Chapter 110: A HK$10,000 Bounty
"We've been thinking about this," said Wei Zetao. "This Rubik's Cube is very different from your previous two products.
Post-it notes and glue traps are highly practical. Once people understand what they're for, they're happy to buy them because they immediately see the benefits.
But the Rubik's Cube... it's a brand-new toy. Unlike cartoon- or mechanic-style toys, people won't understand what it does just by looking at it.
I suspect our biggest challenge will be explaining how to actually play with it."
"Very insightful," Yang Wendong nodded.
Even in the highly connected era of the 21st century, promoting a brand-new toy was no easy feat. It had to come with a killer concept, something instantly compelling.
And in 1950s Hong Kong, even if money wasn't a problem, advertising was. TV spots were expensive, and there were only around 10,000 households in the entire city that even owned a television. Newspapers weren't much better—many people couldn't read.
Wei glanced at Hong Xuefei, then added, "Old Hong and I were thinking—maybe that little incentive you offered us for figuring out how to solve the cube? That idea could work for marketing the toy itself."
"You mean offering a cash prize to the first person who figures out how to solve the Rubik's Cube?" Yang smiled.
When the Rubik's Cube was first produced, he had jokingly promised a HK$1,000 reward to whichever of the two could crack its solution.
Hong nodded. "Exactly. I was genuinely tempted back then—but the puzzle was too hard. I spent half a month and didn't even get close.
And I'm not poor by Hong Kong standards. If I was tempted, then other people certainly will be too. If we announce a reward, people will try."
"Good point," Yang chuckled. "So how much do you think we should offer?"
"HK$1,000 is too little," Wei said after a moment of thought. "Three to five thousand would be better.
If we want to grab the attention of the whole city, we need something big. Sure, HK$1,000 will attract hobbyists, but it might not get the media's attention. And without that, it'll be hard to get the word out."
"Right," Yang grinned. "We'd be relying on the hype itself to draw in the press—basically baiting them to report the story.
That's very similar to how viral marketing works in the future. Of course, in this era, the media decides what to cover—it's not like the algorithm-driven internet age."
Then he added, "Three to five thousand? Still not bold enough. How about we go with ten thousand? Four zeroes after a 1—now that makes an impression."
"Ten thousand?!" Both Wei and Hong were stunned. They had assumed Yang would reject HK$3,000–5,000 as too much. They never expected him to double it instead.
Even they were tempted by that kind of money. In this era, HK$10,000 was enough to buy a modest home in an average neighborhood—or make a down payment on a decent property near Central.
"That's how you generate serious buzz," Yang said. "Once the reward is enticing enough, more people will buy the cube.
Whether or not someone actually wins doesn't matter—what matters is the momentum.
Even if someone does win, and we have to pay out, we'll earn it back tenfold through increased sales."
"True," Wei agreed after thinking about it. "But what if someone solves it right away?"
"Highly unlikely," Yang replied, shaking his head. "But if they do, we pay up. That's the rule we set.
Besides, we can still ride the wave. Turn the winner into a celebrity. There are plenty of ways to keep the hype going. No need to worry too much."
Having lived through the age of internet marketing, Yang knew plenty of tricks for turning products into viral sensations. Especially after watching tech figures like Lei Jun pull off some jaw-dropping campaigns.
But honestly, he wasn't worried. The chances of someone solving the Rubik's Cube that quickly were basically zero.
This wasn't about luck—it was a complex mathematical challenge.
In his past life, a scientist had once calculated: if you handed a Rubik's Cube to an average person with no instructions, it would take them 26 years on average to solve it just once.
And that was just for a single solution—not figuring out a general method to solve any scrambled state. That was exponentially harder.
Seeing that Yang was so confident, Wei stopped worrying. He asked, "So what should we price the cube at?"
He was familiar with the price range of typical toys—there were always similar products on the market to benchmark against.
But the Rubik's Cube was completely new. There was no comparable toy. Not even within the brain-teaser category, which barely existed in 1950s Hong Kong.
Setting a price would be a case of trial and error.
Yang set the cube down and said, "Our factory price will be HK$2.50. At retail, it'll be HK$3–4 depending on the markup needed by distributors."
"HK$3?" Wei and Hong were startled. They thought for a moment, and then Wei said, "That's pretty steep.
Most toys in Hong Kong don't go that high—except for complex, battery-operated ones. And even then, those usually carry foreign brands and are sold in upscale department stores."
"You think it's expensive, but I don't," Yang said with a smile. "Let me ask you—same bowl of rice. In the U.S. or Europe, it costs practically nothing. A day's wages could buy hundreds of pounds of grain.
But here in Hong Kong, an average person's day of hard work might barely feed a small family. And in Southeast Asia or Africa, people can't even earn enough to buy half a pound of rice a day—if they're lucky enough to have a job at all.
You know why that is, right?"
Back in the early 1980s, when the Rubik's Cube first launched in the real world, it was also marketed at a high price. The puzzle was aimed at educated consumers—and that was the right move.
When volume is low and awareness is still building, a higher price helps cover marketing costs. The Rubik's Cube could sell itself over time—but that growth would be slow. Yang's goal was to accelerate that process.
The dirt-cheap cubes of the internet age only became that way because the patents expired and everyone competed on price.
"Different environments create different values," Wei answered almost reflexively. "That's something I've thought about before."
Take electricians and plumbers: in Hong Kong, they were considered blue-collar workers and earned modest wages—maybe HK$70–80 per month.
