Salted Fish Doesn't Want to Inherit Hundred of Billion Property - Reviews

The opening scene of the film set is one of the most vividly written sequences I've read in this novel. Fire trucks spraying water under the bright sun to create rain. The male and female leads screaming at each other while secretly counting "1, 2, 3, 4" under their breath. The director who is apparently so unambitious that he seems half-asleep during his own scenes. And Lou Quan standing behind the camera in sunglasses, arms crossed, resisting the urge to yell "NG" because he's literally an investor in this production. This scene does something really clever—it establishes the entire world of the entertainment industry in Huaguo without any exposition. You understand immediately that this is an industry where money talks louder than talent, where second male leads can be investors, where the leading actress can't even confront diva behavior because "he's an investor." The power dynamics are laid bare in a single scene. Then there's the contrast with Qiao Qin's apartment. Mango-shaped body pillow. Tabby cat with a piece of chocolate bread in its mouth. Instant noodles as a stress-relief prop. This is a man living in a world that's falling apart around him, and his environment reflects that—small comforts, slightly absurd, deeply lonely. The fact that he camps on O-site and the official website like a paranoid sentry, ready to take down Qiqi's announcement if public opinion shifts wrong, tells you everything about his mental state without the author having to say "he was anxious." The Wang Ying apartment scene is also remarkably atmospheric. The dark circles under her eyes from working overtime. The nanny's panicked phone call. The tiny wrinkled mother at the door clutching a bulging cloth bag. The small nightlight glowing on the sofa. These details create a world that feels lived-in and real. This isn't a glossy corporate drama—these are people who are tired, stressed, and doing their best in a system that doesn't make it easy. And the Wavecrest platform, the O-site, the Feige contact list—these digital spaces feel like they could exist in our world. The author has built a contemporary setting that's recognizably modern China without ever feeling like a textbook description.

The stakes in this book are absolutely ridiculous and I love it. Qing Qin transmigrated into a body that's already ten million in debt, and his plan is basically to waste money so fast that the company goes bankrupt and he can walk away with ten million. But every single thing he does accidentally makes the company MORE successful. He tries to switch to expensive glass bottles—Li immediately lists all the reasons it's a terrible idea financially. He tries to buy the old formula at an insane price—Meng Yao is like 'that's way over market value' and he's like 'I KNOW, that's the point.' He gets attacked by thugs sent by a rival company and instead of being scared he just beats them up in three minutes. The Binfen Beverage Factory angle is actually pretty tense though. These guys are vandalizing the factory, sending lawyer letters, trying to reclaim the trademark. And Qing Qin's internal monologue is just 'Come, come, wreck all you want. Every loss goes on my account.' Meanwhile the reader is like PLEASE DON'T LET THEM SUCCEED. The police scene had me dying. Qing Qin literally watches the thugs get dragged away and thinks 'Sigh, I can't save you either. How could you fall halfway before your great achievements were made?' These guys are accidentally helping him go bankrupt and he's mourning them.

The dialogue in these chapters is a masterclass in dramatic irony, and I'm obsessed with how every conversation operates on two completely different frequencies. Take this exchange between Qiao Qin and Deng Hong: "Thank you, this makes for a good keepsake" versus the internal reality of Qiao Qin thinking "If I pretend I didn't see that, is it too late to act blind?" Both characters are performing, but neither knows the other is performing. And then Li Zong comes in with his serious "you know that the formula is Qiqi's lifeline" speech, and Qiao Qin is internally screaming while giving him a perfectly reasonable justification. The livestream segment is even better—Dao Bi and Deng Hong are both accidentally telling the truth while seeming like they're doing PR, and Le Taotao has no idea she's documenting a farce. The chat comments are basically the Greek chorus here, providing the audience's genuine reactions. "A no-overtime job actually exists?" "Now I know what I lack compared to President Qing—it's not money, it's dreams!" These lines are so perfectly pitched that I laughed out loud. The author's voice throughout is sharp, wry, and never takes itself seriously, which is exactly what this story needs. Even Qiao Qin's internal monologues have this self-aware humor—he's genuinely proud of his bankruptcy preparation manuals while presenting them as entrepreneurial diligence.

