Chapter 56: You Are Truly a Master

Let Wei Dong remain silent as well.

After all, even now he had not realized that being able to connect with such a high-profile journalist was already something Yu Qili and his associates dreamed of. For big talkers who loved to exaggerate, nothing was more valuable than official endorsement—having their names appear in the newspaper made for a prestigious calling card. It was no different from the Western habit of using photos with presidents or senators as business credentials.

Yet here he was, still wary and guarded.

He only shared a fraction of what was necessary; even Song Hai didn’t know he drove a large truck. But following this strategy, Wei Dong later flashed his Hongguang Factory work ID, telling the oil traders he was mainly assisting the Guozhou Chemical Plant with sampling—just transporting two or three tons for testing. “I still have errands in Jicheng, and a reporter from Sunshine Daily is waiting for me. Otherwise, they would have come looking themselves. If you don’t trust me, send someone to follow all the way to Jicheng, or even Guozhou if you like.”

He put on the air of someone incredibly busy. More importantly, the journalist’s presence was enough to cow them. Oil traders, who otherwise would have insisted on a full deal of over a hundred tons before letting him leave, had no choice but to load up the best oil into steel drums and accompany him.

Jicheng was two to three hundred kilometers away; in the plains, they could reach it in a day. On the road, Wei Dong overheard the oil traders’ genuine anxiety—if summer came and the animal fat spoiled in the heat, they’d lose everything. It was Yu Qili who had egged them on to acquire so much oil.

Who would have thought he’d be arrested?

Casually, Wei Dong brought up how shipments of several hundred or even a thousand tons usually required railway cars, since trucking was far too expensive. He said this offhand, but Wei Dong understood instantly. Despite being just twenty, he had studied the transport market, knew how scarce railcars were, and realized how challenging it was to manage large-scale logistics across the north and south.

Yu Qili was someone who only dreamed big, the kind to suggest blowing up Mount Everest to turn deserts into oases, but never cared about the details of the explosives.

En route, they passed through the provincial capital of Northern Ji, where, as directed by Song Hai, Wei Dong stopped at the local press office. Sure enough, a reporter joined their group, and once they arrived in Jicheng, a chief reporter from the main office in Beijing also showed up.

The oil traders had never witnessed such a spectacle—businessmen escorted by several senior journalists. They dared not utter a word, huddling in their army coats alongside Goudan and the others.

Wei Dong, having come all this way, decided to make the most of it. He planned to chat a bit, then take his brothers to Beijing for a stroll—he’d never visited the capital before.

But Jicheng, as the city guarding the capital’s gates, had a distinct aura. In this palm-sized city, clusters of state-owned factories dominated every neighborhood—like a supersized version of the West Mountain Industrial District he’d seen before. Each plant was more impressive than the last: the banknote paper mill, synthetic fiber plant, thermal power station, transformer factory, cotton mill, battery plant, machinery works, and film manufacturer.

Two of them even had secret mailbox codes. Producing banknote paper wasn’t something just any place could do; it made Wei Dong half want to set up a cured meat stall here.

To his surprise, the Sunshine Daily reporter thrust him to the forefront, immediately introducing him as “the young leader of economic reform who revitalized the Southwest’s third-line industrial complexes, military factories, and optical instrument plants.”

What kind of title was that?

Wei Dong had always preferred quietly making money under Yu Qili’s banner—how had he become a reform pioneer himself?

Yet the strategy worked brilliantly.

Wei Dong knew perfectly well that if he had come alone, he would barely have gotten a second glance. These proud state-owned enterprises, unlike the desperate Hongguang and West Mountain factories, would never entertain his proposals. Even the domestic black-and-white film factory and the SLR camera factory he’d visited before were the same.

But the photosensitive materials plant here, the one responsible for the nation’s film supply, looked at him differently after the grand introduction. The factory leaders gathered around, asking in detail about his reform strategies.

This was the first time since his rebirth that Wei Dong had encountered an enterprise he’d actually heard of in later years. It felt as if he had grasped a thread of history himself—Triumph Film, which throughout the nineties and early 2000s was the household choice for tax officials in county-level cities.

Even in poorer towns, civil servants had decent spending power—almost every home owned a camera. Not to mention the neighboring top elementary school, full of parents and children eager for photos. There were even photography interest groups.

But compared to imported rolls costing nearly thirty yuan each, county and district consumers naturally preferred the ten-yuan Triumph color film.

So Wei Dong explained, “My thoughts are based on cameras—seeing if there’s anything worth borrowing from the film industry. As for SLR cameras, even in another ten or twenty years, we probably won’t catch up with the Western giants. Those Hong Kong SLRs from Jiangzhou factories won all sorts of domestic awards, but hardly anyone bought them. Now I hear they’re spending a fortune to import foreign production lines, which I personally find unwise. If foreigners are willing to sell, it’s for profit—and what they sell is usually outdated technology. The big spenders end up buying obsolete products at a premium, while the sellers invest in developing even better ones…”

The 1980s encouraged bold opinions. The journalists scribbled furiously, and someone from the film plant even applauded.

