Chapter 347: At Twenty-Eight, a Ten-Billion-Dollar Fortune

Yang Mi guessed correctly—the finals were just the beginning; Xiao Yanzi and Fan Xiaopang’s fanbases continued to viciously attack each other.

Xiao Yanzi’s fans accused Fan Xiaopang of being a sore loser, rigging the results, and still losing despite having more fans—trash.

Fan Xiaopang’s fans presented various evidence proving Xiao Yanzi had maliciously ballot-stuffed, winning unfairly.

Notably, while tearing each other apart, both sides also took the opportunity to drag down the other members of the Four Dan and Two Bing.

In short, whether Yan and Fan are trash is debatable—but everyone else is trash.

The Four Dan and Two Bing, already annoyed by being dragged into the earlier voting chaos, finally snapped.

The Four Dan and Two Bing were revered in the industry not just for their high achievements and fame, but because they dared to fight—and fought themselves.

Xu Cai nv was the first to speak out, posting on Sina Weibo that she had never authorized or participated in any Goddess competition, didn’t care, and asked not to drag her into such nonsense.

To be fair, among the Four Dan and Two Bing, Xu Cai nv was indeed the least interested in this Weibo Goddess voting contest.

On one hand, she was more literary, self-admiring, seeking soul resonance—this kind of entertainment voting simply didn’t appeal to her.

On the other hand, it might also be due to her lack of public appeal and charm, combined with her low activity on Weibo, leading to poor Weibo Goddess rankings.

Regardless of the reasons, Xu Cai nv was the first to voice criticism of the Weibo Goddess contest.

Zhang Ziyi immediately joined in, arguing that actors should focus on acting well and that such rankings were meaningless.

Her rankings in these two editions weren’t bad, but due to her weak public appeal, she was at a disadvantage, so she also held the view that Weibo Goddess rankings didn’t matter.

Zhou Young Master felt similarly, but took it even more lightly, believing voting was just for fun, friendship came first, competition second, and wins or losses shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

Hmm, nice words—but some interpreted them as her firing broadsides at everyone, subtly mocking all sides.

For instance, implying Yan and Fan had narrow minds, couldn’t handle losing, and fought so hard for the title they turned into dogs; then implying Xu and Zhang couldn’t win, so they broke down and cursed.

If Zhou Young Master’s words were ambiguous—whether sincere or sarcastic—Li Bingbing’s were clearly tea-sipping.

“I think it’s kind of fun, but just keep a normal attitude toward the rankings. They (Fan and Yan) are too obsessed with winning and losing, making fans and everyone unhappy—it feels like it violates the event’s original spirit…”

Several bystanders had spoken; let alone the two key parties involved.

Xiao Yanzi adopted the posture of a victor; when questioned by reporters during the event, she avoided controversial topics and merely smiled.

“I’m very happy to have come in first—the trophy’s already been shipped to my home in Jingcheng; I’m just waiting to open it.”

I won. So what?!

Fan Xiaopang simply posted on Weibo the Weibo-issued commemorative medal and congratulatory letter for her ten million followers.

This was a small Weibo perk modeled after a certain website.

These kinds of achievement-style honors may seem insignificant, but they play a substantial role in building platform ecosystems, enhancing user emotion and fan loyalty, creating Weibo’s own digital assets, and adding credential value.

Currently, since Weibo is still growing and top accounts belong to celebrities who don’t lack titles or honors, it’s just a small gimmick.

When more ordinary users eventually build up substantial followings in the future, this follower medal’s role will emerge—and could even become an internet authority certification.

Previously, Weibo’s follower medals only existed at the million-follower level: a frame with a silver Weibo logo and text like “name + over one million.”

But worth noting: the top ten million-follower medals had gold-edged silver logos, and the top hundred accounts had their ranks marked as No.1~100; beyond that, standard medals were issued.

Fan Xiaopang’s ten-million-follower medal followed the same design, but with a gold logo and diamond-edged frame, with “No.1” clearly visible beside it.

The message was simple: if you’re not good, don’t blame the road!

The onlookers were delighted—they loved this knife-to-throat feud, it was too lively.

Weibo was even happier: the Weibo Goddess finals doubled the entire event’s influence, traffic soared, and it successfully attracted many new users.

Just three days after the Weibo Goddess event ended, Weibo officially announced its total registered users had surpassed 100 million.

For an internet platform, this was an absolute milestone; Yan Li posted three Weibo messages celebrating and thanking everyone.

Immediately after, Weibo officially launched its Series B funding round, sparking heated discussion among investors and financial channels.

After the financial crisis, many internet bubbles had burst, but half a year later, the market had begun to recover.

