Chapter 16: The Need for Talent in the Online Army Team

On the afternoon of November 8th, Li Wenyu once again stood at the entrance of the Beijing Film Academy, his mood slightly unsettled. Having been away for several months—essentially the shooting period for the coastal Tsuen Wan project—he had effectively been away from campus for half a year.

Of course, before his rebirth, he had been a seasoned veteran who had left campus two or three decades ago.

Lost in thought for a moment, he grabbed his phone and dialed. “Old Yu, I’m back. If you guys are ready, dinner’s on me. Let’s have a feast together.”

The “Old Yu” he referred to was one of his classmates from the grassroots promotion team he was assembling, named Yu Bo. Like him, Yu Bo belonged to the 1999 class at the Beijing Film Academy, though Yu was in the acting department, different from Li’s own.

The academy wasn’t that large.

Even if you counted directors, actors, screenwriters, cinematographers, and art students from the same year, the total number was modest. Having spent so long in the 1999 cohort, naturally, everyone had their familiar friends. One thing that had always baffled Li about Old Yu in his previous life was his penchant for splurging on buying traditional courtyard houses in the early 2000s. At first, it was a joke among friends, but as times changed, everyone was dumbfounded.

This grassroots team had just been formed, and if used well, it could last for many years!

Old Yu was one of the grassroots leaders Li had high hopes for.

On the other end, Yu Bo cheerfully replied, “Great! Which crew did you join this time? You disappeared for two or three months. Should I call Old Ling? I’m actually with him right now.”

Before returning, Li had already chatted with some familiar classmates on Penguin’s messaging platform, telling them to be ready to help with viral online promotion.

Li Wenyu’s mind instinctively flashed to a famous scene: “You’re so flashy.” After a few seconds of thought, he replied, “Call him. I’ll treat everyone to a full meal.”

Old Ling was quite a character himself, strangely fond of someone like Yao Big Mouth. And since he was already with Big Mouth, Li Wenyu had no desire whatsoever to get involved with people like him, though in his memory, he and Ling Xiaosu had a decent relationship during their student days.

Ling had even helped him twice in their senior year by trying to get his scripts into the hands of others, though the scripts back then weren’t very good...

***

At six in the evening, Li Wenyu slipped out of Teacher Zhang’s office and, upon reaching the dormitory hallway, saw Yu Bo, Ling Xiaosu, Huang Xiaolei, Ye Jing—several classmates from the undergraduate acting class—as well as Zhang Songwen from the 2000 higher vocational class, and his roommate, the screenwriter Lao Wang.

When he began the Tsuen Wan coastal project with a hint of Hong Kong influence after his rebirth, he had considered that he might need to go to Hong Kong Island to make his first pot of gold, so he tried learning Cantonese from Zhang Songwen for a few days.

It turned out to be of little use—he still needed a professional translator.

Language was also a life skill; with just fifty or sixty points of free attribute investment, one could easily master it. But in the early phase of his rebirth, Cantonese wasn’t worth investing over sixty points at once, and he hadn’t planned to improve his English or French in the near future either.

He had learned it in vain but at least became familiar with Zhang Songwen. After more than twenty years, Zhang still maintained a decent reputation, so they simply became friends.

Seeing several familiar classmates and his roommate Lao Wang, Li Wenyu waved and said, “Let’s go, East Lai Shun it is. I’m ready to be bankrupted by you guys today. After eating, I’ll take you all to work.”

Among them, Huang Xiaolei was a girl but had a tomboyish, straightforward nature. She said bluntly, “Old Li, you’ve made it big? You’re looking much more flush coming back from the crew. Honestly, why bother with screenwriting or auditing directing classes? All the guys in our ’99 acting class are a bunch of misfits—waiting for you to come back and hold the fort.”

“If you can latch onto a big shot, you can just be an extra in the crew. If you can’t act, we’ll teach you.”

She even gave Yu Bo a playful tap, who ground his teeth and retorted, “So we’re all misfits, right? Only Zhang Songwen doesn’t count.”