If he’d said this in Shanghai, he’d have been ridiculed. Over there, importing everything was the rule. The coastal film factories were all bringing in foreign color film production lines. Only in Beijing did people still have enough pride to ask, “Why can’t we do it ourselves?”

Both approaches had merit—unquestioning self-reliance easily became stagnation, while indiscriminate importing could turn one into a comprador, undermining domestic growth. Balance was key.

But hearing Wei Dong say this in Jicheng put everyone at ease: “So I’ve offended that factory, but the West Mountain plant next door shares my view. Cameras shouldn’t be just for a handful of professionals. With reform and opening, the masses travel, work, and gather with family—photography should become an everyday activity for every household. For instance, here’s what I use my camera for…”

He handed over his stack of photos.

Dong Xueqing, after tucking away pictures of herself with Wei Dong and the “Three Flowers” for school, had even bought an album, carefully arranging the rest of his random snapshots.

With a car, it was easy to keep them in the glove compartment. When Wei Dong took them out now, the factory leaders and journalists burst into laughter as they passed the photos around.

The engineers at the West Mountain plant had been mystified by such informal photos—pure industrial minds unfamiliar with the world beyond. But the street vendors at West Lake and professional reporters immediately saw the vitality in these images.

Even the film plant, accustomed to working with news and movie studios, had an eye for appreciation: “Little Wei, your work has real artistic merit.”

Wei Dong, who knew nothing about art, replied, “All I want to express is this: with cameras costing twenty or thirty yuan, most people can afford one. It’s not a luxury. They can record the little moments of daily life, not just formal group portraits. That’s how the camera and film industries will really thrive.”

Everyone applauded. These people could tell at a glance how different these photos were from the posed, studio portraits labeled as “artistic.” They understood the vast potential of this market.

With a billion people, if a hundred million families each bought a camera for daily use—imagine the scale.

For a twenty-year-old to see that difference was impressive.

The visiting journalist from Sunshine Daily, a man in his forties and apparently a senior editor, couldn’t help but summarize: “The rise of the American automobile industry was built on Ford’s affordable Model T—making cars accessible to the common people established the foundation of the motor kingdom. Little Wei’s idea is precisely about the people’s camera. We also need film for the people!”

The film plant leaders nodded vigorously. “So how can we work together?”

Wei Dong outlined his sales experience: “In just one city in East China, we sell several hundred cameras a day. In the future, I’m thinking perhaps your color film could be packaged with our cameras—a set of one camera and two rolls, in an attractive box…”

He pulled an Aikesi camera in its colorful packaging from his bag. Everyone understood at once.

At this time, a camera was still a prized luxury, so the packaging was usually elaborate, full of accessories, though the box itself was plain brown paper.

Wei Dong did the opposite—like a toy, the camera came in a beautiful cardboard box, nothing inside but the camera itself. No neck strap, no lens cap, the manual just a sheet covered with illustrations.

The film plant managers and journalists, all camera aficionados, examined it: “A standard viewfinder camera. The Hong Kong-brand SLR used to be a luxury at over four hundred yuan a set. Shanghai’s Seagull, Beijing’s Great Wall, Tianjin’s Orient, Jiangsu and Zhejiang’s Tiger Hill—all of them are this style. Even without interchangeable lenses, they cost over a hundred and fifty yuan. Now you’ve brought the price down to twenty or thirty—won’t the other manufacturers be squeezed out?”

Wei Dong seemed to hear the modern word “involution” echoing in his mind. “Isn’t market competition about letting the best win? If someone makes expensive, poor-quality film that doesn’t sell, is that Triumph’s fault for being too cheap and too good?”

Everyone in the plant laughed. “People who buy a twenty- or thirty-yuan camera would never buy one that costs a hundred, let alone four hundred. Little Wei is opening up an entirely new market—over a hundred thousand units a year; if each generates continuous film consumption, that means millions of rolls!”

The journalist quickly chimed in, “The craze for color photos is quietly spreading in China. Demand is the market; demand is opportunity. We cannot let imports completely dominate our market. But the high price of cameras limits consumption of film among the masses. Little Wei’s strategy and Triumph Film are a perfect match. Together, they’ll win over the vast popular market. As for the smaller, professional photography segment—that’s a goal for the future, once we’ve secured our footing.”

In truth, he’d put it delicately. At least among the journalists, none of them ever used domestic film. In official settings in Beijing, only the most expensive imported rolls were used—otherwise, if precious historical moments were lost due to poor equipment or materials, who would take responsibility?

Targeting the affordable, mass market was the right approach—there was no point in pretending to be exclusive or highbrow.