The resale frenzy only grew hotter. Huaxing's Weibo drowned under complaints—screens full of "why can't we buy it," "stop feeding scalpers," and "restock now." That wave of anger was expected. Heifeng had told PR to hold their fire: don't argue, don't explain, let sentiment crest and break. The shortage was proof of demand, and a little public ire would only sharpen the desire to own the phone.
A passing comment then detonated across the feed: "Check China Unicom—looks like they still have Hongmeng S phones!" Tens of thousands surged to the carrier's site in minutes, almost knocking it over. Huaxing had indeed pushed a sizable tranche through that channel—half a million contract units, leveraging a long‑standing partnership. But by the time the stampede arrived, every last box was gone. The one remaining path to a handset snapped shut, and frustration spiked.
Sensing blood in the water, Honor and Huawei moved first. Their Weibo accounts rolled out timed discounts, hoping to net buyers stranded by Huaxing's empty shelves:
"April 15: Honor 7 down ¥100; Honor 7 Plus down ¥200."
"April 15: Huawei Nova down ¥200."
"Early purchasers will receive recharge‑card subsidies matching the difference."
Price speaks. For some shoppers, the arithmetic was simple: if the Hongmeng S3 couldn't be bought, a cheaper, available Nova would do. Everyone admitted Huaxing's value was unmatched; everyone also hated waiting. The Nova's specs lagged, but after markdown, its bang‑for‑buck looked respectable, and Honor 7's value rose enough to tempt fence‑sitters.
Qiang felt pressure inside the office and came to test the waters. "President, the sudden cuts on Honor 7 and Nova could hit our sales." Heifeng didn't even tense. With product constrained and reputation soaring, he wasn't worried about a competitor shaving a couple of hundred yuan. The reductions weren't deep enough to redraw the map; after cooling down, most buyers would still wait for the second batch. "Announce the second‑round sale time and the quantity," he said, like laying a chess piece. "As for Honor and Huawei—ignore them." A firm date and a public stock number would be a shot of adrenaline, steadying the crowd's patience.
Context mattered: the first sale had pulled in more than ten million would‑be buyers for 1.5 million phones. Most had queued, watched the progress bar freeze, and saw "sold out" in under a minute. Demand was proven; all Huaxing needed was to hold attention until replenishment.
While marketing prepared the announcement, Heifeng was already in hard‑hat mode at Audi Motors' Phase‑IV plant. The factory shell stood ready; after Zhao Jianhua's call, he opened the "system" and bought an entire transverse‑engine modular production platform—variable wheelbases, high parts commonality, the whole scaffold for a family of cars. He added a dedicated engine line for six‑cylinder and above, with the 3.0‑liter TV6 DOHC turbo as the mainstay. The order was so vast that the system dispatched thousands of installers. Convoys of special haulers poured in like a steel legion without an end, trailer after trailer backing to the bays.
That was the day Zhao Jianhua invited faculty and students from Jinling University of Technology to observe. They arrived at an industrial pageant: articulated arms craned off pallets, robot plasma cutters swaddled in greaseproof, a longitudinal‑beam CNC bender glinting under floodlights. Someone pointed at a hulking frame. "Is that a three‑sided punch press? It's enormous!" Mouths hung open. The teachers said money alone couldn't buy some of these machines; procurement required relationships, standards, and the confidence to support a bleeding‑edge line. Even with a small army of technicians, installation would take half a month.
Heifeng used the moment as a live classroom. He sent Zhilin, San, and other leads to walk the new graduates along each station: stamping, welding, paint, final assembly—where tolerances accumulated, where takt time strangled flow, where a sensor's false positive could bottle‑neck a day's output. The students listened, eyes bright; the future of Daxia's auto industry wasn't in glossy brochures but in the rhythm of conveyors and the hum of torque tools.
But machinery was only half the plan. The other half was status. If Audi were to climb fast in Daxia, its identity would have to be recast—beyond the "official car" into a symbol recognized by everyone. For that, Heifeng wanted a single image: a figure whose face appeared on Xinwen Lianbo stepping into an Audi. Not a paid slogan—just one ride, seen by the country. To be worthy, he'd already bought the A8 drawings and a W12 blueprint. The chief must ride in a top‑class D‑segment sedan with the strongest twelve‑cylinder heart. He asked Zhilin and San to hand‑build several A8s, then take them to Yanjing within days. The A6 would go too—the standard‑bearer of officialdom.
From phones to cars, the logic didn't change. Create a product the market can't ignore, price it so rivals can't breathe, move faster than anyone thinks possible, then secure a symbol that freezes the narrative in your favor. On the mobile side, the emblem was scarcity—proof of desire. On the automotive side, it would be a ceremony—proof of stature. Announce the next sale with numbers people can count on. Roll an A8 W12 to the capital and let the cameras do the rest. Between those two moves, both lines of business would tighten their grip.