Heifeng met Editor Du's gaze, then looked past him to the cameras and the rows of expectant faces. "Thank you for the question, Editor Du. I'm sure you're speaking for everyone watching," he said, his voice steady. "Why dare to price the Audi A6 so low? Aren't we afraid of dragging down the brand's value?" He paused, then answered with disarming candor. "To be honest—yes. We are afraid. Very afraid." A shock ran through the hall. If you're afraid, why set a price like that? As the murmurs rose, Heifeng raised his hand, calm as a surgeon. "From day one, our purpose has been simple: let people in China afford a true high-end luxury car. And a luxury car's worth isn't decided only by the sticker price. It's also about the technology a brand commands, and how satisfied and proud its owners feel."
He didn't bother hyping specs; the crowd knew the talking points. "Our engines stand with the best in the world," he said, matter-of-fact. "And the original matrix LED headlamps we designed are an invention that marks an era. This is only the start—we'll keep putting more true high tech into our cars." Then he shifted from machinery to meaning. "As for recognition, our cars have won the country's trust. We've become an official-use marque, built on the spirit of excellence. Today is about a C-class model. Higher-end lines will follow tomorrow, and they'll hold our brand position just fine." He let that settle, then drove the point home. "We're using actions to pierce the bubble of fake 'luxury pricing,' to make every carmaker treat China the same as overseas. Will you work with me to do that?"
The last sentence came out like a challenge. It caught in people's chests and pulled them to their feet. The venue and the livestream exploded simultaneously—cheers, laughter, someone shouting, "Boss Heifeng is so badass!" and others chanting, "We're in!" The promise—to build a luxury car most families could buy and topple the phony premiums—felt like a flag being raised. For a moment, admiration replaced doubt. Even veteran reporters found themselves clapping before they noticed their hands.
Not everyone was clapping. A few media badges drifted toward the exits, faces blank with purpose. They weren't here to cover a product but to collect material. Their outlets had quietly taken funds from rival camps, and the job was simple: whatever price Audi announced, flood the channels with smears right after. That plan had sounded easy over coffee—until the stage charisma and the thunder of the crowd turned "luxury pricing reform" into a civic cause. Still, money is money. Phones buzzed in stairwells and on quiet patios as "stringers" called their handlers: BMW's local office. Porsche's. Volkswagen's. Even an aggressive upstart, they called AutoCorp. Reports flew out: the hall was hot, the audience was hot, and the moment the number dropped, the city would be hotter.
Across town, the regional heads of those brands were camped in Assef's living room—the Volkswagen Group's man in China acting as host and referee. They wouldn't have been squinting at second-hand messages if they knew how to stream a launch. At first, none of them had worried when news broke that this newcomer planned to wade into the C- and D-class market. A brand with almost no legacy and no "heritage tax," trying to trade blows with the old guard? Let them tire themselves out. But the "official-car" designation had changed everything overnight. That single imprimatur had planted a badge of dignity on the A6 before a single dealer demo car rolled out. They hadn't seen it coming, and the corner of Assef's mouth had been tight all evening.
They had, however, launched a preemptive strike: a synchronized wave of price-cut promotions to vacuum up demand before the A6 could ship—sales numbers from the first days made for pleasant drinking. The Porsche chief swirled his wine and sighed theatrically. "I'll give it to Steve. Inspired move," he said, nodding across the coffee table at BMW's China boss, Steve Zahn. "Lower the threshold before they announce a thing and eat their preorders alive."
Zahn tipped his glass, unabashed. "What can I say? I understand the market," he said with a thin smile. "Give people a discount and they'll line up to hand over their cash." He set the glass down, and his tone sharpened. "And don't worry about margins. I've already arranged for mandatory add-ons. Anyone who wants the 'special price' must take an installation package of ¥60,000 (≈ $8,300) and a 'service fee' of ¥10,000 (≈ $1,400)." Across the table, Porsche's man let out a low whistle. "Bold. Profits by another name."
Assef didn't smile. "Bold—or reckless," he said. "If your dealers keep piling on arbitrary charges, this will blow up. Maybe not today. But sooner or later—and the backlash won't be small." He knew too well what happened when a luxury badge looked greedy in public. In a mature market, you could hide behind finance office jargon. A viral clip in China could turn a showroom into a courtroom.
Back at the venue, the cheers lingered in the air, and Heifeng stood as if he had all the time in the world. He'd made the thesis, made the promise, and thrown down the gauntlet: a luxury car people could buy without the theater of "exclusive" prices. He'd signaled the strategy, too—technology that spoke for itself, model tiers that would hold the brand line, and a steady bleed of innovation to keep the story moving forward. The audience's excitement wasn't just for a car but for the idea of fairness, of a company that didn't treat China as a market.
Outside, that idea was already colliding with reality. The "media operatives" fanned out to craft headlines that leaned on fear: cheap price equals cheap brand; official-use badge equals cronyism; "black tech" equals gimmick. They'd attempt to drown the number the moment it appeared. But the ground had shifted under their feet. A hall full of people had already stood up for the notion that luxury didn't have to mean extortion. The press could argue margins and "residual value" until morning; it wouldn't erase what thousands had just felt.
In Assef's apartment, phones vibrated in a jittery chorus. Fresh reports trickled in—crowd sentiment high, livestream comments skewing supportive, anticipation boiling. The four men were quiet briefly, each mapping out the next steps. Porsche's man thought of an influencer junket. Zahn thought of tightening dealer scripts so no one said "mandatory." Assef considered repair parts pricing and how quickly goodwill could evaporate when a family learned a simple service had a luxury tax. Somewhere between the calculations and the denial, dignity tugged at him: a high-end brand shouldn't need tricks to be loved.
And still the city waited for the number.
When Heifeng finally spoke again, he didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. He lifted the promise one more time and set it where everyone could see it: the price would be honest; the spec, leading; the ownership, respected. It was the sound of a company choosing the hard road of pressure for its suppliers, rivals, and itself. The room answered with an energy that couldn't be bought. Whatever figure hit the screen next, the battle lines were clear. On one side: discounts that came with invisible traps—an "installation" here, a "service fee" there, ¥60,000 and ¥10,000 (≈ $8.3k and ≈ $1.4k) that turned bargains into illusions. On the other hand, a brand staking its future on trust, technology, and the nerve to call inflated pricing what it was.
Domineering, someone had typed in the comments. For once, the word felt less like bluster than a vow.