A few days after the annual gala, the external landscape suddenly underwent a dramatic shift.

The trade war between China and the United States escalated once again, plunging tariff negotiations into a complete deadlock. At the same time, the President of the United States signed an executive order, declaring that several Chinese mobile applications—by virtue of possessing vast quantities of data—posed an absolute threat to U.S. national security. Effective after 45 days, any U.S. individual or entity would be prohibited from engaging in transactions with several targeted companies, including Fanhai. The order specified that individuals and entities in violation would face legal sanctions. Each company was issued its own separate executive order, with both Fanhai and Qinghui among those singled out.

The definition of “transaction” was to be clarified by the U.S. Secretary of Commerce within the 45-day window.

Furthermore, because a certain social app operated by Fanhai outside China had been acquired, CFIUS (the Committee on Foreign Investment in the United States) moved to re-examine the transaction to “ensure no security issues existed.”

Analyses from all quarters suggested that this order could lead to these products being removed from app stores entirely.

The news stirred up massive waves of public controversy across all sides.

It was glaringly obvious that the move was calculated to force enterprises like Fanhai and Qinghui to sell their U.S.-related operations to American companies.

Following the issuance of the “ban,” several American IT giants—including Microsoft and Oracle—immediately showed keen interest. They swiftly reached out to both Fanhai and Qinghui, eager to negotiate the acquisition of their U.S. operations.

In the face of this development, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang displayed starkly contrasting temperaments.

Jing Hong rejected all prospective buyers almost without second thought, stating that Fanhai would not consider selling its North American operations for the time being.

Fanhai issued a public statement:

“We cannot agree with the U.S. Department of Commerce’s decision, and we feel bewildered and disappointed by its plan to block new downloads starting next week and to prohibit normal transactions between Fanhai and its users in the U.S. starting on [Date]. Fanhai will launch a challenge against this unjust executive order.”

On the very same day, Fanhai filed a lawsuit against the U.S. government in an American court.

Simultaneously, Fanhai organized a “Consumer Alliance” for the Fanhai app, which initiated a parallel lawsuit.

Zhou Chang, on the other hand, chose an entirely different route.

He began frequenting meetings with various potential American buyers. Yet despite these constant engagements, Qinghui repeatedly oscillated—finding fault with every option, negotiating with one party for a bit, turning to another, backtracking to the previous buyer, and then bouncing back to the next. He was employing an outright “delay tactic.”

In Qinghui’s official statement, the company noted that it deemed the order “regrettable,” but maintained that Qinghui “will continue to discuss long-term, viable solutions with the U.S. government and other relevant stakeholders.”

Zhou Chang said to Jing Hong: “Keep dragging it out. Make it look as if Qinghui is actively in negotiations with buyers. That way, the U.S. officials can’t actually bring that executive order into force. If the app is pulled from the store altogether, its product value gets wiped out—and American companies aren’t stupid, they probably won’t want it anymore. The U.S. government can’t force them to buy it, right? So the officials will have no choice but to extend the executive order. Let them extend it—again and again—until it simply fizzles into nothing.”

Jing Hong: “…Mm.”

Fizzles into nothing, Jing Hong thought. Could it really go that smoothly?

Judging by Zhou Chang’s approach, he likely wanted to stall all the way until next year’s presidential election, leaving the incumbent with no capacity to attend to this.

Yet, the question remained: Could it truly be that simple?

All in all, Fanhai displayed absolute, unwavering backbone on its end—a Chinese enterprise standing firm for once. Qinghui, meanwhile, proved exceptionally slippery. To Jing Hong, Qinghui seemed to be playing a endless game of: “I’ve surrendered, I haven’t surrendered; I’ve surrendered again, I haven’t surrendered again; I’ve surrendered once more, I haven’t surrendered once more…”

Jing Hong thought back to when Zhou Chang had called that young girl who maneuvered between the four giants “quite something.” Zhou Chang himself possessed even bolder nerve, putting on a full theatrical performance right in front of the sitting U.S. President, acting as though he were auditioning for an Oscar.

Presumably, if the executive order’s effective date ended up being postponed, Zhou Chang’s response would be just like that famous internet quote: “Keep the music playing, keep the dance going.”

Addressing the situation, a spokesperson for the Chinese Ministry of Foreign Affairs stated: “Without producing a shred of evidence, the U.S. side has generalized the concept of national security and abused state power to groundlessly suppress specific non-American enterprises. This violates market economy principles as well as the WTO principles of openness, transparency, and non-discrimination… China firmly opposes this.”

In truth, the order sparked considerable controversy within the United States itself.