Zhang Songwen, from the 2000 higher vocational class, was actually the oldest among them, a few months older than the 25-year-old Yu Bo. As the best tour guide in eastern Guangdong, he hurriedly laughed, “No, you’re all handsome guys. I’m the only loser here, just don’t discriminate against me.”

Amid the group’s laughter, Li Wenyu handed a hundred yuan each to Ling Xiaosu and Yu Bo. “Stop joking around. Take a taxi to East Lai Shun. Help me handle some business, and I’ll pay you wages.”

He knew that once the business got underway, these guys would realize the truth... the biggest motivation wouldn’t be the daily wages as grassroots leaders anymore.

An ordinary grassroots member spending a day in an internet café posting the code “12-22-08” dozens of times earned about ten yuan.

These six grassroots leaders were responsible for checking the posting results, ensuring no one was cheating or faking reports, so their daily pay should start at least fifty yuan.

That was nearly half the daily wage of an average grassroots member in Hong Kong Island.

As the group remarked once again, “Looks like Li Wenyu really struck it rich,” the seven of them took three taxis to enjoy some hot pot lamb.

While eating and drinking, he began explaining the task. Each person was to find online users in internet cafés, posting the code “12-22-08” repeatedly for ten yuan a day across various online communities, including prestigious university BBS forums.

Beyond typing on keyboards, they could write the numbers on paper, take photos, and post those as well. After hearing the task, each grassroots leader was to earn fifty yuan a day.

Ling Xiaosu listened like a puzzled man weighing a hundred pounds, “Old Li, what’s the point of posting these?”

Li Wenyu looked thoughtfully at Yu Bo and Zhang Songwen and raised his glass, “Don’t worry about that now. You’ll understand later. Fifty a day, ten days, that’s five hundred yuan without missing classes. Who wouldn’t want that?”

At the end of 2001, five hundred yuan for a ten-day part-time job was not insignificant.

***

It was only early November, but if this continued until late December, that was a solid month and a half, adding up to two thousand yuan—a tidy sum.

Simply pushing a movie, once the grassroots team reached scale, didn’t require forty or fifty days to build momentum and generate discussion.

Li Wenyu aimed to break through from the online world to reality. After all, in 2001, China had just over twenty million internet users.

Twenty million was a considerable number, yet also modest compared to the hundreds of millions or billions on platforms like Tencent later on. The key was to intensify online discussions so that, when users logged off, they would talk about these topics with colleagues and classmates, sparking curiosity among more people.

By 2002, China had nearly sixty million internet users, an astonishing growth rate.

As the group peppered him with questions, he didn’t reveal too much but shared some tactics. After dinner, he took them to a nearby internet café to demonstrate in person.

They added some netizens willing to act as grassroots members on the Penguin platform.

They paid first; if the results were visible by the same time the next evening, they would continue funding the next day.

Only after the entire project concluded would he apply to Zhang Guorong for six sizable red envelopes for his classmates. Currently, the one million yuan in promotional funds all came from Brother Arong.

After finishing the first wave, as they left the internet café, Li Wenyu handed each of them fifty yuan while lighting a cigarette. “I’m pushing this project, the funds come from the boss. When we celebrate, I’ll apply for big red envelopes for you.”

Zhang Songwen smiled and said, “Such a simple part-time job—five hundred in ten days, fifteen hundred in a month. Ar Yu, rest assured we’ll put in our best effort.”

Old Zhang was a veteran who had worked in the real world for many years before entering the academy—he truly understood the value of good work.

Li Wenyu waved his hand. “Alright then, I’m counting on you all. Just promote during lunch and after dinner—no need to miss classes. Afterward, we’ll have a proper celebration.”

“If any of you have friends interested in this work, feel free to recommend them.”

After hailing a taxi to leave, the six classmates exchanged glances.

Then Huang Xiaolei exclaimed, “Old Li has changed a lot. Just one summer and a few months into the new term, is he not even living in the dorm anymore?”

Their roommate Lao Wang scratched his head, bewildered.

Yu Bo laughed, “Growing up in the real world brings growth. Let’s go back to school.”