Weibo’s current development is rapid and its prospects bright; compared to competitors, though it hasn’t yet achieved monopolistic dominance, it’s far ahead—leading by a cliff.

More importantly, Weibo has spent this year exploring traffic monetization.

Though no mature model has formed yet, it has already begun turning a profit and has shown the terrifying scale of its platform traffic.

Currently, Weibo is unquestionably China’s most popular social platform; if it can steadily unlock commercial traffic, the financial gains are self-evident.

All this has significantly boosted Weibo’s valuation, leading capital markets to view Weibo very favorably.

Even conservative valuations placed Weibo above $1.5 billion; more enthusiastic estimates ranged between $2–3 billion; the enthusiasts had already shouted $5 billion.

What does that mean? In early 2009, China’s internet had barely begun its full ascent.

Only three companies had market caps over $10 billion: Tencent, Alibaba, and Baidu—the so-called “Big Three” internet giants.

The next tier consisted of the three major portals, each valued between $3–5 billion.

Gaming companies like Giant Network, Shanda, and Perfect World were also among the top, valued between $1.5–5 billion.

Ctrip had risen strongly over the past two years and held a place on the list, valued around $4–5 billion.

Weibo, Tudou, and JD.com hadn’t gone public, so they weren’t on this list—but this shows the true worth represented by Weibo’s current valuation.

Yan Li planned to offer 10–15% of shares in a new funding round, targeting $500 million.

This implied Weibo’s internal valuation was roughly $3.5–5 billion.

The attitude was optimistic, but the exact amount raised would depend on circumstances.

Many outside investors were interested, including SoftBank, Sequoia, and several state-backed entities—including Alibaba, which also joined in.

There was no help for it—Jack Ma was too envious of Weibo’s traffic.

Opening Weibo’s portal could drive massive traffic to Taobao.

But Weibo’s stance toward Alibaba was ambiguous.

JD’s scale was still too small to keep up with Weibo’s growth; if Weibo could partner with Alibaba, the benefits to its revenue would be enormous.

But would Alibaba’s arrival compromise Weibo’s independence—or worse, invite a wolf into the house, letting Alibaba take over? This was something Yan Li and Weibo’s senior management had to consider.

Also, one more thing must be mentioned: Yan Li had originally planned for Weibo and Yi’an to swap shares.

But now that Weibo was stronger and had cash, he proposed a new idea: invest a small amount of shares plus cash into Yi’an, just like Alibaba invested in Huayi.

Though still a share swap, the meaning was entirely different.

Weibo held more shares and more influence, becoming Yi’an’s strategic investor; their relationship shifted from a previously somewhat equal alliance to one where Weibo occupied the superior and core position.

The advantage was improved synergy: Weibo’s ceiling and valuation rose further, and Yan Li could exert dual control over Yi’an through both personal and corporate channels, making management easier.

The downside, naturally, was some damage to Yi’an’s interests and independence.

Yan Li had seen some future intelligence and understood that managing a film company through an internet-centric mindset could easily turn Yi’an into a tool of internet logic.

Moreover, if Yi’an remained independent, it could strive for industry leadership, leveraging culture and the entire industry to its advantage; if too entangled with Weibo, many things would become hard to say or do.

Another key point: Yan Li didn’t want to tie all his industries together.

If everything was integrated into Weibo, Weibo would grow stronger—but if Weibo ever collapsed, everything would be destroyed; similarly, if any business unit exploded, it would drag down the entire Weibo system.

If each developed independently, only cooperating strategically, timely separation would ensure survival: if one died, the others could still live.

The pros and cons were clear, but Yan Li couldn’t decide right away.

Fortunately, whether through share swaps or equity investment, the overall direction of cooperation remained unchanged, and control of both companies still rested in his hands—so they could just discuss and study slowly.

…

Yan Li focused more on funding and the integration of Weibo and Yi’an; the outside world didn’t think it was so complicated—they cared about only one thing.

How the hell is this Yan guy getting richer and richer?!

Even using Weibo’s conservative $3.5 billion valuation, at current exchange rates, that’s nearly 24 billion RMB.

Yan Li’s Weibo shares weren’t publicly disclosed; industry estimates put them above 60%; even if you cut it in half, he still had 12 billion RMB.

And this was just Weibo shares—Yi’an must be worth several billion too, and he was a major shareholder in Tudou, plus all sorts of other income.

Compared to Forbes’ 2008 report listing Yan Li’s net worth at over 2 billion RMB, he’d grown nearly tenfold.

Wait a minute—weren’t people saying he went bankrupt a few months ago? Who goes bankrupt and gets richer?