'A treasured blade for a worthy man.' This line is everything. Qing Qin slams a katana on the table during a business negotiation, gifts it to the formula owner, and then immediately orders ten more ice creams afterward because he's excited. The tonal whiplash is incredible. And Meng Yao's dialogue is so perfectly dry. 'Apologies, Mr. Qing. That wouldn't qualify as a business expense. It would count as personal spending. And you are currently ten million in debt.' She says this with a perfectly measured smile. She's literally the only person in this story who understands what's happening and she's just along for the ride. The narrative voice itself is hilarious. Qing Qin's internal monologue is completely different from his external persona. Outwardly he's this commanding, sophisticated boss who knows psychological tactics. Internally he's just a guy who wanted to eat Japanese food and now has to figure out how to lose money responsibly. The contrast between 'President Qing is skilled in psychological tactics' and him secretly enjoying the otoro is comedy gold. Even the thugs' dialogue is funny. 'Bullying women? Try me instead.' Qing Qin just... does it. No hesitation. Three minutes later they're in a sewage pool.

"We raised the child with care, and when the child grew successful, someone tried to snatch them away. Where is the justice?" This line from Qibao's announcement is the thematic key to the entire chapter, maybe the entire novel. Qiqi isn't just a brand. It isn't just a carbonated beverage. It's a child. It's a mother's love. It's decades of history, innovation, and emotional investment being stolen by someone who never contributed a single thing to its creation. The metaphor of Qiqi as a child stolen by a malicious relative runs through everything in this chapter. Wang Ying's mother remembering how her daughter used to crave Qiqi as a child and bringing her leftover bottles—that's the same love, the same protection, the same desperate desire to give something precious to someone you love. The Alzheimer's patient who can't remember her daughter's face but remembers that her daughter liked soda—that's memory as love, love as identity, identity as something that persists even when the mind is failing. Qiao Qin himself is positioned as the wronged parent in this metaphor. Qibao is the century-old factory that raised Qiqi, nurtured it, innovated it, and then lost it to people who registered the trademark first. The law doesn't protect them because the law is cold and technical, but the metaphor appeals to something deeper—something about fairness, about justice, about the idea that those who create deserve to keep what they've created. Even the Qiqi soda itself is symbolic. It's described as flat, bitter, not particularly tasty—yet it's the most meaningful drink in the story. The value isn't in the liquid, it's in what it represents. Memory. Love. History. Identity. The fact that Wang Ying's mother collects newspaper clippings and one of them is about Qibao being honored as a major taxpayer in 1981—that's the past literally being preserved in paper, held onto by someone whose mind is slipping away. And Lou Quan, the celebrity who has never met Qiao Qin, reads this metaphor and understands it immediately. He sees someone pursuing a dream against the world's misunderstanding, and he chooses to stand with them. The theme isn't just about trademark law—it's about loyalty, about choosing sides, about recognizing when something precious is being taken and deciding to fight for it.

Okay so I need to talk about Meng Yao because this woman is absolutely terrifying in the best way possible. Like, she's Qing Qin's assistant but honestly she's more like his shadow analyst who's constantly writing a secret report on him. Remember that part where she's just sitting there with this perfectly measured smile while internally she's taking notes like 'President Qing has extraordinary skill in handling people'? That's not a normal employee reaction. That's someone who is deeply invested in understanding this person, and I love it. And then there's the whole dynamic with Li. The old production manager who stayed through the closure because he cared about the brand. Qing Qin sees right through him—knows he's going to be an obstacle to his money-losing plan—and then just... buys him out with a three-hundred-thousand salary and a heartfelt speech. Li's lips trembling, eyes misted. Bro really just bought loyalty with money and genuine words and now Li is bound to this 'war chariot.' I'm not okay. The Qi formula guy is also wild. Qing Qin literally buys his ancestral recipe for four hundred thousand yuan and the man passes out from excitement. Meng Yao has to coldly tell him to be content because 'greed ruins men' while internally failing because she couldn't read the room. These two are such a pair.

