That night, BMW, Mercedes-Benz, and Porsche issued a joint statement that poured gasoline on an already spreading fire. In blunt language, they lectured the market about "true" luxury: price, pedigree, and the aura of exclusivity. They wondered if a luxury car sold too cheaply could still be called luxury? They trumpeted their century-long histories and "strict" 4S dealership standards, swore fealty to customer satisfaction, and then took a swing at Audi without even trying to hide it. In their telling, Audi was a standard car in a luxury shell; even making the A6 an official government vehicle, they said, couldn't prop up a status it didn't deserve. The capstone was pure provocation: a reminder that their 15-day price-cut campaign had a week left, coupled with a finger-wag that sensible buyers shouldn't be fooled by an upstart's "inferior rhetoric," or else they would be the ones to suffer.
That gauntlet-throwing worked as intended. Online chatter swelled; entertainment headlines on Weibo gave way to a running, day-by-day slugfest between the four badges. Since Audi announced the A6, the brands have been shadowboxing in public, but now the jabs have turned into hooks. Back at launch, Heifeng Lu had vowed—brazenly and with a touch of swagger—to pull luxury car prices back down to earth. It sounded wild then. Now the old guard answered with open mockery, as if to say: you, without the brand gravity to hold your "luxury" orbit, dare to wage a price war against houses over a century old? Sit down, junior.
And the punch landed. Buyers who'd planned to order the next day hesitated, cheeks flushed with uncertainty, fingers hovering over bank cards. That hesitancy had a face the next morning in Piaocheng: Liu Zihao's father, perched on the second-floor window of his Audi 4S dealership, watching the showroom fill and empty like the tide. The sales crew was busy; the floor stayed lively. But order sheets? Thin as winter light.
He had reason to be anxious. Over the last year, holding exclusive rights to more than twenty Audi 4S stores had made him a fortune. The A4 had exploded out of the gates, and with generous manufacturer incentives, the profits had felt bottomless. When word came that the A6 was imminent, he sharpened his knives again. The A4's success had built a quiet faith in everything wearing the four rings. Launch day for the A6 bore that out—foot traffic started early and kept coming. Yet deal after deal evaporated. Shoppers peered, nodded, praised—and then drifted next door.
He didn't need a whiteboard to know why. Last night's joint declaration from BMW, Mercedes-Benz, and Porsche had done its job. "Brand value," he muttered, rubbing at a knot behind his brow. "You don't build that in a week." He'd walked the ground floor himself. The customers loved the A6; that much was evident in their eyes, their hands lingering on panel gaps and stitched leather, the way their voices picked up when they talked about the drivetrain. But after a few minutes of quiet wrestling with pride and prudence, nearly everyone turned on their heels and slipped into a rival's showroom.
He'd spent a lifetime reading people in the ten feet between a steering wheel and a signature line. Today's visitors kept circling the same point: they had read that statement—those "century-old" brands saying Audi was just a dressed-up commoner. And the A6's price cut both ways: neither sky-high enough to scream status nor low enough to feel like a triumph of thrift. It left the model in a gray zone where prestige buyers—people who paid as much for an emblem as for horsepower—felt unsure the A6 could announce who they were.
It wasn't engineering. On that axis, he would stack Audi's design, technology, and assembly against any factory on earth. But buyers who can afford true luxury tend to ask a different first question: What does this badge say about me? Can this metal and leather make me feel—make me look—like someone who stands a little taller in a crowded lot? For BMW, Mercedes-Benz, or Porsche, the answer is automatic. People pay more, endure dealer arrogance, and accept "mandatory" add-ons because the purchase comes with an invisible lift to the chin.
Face matters here—more than most things. If the A6 could confer the same unspoken status, the contracts would cover the floor by lunchtime. These customers weren't fools. They were connoisseurs of signals.
The office door banged open. Liu Zihao ducked in with his usual grin. "Dad, closed anything yet?"
His father let out a long breath. "Not a one. They're not biting today."
Zihao crossed the room, hands shoved in his pockets, the grin shrinking into something steadier. "Don't worry. Brother Heifeng will find a way to flip this. We've both driven the A6. It's not worse than anything in its class—in many ways it's better."
He spoke with the uncomplicated faith of a convert. Meeting Heifeng Lu had turned him into a fanboy: same age as Zihao, but somehow running two sprawling groups with tens of thousands of employees. That kind of gravity inspired belief.
The older man nodded, the knot behind his brow easing a little. "You're right. I trust President Lu. If there's a way to turn this around, he'll find it."
Downstairs, another couple ran their hands over the A6's fender and whispered, tempted. The reflections of three rival logos hovered like judges on the glass behind them. The couple turned, murmured "Let's just check the place next door," and entered the sunlight.
The lull wouldn't last forever; neither would the discount window the big three had opened. But for the moment, the fight wasn't on the dyno or the test track. The space above the hood ornament was where narrative settled like a crown. Audi didn't just need torque, safety scores, and walnut veneer to win here. It needed to make buyers feel seen, envied, and affirmed. That was the battlefield Heifeng Lu had chosen the moment he vowed to reset luxury pricing; now he had to win it in the oldest way: not by shouting specs, but by changing what the badge meant when it rolled up to the curb.