Chapter 22: “Come back to me when you have your magnum opus.”

Your partners are your mirrors. Only by doing what you love does your talent truly matter. Decide who you are, then go and manifest your product. Don’t always seek like-minded people—use that time to think about when you’ll create your masterpiece.

After moving to the bustling heart of Beijing to study day and night, Jian Zhaowen rarely saw stars anymore. Once, he lived in the suburbs, catching mantises in the slanted summer sun, netting dragonflies in reed fields taller than himself, and gazing at the night sky under the shelter of towering trees, never bothering to brush off the dirt from his clothes after standing up. His favorite sound was the morning chorus of pigeons taking flight, circling along the trails left by the previous night’s constellations, their cooing a soothing melody. When he was twelve, his mother, determined to give him the best education, moved the family to the northwest side of the city. Later, he stayed in the dormitories, no longer returning home. All his peers burned the midnight oil, tomorrow felt too far away, the nights stretched endlessly, and the stars grew fewer. Jian Zhaowen began to suffer from insomnia. To combat loneliness, he downloaded the sounds of pigeon flocks and cicadas onto his mp3 player, sitting by the window before bed to listen to the flapping wings and soft cooing, breathing in the cool night air until sleep slowly crept in. After being admitted to university, he would often notice girls stealing glances at him while waiting for the traffic lights on campus. Youth is especially attuned to eye contact; even in the dazzling sunlight, those clear gazes reminded him of twinkling stars, making him overlook flowing hair and fluttering skirts.

He rode his bike to meet Li Yin. Li Yin had been Jian Zhaowen’s boss during his second job, a co-founder of a startup. In his earlier years, Li Yin had worked as a content editor at a portal site, rising to director, and later accumulated connections at major tech companies before starting his own ventures. Over seven years, he launched four successful products, with even his failures earning spots on content entrepreneurship lists. The project Jian Zhaowen worked on with him was a video app called “Xiyou,” which had a very fresh aesthetic and encouraged users to upload high-quality travel photos and stories. Jian was responsible for R&D, implementing one feature request after another from Li Yin. At the time, Li offered low salaries, resulting in frequent staff turnover. But Jian found Li’s product style aligned with his tastes and stuck it out for two years, staying until Li stepped down as a co-founder before resigning to start his own venture in Shanghai. Li Yin taught him much about product thinking, helping him evolve from a simple algorithm engineer into something more. On the night Jian secured angel round funding in Shanghai, he slipped away from the celebrating crowd to sit alone on the terrace, letting the wind wash over him. A girl who’d been flirting with him found him there and said, “Jian Zhaowen, you have the face of a knight protector, yet you suddenly become an outsider. Is urban life not satisfying enough for you?”

The girl, of course, didn’t understand that this sense of being apart came from Li Yin. The streetlamp cast shadows across his face as the buildings grew denser, their lights dreamlike. Shops changed hands so many times they felt unfamiliar. He thought back to when he used to frequent bars with friends and colleagues, some of whom loved clubbing. He would accompany them to VIP booths, watching them spend hundreds of thousands of yuan in a single night, his heart aching at the waste. Lavish young people could burn through half of his company’s angel round funding in one evening, enough to pay employees for two months. And yet, women adored Jian Zhaowen—gentlemanly, witty, able to talk about anything, rarely refusing advances, flirtatious but not promiscuous, mischievous yet maddeningly charming. Jian disliked bars, traveling frequently. Rather than partying in lounges or clubs, he preferred ordering drinks to his hotel suite, sitting at the room’s bar, connecting his phone via Bluetooth to play his music. He also had a secret buried deep within him: after showering, he’d toss aside his bathrobe and dance wildly around the room, a fact known to almost no one. As he approached thirty, he grew increasingly lazy about socializing. Moving to Shanghai was purely about trying something new. During his two years of entrepreneurship there, aside from colleagues, he had few friends. At his busiest, he lived in the office, using hotels only to shower. Yet, internally, he felt an unusual calm. It was during this time, staring at the dark sky, that he occasionally sensed the collective consciousness of the app’s users, like glowing nebulae in the urban night, reminiscent of the awe he felt as a child.

That magic of user-generated content (UGC) was something he believed Li Yin would understand.

Li Yin arranged to meet him at a bar—an unassuming place nearly impossible to find online. Passing through an inconspicuous entrance in an old neighborhood, Jian arrived at a courtyard he’d never noticed before. Taking the elevator up, he expected to hear deafening music that would shake his heart. Instead, the hostess greeted him warmly and escorted him to a window-side seat, offering a menu. The man at the next table looked like he’d just finished a workout and was chatting animatedly about a real estate development project in Shenzhen’s Qianhai district. Compared to Jian’s own struggles in transparent conference rooms, where arguments were inevitable, the smell of luxury perfumes here hinted at the harshness of class divides.

Li Yin arrived half an hour late. At forty, he still looked lean, though his temples were streaked with gray. Under the lights, his hair appeared brownish-yellow, his slightly drooping eyes exuding a hint of melancholy. He wore a linen-gray shirt made of fine, soft fabric that gave him an air of approachability. Seeing Jian, he smiled warmly: “Long time no see.”