While some lawmakers openly voiced support, various organizations argued that “the ban restricts Americans’ ability to communicate and transact on these social platforms, violating the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution and infringing upon the rights of the American people.”

And so, factions fell into fierce debate.

Apple and Google, which owned the app download platforms, remained entirely silent and slipped out of view—presumably lying low to see how things would unfold.

Almost simultaneously, the U.S. Congress passed legislation specifying that if regulatory authorities were unable to inspect a company’s complete financial information for three consecutive years, that company would be prohibited from trading on public exchanges.

In other words, under the latest law, Chinese companies listed on the NYSE and NASDAQ would be required to submit their audit working papers.

Yet back in 2013, China and the United States had reached an agreement—taking national security into account, Chinese concept stocks were not required to submit 100% complete audit information.

Under that 2013 accord, certain financial details of Chinese enterprises did not need to be turned over directly; instead, cross-border accounting firms performed the audit and oversight. The SEC had long wanted to amend this rule, but Wall Street strongly opposed “delisting” Chinese public companies, keeping the issue shelved. This time, however, the momentum was likely tied to the exposed financial scandal of a certain coffee chain, which brought this regulatory blind spot out into the open daylight.

In an instant, the entire landscape shifted.

The U.S. side repeatedly pressed: Over fifty countries around the world can submit complete information and audit working papers—why can’t you?

And so, on this day, Jing Hong was called in to “have a chat” with officials.

“Jing Hong,” after a lengthy conversation, the official said toward the end, “In short, we are currently negotiating with the U.S. side regarding the ‘audits,’ making every effort to keep Chinese enterprises listed in the United States.”

“Despite the profound differences, we have always maintained the willingness to resolve these issues. We believe the other side likewise still wishes to retain Chinese enterprises and holds the desire to resolve the matter. This benefits investors, benefits listed companies, and serves the interests of both sides.”

Jing Hong nodded: “Thank you, thank you very much.”

“However,” the official’s tone shifted, “if—by some worst-case scenario—it proves utterly impossible to reach an agreement, Fanhai’s delisting may truly enter its countdown. We would welcome Fanhai returning to list in the Mainland, or going to Hong Kong, or even pursuing a dual A+H listing. Still, there is no need to be overly anxious just yet; we remain relatively optimistic about the ultimate outcome of the negotiations.”

Jing Hong nodded: “I understand. We will prepare for the worst.”

Return to the Mainland or go to Hong Kong? Jing Hong pondered.

Yet Hong Kong’s financing scale was only one-tenth that of the United States.

Wall Street was the ultimate place where “dreams never die, and money never sleeps.”

Upon returning to his office at Fanhai, Jing Hong did not resume his work immediately.

He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, crossed his arms, and quietly looked out over the city of Beijing.

A tide of thoughts rushed through his mind.

He thought of the “executive orders” of the past few days.

In reality, the international and domestic versions of Fanhai Group’s product were completely separated, operating under entirely different names. Qinghui’s products were set up the same way. The American team operated the U.S. product independently, and the platform content visible to users in China and the U.S. was entirely distinct. The international version could not see domestic content, nor could the domestic version access the international side.

Furthermore, out of concern over potential “security” allegations, the international version’s data centers had been constructed locally abroad; the data was not even stored together.

Yet even that was not enough.

This stood in stark contrast to the historical situation of numerous foreign enterprises in China.

In the past, many foreign companies operating in China housed their servers outside Chinese borders, meaning the vast amounts of data in their possession naturally resided overseas. In other words, foreign enterprises in China held Chinese data to which the Chinese side had no access, while the foreign companies retained sole authorization.

It was only two or three years ago that the Chinese government passed a law—the Cybersecurity Law. Foreign enterprises involving critical information infrastructure, such as transportation and energy, were required to store “important data” collected within China on domestic servers. Such data could not be transferred out of the country unless an exemption application was granted, requiring them either to build independent data centers within China or entrust operations to Chinese enterprises. This primarily applied to services like “cloud computing.”

To comply, having been categorized under “critical information infrastructure,” Apple partnered with a Chinese enterprise to store Chinese users’ data on that company’s servers, with both parties jointly constructing data centers. Apple retained control of the digital encryption keys and maintained sole authorization over the data.

Yet what about Chinese enterprises? Companies like Fanhai and Qinghui, regarding the foreign data they held, were not only denied “sole authorization,” but were deemed unfit to hold any authorization whatsoever. For this reason, they were now being forced into selling off their international operations entirely.

Amid the grand clash between major powers, individuals and corporations alike were swept into the surging currents.

Countless stories flooded his mind in chaotic succession.