Many netizens and trolls dug up the accounts and big Vs that had pushed the “Yan Li bankrupt” narrative, reopening old cases.

Some pretended to be dead; others argued: company valuation doesn’t equal actual assets; Yan Li may have a hundred-billion-RMB net worth, but he’s still a broke bastard.

Others switched sides, like Pang Yidian.

He had been the main force pushing the “Yan Li bankrupt” theory, with an especially hard mouth; when Yan Li invested $10 million in JD, he even bet he’d eat shit—and was publicly @ed by Yan Li. He never fulfilled his promise and became Weibo’s digital clown.

Now, with Weibo’s big funding push and Yan Li’s soaring net worth, he became a prime target for netizens digging up old posts.

Everyone expected him to play dead or keep denying—but instead, he admitted he’d misjudged.

But quickly, he began explaining and making excuses.

Pang Yidian still insisted his earlier “Yan Li bankrupt” theory wasn’t a lie—he never claimed Yan Li’s companies had development problems; Weibo was still a company with bright prospects.

But both companies were in rapid growth and expansion phases, consuming capital quickly; during the financial crisis, it was hard to find new funding.

If Yan Li’s cash flow ran dry or he faced debt from stock market losses, both company and personal finances would be in dire straits.

Based on all the signs at the time, Yan Li’s finances were indeed not optimistic; even if “bankrupt” was an exaggeration, being severely wounded was absolutely accurate.

Under those conditions, 9 out of 10 normal people would have already collapsed; claiming Yan Li was bankrupt was logical.

Pang Yidian believed he was right up to that point—but he had overlooked one thing.

Yan Li isn’t normal!

This guy is a chosen one, with incredible luck or ability; everyone back then assumed Yan Li went to Xiangjiang to be blocked or to flee.

But instead, he turned around from despair, under immense pressure, secured a fortune in Xiangjiang, and saved himself.

Pang Yidian personally revealed that through financial contacts, he learned Yan Li had made a huge haul in Xiangjiang—estimated at nearly 2–3 billion RMB.

With that money, Yan Li resolved his debt and cash flow crisis, and even seized the opportunity to aggressively develop both companies, then proceed with normal fundraising after the market recovered.

In short: it’s not that he’s weak—it’s that Yan Li is strong. He turned a dead game into a win.

Let’s be honest, Pang Yi had real skills to become a reporter for the Southern Metropolis Daily and later rise to become a Weibo influencer with nearly a million followers.

Under unfavorable circumstances, stubbornness and feigning death only make things worse, inviting widespread mockery and cementing his status as a digital clown on Weibo.

So he did the opposite: he admitted defeat outright, blocking the main point of attack from netizens, and many even thought he played the game well.

Then he stitched together sophistries, turning his rumors into normal predictions, claiming the situation was exceptional to ease public resentment.

Then he lavished praise on Yu Yanli, elevating him to godlike status—both calming Yu Yanli’s fans’ hostility and whitewashing himself, framing his actions as not his fault.

Even Yu Yanli was powerless against him; the man admitted defeat, followed the script to heap praise on Yu Yanli, and helped him complete the classic comeback-and-slapdown routine.

What could be more satisfying than having your own black fans admire and surrender?

If Yu Yanli clung to it further, he’d only appear petty and narrow-minded.

Thus, this scene perfectly enhanced Yu Yanli’s persona and plotline, adding luster to his resume as a business genius and wildly gaining him fans.

Pang Yidian also clearly showed his face—he faced some controversy and humiliation, but ended on a decent note, even gaining many new fans.

Afterward, Yu Yanli reviewed the incident himself and thought the guy who had dared to provoke him yet barely escaped unscathed had some real moves.

He instructed the Weibo backend to monitor closely: any violation of Weibo’s user guidelines would result in a ban or other action.

Weibo’s community moderation was actually strict—but it was just for show; as long as ordinary users weren’t extreme or touching sensitive topics, the platform turned a blind eye.

But users who repeatedly provoked or caused trouble were flagged by Weibo’s official team, and their reviews became stricter and harsher.

Since founding Weibo, Yu Yanli had ordered the handling of some accounts—but they were all extreme traitors and idiots; Pang Yidian was the first targeted due to personal grudges.

He hadn’t acted before because he treated the guy as Weibo’s digital clown; now that he wanted to rebrand himself, it was time to stop coddling him.

Regardless, the guy had annoyed Yu Yanli for a while—so Yu Yanli would annoy him right back.

Come on, if you don’t show you the full power of a verified account, you won’t know who runs Weibo?!

Besides Pang Yidian and others being mocked and retaliated against, the Forbes Billionaires List was also heavily criticized.