Just seeing Li Yin made Jian deeply emotional: “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you again, Mr. Yin.”

“What brings you here?”

“I’ve created a product I’d like you to take a look at.”

“You mean Lovedate ? I noticed it when it launched. Ranked third on the social apps chart in its first week and was nominated for an interaction design award by the end of the year. How could I not know?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to show me?”

“I’d like your feedback.”

Li Yin chuckled: “It’s clear you’re truly passionate about your product. Back during Xiyou , I already recognized your talent in R&D and algorithms. You execute features quickly and think beyond what product managers envision. A friend of mine, a CEO of an SBU, invested in Lovedate ‘s Series A round.”

“Embarrassingly, I’ve been fired.”

Li Yin said nothing, merely raising his hand to order drinks. Jian vaguely felt his resignation was anticipated, so he continued: “It’s not ideal to speak ill of my former partner, but I couldn’t tolerate someone with extreme control issues. I couldn’t function as a mere pawn in their game.”

“A company’s growth isn’t always due to individual reasons, but in startups, it’s largely about the people. What you described—extreme control—is one type. Bureaucratic, rigid types exist too. Most employees are inherently lazy and need strong leadership to guide and push them, as not everyone has a clear system in mind.”

“Isn’t there a better solution?”

“Of course. An all-star team with vertical expertise, excellent products backed by strong operations, groundbreaking investments, and massive promotion—all these elevate the starting point. But such cases are rare. Different industries will always produce superior products or entirely new sectors.”

Jian fell into deep thought. Li Yin glanced at his watch and dropped a metaphor: “Your partners are your mirrors. Only by doing what you love does your talent shine. Decide who you are, then bring your product to life. Don’t waste time searching for like-minded people. Use that time to think about when you’ll create your masterpiece.”

Before Jian could ask further questions, Li Yin picked up his phone: “I have another meeting. I’ll leave now. It was great seeing you again. Come back when you have your magnum opus—I’ll be waiting.”

Li Yin gave him only ten minutes, rising gracefully and heading toward the elevator, guided by the lounge manager. Someone once speculated on Weibo about Li Yin’s net worth—a man possessing immense business acumen and decisiveness, focused to the point of remaining unmarried at forty. For such a person to grant him ten minutes felt almost luxurious. Jian sat in the lounge, listening to blues track after blues track, gazing out at the high walls outside, feeling as if he’d already been separated from ordinary life. As he stepped out of the bar, the cold wind outside seeped through his shirt. An electric scooter approaching the intersection jolted unevenly, its poorly secured rear compartment rattling loudly. Returning to reality, Jian reflected on Li Yin’s words, sensing a subtle unease.

This dreamlike meeting ended far too quickly, leaving him feeling unworthy. Jian took a deep breath, ambition slowly rising within him. One day, he vowed, he would stand as an equal to Li Yin. Ten minutes was simply too short.

Back in Beijing, his apartment had long been uninhabited, dust accumulating with every step. A note on the table, now layered with grime, read: “I’ve moved out. My new boyfriend is wonderful. Don’t worry about me anymore, Jian Zhaowen. I’ve grown up, finally able to forget you. Take care on your journey ahead. —Qiu Nuo”

Their last bit of tacit understanding: she had covered the bed with an old sheet for him, ready for use. Lifting the sheet, Jian sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. Judging by the thickness of the dust, the apartment had likely been empty for six months.

Had he known it would come to this, why did he make Yu Zhimei wait for him? His romances, thus far, always seemed plagued by unfortunate timing.

Jian prepared his documents, and the first stop was court. He went straight to the Market Supervision Administration, submitting materials. For days afterward, he was tossed between various departments—the工商局 (SAIC), 税务局 (tax bureau), and 公安局 (police)—with officials telling him to wait for notification, dragging things out until the big tech company rescinded their offer. Back in Shanghai, he helped Yu Zhimei search for her cat, then packed up and returned to Beijing. Now settled, it was time for retaliation. Sitting amidst boxes, Jian opened his laptop and began drafting a lawsuit.

There were shortcuts to resolving bureaucratic runarounds—calling in favors, perhaps just a few phone calls and a dinner, owing someone a debt. But Jian, ever logical, insisted on pursuing justice formally. He meticulously prepared his lawsuit, collecting handwriting samples of both the account holder and himself, surveillance footage from the day of registration, proof of his lost-and-reported ID card, and records of his travel and accommodation expenses during that period. Everything was neatly documented. After a week of court review, on the day of mediation, Jian met the legal affairs director of the SAIC. Initially disinterested, the director smirked upon seeing the organized materials, flipping through them carefully before whispering instructions to his subordinate. With ample evidence, Jian knew he would win. Yet, standing outside the SAIC offices, he still didn’t feel triumphant. Though he gained a small measure of life experience, the ordeal had cost him precious time.

PS: Thank you for reading! Today, we had a foster kitten at home, so the update was slightly delayed. Wishing you all a pleasant read! 🌟