He recalled, for instance, when a leading figure in American artificial intelligence was asked, “What is the single greatest obstacle to the development of AI?” The unexpected answer was: “National competition.”

He thought of how, just a few months prior, a professor he knew from the “Thousand Talents Plan” was arrested by the FBI—again under the suspicion of “security issues,” though focused on technology that time.

Years ago, to attract overseas talent, the Chinese government had launched the “Thousand Talents Plan” with great fanfare, calling on scholars abroad to take up positions at Chinese universities. Even then, Jing Hong had harbored a subtle sense of foreboding. Sure enough, a few years later, several professors and scientists who had participated in the program were arrested one after another by the FBI on charges such as “financial irregularities”—for instance, “submitting false invoices to the university and the IEEE for travel expenses” or “applying for research grants where funds were not utilized for the institution.” It was a transparent move to make an example of a few to warn the rest, and many American universities were ordered to strictly investigate “side jobs” held by Chinese professors, subjecting them to immediate termination upon discovery.

He thought, too, of the anxieties voiced recently by executives of physical manufacturing companies he knew, brought on by the “tariff hikes.”

Working in the IT industry, Jing Hong’s mind naturally drifted to the Japanese semiconductor chip industry of the past. He understood the immense power of such measures, and he grasped the deep-seated fears of those executives.

In the 1960s, as American labor grew expensive, Japan seized the wave of electrification to aggressively develop its home appliance industry, giving rise to giants like Sony. The rapid expansion of home appliances vastly drove up market demand for semiconductors. The global semiconductor industry shifted from the United States to Japan, with Japan at one point capturing over 50% of the global market share.

And what followed?

Through two sting operations, the U.S. arrested two Japanese engineers from Hitachi and Mitsubishi on suspicion of stealing commercial secrets. Using this as a pretext, the U.S. stationed American personnel inside the two Japanese enterprises to serve as senior executives and “conduct oversight.”

Next, in early 1986, the U.S. ruled that Japanese chips were guilty of dumping, levying a 100% anti-dumping tariff on Japan and forcing the signature of the immensely restrictive U.S.-Japan Semiconductor Agreement. Meanwhile, relevant products from South Korea were taxed at less than 1%—roughly 0.75%—providing massive support to South Korea. Consequently, just one year after the signing of the agreement, South Korea’s Samsung Semiconductor turned a profit for the very first time.

Compounded by the fatal Plaza Accord of 1985, which caused the yen to appreciate sharply against the U.S. dollar, Japan’s semiconductor industry rapidly lost its competitive edge and fell into decline.

Of course, Japan did not sit idly by; it launched a wave of “foreign investment,” pouring $170 billion overseas over five years. It supported Malaysia and Singapore in semiconductors, the Philippines in industrial components like capacitors, and Thailand in automobiles and hard drives—effectively giving birth to the “Four Asian Tigers.”

And now? So many things were unfolding in exact parallel.

Ordinary enterprises worried about tariff increases, while technology companies like theirs had far more and far broader concerns—technology, data, and security—where the causes for anxiety were only greater, never fewer.

Counting from ten years ago when “FlashGet”—the first Chinese software with international influence—emerged, they had forged ahead year by year. Short-video apps and platforms, cross-border e-commerce platforms… Their download volumes overseas grew higher and higher, their influence expanding, until finally, they arrived at this critical juncture where contradictions erupted.

To say he was “unable to understand” it would be untrue; in fact, it was exceptionally easy to comprehend.

It didn’t require a second thought.

Jing Hong was suddenly reminded of a story his devout Christian roommate at Stanford had once told him.

The Tower of Babel.

A story from the Old Testament of the Bible.

In the vicinity of ancient Babylon, humanity united to construct a tall tower that could reach heaven. To thwart mankind’s plan, God caused everyone to speak different languages, leaving humans unable to understand one another or express their thoughts. Incapable of communicating or cooperating, the Tower of Babel collapsed in failure.

Now, eons had passed.

Yet in the hearts of a few, the dream of the Tower of Babel lived on.

Where the materials once were brick and mortar, today they were technology.

They still sought to unite, wishing to use human wisdom and human technology to build an invisible, intangible tower. They fantasized—or perhaps delusionally believed—that once the Tower of Babel was completed, humanity would possess the divine power to reach the heavens. From a towering height, they could look down upon the world, understand themselves, understand the world, and understand all things. No longer weak, no longer powerless, no longer toyed with by the unknown, they would reshape the fate that had once bound humanity to submission.

Yet eons had passed, and though language was no longer a barrier, humanity remained incapable of building the Tower of Babel.

Humanity would never be able to build the Tower of Babel.