The greatest poet of the Tang dynasty just got assigned to a 9.9-yuan baijiu livestream. He stared at the teleprompter script and decided to toss it in the trash. The ring lights blinded him, but the real shock was the price tag. He came to conquer the empire, not move cheap liquor.
The operations manager kept jabbing the “start broadcast” button while screaming about conversion targets. Li Bai ignored him, ripped the plastic cap off a discount bottle, and planted one boot on his rolling chair. Instead of reading the corporate pitch, he launched into a roaring recitation of Qiang Jin Jiu. The platform’s algorithm didn’t care about ancient tonal patterns or literary heritage. It just registered the rhythmic vocal spikes as a high-conversion trigger, treating classical poetry like a discount coupon.
Orders detonated. Two became four, four became eight, sixteen became thousands before the stream even hit the ten-minute mark. The digital sales board flashed with neon order counts while the manager disappeared under a mountain of packing slips. Li Bai drank straight from the bottle, wide sleeves catching the harsh studio lights, completely convinced he had conquered modern retail through poetic momentum. The numbers climbed in perfect geometric steps, and he felt like he’d finally outsmarted the modern age.
The triumph lasted exactly until Monday morning’s financial review. The accounting team didn’t care about exponential hype. Their spreadsheet ran a strict linear cost model, divided the traffic acquisition fees, deducted the compliance penalties for on-camera drinking, and wiped the margin down to zero. Li Bai slumped into his ergonomic mesh seat, quietly tucked his empty gourd into a filing drawer, and stared at the massive red minus sign on his performance sheet. The great immortal finally learned that in corporate retail, the yellow river might flow east forever, but payroll deductions always arrive first. He just nodded, adjusted his headset, and asked what time the afternoon sync started.