Chapter 253: Weibo Project Launch, Core Advantages, Luxury Car Club

Late January, Yian Technology, wholly owned by Yanye Capital, added a subsidiary called Yian Network Technology Company and leased office space on Zhichun Road.

Haidian is the hub of Beijing's tech companies.

Areas like Zhongguancun, Zhichun Road, and Houchang Village are filled with internet and related industry firms, including several giants.

What kind of company you run determines where you should be located.

Internet companies need large pools of technical talent and must collaborate with many other internet firms—setting up in some remote corner does more harm than good.

As for whether being too close might let competitors overhear something, that depends on company management.

If your company management is garbage, you can move overseas and your secrets will still be leaked; if your management is strict, even sharing a wall won't let the other side catch a whisper.

As for this "microblog," it's hardly a secret at all.

As mentioned earlier, Tencent is working on Taotao, Fanfou is still under development, and many other companies wanting to join but failing to make headway are far more numerous.

The internet is a hot trend—new websites launch every day, and others shut down every day.

There are plenty of smart people with plenty of ideas, not to mention that Twitter already exists successfully abroad.

But in this world, thinking of something is one thing, building it is another, and succeeding at it is yet another.

"Come, take a look at where you'll be working—anything you need, I'll handle it."

Yan Li smiled at the four people behind him, one of whom was a young woman.

"We don't need anything—it's better than I imagined."

A young man with glasses nodded: "For a startup, having these conditions is rare."

These days, internet startups are all struggling—many so-called companies rent small apartments and cram several people together to live and work, eating steamed buns while staring at computer screens with messy hair.

Office space?

For internet companies that haven't reached a certain scale, it's a luxury.

In the industry, there's a joke: if you see a startup internet company that looks too polished, it's either a subsidiary of a big company, a rich kid or tycoon playing at entrepreneurship, or a shell company scammer.

Other industries care about appearances, but internet investors often prefer to invest in these "poor and shabby" companies.

Because companies that attract investors like this are usually the real ones—already doing something tangible.

Plus, they're poor, so you get the best equity for the least money.

Fortunately, Yan Li, the famous new business magnate, is here—his reputation makes a decent start perfectly reasonable; otherwise, the executives he poached might have hesitated.

Right now is the frenzied growth phase of the internet—anyone confident in their abilities refuses to settle for just being an employee.

The boldest and most daring leap out to start their own ventures; others follow or join rising companies, transforming from employees into partners or core executives.

Yan Li targeted these mindsets and used his system's intelligence to recruit several talents.

Wang Gaofei, online alias "Laiqu Zhi Jian," is the future CEO of Sina Weibo in the intelligence reports and Yan Li's top target.

According to the intelligence, Sina Weibo's success hinges on key strategic decisions and execution by its core executives, especially during its rise.

The top contributor is naturally Cao Guowei, chairman and CEO of Sina Weibo—the overall architect and operator of the Weibo project.

He's currently CEO of Sina; Yan Li can't poach him, and with his own intelligence advantage, Yan Li is already positioned as the overall architect—his role overlaps too much, so it's unnecessary.

The second is Wang Gaofei.

Sina Weibo defeated many competitors thanks to one critical factor: successfully leading the reconstruction of the Weibo client, securing overwhelming mobile advantages.

Wang Gaofei, with his wireless business background, deserves major credit here.

Later, as Weibo's leader, he transformed it from a media platform into a social interest platform, propelling Weibo to its peak.

Yan Li valued Wang Gaofei's strength in hands-on operations and full-cycle management, so he recruited him as Vice President of Operations and Product, responsible for building and running the platform's community—Yan Li's first deputy.

Wang Gaofei wasn't easy to poach; Yan Li had to put in serious effort, even some risk.

Before Yan Li approached him, Wang Gaofei was on track to become Sina's head of wireless business.

This greatly increased the difficulty of poaching him; in the end, Yan Li's success in securing him was no exaggeration—it was like three visits to the thatched cottage.

These past days, Yan Li met him at least twice, called him over a dozen times, repeatedly used his system to cheat, followed the same playbook, and finally convinced Wang Gaofei.

With Yan Li's current wealth and status, courting a woman wouldn't require this much effort.

Qin Lan and Dong Xuan, seeing him so eager, almost thought he was chasing after some flirtatious woman.

