Chapter 7 – The Worst Factory in the South
The industrial park on the outskirts of Foshan was quiet, save for the rattling echo of old machinery and the occasional clang of dropped scrap metal.
The building in front of Chen Rui had cracked windows, rust on the gate, and a sign that simply read "Jinwei Electronics Co., Ltd." in peeling red paint.
"This is it," said the broker, trying to sound optimistic. "They haven't had a major order in two years. The machines are old, the staff is lazy, and they're still using blueprints from the 1980s."
Chen Rui's eyes lit up. "Perfect."
The factory manager, a man in his 50s with a cigarette perpetually stuck to his lip, looked half asleep as Chen Rui walked in.
"You really want to restart production here?" the man asked, eyeing him with suspicion. "Even I wouldn't do that, and I own the place."
Chen Rui grinned. "I want to produce consumer electronics—radios, tape decks, maybe even some calculators. But everything must be done… as cheaply and inefficiently as possible."
The manager squinted. "Are you mocking me?"
"No," Chen Rui said sincerely. "In fact, I'll pay you above market. Just don't improve anything. I don't want innovation, I want volume. Shoddy volume."
The manager blinked. "Deal."
By July, Jinwei Electronics was back in operation.
Dozens of workers were rehired at minimal training. Machines groaned back to life. Solder fumes filled the air.
Chen Rui toured the line with arms crossed, watching half-broken cassette players roll off the belt.
"Ship them all to the stores," he said. "No testing needed."
Zhang Tao, who had followed Chen Rui to the factory that day, looked visibly ill.
"Boss… are you sure this is okay? We're literally producing garbage now."
Chen Rui turned to him with a satisfied smile.
"Exactly. Now we're finally doing it right."
But even garbage had a market, it seemed.
By late August, rumors started swirling.
Some local resellers in third-tier cities began scooping up CR-Tech stock at clearance prices and flipping it for profit in rural townships, where customers didn't care about quality—they just wanted something cheap.
Word of mouth spread. People called it "the poor man's Sony."
A farmer in northern Guangxi reportedly bought five broken cassette players and fixed them himself—then resold them for three times the price.
Liu Yan barged into Chen Rui's office one morning with a fresh report.
"Boss! Bad news—we're profitable again!"
Chen Rui stared at the chart: revenue was up 12%, and the factory was booked with new orders.
He slumped in his chair. "Are we cursed? Is the entire economy broken?!"
Refusing to give up, Chen Rui made a new plan.
"If I can't lose money by selling bad products, I'll lose it by overexpanding."
He drew up a list:
Open 20 more stores in remote areas.
Rent the most expensive properties possible.
Use the factory to produce custom electronics nobody wanted: solar-powered pagers, waterproof cassette players, and "digital" clocks that still used analog parts.
Launch a mail-order catalog service—despite the postal system being painfully slow and unreliable.
Zhang Tao looked at the plans and whispered, "You're trying to collapse under your own weight."
Chen Rui smiled like a man who'd finally understood the secret to failure.
"Yes. And this time, I won't fail at failing."