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

"President Qing truly is someone who cares about his employees." This line from Deng Hong's stiff, forced compliment perfectly captures the central joke of this entire arc. Qiao Qin's entire motivation is to destroy his own company, yet everything he does in service of that goal accidentally makes him an incredible leader. He promotes Daobi because he wants inefficient management—he gets a visionary administrator who abolishes overtime. He lets Deng Hong into R&D because he thinks the spy will sabotage from within—he gets genuine career advancement for a talented worker. He studies bankruptcy cases to prepare for ruin, and his assistant Meng Yao interprets it as humble, diligent entrepreneurship. The relationship between Qiao Qin and his employees is built on a foundation of complete misunderstanding, and it's genuinely touching how much they all admire him. Even Li Zong, the serious deputy, is constantly overthinking Qiao Qin's motives, searching for hidden meanings where there are none. And then there's Deng Hong, who starts as a cold infiltrator but genuinely seems to warm up to the company atmosphere—"now I really like its company atmosphere," he says, and I swear that's not supposed to be part of the spy's cover story anymore. The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast.

Let me just say this: the opening scene of Chapter 13 is one of the most visually striking pieces of worldbuilding I've read in a web novel. You've got the Mediterranean, the weather warming up, and suddenly it's a playground for the world's top tycoons. A Middle Eastern magnate flaunts his 180-meter yacht, then encounters the old Qian family heir—his sworn enemy—and they immediately launch into this ridiculous gorilla-style contest of 'mine is bigger, mine is longer.' And then—BAM—a yacht TWICE as long as both of theirs combined silently passes by, its deck gleaming with an aquarium full of great white sharks. Peace returned to the world. I literally laughed out loud. This is the kind of scene that makes you feel like you're watching a movie, not reading a novel. The author doesn't even need dialogue here; the imagery does all the work. Then we cut to Mr. Qiao on a man-made beach, applying sunscreen, being handed updates on a tablet by Butler No. 34. The fact that he has a numbered butler system is a whole worldbuilding detail in itself. This isn't just 'rich guy has servants'—this is a man so embedded in a hierarchy of wealth that even his staff is catalogued numerically. The contrast with Qiao Qin's world is equally effective. You've got the factory floor where workers are cheering because they broke a hundred thousand in sales overnight, their faces glowing with excitement. Then the high-end restaurant Xunwei Zhai with its symphony orchestra, where Qiao Qin tries to force his employees to order lobster and '82 Lafite because he feels guilty they've never experienced this level of luxury. The worldbuilding here isn't just about setting—it's about class, about the gap between old money (Mr. Qiao) and new money (Qiao Qin), and about how each character moves through their environment differently.

I'm not even going to pretend I wasn't completely won over by Meng Yao's sister the moment she opened her mouth. This woman is a force of nature and I need more of her in my life. Let's start with the scene where she and Meng Yao are discussing Qiao Qin's decision not to increase production. Meng Yao, the supposedly rational one, immediately jumps to: "President Qiao doesn't want to increase production because he's creating mystery. The harder it is to get, the more people will crave it." She's fully committed to the bit. She's built an entire marketing theory in her head based on observing her boss for approximately five minutes. And then the sister—normally the grounded one in their dynamic—tries to gently correct her: "Is that what he said?" But no, the sister immediately doubles down with even more elaborate interpretation: "Even though President Qiao can handle everything alone, he's also someone who nurtures talent. You suggested it for the company's sake. I'm sure he's pleased." The narrator calls them "like members of some cult" and honestly? That's the most accurate description I've ever read. These two have built an entire mythology around a guy who is literally just trying to not make money. Meng Yao's internal monologue—"Are we even talking about the same person?"—is the voice of reason in a world that has completely lost it. The humor in the dialogue comes from this constant gap between perception and reality. Qiao Qin says "I have my own plans" and his employees hear "strategic genius." He says "pay this year's taxes all at once" and they hear "socially responsible entrepreneur." He's just a guy trying to survive, and everyone around him is writing fanfiction about him in real time. The Zhang Shan confrontation is equally sharp. "Sorry, who are you?" Qiao Qin asks, and the narrative note that follows—"What could be more humiliating than your rival not even knowing who you were?"—is pure comedy gold. The dialogue here isn't just funny; it's character-revealing. Qiao Qin's bluntness contrasts perfectly with Zhang Shan's theatrical rage.