The dialogue in this section is absolutely ferocious. I laughed out loud multiple times and then immediately felt bad for laughing because the situation is genuinely tense. Let's start with the absolute gem that is Qing Qin's internal monologue versus his spoken words. He's trying to engineer his company's destruction and every time he succeeds, it backfires because everyone interprets his sabotage as brilliance. The scene where he tells Li to make the PR statement "cry, cry as miserably as possible! Whine, get dramatic" and Li is internally imagining himself on a street corner sobbing into a child he doesn't even have—this is comedic writing at its finest. The gap between what Qing Qin means and what Li hears is where the humor lives. Zhang Shan's dialogue is a different flavor entirely. Cold, precise, almost surgical. "Fraudulent contracts are void. If Huang accepted benefits, Qibao's license collapses in court. And I know your mother's condition—cancer treatment is costly. Zhang can secure you the best care. Just admit it." This man is threatening a man's sick mother while checking his Patek Philippe. The casual cruelty in his tone—"Calm down," he murmurs, checking his watch—makes him one of the most unpleasant people I've encountered in fiction and I cannot look away. Deng Baiou's voice is all performative warmth that cracks to reveal desperation. "Such a talented young man," he gushes to Qing Qin, both hands gripping tightly. Then five minutes later he's plotting Qibao's destruction on the phone with Zhang. The speed at which his mask switches is terrifying. And Li Zhi's introduction! "He wore a suit that didn't quite fit, his features were delicate, with black-framed glasses, and his hair was thinning from the stress of the bar exam." This single paragraph tells us everything about this character—eager, nervous, trying too hard, already carrying the weight of a profession he hasn't even started. I need to know more about him immediately.

Let me just say—the worldbuilding in these chapters is absolutely immaculate. The Qibao industrial park isn't just a setting, it's basically a character. We're talking about an entire estate with camphor trees lining the roads, shuttle buses running between buildings, ping-pong-table-sized desks, a buffet cafeteria, and a mother-liquid facility surrounded by actual camphor trees that become plot-critical evidence. The anniversary celebration scene is pure cinematic gold: confetti bursting, cameras flashing, Qiao Qin in his tailored black suit with gold-rimmed glasses catching the light. And the livestream perspective through Le Taotao's eyes lets us see this world through the eyes of an outsider, which is such a smart way to showcase the environment. Every detail the chat comments on—the prime real estate location, the two rail lines and three highways, the sheer scale of the campus—builds this sense of a company that has arrived. The contrast between Qibao's gleaming new world and Binfen's crumbling, corrupt atmosphere (Zhang Shan snarling at his mistress, Deng Hong slinking through internet cafés) is stark and deliberate. This isn't just a beverage company; it's a fully realized ecosystem.

I keep coming back to that camphor leaf. It's such a small, almost ridiculous detail, but it's doing so much thematic work. The camphor trees grow only beside the mother-liquid facility—so the leaf is supposed to be proof of Deng Hong's suspicious presence, a tangible symbol of corporate espionage. But what actually happens? Qiao Qin picks it up, calls it a "good keepsake," and uses it as an excuse to promote the spy. The leaf was supposed to signify danger and secrecy, but instead it becomes a token of trust and advancement. That's basically the entire thesis of this novel in miniature: every weapon Binfen throws at Qibao gets turned into something else entirely. Zhang Shan's spy becomes a loyal employee. The anonymous warnings become opportunities to test loyalty. The formula that's supposed to be Qiqi's "lifeline" is something Qiao Qin is actively trying to leak. The recurring motif of food—Qiao Qin's love of meals, the Maillard reaction aroma, the buffet cafeteria, Le Taotao's snacks on her desk—ties into this too. Food represents genuine human connection and joy, which is the opposite of everything Binfen stands for. Zhang Shan snarls and threatens; Qiao Qin eats and builds. The story keeps asking: what actually makes a company valuable? Is it the formula, or is it the people who believe in it?