The other three executives, besides Wang Gaofei, weren't as prestigious but each had notable backgrounds.

One was the technical lead, formerly at Baidu—a core technical backbone with strong expertise in search and big data.

One was the content director, responsible for building a content ecosystem to attract and retain users.

He had worked at Tianya and Sohu, with sharp sensitivity to online information and extensive connections with online influencers, celebrities, and media figures.

Another was the product director, assisting Wang Gaofei in building and operating Weibo faster and deeper.

He previously worked at Tencent, participating in projects like QQ Space and Tencent Blog, making him the executive most familiar with blog operations.

All three had their strengths, perfectly aligned with Weibo's needs, and were vetted and confirmed by Yan Li's system.

They genuinely had substance, and their character and professional ethics were above average.

Such a core team fears most fraudsters or rotten apples—so long as cohesion is strong and each can handle their domain, it's a highly qualified, even excellent team.

Any deficiencies or shortcomings can be filled later by bringing in others or teams.

…

Yan Li was quite satisfied with Weibo's initial core team; he showed them around the company and summoned the HR and finance staff he'd selected.

This was officially Weibo's first executive meeting.

The first agenda item: motivation + vision-painting.

These executives didn't leave good jobs to join a startup for some dream of building a social platform beloved by millions of netizens.

Their goal was simple: follow Yan Li to build the company, get rich, and rise to prominence.

Yan Li understood this perfectly and didn't waste time on empty talk—he had already prepared real equity and an option pool.

With no shortage of money or resources, Yan Li lacked only technical support, so he was willing to offer 15–20% equity upfront to attract the current and future core team.

Later, due to fundraising needs, these executives' equity would inevitably shrink.

But Yan Li would maintain a reserved option pool to protect the interests of executives and employees.

Yan Li cared about money, but he cared more about keeping the Weibo weapon in his own hands.

As long as he could build and control Weibo, he was willing to cede its economic gains.

Because he could fully leverage Weibo to empower his other companies and strategies, earning even more money through it.

If he clung stubbornly to Weibo's equity, being stingy, and Weibo failed, his 100% ownership would be worthless.

Which was minor profit, which was major profit—Yan Li calculated this clearly.

Moreover, compared to partnering with other giants, Yan Li preferred giving equity to employees—many of whom shared his interests, and whose rights he could still control through other means, thereby better managing Weibo.

Precisely because of Yan Li's generosity, these executives abandoned their previous jobs to gamble with him and were confident they could attract even more talent.

Great rewards produce brave men—real, tangible benefits moved hearts far more than any flowery words.

Equity terms had already been negotiated when recruiting; today's meeting was a rallying cry, and now they'd recruit talent and get to work.

After the meeting, everyone dispersed; Yan Li asked Wang Gaofei and another core executive to stay behind to discuss another critical issue.

What is Weibo?

And how do we build and succeed with it?!

Honestly, apart from Yan Li, who has the system's advantage, everyone had no clear understanding of Weibo.

Even the major internet giants didn't enter the Weibo space—not because they didn't know about Twitter, but because they thought it unnecessary.

Blogs already existed and were thriving—why abandon a mature project for a risky new one?

According to intelligence, Sina only launched Weibo because, for various reasons, it couldn't gain clear dominance in blogs; Cao Guowei pushed through opposition to launch Weibo, saving Sina's life.

Without Weibo, Sina might have been the worst-performing of the three major portals.

If blogs are so popular now, how can Weibo break through?

Yan Li had touched on this with the team during recruitment; now that they've officially joined, discussions would be more thorough.

Currently, similar social platforms include:

QQ Space has the largest user base, but it's private, interpersonal socializing—lacking public expression space, and its users are relatively young.

In short, it's just a bunch of kids entertaining themselves in their own circles.

Yan Li noted two key points here.

If Tencent ever enters the market and clashes with their Weibo, its core user base could become one of Tencent's weaknesses.

Also, QQ Space's deep roots and Weibo's newness overlap in positioning—there's room to exploit.

Then there's Xiaonai, which has grown well over the past two years, but its positioning is flawed.

Its users are limited to university campuses—though it attracted many quality users, its closed nature is too strong.