Let me just say this: the conflict in these chapters operates on at least four different levels simultaneously, and the author never lets you forget any of them. Level one: the trademark dispute. Binfen is trying to steal Qiqi's identity, and Qiao Qin is fighting back with evidence, public opinion, and legal strategy. This is the plot-level conflict, the one that drives the narrative forward. The stakes are clear—if Qiao Qin loses, he loses everything he's built. Level two: the heir competition. Mr. Qiao is running some kind of contest among wealthy heirs, and Qiao Qin's performance matters. The competition isn't just about money; it's about proving worth, about earning a place in the family hierarchy. When Zhang Shan collapses after receiving the industrial park, it's not just a business rival losing—it's a competitor in the larger game being handed an unfair advantage. Level three: the internal conflict. Qiao Qin doesn't want to be here. He wants to be left alone. Every success pushes him deeper into a world he never asked to join. When he tells his employees to get double bonuses and then internally thinks "I just want to be alone," that's the core emotional conflict right there. He's fighting for something he doesn't even want. Level four: the interpersonal conflict with Zhang Shan. This guy is personal. He's not just a corporate rival; he's the man who tried to physically assault Qiao Qin in a restaurant parking lot. The stakes here aren't abstract—they're visceral. When Zhang Shan raises his hand and Qiao Qin clamps down on his wrist, that's not business. That's survival. What makes this work so well is that all four levels feed into each other. The trademark dispute affects the heir competition. The heir competition raises the stakes of the trademark dispute. Zhang Shan's personal vendetta threatens to derail everything. And through it all, Qiao Qin is just a guy who wanted to sell soda and now he's dealing with great white sharks, industrial parks, and taekwondo moves. The tension never drops. Every scene raises the stakes a little more, and by the time that Ferrari pulls up, I was completely invested in whatever happens next.

I need to talk about how this section moves because the pacing here is absolutely ruthless in the best possible way. Chapter 20 opens with the aftermath of Binfen's legal defeats, immediately establishes Deng Hong's infiltration plot, then launches into the anniversary celebration—all before we finish the first chapter. The celebration itself is a masterclass in structure: we get the livestream setup, the troll comments (which is such a modern, relatable touch), Qiao Qin's entrance and speech, the media scrum, and then the Deng Hong encounter, all woven together without a single dull moment. Then Chapter 21 pivots from the public spectacle to the private comedy of errors with Deng Hong's camphor leaf fiasco, followed by the livestream segment that doubles as both worldbuilding and character development. By the time Chapter 22 starts with Qiao Qin heading home and sensing something unusual, I was already hooked for the next batch. The author never lets the reader settle. Every scene ends with a beat that propels you forward—whether it's an anonymous email, a suspicious leaf, or a looming threat from Zhang Shan. The only moment that nearly slowed things down was the livestream Q&A, but even that served dual purpose. This is how you write web fiction.

Okay so I need to talk about Qiao Qin because this chapter completely flipped my perception of him. At first I thought he was just some ruthless businessman type, but then he says to Li Zhi: "I believe in you. Go all out." And like—bro really just handed a rookie lawyer the keys to the kingdom and trusted him. That's not something you see every day in these business novels. He's bankrupt, desperate, and still choosing to invest in people instead of just playing it safe. That's either genuine leadership or the most calculated move ever, and honestly I can't tell which makes him more interesting. Then there's Director Li and his son. The father-son dynamic here is so layered. Li Zhi is all fired up, ready to charge in, while Director Li is the cautious one warning against going too aggressive. But Qiao Qin sees something in both of them. When he says "Like father, like son" to Director Li—that line hit different. It's like he's acknowledging that the caution comes from somewhere real, not just weakness. And Lou Quan! This guy is a whole mood. He's the second male lead in this drama, he's an investor, and he's just out here casually destroying people with his energy. The scene where he holds the umbrella over the heroine and tells the male lead "You don't deserve her" while literally reciting his lines under his breath? I literally screamed. The fact that he then uses that Qiqi soda as a prop and forces the entire cast into awkward endorsement poses? Chef's kiss. He's not just a pretty face—he's strategically using his platform and his position to help Qiao Qin without even meeting him. That's loyalty without being asked. The Wang Ying subplot is what really got me though. Her relationship with her Alzheimer's mother—it's not romantic, it's not friendship, it's that complicated daughter-parent bond where you're angry and exhausted and guilty all at the same time. When her mom wanders off and Wang Ying snaps at her, then finds out her mom brought her a Qiqi soda because she remembered how much Wang Ying used to want it as a kid... that's the kind of moment that makes you put the book down and just stare at the wall.

