Chapter Sixty-Three: Viral Marketing

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(Thanks to “An Arrow Through the Wall” for the generous reward. Only two chapters today, due to the direction of the plot; tomorrow there will be a small burst from Black Car. Hope everyone supports it, thank you, truly.)

Who was bold enough to report Chief Ma? Of course, it was AOL!

At this time, Penguin wasn't yet called Penguin; it was still “O-ICQ.” But here lies the issue: there was already a software called ICQ owned by AOL (America Online). As O-ICQ rapidly grew and its user base surged, ICQ couldn’t stomach it anymore—it was losing out to a knockoff.

So, they sued directly, targeting Ma Hua Teng. Ma Hua Teng had no experience in this kind of affair, ignored his father's advice, and faced the lawsuit head-on, only to suffer a crushing defeat.

Luckily, Chief Ma's Penguin was free at the time; there were no illegal gains, so the damages were minimal. Otherwise, he might’ve had to surrender even his underwear!

In the original timeline, Penguin didn’t develop so quickly; AOL wouldn’t sue until the following year. But now, they simply couldn’t wait. What’s even more different is that previously, Ma Hua Teng didn’t contest the lawsuit at all; knowing he was in the wrong, he simply changed the name. But now, thanks to Wu Xiang’s fifty thousand, Ma Hua Teng felt emboldened to stand his ground...

Money breeds swagger—so the saying goes.

Not only did he lose a sum, but he also had to change the name. What should it be called?

Wu Xiang saw through it—the name was secondary; what mattered was money. Though Chief Ma now spoke with some tact, less blunt than before, Wu Xiang wasn’t foolish.

“Call it Kou Kou!” Remember this moment: the future-famous software was named by Wu Xiang himself. He couldn't help but feel a touch of pride, though he didn’t forget the predicament Penguin faced.

“I’ve got at most two hundred thousand on hand now. If you agree, I’ll transfer it over right away.” Wu Xiang knew Chief Ma needed funds. The two hundred thousand was his manuscript fee from the past few months, painstakingly saved through frugality. Luckily, food was cheap in these days—had there been a CPI like in the future, or if a film crew bundled meals and lodging...

“Alright, then. I’ll persevere.” Perhaps Wu Xiang hadn’t realized—or nobody could have imagined—that Chief Ma genuinely intended to sell the company. If Wu Xiang had six hundred thousand, Ma might have gladly exited the IT industry.

No one would have guessed it, especially as Wu Xiang was a reincarnator and knew the true value of Penguin. The more he valued it, the less he could imagine Ma wanting to leave.

The plan was already set; Chief Ma was calling to request funds. Wu Xiang’s viral marketing required a webpage, which needed funding. Ma’s pot was nearly empty.

Not long after, internet-savvy youths noticed their beloved little Penguin had a new name—still just as adorable. Meanwhile, something eye-catching appeared in the chat window.

“Do you wish to find your own Dancing Light?”

“Do you want your skills with women to be guided by a master?”

“Do you hope for a more devilish figure?”... Many prompts, each leading to a beautifully designed webpage featuring five silhouettes, each bearing a question mark, and when you hovered your mouse over them, a small dialog box popped up.

For example, the one labeled “Rogue Wu” indicated he would appear before everyone on December 20.

Each character had a scheduled reveal, the earliest being Huang Xiaoming, playing a rich and handsome man, who would unveil himself on November 11.

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This was viral marketing, all designed to lure people into following “First Intimate Encounter,” the movie. Yet Wu Xiang played it sly—the webpage didn’t mention the movie’s name, but instead called itself “Online Dating University.”

Though the movie wasn’t named, many recognized the characters as those from “First Intimate Encounter,” for Wu Xiang’s novel was wildly popular. His manuscript fees alone proved its success—at that time, even top authors like Teacher Haiyan or February He earned only a million or two.

Leaving out the movie name, just a webpage—it gave young people a sense of mystery to explore. Now, Wu Xiang began to make waves.

How did he make waves? Simply—one tabloid suddenly exposed “student leader” Wu Xiang as the author of the internet sensation “First Intimate Encounter.”

Normally, rumors wouldn’t be believed, but suddenly reports flooded in, sprouting like bamboo shoots after rain.

