Chapter 498: Passing the Torch

March 18, 2004, Shenzhen.

The day marking the third anniversary of Fenghuang Phone's launch.

In front of the floor-to-ceiling window on the 38th floor of Wanxiang Dasha, Li Yaozong watched the Shen Nan Avenue below. The road he and his father had watched countless times still teemed with traffic and bustling splendor. Only the people watching the road had changed, generation after generation.

A light knock came from behind.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Chen Jianghe entered.

Chen Jianghe, sixty‑five, had hair completely white, yet his back was still as straight as when he served in the Steel Rolling Mill Security Department thirty years ago.

He wore that faded blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and held a document in his hand.

"Yaozong," he placed the document on the desk, "this is the last foreign‑trade contract I signed. Take a look."

Li Yaozong picked it up and flipped through it.

It was a cooperation between Wanxiang and a German company, amounting to a modest €23 million. Yet the contract terms were detailed, each risk point clearly marked.

"Uncle Chen, your handwriting," Li Yaozong set the document down, "still as steady as ever."

Chen Jianghe smiled and sat on that chair he had used for twenty‑five years.

"Yaozong, there's something I want to tell you."

Li Yaozong looked at him.

"I should retire."

In the conference room, five people were seated.

Zhang Wei, sixty‑three, wore glasses whose lenses were three rings thicker than a decade ago, his hair already translucent white. In front of him lay a stack of chip design drawings, his final "assignment" in life.

Xu Jiaming, sixty‑two, still twirled the Heroic fountain pen in his hand, its cap engraved with "1985".

Zhou Wenbin, sixty‑three, had just rushed over from Hong Kong, his suit crisp, yet the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes had deepened considerably since last year.

Chen Jianghe, sixty‑five, sat at the seat nearest the window, sunlight making his white hair shine.

And Li Yaozong, seated at the head, watched the four of them.

These four were the ones who built the empire alongside his father.

These four had watched him grow up.

These four had devoted their lives to Wanxiang.

"Uncle and elder brothers," Li Yaozong began, his voice a little hoarse, "Uncle Chen told me he wants to retire."

No one spoke.

Zhang Wei took off his glasses and slowly wiped them with the edge of his shirt. It was his habitual gesture when nervous, and also when he was about to make a decision.

"I should retire as well," he said, his voice very soft.

Xu Jiaming placed the Heroic pen on the table, its cap pointing toward Li Yaozong.

"And me."

Zhou Wenbin smiled.

"Over in Hong Kong, I should have handed it over long ago. Delaying until now is because I'm reluctant to let go."

Li Yaozong looked at them, one by one.

Twenty‑five years ago, they had started from childhood under their father's guidance.

Twenty‑five years later, Wanxiang possessed chips, systems, phones, cars, computers, the Internet…

For twenty‑five years, they had given their lives to this land.

"Uncle and elder brothers," Li Yaozong stood, bowed deeply, "thank you all."

Li Yaozong instructed finance to grant each retired veteran a pension of one million.

Zhang Wei was the last to leave the conference room.

He paused at the doorway, turned back to glance at the conference room where he had sat for twenty years.

The long mahogany table, that window‑side seat, was his fixed spot for every meeting. Sunlight entered from that angle, landing precisely on his hand.

He recalled his first visit, when the building had just been completed and the ground below was still a wasteland. At that time, Li Ping'an pointed outside and said, "Zhang Wei, this place will become our R&D center in the future."

Now, the R&D center has expanded from one floor to six buildings, from a few dozen people to twelve thousand.

He withdrew his gaze and walked out.

At the elevator entrance, Xu Jiaming was waiting for him.

"Brother Zhang, shall we go together?"

Zhang Wei nodded.

The two entered the elevator, the floor number descending from 38.

"Xu Jiaming," Zhang Wei suddenly asked, "you've used that pen for twenty‑five years?"

Xu Jiaming lowered his head and glanced at the Heroic pen in his hand.

"Twenty‑five years and three months."

"Reluctant to let go?"

Xu Jiaming was silent for a moment.

"A little."

The elevator reached the first floor, and the doors opened.

Sunlight poured in, illuminating their faces.

Xu Jiaming slipped the pen into his pocket.

"Let's go."

April 1, 2004, Wanxiang Group announced a major personnel reshuffle.

Zhang Wei retired, and Chen Feng took over the Nanshan R&D Center.

Xu Jiaming retired, and Zhao Ming took over the software division.

Zhou Wenbin retired, and Lin Jiawen succeeded him at the Wanshang Bank Hong Kong Branch.

Chen Jianghe retired, and Zhou Yuanhang took over the foreign‑trade company.