Okay so let me just say this about Director Li because I am STILL not over him. This man is the most dangerously loyal employee in the history of corporate fiction and I need a moment. Qing Qin spends these entire chapters trying to make himself look like an arrogant, reckless fool so Li will quit and become a bankruptcy obstacle. And what does Li do? He watches Qing Qin throw Deng Baiou out, sees him refuse a massive distribution deal, and his conclusion is: MY BOSS IS A GENIUS WHO SEES THROUGH SHADY PLANS. The guard's line absolutely made me choke: "I'm just a roughneck, don't understand their talk, but if President Qing rejects it, there must be something shady." Qing Qin's internal reaction—"Clearly wasted as security. Time to replace the whole firm"—is peak comedic tragedy because this man is trying to destroy his own company and his staff keeps building him up as a strategic mastermind. And then the PR meeting! Qing Qin wants to cry on camera, to be a tragic victim. Li imagines himself holding a child on a busy street, snot and tears streaming. He's so ready to play along with whatever disaster Qing Qin is cooking up. This isn't just loyalty—it's a kind of devotion that borders on religious. Meanwhile, the Qing Qin/Li dynamic is genuinely touching if you look past the comedy. Li stayed through bankruptcy threats, through confusion, through everything. He's the only person in this story who seems to actually believe in Qing Qin, even when Qing Qin doesn't believe in himself. That's the kind of relationship that makes you want to shake both of them. Also can we talk about Deng and Zhang's alliance? Two desperate men connecting over the phone, laughing in that dark knowing way that always signals someone's about to get wrecked. The scene where they're essentially plotting Qibao's destruction while sipping tea and discussing industrial park land deals—chilling. These are men who've already decided that crushing someone else is just a business transaction.

Let me just say—this chapter has some of the tightest pacing I've seen in recent web novel reading. It opens with a legal strategy session that's genuinely exciting (yes, I said exciting about trademark law, fight me), then pivots hard into Wang Ying's personal subplot, then cuts to a film set, then back to Qiao Qin's anxious vigil, and then ends on a cliffhanger that made me immediately open the next chapter. The transition from the legal discussion to Wang Ying's story is what really impresses me. One moment you're deep in trademark law and well-known trademark clauses, the next you're following a phone call from a nanny about a missing Alzheimer's patient. These two threads seem completely unrelated, but they're connected by Qiqi soda—and that connection lands perfectly when Wang Ying's mom brings home a bottle of Qiqi and the newspaper clipping about Qibao. The film set scene could have easily dragged—it's essentially a long scene of actors pretending to fight—but the author keeps it moving with sharp dialogue, internal monologue from Lou Quan's agent, and the running joke about Lou Quan being a diva investor. The detail about the leading actress wanting to expose his "diva behavior" and being told he's an investor? That's one line that tells you everything about the power structure in this world. And then the cliffhanger. Qiao Qin wakes up, feeds his cat, checks his phone, and discovers that Lou Quan has essentially single-handedly mobilized the internet in his favor. He calls Director Li in a panic, only to find out that Director Li didn't report it because Qiao Qin himself told him he was "resting" and it "didn't seem major enough." The irony is delicious, and the fact that Qiao Qin is left crushing instant noodles in silent frustration is the perfect comedic beat before the chapter ends. The author knows exactly when to speed up and when to slow down. The Wang Ying scene slows everything down for emotional impact, while the Lou Quan scenes keep the energy high. And that ending? Unbelievable. I need to know what happens next immediately.

There's this one detail I couldn't stop thinking about. When Li enters Qing Qin's office, there's 'a framed photo of a crocodile's bloody maw' on the desk. What does this even mean? Is this supposed to show Qing Qin's predatory nature? His hidden danger? Or is it just... a weird decoration that the original owner left behind? The whole transmigration premise is basically a metaphor for trying to control outcomes when everything is working against you. Qing Qin wants to fail. He actively wants to lose. But his modern knowledge, his confidence, his willingness to spend money recklessly—all of these are exactly what a struggling company needs. The universe is basically saying 'you can't escape competence.' The trademark issue is also symbolic on another level. The old President Qi didn't understand the law, so he 'paid for peace' and gave up his rights. Now Qing Qin is doing the opposite—he's buying the formula at an absurd price to secure moral high ground. It's like the story is commenting on how business and justice operate differently across generations. And the katana itself—Qi hugs it like a treasure. Qing Qin uses it as a negotiation prop and then just leaves it there. Power, value, tradition—all of these things mean different things to different people in this story.