But in the U.S., doing the same job could earn you 10 times as much.
It wasn't fair. But that was just how the world worked.
Yang Wendong nodded and said, "Exactly. It's true for people, and it's true for products. If something can be manufactured anywhere, its value depends on production costs.
But our product is unique, so its price should be based on social value. The problem is, our product is very small. If global pricing varies too much, it creates a profit chain for others. So we have to maintain consistent pricing worldwide.
To maximize profits, we should price it based on what Western markets can afford, and then apply similar pricing elsewhere. Everything should center on the Western market."
Small products like Post-it notes and the Rubik's Cube were compact and carried relatively high unit profits—similar to how iPhones would be priced in the future. They didn't need identical pricing worldwide, but the differences had to be small—usually based on local tariffs.
Otherwise, many people would start exploiting the "authentic gray market" and resell them across borders. Technically, the IP holders could take legal action, but it wasn't worth the effort. Enforcing it was difficult, energy-draining, and the problem could quickly spiral out of control.
On the other hand, large items like cars could absolutely be priced differently in each country based on market conditions. For example, in the 1980s, the Santana sedan was far more expensive in China than in the West due to the lack of local industry.
Likewise, in the 2020s, the Volkswagen ID.7 sold for ¥200,000 in China but cost four to five times that in Europe.
Wei Zetao thought it over and asked, "So you're positioning the Rubik's Cube as a high-end toy? Going for a premium price?"
"Exactly," Yang replied with a nod. "The Rubik's Cube is different from typical toys. It doesn't have instant appeal. Give it to a child, and they'll probably toss it aside.
So we're not really targeting children. Our customers will mostly be adults—either for themselves or for their teenage kids.
Wanting your child to succeed isn't exclusive to Chinese parents. If a toy is seen as boosting intelligence, parents will be willing to spend."
"It improves intelligence?" Wei's eyes lit up. "Is that how we'll market it?"
"Yes," Yang smiled. "Solving the Rubik's Cube requires logic and problem-solving. So it absolutely enhances thinking ability. As for claiming it boosts IQ—well, IQ is a vague enough term that it wouldn't be false advertising."
"You've really thought this through, Mr. Yang." Wei now fully grasped his boss's market strategy for the Rubik's Cube.
Yang continued, "But here's the real challenge. I can offer a HK$10,000 reward—but how do we make sure people know about it? That's the hardest part."
Marketing often costs more than R&D. Even in the TikTok and influencer age, getting an entire city to know about something is incredibly difficult. It requires big money and still might not succeed.
The Rubik's Cube became famous in his past life after decades of popularity. But right now, it was still an unknown object. Even if someone picked one up and found it interesting, there was no way to show it to everyone individually.
Even if TikTok existed in this era, blasting a new product everywhere wouldn't guarantee interest.
Wei thought for a moment and said, "Only highly educated people are likely to solve it. So that should be our initial customer base."
"Exactly. I was thinking the same," Yang nodded. "In Hong Kong, the highest concentration of educated people is in Central, but we can't advertise there effectively.
But there's one place that's perfect: university campuses."
"Universities? That's a good idea. Most university students in Hong Kong come from wealthy families," Wei said.
Yang grinned. "Their families have money, so spending a few bucks on a toy is nothing.
But a HK$10,000 prize? That's still a big deal—especially if the winner keeps it personally."
The truly wealthy families in Hong Kong sent their children overseas—to the UK primarily, or Canada and Australia.
Next in line were those who stayed and studied locally. Founded in 1910, the University of Hong Kong couldn't compare with top schools abroad, but attending still meant your family was middle- to upper-class in Hong Kong.
"I have a friend who knows a professor at HKU. Maybe we can leverage that connection," Wei said with a smile.
"Perfect," Yang nodded. Hong Kong was small, and anyone who had done well likely shared some past connections. Everyone knew someone who knew someone—it wasn't hard to find a way in.
The next day, the group arrived at the HKU campus on Pok Fu Lam Road.
As they walked along the shaded paths, Wei asked, "Mr. Yang, do you know the history of this university?"
"Not really—just that it was founded around 1910," Yang replied.
Wei explained, "Yes, though it started more like a small academy. Only a few dozen graduates per year.
It wasn't until 1948 that the government began funding major expansions. Even though it still lags behind top Western universities, it's been instrumental in developing Hong Kong's talent."
Yang nodded. "We'll need to recruit some of their graduates in the future."
"Well, we'll need to build up our reputation first," Wei laughed. "Many Chinese factories have tried recruiting here. They spent days on campus and only got one applicant—and that person had already been rejected by several major trading houses.
HKU grads overwhelmingly prefer working in government or British firms. It's tough for Chinese companies to attract them."
"That's normal," Yang said, unfazed. "Hong Kong is still dominated by British capital."
It was just the way things were. Most people didn't care about a company's future—they cared about size and immediate benefits.
Soon, they entered an office, where a balding man in his fifties greeted them.
After hearing their proposal, the professor was stunned. "HK$10,000? You're not joking?"
"Absolutely real," Yang said, smiling. He pulled a certified bank check from his pocket. "This is a HK$10,000 cashier's check from Liu Chong Hing Bank.
Whoever solves the Rubik's Cube first can bring it to the bank. Once they confirm with me, they'll get the cash on the spot."
Large checks required issuer authorization to be cashed—this was how banks secured funds in a pre-networking era.
The professor stared at the check, eyes glinting with a bit of greed. Then he asked, "What if we professors figure it out?"
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