If unchanged, confined to campuses, its foundation is weak and it will eventually be crushed by other platforms.

If changed, its core appeal fades, its user ecosystem shifts, and it risks losing many old users, triggering backlash.

Wang Xing sold Xiaonai to create Fanfou—he likely saw this platform's ceiling.

Meanwhile, the most popular blogs now have broken the barrier of interpersonal socializing and become public expression platforms.

But blogs have a weakness: they're too long, with high content creation barriers—though public, they're still mostly the solo performance of a small elite.

Weibo, in contrast, combines advantages from several platforms, fills their gaps, and captures market voids.

It's precisely positioned as a public opinion square—with limited interpersonal socializing and drastically lowered creation barriers.

"The internet is rapidly developing and spreading; the number of netizens grows daily, and more and more ordinary users refuse to remain passive spectators—we must seize this window of opportunity and turn Weibo into a mass platform distinct from elite-centric ones."

"The vast ocean of the people is unbeatable—remember, the broad user base is Weibo's root; celebrities and stars are merely tools we use to attract traffic—don't confuse means with ends."

Although Yan Li's own key strategy relies on celebrities, he won't rely on them entirely.

You can use celebrities—others can too.

So Yan Li understood clearly: celebrities and public figures were initially brought in to drive traffic to Weibo and build awareness.

The key, then, was to cultivate a stable, healthy community ecosystem to attract and retain users.

When your user base grew and your influence expanded,

it would no longer be Yan Li using celebrities to attract users—but rather a flood of users continuously drawing celebrities to join Weibo, competing for traffic and exposure.

At that point, a positive cycle would form; even if others adopted a celebrity strategy, they could not shake Weibo's momentum.

Massification!

Yan Li told Wang Gaofei and others to remember these three words—they would become one of Weibo's core selling points and advantages.

Beyond that, Weibo needed other strong advantages: real-time information dissemination, hot topic tracking, and fulfillment of public social needs.

Yan Li would not reveal all these cards at once.

He would play them one by one, always staying one or two steps ahead of competitors, steadily widening the gap and building an advanced user ecosystem. Once Weibo's ecosystem was established and its brand solidified, and users and the public grew accustomed to its features, no amount of traffic or capital advantage could easily undermine it.

Moreover, thanks to his intelligence system, Yan Li could not only monitor enemy movements but also "preemptively strike."

If the opponent had a good idea, Yan Li could intercept it, launch first, or roll out a similar feature simultaneously—neutralizing their move and possibly even turning it into a counterintelligence play.

They talked until afternoon, and when Yan Li finally finished, he was about to dismiss Wang Gaofei and the others when he suddenly remembered something.

"Remember to register the Weibo trademark."

Yan Li had no intention of prefixing Weibo with "Yi'an" or "Yi'an"—he simply wanted to call it "Weibo," meaning microblog.

If the trademark registration succeeded, whether others called it "Fan," "Tao," or "SomeBlog" didn't matter—but anyone daring to use the two characters "Weibo" would face lawsuits.

Whether he could win the lawsuit wasn't important; the key was to seize control of the concept of "microblog," while annoying competitors.

Even if others used "Weibo," to distinguish themselves they'd have to prepend "XX Weibo"—which would instantly look like a knockoff.

Wang Gaofei hesitated. He didn't oppose registering the Weibo trademark, but he thought other platforms using the name "Weibo" could actually benefit Weibo.

If everyone used "Weibo," even if it sparked a "Weibo war," the very term would become more deeply rooted in public consciousness.

Like blogs today—many versions coexisted, and together they made "blog" a household term.

If no one used "Weibo," but instead used terms like "XX Blog" or "XX Micro Tribe," and multiple platforms promoted the concept together, wouldn't that suppress Weibo instead?

Yan Li paused, considering Wang Gaofei's idea had merit.

The specifics would need further discussion, but registering the Weibo trademark now was certainly the right move.

…

Yan Li gave Weibo's executives one month to assemble a preliminary technical team for Weibo's development after the Spring Festival.

Developing Weibo, establishing unique advantages, and building technological barriers presented many challenges—it was better to act early than late.

Besides technology, he needed to build operational teams, content teams, product teams, and marketing and market teams one by one.

Yan Li planned to launch Weibo in 2008 and secure a first-mover advantage; though over a year seemed long, it might not be enough.