When the news broke, the entire tech circle was shaken.

Those familiar names, those old ministers who followed Li Ping'an in conquering the world, all withdrew overnight.

The headline in the Southern Metropolis Daily read: "Wanshang, Farewell to an Era."

The commentary in 21st Century Economic Report said: "This is the largest generational handover in the history of Chinese private enterprises. It is not passive, but proactive. It is not helpless, but foresight."

Li Yaozong did not give an interview.

He simply sat in that office, watching Shenzhen through the window.

He had lived in this city for over a decade.

Now, those who grew up with him have left.

But he knows they did not go far.

They are right there at the newly built buildings at the foot of Nanshan, drinking tea, playing chess, and caring for grandchildren.

They said, "Yaozong, call if anything comes up."

They will answer.

May 2004, Nanshan R&D Center.

Chen Feng stood at the spot where Zhang Wei had once stood, facing a massive whiteboard. The board displayed a diagram that he had spent the entire night drawing.

"Everyone," he began, his voice still a bit tense, "this is the blueprint for the Qiming-3 computer."

More than two hundred people sat in the audience, most of them young, some even younger than him.

"Qiming-1, back then our processor could only run simple programs."

He drew an upward arrow on the whiteboard.

"Qiming-2, at that time we had our own operating system, capable of running office software and accessing the internet."

He drew another one.

"Qiming-3, what should it become?"

He turned around, looking at the eyes in the audience.

"First, the processor. Our third‑generation Fenghuang Phone chip already reaches one hundred megahertz. The computer chip needs to reach three hundred megahertz."

"Second, the display. Our LCD production line, a collaboration with the Changchun Optical Machinery Institute, will go into production next month. Qiming-3 will use our own LCD screen."

"Third, a personal notebook. Not a desktop, but a portable notebook. Weight should stay under two kilograms. Thickness no more than three centimeters. Standby time over four hours."

He paused.

"Fourth, price. Desktop, four thousand nine hundred ninety‑nine. Notebook, eight thousand nine hundred ninety‑nine."

A stir rose from the audience.

Four thousand nine hundred ninety‑nine.

At that time, Lenovo computers sold for over seven thousand, IBM for over ten thousand.

Chen Feng waited for the commotion to subside before continuing.

"When General Manager Zhang left, he told me that Qiming-3 was his last wish in this life."

He looked at the audience.

"We will help him fulfill it."

July 2004, Wanshang Computer's new production line went into operation at Longgang Gongye Yuan.

That production line was built by Chen Feng and his team over three months. From equipment commissioning to staff training, he personally oversaw every step.

On the day it started, he invited Zhang Wei to come and see.

Zhang Wei stood beside the line, watching the machines spit out circuit boards piece by piece, watching the young workers solder, assemble, and test with skill.

"Chen Feng," he said, "is stronger than I was back then."

Chen Feng scratched his head.

"General Manager Zhang, back then even the equipment was second‑hand. Now these are all new."

Zhang Wei smiled.

"Indeed, new."

He stared at the production line for a long time.

Then he turned and walked out slowly.

Reaching the doorway, he stopped, glanced back.

"Chen Feng."

"General Manager Zhang?"

"Do a good job."

Chen Feng nodded.

"I will."

September 2004, Qiming-3 computer was officially released.

The launch venue was the Five Continents Hotel, the same hall used for the Fenghuang Phone launch years earlier.

Onstage, Chen Feng wore the white lab coat he had inherited from Zhang Wei, the cuffs rolled to his elbows. Before him stood three computers: a desktop with a silver‑gray case and a seventeen‑inch LCD screen; two notebooks, one black and one silver, their screens closed, only the Fenghuang logo glinting in the light.

"Everyone," he began, his voice steadier than three months ago, "today's showcase is the Qiming-3."

He lifted the lid of the black notebook.

The screen lit up; it was Wanshang's own LCD screen, with rich colors and even brightness. The boot animation was that star, rising from the bottom and hovering at the center. After three seconds, the desktop appeared.

This notebook has a 300 MHz processor, 32 MB of memory, and a 4 GB hard drive. Standby time measured at 4 hours 20 minutes.

Applause sounded from the audience.

He lifted the silver one again.

"This one is top‑spec. Processor 400 MHz, memory 64 MB, hard drive 10 GB. Standby time, five hours."

The applause grew louder.

Finally, he pointed to the desktop computer.

"This one, 4,999. It uses our own chips, our own system, our own display."

He paused.

"General Manager Zhang said, this is his last wish in his life."

The audience was quiet for a second.

Then the applause surged like a tide.

