After Divorce, I Can Hear the Future

Chapter 62: Zero-Sum Game

July 15, Tuesday.  

On the 17th day of Lu Liang’s lock-up, his 65,000 lots of TeLi A had quietly grown in value to nearly 190 million yuan. With a cost basis of 9.5 yuan and a current price of 29.23 yuan, he was netting 1,973 yuan per lot.  

“It’s time to start cashing out,” he thought.  

If his position were just a couple of million yuan, Lu Liang might have waited until the price hit 45 yuan before exiting. Smaller players can move in and out freely. But with nearly 200 million yuan tied up and the realization that TeLi A’s liquidity wasn’t as large as he initially thought—due to locked-in shares from institutions and retail collusion with major shareholders—he couldn’t risk letting his profits evaporate.  

His exit strategy needed to begin at 30 yuan to unwind his position gradually.  

July 16, Wednesday.  

TeLi A opened with a sharp 7.55% gain, reaching 31.45 yuan.  

Everyone assumed the stock would hit the limit-up, breaking free from the broader market to chart its own independent trajectory.  

Even Li Jianlin and Wu Junle thought so. With nearly 2.2 billion yuan worth of shares, they needed the price to rise further to exit their positions profitably.  

But despite injecting 50 million yuan to push the price, TeLi A hovered stubbornly around 31.5 yuan.  

By the afternoon close, the stock still hadn’t hit the limit-up, and their 50 million yuan injection felt like a drop in the ocean.  

“Must be some small shareholders cashing out,” Li Jianlin speculated, forcing a calm tone.  

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll lock the board,” Wu Junle replied, hiding his frustration.  

After months of planning and weeks of covertly holding their positions, they were unwilling to believe someone was skimming off their hard work. With 2.8 billion yuan at stake, 15% of which was their personal capital and the rest from wealthy elites in the Pearl River Delta, failure wasn’t an option.  

On the other side, Lu Liang had carefully analyzed the daily Dragon and Tiger List for days. He calculated that as long as his sell orders didn’t exceed 48.5 million yuan, his name wouldn’t appear.  

That day, he sold 14,000 lots at 31.45 yuan, cashing out 44.03 million yuan. With 62 million yuan originally invested, he was just 18 million short of recovering his principal while still holding 51,300 lots worth 161 million yuan.  

Over the next two days, Lu Liang continued to sell cautiously, offloading 30-40 million yuan daily to avoid disrupting the rally. This was just the first wave of the stock’s rise. Subsequent waves would take the price to 45 yuan, 60 yuan, and eventually 108 yuan. Killing the momentum prematurely would ruin future opportunities.  

Lu Liang was meticulous, but he made one oversight: he had focused on avoiding the daily Dragon and Tiger List but forgot about the three-day aggregate list.  

July 18, Friday, 5:15 p.m.  

The Shenzhen Stock Exchange released the three-day Dragon and Tiger List.  

TeLi A appeared again, with Punian Road No. 88 topping the net outflow chart with 128 million yuan over three days.  

The news spread like a bombshell, shaking the domestic financial community.  

For the past two weeks, TeLi A had been the flagship stock of the state-owned enterprise reform narrative, attracting widespread attention. Many knew that Zhongxin Fuying and Fuhua Road No. 12 were controlling the stock, but now an obscure player, Punian Road No. 88, had seemingly become the biggest beneficiary.  

Curiosity swept through the market. Retail and institutional investors alike began analyzing the past 30 days of transaction records to figure out if Punian Road No. 88 was a hidden third player or if Zhongxin Fuying and Fuhua Road No. 12 had been outmaneuvered.  

The results were shocking.  

Punian Road No. 88 had indeed swooped in to pick their fruit. Its first appearance on the list was mid-June, during the consolidation phase before the rally began. When the stock entered a period of decline, many assumed Punian Road No. 88 had been shaken out.  

In reality, it had been lying in wait.  

Unaware, Li and Wu launched the rally. The audacious maneuver of a retail player outfoxing institutional giants was an instant hit among market observers.  

At the same time, Lu Liang’s name surfaced among major players in the financial community.  

Meanwhile, Lu Liang was in the middle of his fourth simulated English proficiency test, supervised by Su Wanyu. After 45 lessons, his score had improved to 340, closing in on the passing mark of 425.  

Holding up his test paper with a grin, he teased, “Miss Su, at this rate, I’ll soon be collecting on your promise.”  

During the 33rd lesson, after his third mock test, Lu Liang had tried inviting Su Wanyu to dinner. She had declined but offered a compromise: once he passed the test, she would treat him instead.  

“There’s still 85 points to go. Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Su replied, her tone playful but proud. She had warmed to Lu Liang over their time together, moving past the initial coldness of their interactions.  

Lu Liang quipped, “I feel like this test was unusually hard. Did you secretly make it tougher?”  

“Mr. Lu, you can question my teaching ability but not my integrity,” Su retorted, her confidence growing as she learned to spar back.  

Lu Liang chuckled, “Eyes are the windows to the soul, but with glasses that thick, I can’t see yours.”  

Su blushed, unsure how to respond. Her 540-degree lenses, with thick black frames, did little to flatter her otherwise beautiful face.  

Before she could answer, Lu Liang’s phone rang.  

“You take that. I’ll step out for a moment,” Su said, retreating to the bathroom with her head low, avoiding eye contact with his staff.  

“Mr. Zhao, what’s the rush?” Lu Liang asked as he answered.  

“Mr. Lu, a lot of people are asking about you,” Zhao Haisheng replied anxiously.  

“About me? Why?”  

“You should check the Dragon and Tiger List,” Zhao suggested, struggling to explain.  

Lu Liang pulled up the data and saw Punian Road No. 88 topping the list. “What’s the word from you guys?”  

“Rest assured, Mr. Lu, we strictly protect client account information,” Zhao promised. While account specifics were secure, Lu Liang’s personal details were likely spreading rapidly.  

Many had even asked Zhao for an introduction to Lu Liang.  

“Turn them all down. Say I’m unavailable,” Lu Liang replied, lighting a cigarette as he pondered his next move.  

The three-day Dragon and Tiger List had been an oversight, but it was inevitable that his name would surface sooner or later. The real concern now was Li and Wu—they would undoubtedly hate him.  

With 1.28 billion yuan flowing out in three days, even a fool could predict a stampede when the market reopened. Stabilizing the situation would require exceptional skill and deep pockets.  

“This isn’t going to end well for them,” Lu Liang thought, smirking. “But the stock market is a zero-sum game. If they don’t lose, how can I win?”  

The nature of finance is simple: wealth doesn’t appear out of thin air. For every winner, there’s a loser.  

Dialing Meng Changkun, Lu Liang asked, “Are you in your office upstairs? I’m coming up.”  

On his way out, he ran into Su Wanyu returning. “We’ll wrap up here for today,” he told her, leaving her slightly flustered as he departed.  

A failed marriage had taught him that emotions were unreliable. Even the most heartfelt vows could be eroded by time and the grind of daily life.  

In contrast, business and wealth were eternal.  

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