I need to discuss the pacing of the Xunwei Zhai scene because it is absolutely masterfully constructed. Let me walk through how the author builds this. We start with Qiao Qin entering the restaurant, giving orders to his team, trying to make them feel comfortable. The tension is low—almost warm, even comedic with Meng Yao's internal monologue about how her sister stole all her IQ. Then Director Li arrives with the news about the Yuanru distribution deal, and the energy shifts. Qiao Qin's expression darkens. We know something is wrong but we don't know what yet. Manager Wang shows up, trying to push the business conversation. Qiao Qin clamps down, refusing to engage. The reader is now fully aware that this deal is a trap, and we're watching Qiao Qin desperately try to avoid it while Wang gets increasingly frustrated. The dramatic irony is delicious—we're not sure HOW he's going to get out of this. Then Zhang Shan appears. The Binfen president, the enemy, the guy who's been waiting two hours like a scorned lover outside the restaurant. He charges in like a bull, raises his hand to strike Qiao Qin—and gets disarmed with a taekwondo move. This is the first release of tension, the cathartic moment where the protagonist fights back. But the real pacing masterstroke comes next. Zhang Shan tries to expose Qibao's weakness—their limited production capacity of thirty thousand bottles per day. Manager Wang is about to walk away from the deal. Everything seems lost. And then—the Ferrari. The butler. The lawyers. The 500-acre industrial park. Zhang Shan collapses. The stakes flip from 'we're going to lose everything' to 'we just got handed the nuclear option' in the span of three paragraphs. The chapter ends on a cliffhanger with Zhang Shan's reaction cut off mid-sentence. I had to immediately click to the next chapter. This is how you control reader engagement.

Okay, I have to talk about Deng Hong because honestly this whole espionage subplot had me wheezing. Here's this guy who's supposed to be a slick corporate infiltrator, sent by the ruthless Zhang Shan to steal Qiqi's formula, and what does he do? He gets caught dropping a CAMPHOR LEAF on his notebook in front of the CEO. A LEAF. Not a microchip, not a hidden camera, not even a suspiciously timed bathroom break—a botanical accident. And Qiao Qin sees it, knows exactly what it means, and just... plays along? The dramatic irony is absolutely delicious. Qiao Qin is drafting '101 Ways to Leak the Formula Without Getting Caught' in his head while publicly promoting the spy to R&D. Meanwhile Deng Hong is sitting there thinking he's being subtle, sending anonymous tip emails like he's some master of disguise. The plot here is doing double duty—it's advancing the Binfen threat subplot while simultaneously turning it into comedy gold. Zhang Shan's scheme is legitimate tension, but the execution keeps undercutting it in the best way. Does Qiao Qin's indulgence of Deng Hong come back to haunt him later, or is this just the author letting us enjoy the suspense without the actual stakes? Either way, I'm invested.

The chapter transitions in this section are so smooth. You go from Qing Qin fighting thugs in a sewage pool at midnight, to the police station, to being told he can't live in his own villa, to booking a Michelin-starred restaurant the next day. The pacing never drags because every scene has a clear purpose—even the mundane ones. The thug fight scene is short and punchy. Three minutes, they're in the pool, done. Then it immediately cuts to the police station where the comedic timing of Qing Qin watching them get detained is perfect. He's basically mourning his own bankruptcy helpers. The restaurant scene is longer and more deliberate, which makes sense because it's a negotiation scene. The author builds tension by having President Qi arrive late, thinking he has the upper hand, only to be completely crushed by the spectacle Qing Qin has prepared. The katana reveal is the climax of that scene, and then the ice cream order is the perfect comedic button. But my favorite pacing moment is the ending with Lou Quan. Just one line: 'Persian cat.' What does this mean? Who is this person? The author drops this mysterious character at the end and I am OBSESSED. The chapter ends on this note of intrigue while the previous chapter ended on business success. It's like the story is saying 'yes, Qing Qin won this round, but something bigger is coming.'