Chapter Five: Regret

On this day, after a fierce battle with his parents, Gu Zhi finally won the chance to take a six-month leave from school. Though Mr. and Mrs. Gu were open-minded, they held a special conviction when it came to education.

It was a persistent obsession, branded into the hearts of that generation in China: school was more important than anything else. Families would sell everything they owned just to send their children to school—a reality for many impoverished households. Especially in rural areas, to support a single college student, older siblings often left home early to work, sending money back each year for their younger brother or sister’s tuition.

Someone always carried the burdens of family and society too soon. What seemed a simple and inevitable rite—attending school—was, for many, a chasm they could never cross, an eternal regret.

Both Wen Zhi and Lin Zhi had endured hardship in their youth, which instilled in them a deep reverence and obsession for learning. Yet for Gu Zhi, he had already attained a doctorate in his previous life, studied abroad, and read all the books he needed. Reborn, his body was young again, but the knowledge in his mind remained undiminished. To sit the college entrance exam again, to attend university once more, held no meaning for him.

His time was precious, and there were countless things he wished to accomplish—it was not worth wasting on such repetition. In the end, he promised his parents that he would write two books within half a year, both of which could be published and guaranteed to sell. If he failed, he’d obediently return to school. Only then did his parents reluctantly agree to his request.

Coincidentally, writing books was part of his plan. The wealth of experience and memories from his previous life was precious knowledge, and letting it languish inside him would be meaningless.

What sells best in the twenty-first century? Knowledge, of course!

Hadn’t Luo Ji Siwei transformed himself from an online personality to a billionaire, by running his public account, launching his own app, appearing on web shows and television? Gu Zhi had no intention of following Luo Ji Siwei’s path—it wouldn’t help him enter the entertainment industry. As for what books to write, he already had a clear answer in mind.

Over the next two days, Lin Zhi busied herself reaching out to friends in order to contact Mr. Ma Yun in Hangzhou.

Meanwhile, Gu Zhi stayed home, meticulously recalling Alibaba’s growth, documenting each step from its humble beginnings to its rise in detail within his memo. Of course, Gu Zhi would never hand this memo directly to Ma Yun. If Ma Yun gained a full grasp of Alibaba’s development, Gu Zhi would become irrelevant to him. Writing such a memo was simply a way for Gu Zhi to further understand Alibaba, so he would be fully prepared when meeting Ma Yun, confident and equipped with something substantial to say.

Gu Zhi understood that only this thorough preparation could persuade Ma Yun to accept his investment in Alibaba.

In his previous life, many Chinese felt immense pride that their country produced homegrown internet giants like Alibaba and Tencent. These were top-tier corporations founded by their own people! Even overseas, mentioning these giants to foreigners brought a strong sense of recognition and pride.

Yet, those who knew the history of these giants’ growth also carried a sense of regret. One such regret involved Alibaba: its largest shareholder was not Chinese, but a leading Japanese conglomerate—SoftBank.

SoftBank held 34.4% of Alibaba’s shares, making it the largest shareholder. Thanks to its investment, SoftBank earned more than 2900 times its initial investment in 2014, and its founder, Masayoshi Son, became the richest man in Japan overnight.

This was a lasting regret for Chinese investors, a recurring theme in their hearts. Investors lamented, “If only we had invested in Alibaba back then!”

But the truth was, in the early stages of fundraising, Ma Yun himself had rejected many domestic investors.

In February 1999, Ma Yun and eighteen co-founders pooled together 500,000 yuan as startup capital for Alibaba. By July and August, the money was gone, and they were borrowing from everywhere just to pay employees.

Ma Yun first met an investor from Shanghai, who set harsh terms, forcing Ma Yun to grit his teeth and decline the offer. In subsequent negotiations, Ma Yun rejected at least thirty-eight investors, most of them from mainland China.

The reason was simple: their investment style was too rigid and lacked international perspective, and they doubted the Alibaba team and management.

Finally, through Ma Yun’s right-hand man, Cai Chongxin, Goldman Sachs’ Asia private equity chief, Lin Xiaru, introduced Goldman Sachs and Fidelity Investments, which injected five million dollars as angel investment, earning 50% of Alibaba’s shares!

After Goldman Sachs invested, SoftBank followed in 2000 with twenty million dollars. At this point, Goldman Sachs and SoftBank were Alibaba’s two largest shareholders.

But fate played its hand: Goldman Sachs’ private equity division eventually lost confidence in Chinese tech startups and, in 2004, sold all its Alibaba shares for twenty-two million dollars, formally parting ways.

Now, Gu Zhi’s aim was to seize the opportunity and invest in Alibaba before Goldman Sachs did.

Therefore, he needed to prepare thoroughly, lest he be rejected by Ma Yun as well. Fortunately, he understood the broader trends and the direction of Alibaba’s development. Otherwise, in this timeline, Ma Yun might have rejected thirty-nine investors.

After spending an entire day documenting Alibaba’s detailed history, Gu Zhi added annotations and edits, ensuring he knew it by heart. He then locked the memo away in a cabinet.

The next day, preparing for his upcoming meeting with Pony Ma, he did the same for Tencent, writing out its information and hiding it in another box in his room.

These two memos were his most valuable assets for now. With such thorough preparation, he was confident he could secure both Alibaba and Tencent.

Today, Lin Zhi finally connected with Mr. Ma Yun through her business partners, expressing her willingness to invest.

Ma Yun, upon hearing Lin Zhi was a merchant from the clothing industry, was about to refuse her investment outright.

Yet, with Alibaba’s funds nearly depleted and employee salaries barely covered, the fifty thousand yuan startup capital was about to run dry.

For the sake of his company and his hardworking employees, Ma Yun reconsidered. After three minutes of deliberation, he decided to meet with Lin Zhi.

On June 19, 1999, Lin Zhi and Gu Zhi took a flight with China Southern Airlines, traveling two and a half hours to Xiaoshan Airport in Hangzhou, 1,500 kilometers away.

Ma Yun personally came to greet them at the airport, and for the first time, Gu Zhi saw, in reality, this legendary figure.

From the moment they exchanged greetings, Gu Zhi’s gaze hardly left Ma Yun’s unusually small face, until they left the airport.

“So this is everyone’s ‘Daddy Ma,’ even thinner than he looks on television, but his presence is remarkable. I wonder if, one day, people will call me ‘Daddy Gu?’”

Sitting in the Volkswagen rented by Alibaba, watching the outskirts where construction had just begun, Gu Zhi felt a strange sense of temporal dislocation, his heart momentarily adrift.