong’s driver rolled down the window and yelled, “What kind of driving is that?! You were so far away, yet you still forced your way in?!”

The oncoming vehicle was over six meters long, sporting a yellow commercial plate. Its driver acted like a thug: “Do you even know you’re driving against traffic?! I have the right of way! Are you blind?”

“Back up,” Jing Hong’s driver countered, refusing to debate semantics with a thug as he gestured outward. “We are far from the exit now, you are closer to it.”

“Back up my foot!”

Just as the opposing driver barked back, Jing Hong’s driver noticed that someone in the rear seat of the Maybach seemed to say something. The driver instantly quieted down like a chastised kitten. He started the engine and slowly, carefully backed the massive car out.

The Maybach pulled off to the side—behind the barriers of the blocked lane.

“Hmph! Backed up after all!” Jing Hong’s driver pressed the accelerator.

As they passed the Maybach, out of a shred of curiosity, Jing Hong turned his head slightly to look at the person in the back seat.

Coincidentally, the other person was looking over too.

Both were sitting on the inner side, and neither car had tinted windows. Locking eyes through the two panes of glass, Jing Hong froze for a moment.

The man did not possess the looks of a modern idol; instead, he carried the unmistakable aura of a seasoned ruler. A clean forehead, a sharp nose, thin lips, and a well-defined jawline. His most striking feature was his pitch-black eyes, which seemed capable of discerning everything. Yet, looking closer, one would find that beneath those expressive, romantic peach-blossom eyes lay absolute detachment.

Zhou Chang.

Jing Hong thought to himself: To think I’d run right into Zhou Chang.

The two gazed at each other silently through the double layers of glass, as if pondering something, yet appearing entirely blank. Neither pair of eyes betrayed any internal thoughts. The car bodies brushed past each other—one heading south, the other north. Soon, Zhou Chang vanished from Jing Hong’s field of vision.

Only after they passed did Jing Hong recall that Zhou Chang’s old man and his own father had bought villas in the exact same residential district. It seemed he was arriving just as Zhou Chang was leaving.

Because he deeply despised Zhou Chang’s father, Zhou Buqun, every time Jing Haiping encountered the man in the neighborhood, he would return home and mutter, “What bad luck.”

He wondered if the old man would mutter “What bad luck” again tonight after hearing about the standoff between their two cars.

_

Author’s Notes:

① Bulge Bracket (BB) Banks: “Bulge” implies prominent. BB banks refer to the top-tier multinational investment banks, historically comprising the 9 major firms: Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, JPMorgan Chase, UBS, Deutsche Bank, Barclays Capital, Bank of America Merrill Lynch, Credit Suisse, and Citigroup. The name arises because these lead underwriting banks have their logos printed largest and at the very top of IPO prospectuses and public announcements.

② VC (Venture Capital): High-risk, high-return financial investments targeting startups.

③ Unicorn: A privately held tech startup valued at over $1 billion that has been established for less than 10 years. In recent years, China’s largest unicorn was ByteDance.

Note on banking context: In reality, after the Central Bank lifted interest rate controls, Chinese internet banks formed an industry alliance with self-regulatory mechanisms to avoid aggressive interest rate wars, typically capping rates at a 40%-50% premium. However, some countries feature brutal interest rate competition. This story does not strictly follow reality.