Chen Feng stood on stage, watching the applauding crowd, and suddenly felt his eyes grow a little hot.

He recalled the words Zhang Wei said that day.

"Work hard."

He can.

December 2004, Wanxiang Group annual meeting.

It was still the Shenzhen Gymnasium, still twelve thousand people. But more than half of the faces on stage had changed.

Li Yaozong stood on stage, wearing a dark‑gray shirt, no tie. Beside him stood Chen Feng, Zhao Ming, Lin Jiawen, Zhou Yuanhang — the young successors.

In the audience sat Zhang Wei, Xu Jiaming, Zhou Wenbin, Chen Jianghe — the retirees.

"Everyone," Li Yaozong began, "today is the twenty‑fifth year of Wanshang."

He looked at the familiar faces below.

"Twenty‑five years, we grew from eight people to 120,000. From a tin shed to six R&D centers. From a van to chips, systems, phones, computers, the Internet…"

He paused.

"These weren't done by me. They were done by my dad, by Uncle Zhang, by Xu Shu, by Uncle Chen, by Uncle Wenbin, by every old Wanshang person present."

The audience was quiet for a second.

Then someone led the applause by standing up.

Zhang Wei stood up, Xu Jiaming stood up, Zhou Wenbin stood up, Chen Jianghe stood up.

All twelve thousand people stood up.

The applause surged toward the young people on stage like a tide.

Li Yaozong stood on stage, watching those who stood up, watching the familiar faces, watching the elders whose hair had turned white.

His eyes grew hot.

But he didn't let that heat flow out.

Because he knew this was inheritance, not farewell.

After the meeting ended, Li Yaozong stood alone at the gymnasium entrance.

The night wind blew, carrying the distinctive chill of a Shenzhen winter. In the distance, Fenghuang Mountain's outline was faint in the darkness. At its foot, the lights of the Nanshan R&D Center glittered like a field of stars.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

"Yaozong."

He turned around.

It was Zhang Wei.

"Uncle Zhang, aren't you leaving yet?"

Zhang Wei walked to his side, and together they watched the distant lights.

"That kid Chen Feng," he said, "did a good job."

Li Yaozong nodded.

"He earned it himself."

Zhang Wei was silent for a moment.

"Yaozong, there's a saying I want to tell you."

"Please, go ahead."

Zhang Wei looked at those lights for a long while.

"Your father once told me, running a business is like planting a tree. When you plant it, you don't know if it will survive. If it lives, you don't know if it will grow. When it grows, you don't know if it will bear fruit."

He paused.

"Now the tree has grown and borne fruit. The people who water it have changed generations. But the tree is still the same tree."

He looked at Li Yaozong.

"Remember, the tree must not fall."

Li Yaozong nodded.

"Uncle Zhang, I remember."

Zhang Wei patted his shoulder, turned, and left.

His silhouette vanished into the night.

Li Yaozong still stood where he was, watching the distant lights.

He knew that beneath those lights were Chen Feng, Zhao Ming, Lin Jiawen, Zhou Yuanhang, and twelve thousand young people.

They are watering.

They are making that tree grow taller.

Late at night, Li Yaozong returned home.

The floor lamp was still on, left by his daughter-in-law. A bowl of soup sat on the dining table, steaming. Beside it lay a note:

"Yaozong, drink the soup while it's hot. The old man called on the Telephone, saying they'll return next spring."

He looked at the note and smiled.

His father had been gone for four years.

Four years, he had traveled across most of China. From Guangdong to Guangxi, from Guizhou to Yunnan, from Sichuan to Tibet. At each place he sent a postcard back. The back showed scenery; the front bore two lines of text:

"Safe travels, Xueqing."

Now, they are coming back.

He finished the soup and entered the study.

On the desk lay three items.

One was a sales report for the Qi Ming-3 computer. In two months, 110,000 units were sold.

Another was the Fenghuang Phone's development plan for next year. The color screen will be upgraded, the camera upgraded, the processor upgraded, and it will also support listening to music, watching videos, and playing games.

There was also a copy of the "Five-Year Plan" his father wrote. The paper had yellowed and the handwriting was a bit blurred, but he still remembered those words perfectly.

"Sell one generation, research the next generation. Step by step, never stop."

He carefully placed the plan back into the drawer.

Then he took out his phone and sent his father a text message.

It contained only four characters:

"Dad, the big tree is thriving."

After sending it, he stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, Shenzhen's night was deepening.

In the distance, the lights of the Nanshan R&D Center shone like a field of stars.

He stared at those stars and suddenly recalled another saying his father often mentioned.

"The morning star is the brightest one, because it appears before dawn."