After leaving Weibo's company, Yan Li drove to Chaoyang to meet his stock trading team.

Having invested in the cinema chain, video website, and Weibo—three money-burning ventures—he felt financial pressure.

Though funding gaps could be filled through financing, to avoid being passive and protect his personal interests, Yan Li needed sufficient capital on hand as a safety net.

If you were short on cash, had no money, and panicked, others would dictate terms and exploit you.

If you weren't desperate, and could cover your own losses at critical moments, you'd have confidence, remain calm, and avoid bottomless compromises.

Thus, Yan Li, who had previously been indifferent to the stock market, became noticeably more active—during free time, he'd visit the trading team.

"Director Yan, here are the recent data and plans for the coming days."

Yan Li skimmed through them, cross-referenced with relevant intelligence, and gave two directives.

Cai Shen, the trading team leader, immediately agreed without hesitation.

Over the past year, Yan Li had repeatedly proven his "keen market intuition and insight."

The entire trading team admired him—and even felt sorry for him.

Yan Li had sharp vision and instinct, but lacked "boldness"; he was too cautious in trading. Otherwise, he might have become a "Little God of Stocks."

Yan Li was aware of the team's gossip but didn't care.

There were plenty of "Little Gods of Stocks"—how many could sustain their glory?

If he played too aggressively, attracted attention, and got targeted, the stock market's volatility would render even his system useless.

After Cai Shen left, Yan Li checked his account.

The 150 million yuan invested in Yi'an Cinema had been withdrawn; his current balance stood at nearly 190 million yuan.

Considering his initial capital and the current bull market, this amount wasn't large—it was even somewhat "modest"—but it was steady.

Yan Li wanted stability—not just steady profits, but a steady source of funds.

Only with sufficient stability could he withstand scrutiny, avoid drawing attention, and survive a financial crisis with such cautious, prudent conduct.

Compared to the 2006 bull market, the period just before the financial crisis in 2007 was truly insane—speculative stocks were everywhere; you could make money just lying down.

Yan Li had some related intelligence—he could have made a fortune if he'd gone all in.

But making money was easy; the real challenge was withdrawing it safely and spending it without risk.

As always: when others lose and you gain, you invite envy.

If you make so much and act flashy, even if your trades are flawless, you'll still face envy and targeted attacks.

There are countless ways to make you bleed, cut your flesh, even strip your bones.

So even with financial pressure, Yan Li remained calm.

Making money was to prepare for future crises—not to create one now. That would be asking for trouble.

He gently tapped the table, pondering: originally, he planned to exit gradually once his holdings reached 300 million.

But now, he thought it better to keep his principal around 200 million—or ideally, just over 100 million.

Earn a sum, withdraw a sum, exit in batches—messy, but safe.

With cinema chains, Weibo, film studios, and multiple investments under his control, tens of millions could be "absorbed" quickly.

This way, no one could guess how much he'd actually made in the stock market.

Note: Yan Li wasn't hiding money—he couldn't hide taxes, transactions, or investments.

This was about discretion: spending 100 million all at once versus spreading it over ten transactions—the same amount, but vastly different levels of attention.

In business and enterprise, being bold and visible was best; in stock trading and profiting from retail investors, being low-key was better—especially when retail investors were suffering.

Being low-key avoided envy and might even become a useful weapon, misleading competitors.

They'd all assume he was broke—when in fact he had money, catching them off guard.

Yan Li felt he was growing increasingly cunning—corrupted by those old-timers, tainting his once upright and kind nature.

After leaving the trading team, Yan Li rushed to another social engagement—a gathering of entrepreneurs from his hometown, with a few major figures from Shandong present.

Though Yan Li primarily operated in Beijing and many considered him part of the Beijing elite,

he maintained strong ties with his hometown, regarded as an outstanding representative of young Shandong entrepreneurs—if his companies weren't based outside Shandong, he might already have been elevated as Shandong's official representative.

Everyone knew about Zhejiang merchants, Chaozhou merchants, Shanxi merchants, and Huizhou merchants—but Shandong merchants were no weaker.

Yet Shandong merchants tended to focus on local industries; many were real-business tycoons, so their names remained obscure.

Of course, another unspoken reason: Shandong had a large population, many officials, and was close to Beijing.

