When Fang Yi returned to his room, Zhuang Shufen looked displeased and asked, "Why didn't you ask for your son's manuscript fee?"
"What for?"
Fang Yucheng looked genuinely confused.
Zhuang Shufen said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "To help him save it, of course! He's still so young—what if he squanders it all?"
"You don't know your own son?"
Fang Yucheng chuckled and shook his head. "He's already earning this much money, and you still treat him like a little kid? Honestly, he's more clever than I am now."
Zhuang Shufen was stunned by that.
It was only then that the realization hit her—her son had grown up.
The thought made her heart stir with both pride and a tinge of sadness. It was a bittersweet moment.
Perhaps... this is what it means to be a parent.
…
In the bedroom, Fang Yi pulled out his laptop and plugged in the charger. Moving the mouse, he began dialing up the internet connection.
In this era without broadband, the only way to get online was through dial-up using a telephone line.
The drawbacks were many—the internet speed was so slow it made him want to smash the computer. A pathetic dozen or so KB per second was torture for someone who had once lived in a future of blazing-fast gigabit speeds.
And every time the internet connected, the home phone line would go dead—because the same line was used for both.
There was no helping it. He had to endure.
This was the state of things, and even a reincarnated "butterfly" like him couldn't change it—for now.
He'd just have to wait until broadband rolled out in 2002.
After nearly ten excruciating seconds, Fang Yi finally got into Wanwang's website.
He spent a few minutes filling out the identity and user details, and then jumped straight into domain registration.
Domain names were open to anyone, and they weren't expensive either.
Depending on the registration period, prices ranged anywhere from 20 to 300 yuan.
At this point in time, only .com domains were available in China. Pure .cn domains wouldn't be opened up until 2002.
Fang Yi took out the notepaper he had prepared earlier from the desk and began registering domains one by one.
Taobao, Pinxixi, Meituan, Vipshop… Every internet company that would someday be worth billions—he didn't miss a single one.
If NetEase, Baidu, Sohu, and Yahoo hadn't already been claimed, they probably would've ended up in his pocket too.
After a full hour of work, he had registered over a hundred domain names.
He didn't even spare names like 17173 or 5173.
They were cheap anyway—just 60 yuan per year. Fang Yi registered each for ten years straight, and even then, the total cost came to less than 50,000 yuan.
Of course, all of this was just an appetizer.
Truthfully, these future-famous sites weren't popular because of their domain names. Their success came from the companies behind them.
Take "taobao.com" for example—without Alibaba, it was just a mediocre two-word domain.
Or 5173—if not for Zhang Bingxin, a random four-digit domain like that probably wouldn't even sell for 100 yuan.
Fang Yi's purpose in registering them was just to set up a few pawns on the chessboard. Who knew? Maybe one day they'd come in handy.
Besides, the total cost was just 50,000. No big deal.
Now that the appetizer was done, it was time for the main course.
Since .com domain registration opened up in China in 1998, all the good single-character and two-syllable names had already been snatched up.
And with the internet boom over the last couple of years, the earliest domain squatters had begun speculating and trading them for profit.
Fang Yi's timing was perfect.
He had entered right when domain flipping was just gaining traction, but before it exploded.
Too early, and nobody even understood what domain speculation was—buyers were hard to find.
Too late, and the prices would've already soared, leaving only scraps for newcomers.
But now… now was the sweet spot.
Trading volume was surging, but prices were still relatively low. This was the golden window.
Armed with knowledge from his past life, Fang Yi scrolled through the listings on Wanwang.
Soon, a two-syllable domain caught his eye.
shemen.com
Phonetically, it translated to: shootgoal.com
He glanced at the price: 200,000 yuan!
Hiss—
Fang Yi drew in a sharp breath, his eyes shining with excitement.
Early bird? Ha, being on time was the real king's move.
This timing—spot on.
In the future, this domain might look unremarkable, but right now, it was something else entirely.
As football fever gripped the country and fans multiplied, anything related to soccer was becoming hot property.
Fang Yi remembered clearly that this exact domain would be sold for a jaw-dropping 10.6 million yuan just six months later.
That's a 53x return!
So then, if the price went that high, why wasn't this domain used for a site in the future?
There were two reasons.
The first was that the internet bubble would burst next year.
The digital winter would set in, and many major portals would be forced to pivot to survive—most of them jumping into online gaming.
The biggest example? Pig Farm.
One game, Fantasy Westward Journey, became NetEase's financial backbone. Even before Fang Yi's reincarnation, it still ranked top three in PC game revenues, raking in massive profits for Ding Sanshi.
The second reason? Most of the domain names being traded now were just speculative bubbles.
Just like the orchid craze or the Tibetan mastiff craze, domain flipping was another get-rich-quick scheme.
Tibetan mastiffs were just regular mountain dogs. Yet somehow, they were hyped up as "divine beasts of the East," and some even sold for over 40 million yuan.
But when the bubble burst, dogs once worth millions were reduced to a few thousand—if not hundreds.
Domains were no different.
Except for a few with special or iconic value, the vast majority were overhyped.
And with the incoming internet crash next year, many of them would fade into obscurity.
As for the poor suckers who'd be left holding the bag?
Well… that's just business.
You win some, you lose some.
If you step onto the playing field, you'd better be prepared to lose everything.