Zhang Yu hesitated. "President Lu, chip manufacturing requires lithography machines… and we can't buy them."
It was the most obvious roadblock.
China Star's top-tier chip design capabilities covered high-end, mid-range, and low-end chips. But manufacturing them? Without access to lithography machines, it was practically impossible.
And that was the whole problem.
ASML, a Dutch company with the world's most advanced manufacturing technology, monopolized the global lithography machine market. A single machine cost over $100 million, and under the Wassenaar Arrangement, cutting-edge models weren't sold to China.
The result?
China's chip foundry development was strangled at the source—utterly dependent on foreign tech and constantly exploited for profit.
Haifeng didn't flinch.
"Have the business department contact ASML. If they don't sell to us, I'll entrust overseas research institutions to help us build our lithography machines."
Zhang stared at him. "You make it sound so simple… If it were that easy, wouldn't China have done it already?"
It's like saying, 'If you can't afford something, just print money.'
Haifeng stood up calmly.
"You don't need to worry about R&D. Just focus on recruiting talent."
He continued, "Also, have Finance prepare ¥5 billion. I'm transferring it overseas to fund research institutes."
In truth, he quietly diverted ¥1 billion of that into Bitcoin—gradually accumulating at rock-bottom prices in May 2013.
Zhang didn't question it. "Understood, President Lu. I'll get on it."
Under the lure of high salaries and prestige, China Star's headhunters launched a national sweep. Only Chinese citizens were recruited. Not out of politics—but because Haifeng wanted zero foreign surveillance or infiltration.
Despite the aggressive push, public opinion was brutal.
"They don't have a fab. No talent. No patents. And they want to make chips?"
"This company just got hot, and now it's flying too close to the sun."
"Ambition is good—but arrogance kills."
Industry veterans scoffed. "Even Africa could make chips if it were this easy."
Others shook their heads in disappointment. "Such a promising company, and now they're going to crash and burn."
But Haifeng didn't care.
On June 15, construction on China Star's chip factory officially began.
Work ran 24 hours a day. Completion was expected within six months.
Meanwhile, Haifeng met with Lu Hong, the chip expert overseeing the new semiconductor division.
Together, they outlined a complete roadmap: development, planning, and internal transformation. Lu Hong would lead the entire division.
Across the industry, changes were erupting.
Lei Jun had just launched his new phone brand, Dami, partnering with Unicom and preparing to roll out phones with Mobile and Telecom next.
Back then, full Netcom phones hadn't yet taken over. Most phones were still carrier-locked, and companies like Coolpad, Lenovo, and ZTE thrived through carrier bundling.
But a storm was coming.
The "Hundred Phones War" was on the horizon.
By 2013, China had:
~30–40 mainstream phone makers
~50–60 knockoff (shanzhai) brands
~100 total manufacturers
It was chaos—and opportunity.
In the years ahead, only four would survive: Huawei, Xiaomi, OPPO, and Vivo. They'd use this war to eliminate competitors and seize the market.
But for now?
Nobody held dominance.
The 4G era was months away.
The carrier structure was about to be reformed.
And Chinese tech had a shot to claim the throne.
Haifeng made his move.
He would launch a new phone, targeting the low-end market—the most extensive user segment in the country.
The strategy?
High performance
Low cost
Insane value
He reviewed the prototype of the new Star Q1 in the R&D lab.
It was solid: powered by the Golden Crow chip, internally designed, and already outperforming rivals in its class.
But something felt off.
Strong performance… but not iconic.
Haifeng frowned and grabbed a pen.
"Lose the polycarbonate back," he said.
"Glass body. It needs to look premium—even if it's cheap."
The next shot in the Hundred Phones War was about to be fired.
And it was coming from China Star.