This made many things sensitive—hard to form cliques, impossible to openly display.

As a result, even someone like Yan Li—a rising new money figure in Shandong's business circles—couldn't say whether a true "Shandong faction" even existed.

Subjectively, perhaps not; objectively, maybe yes—after all, Shandong is mostly flatland, with no mountain strongholds…

Private room

Yan Li was chatting with a senior figure from finance, who showed interest in investing in Yan Li's projects.

Then another senior figure, specializing in trust and wealth management, arrived with a young newcomer.

"Director X, Director Yan, this is Xiao Wang, Wang Ke—he's also from our hometown, currently working in investment consulting and management."

After the introduction, Wang Ke stepped forward with a glass of wine, spoke some polite formalities, then respectfully toasted.

The finance big shot beside Yan Li nodded slightly, barely acknowledging him; Yan Li lightly clinked glasses with him, offering a token gesture of support.

Such social gatherings always included established elders, rising new elites like Yan Li seeking to integrate, and friends brought along by the big shots.

Called "friends," but most were just hangers-on—minor figures the elders deemed decent and wanted to mentor, bringing them along to gain exposure.

Yan Li himself had once been one of those hangers-on, enduring cold shoulders and neglect.

Though his rapid rise had quickly left that behind, he remembered how unpleasant it felt—and so he usually showed kindness when encountering similar situations.

He not only clinked glasses but also accepted Wang Ke's business card—one from a finance company, the other from a luxury car club.

"You drive cars?"

Wang Ke nodded, explaining the club's composition, highlighting several members with powerful connections.

Yan Li had been somewhat interested, but after the introduction, his enthusiasm vanished.

Luxury car clubs—like art salons or golf clubs—were essentially elite social platforms for networking.

In plain terms: they were about circling.

For example, a luxury car club: anyone who could afford and enjoy such cars usually had some connections. Joining, socializing, building familiarity—eventually, business opportunities arose.

For someone like Wang Ke, in investment consulting and management, networking with quality clients was essential; joining a luxury car club was a good choice.

Yan Li himself had a slight interest in cars—after all, who among the young didn't love luxury and sports cars? They were fun, flashy, and helped build connections—why not?

But Wang Ke's club members were… hard to describe.

Not low-class—Wang Ke implied they drove cars worth millions; ordinary people couldn't afford them.

But the issue wasn't the price—it was the identity: the club was dominated by second-generation rich kids and young people with powerful family backgrounds.

These rich kids and youths might be valuable to Wang Ke, but in Yan Li's view, their social value was negligible—and they were likely to bring trouble.

It made sense—playing with luxury cars wasn't new; there were plenty of big shots and tough guys, but if Wang Ke could get close to them, he wouldn't be here tonight being toasted.

After brushing off Wang Ke with a few words, Yu Yanli resumed chatting with the big shots, who noticed Yu Yanli seemed interested in cars.

"If you're into this, start your own team—your name alone would draw plenty of supporters."

"I just don't have the time—I'd rather enjoy one already set up."

Yu Yanli had indeed considered forming a team or a sports squad, even planning two versions: one for high-end business networking, another for celebrity events.

The first would build connections; the second offered far more possibilities—charity, promotion, boosting tourism, and more.

He'd gotten the idea from the celebrities in Xiangjiang; there were similar efforts in the mainland, but none had made a mark—he thought he could give it a try.

Even if the results fell short, it would still generate traffic for Weibo.

Traffic doesn't come waiting—you create it when it's absent.

For example, celebrity races or charity car events—traditional media and portal sites report them, while Weibo's instant viral spread crushes them utterly.

Weibo isn't just about inviting a bunch of celebrities to post—we need to stir things up, keep them exposed, to attract users and keep them active.

If Weibo became the go-to place for gossip and the center of trending topics—where everyone rushed to check it first for any fresh news, where not scrolling Weibo felt unbearable, where people relied on it for all major and minor updates—

then Weibo would find it impossible to lose to its rivals!

————

PS: Due to certain reasons, the previous two chapters were slightly edited and trimmed—the core meaning remains unchanged, and reading is unaffected, please note.

Busy with revisions, no time left—I'm short by a thousand words; will make up with ten thousand tomorrow.

(End of Chapter)