Wu Xiang had never publicly revealed himself as the author, except among classmates and to Qin Hailu and Zhang Ziyi; most others were unaware. This was his hidden card, keeping the secret until the perfect moment—and now was the time!

No sooner had the news broken than reporters rushed to interview him. Wu Xiang had been a hot topic since ‘99, having done many surprising things, but interviews had always eluded them—he’d refused them all. This time?

This time, Wu Xiang showed his friendly side to the media, claiming he squeezed interviews into his busy schedule, chatting with print, TV, online, even radio outlets. As for holding a press conference?

Impossible—he still had to keep a low profile...

Hai Qing noticed it. She’d asked, during one of their outings, “Why not just hold a press conference? Interviewing each outlet one by one must be exhausting.”

Wu Xiang could tell she was concerned for him, which warmed his heart—but a press conference would be too obvious, too suspicious.

All media outlets received the same message: Wu Xiang was indeed the author of the bestselling novel, and he’d already adapted it into a film as his assignment for the director’s department at the film academy, which had caught the eye of a film company and was set for release at year’s end.

Yes, it must be called an assignment—if it were a commercial film, it would seem too vulgar, too mercenary. This wasn’t hype...

Hai Qing promptly scolded Wu Xiang for his shamelessness—this was clearly hype, but he made it so no one could call it hype.

That’s skill—the pinnacle of commercial maneuvering. Every inch is an advertisement, but no one can see it as an ad. How impressive is that?

Of course, Wu Xiang solemnly promised Hai Qing never to use such tricks on her—he’d always be honest.

What could Hai Qing say? She felt she’d been sold several times before, yet still helped Wu Xiang count the proceeds.

Soon, the two pieces of news merged: Wu Xiang’s candid admission and the semi-veiled webpage stirred up tremendous interest among online youths.

The first silhouette—Huang Xiaoming—unveiled his mystery as promised.

Wow! So handsome!

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That was the effect. What more could Brother Xiaoming say? He was bound to be handsome, especially playing the rich and dashing lead.

And this rich, handsome image was only the beginning. The webpage was full of hidden surprises—the silhouette didn’t move, but triggered dialog boxes when you clicked different parts. For instance, click his hand, and it would pop up that he’s holding flowers—beware the thorny roses... In short, it was intriguing.

But that wasn’t all. The page displayed a tally—a count of those following it, annotated: if it reached a target, say five hundred thousand, some movie plot details from “First Intimate Encounter” would be revealed early.

Originally, Wu Xiang wanted Ma Hua Teng to design something animated, like the interactive games found on many later webpages.

But it couldn’t be done! Ma Hua Teng immediately vetoed it—the plan was sound, but the technical capability just wasn’t there. Such things existed abroad, but the cost...

Upon hearing about costs, Wu Xiang had nothing more to say. If he had money, he wouldn’t bother with viral marketing.

As for the “Ma” in Hangzhou, he was even more straightforward—open a special section on the homepage, place some ads, mainly sell original novels, support legitimate copies, fight piracy. That was about it, since Alibaba hadn’t launched Taobao yet, and their main business was B2B.

These tricks, if put to use a decade later, would barely register—netizens would scoff: What the hell is this?

But times were different. Few people were online; Penguin had barely fifty thousand concurrent users. By those numbers, online promotion was useless.

Yet those who could access the internet then weren’t ordinary—they were stylish or knowledgeable, the elite. In those days, internet users were true elites!

Who triggers a trend or a wave? The masses?

No—it’s the elite. Though a minority, they grasp the pulse of the era, and the masses follow their lead.

Wu Xiang’s book burned hot for this reason: the internet crowd praised it, and though small in number, their chatter created buzz that drew the general public in, so it was a bestseller upon release.

What is the key to viral marketing? A glamorous webpage? Fun interactive games?

None of that. The essence of viral marketing is the topic—it must generate a buzz, spread from one to ten, ten to a hundred... That is the soul of viral marketing.

That’s why, in later years, though everyone understood viral marketing, with better hardware and more users, it often failed—no matter how good the page, without buzz, it’s useless.

Now, on one hand, Wu Xiang and his book appeared frequently in traditional media; on the other, the internet was abuzz with online dating gadgets. How could it not be a hot topic?