I need to talk about the grandmother scene because I was NOT prepared for it to hit this hard. Zhao Dong, the housekeeper, is just doing her job—picking up the newspaper, making breakfast, dealing with an elderly woman whose dementia is blurring her memories together. And then the old lady says: "My Yingying loved Qiqi. She was so little, always wanting a bottle from the ice well after school… her father too, before he passed…" That's it. That's the entire scene. No drama, no music, no narrator telling you how to feel. Just a woman with a fading mind reaching for the one clear memory she has left—a soda bottle from an ice well, her granddaughter's small hands, her dead husband—and the newspaper just announced that this memory is now illegal, that the trademark is gone, that the thing that tasted like love is now owned by a corporation that's suing for it. Zhao Dong is too busy to notice the poignancy. She just ties on her apron and says "No more. The trademark belongs to someone else. We can't buy Qiqi anymore." And the grandmother is left holding a memory that's being erased by a legal document. This is the emotional core of the whole story, isn't it? Qibao's comeback isn't about market share or distribution deals. It's about people like this grandmother who remember what the soda meant. The nostalgia that's driving Qi Soda's resurgence isn't marketing—it's grief. It's people trying to taste something that reminds them of a time when things were simpler. And Binfen is trying to kill that by calling it fraud. By saying the formula was stolen. By turning memory into a legal dispute. I also have to mention the cat scene. Qing Qin feeding his tabby, pretending to eat the food himself so she'll come down. "Foolish human, you can't trick me." There's something so tender about a man who can only be honest with a cat, who's performing arrogance for everyone else but is actually just… tired. Wanting to let go. The cat knows he's faking. The cat is the only one who sees him clearly.

The trademark dispute at the center of this story isn't really about law. It's about who gets to own memory. Qibao's comeback is built on nostalgia—on the idea that something old can be meaningful again, that a soda from childhood can taste different than a soda from today. The Qi Soda resurgence isn't driven by superior product or better marketing. It's driven by people who remember. The grandmother with the ice well. The consumers who say "Shame, I like the sound of it." The marketing genius that is simply: reminding people of something they forgot they missed. But Binfen's strategy is to treat memory as property. To say: this nostalgia belongs to us, we registered it, you have no right to it. The trademark becomes a ghost that haunts the story—every time someone says "Qiqi," it's both a brand name and a question of legitimacy. Is it real if the corporation says it's not yours? The old industrial park, the land deals, the distribution networks—these are all symbols of the modern world trying to commodify something that was originally just… soda. Something people bought from an ice well because it was cold and sweet and their grandfather used to buy it too. The tension between the romantic past and the ruthless present is the story's spine. Even Qing Qin's arc plays into this. He's a man who wants his company to fail, who is actively sabotaging his own survival. Is he trying to escape the burden of being the keeper of this legacy? Is bankruptcy his way of saying: the memory doesn't belong to me either, I'm just the current owner and I'm tired of holding it? The cat who won't be tricked by fake food—she represents the truth that no performance can replace. Qing Qin can pretend to be arrogant, can pretend to be a genius, can pretend to want to destroy everything. But the cat knows. The grandmother knows. The readers know. The soda was real. The memory was real. The trademark is just paper.

Okay, I need to talk about Mr. Qiao and Qiao Qin's relationship because honestly it's the most interesting emotional thread in this whole arc. You've got this tycoon dad lounging on a man-made beach in the Mediterranean, surrounded by great white sharks in a pool, completely dismissive of every other heir in the competition—calling them all "idiots" and "boring"—until Qiao Qin's name comes up and suddenly his wrinkles smooth out. That's not just parental pride, that's a man who finally found someone worth his time. And the way he operates? "Don't young people love getting live-stream gifts? Then let's make this boy happy by sending him something." Bro. He literally just gifted his son a 500-acre industrial park like it's a birthday present. Meanwhile Qiao Qin is over here stressing about trademark disputes and online sales, completely unaware that his dad is playing 4D chess while everyone else is playing checkers. The emotional core here is fascinating because on one level it's a classic rich dad / struggling son setup, but on another level it's genuinely touching. Mr. Qiao isn't just throwing money at problems—he's watching, observing, and intervening at exactly the right moments. He noticed Qiao Qin boosting Qiqi's reputation, gathering evidence, forcing judicial fairness through public opinion. "Three birds with one stone," he says, and you can practically hear the pride in his voice. But what really got me is the contrast between Qiao Qin's internal monologue and how everyone else perceives him. His employees think he's a visionary strategist staying up all night worrying about the company. Meng Yao literally thinks he's haggard because he was "pondering whether to expand production." Meanwhile he's just trying to avoid making money because he knows they can't fulfill orders. The irony is so thick you could cut it with a knife, and it's funny but also kind of sad—this guy is completely alone in his thoughts, carrying everything by himself while everyone around him builds him up into someone he's not.