The Price War

Midway through July, the heat in the capital remained intense.

After Tengsheng Fruits invested 11 million yuan heavily into Shijingshan, the news naturally spread within the fruit industry.

To be honest, the fruit business is tough. The people in this trade generally fall into a few categories.

Some, like Chen Pingsheng, have spent years selling fruit from street stalls.

Then there are small family-run stores—husband-and-wife teams working from dawn to dusk just to make a living.

Finally, there are businesses like Nongguoyuan, which have grown into large-scale operations and are transitioning toward a formalized, corporate model—essentially evolving into true retail chains.

Chen Pingsheng was charging full speed ahead on this path.

On the 8th, all five of his stores opened simultaneously.

This caused a massive stir within the fruit industry, but the original market leader in Shijingshan—Nongguoyuan—didn't take him seriously.

The turning point came three days later when Tengsheng Fruits officially launched.

Setting aside everything else, the hottest-selling fruit in summer was undoubtedly watermelon.

There were many varieties of watermelons, but the two most common were seedless and seeded.

Before Chen Pingsheng entered the market, the average price of seedless watermelons in Shijingshan was around 3.5 yuan per jin.

Everyone sold at that price—the cheapest would never go below 3 yuan.

Then he arrived and slashed the price of seedless watermelons to 1.68 yuan per jin.

His wholesale cost? 1.5 yuan per jin.

Seeded watermelons, which typically sold for around 2 yuan per jin in Shijingshan, were cut down to 0.9 yuan.

His purchase price? 0.8 yuan per jin.

He priced all other fruits just above their wholesale costs. His stores were large, and with five opening at once, the retail prices were driven straight to the cost line—essentially violating an unspoken rule of Shijingshan's fruit market.

If this had been a few years ago, before strict regulations, someone would've smashed up his stores by now.

But in this modern, law-abiding society, price wars were the new battlefield.

Internet companies had been burning billions to seize traditional markets—he was simply following their lead.

The impact of low pricing was immediate. Within three days of opening, Tengsheng Fruits saw a surge in customer traffic.

Meanwhile, Nongguoyuan and countless small family-run fruit shops were left grumbling in frustration.

His stores were large, and with monthly rents no less than 50,000 to 60,000 yuan, selling at these prices was clearly a money-losing strategy to gain market share.

Shops located near his stores struggled to survive—some barely lasted a few days.

Watermelon, being such an obvious staple, had to be discounted. Otherwise, nobody would buy.

Then it spread—first durians, then all other daily fruits. Prices kept dropping, yet customers still weren't returning to the old shops.

After a week of hesitation, Nongguoyuan finally followed suit, slashing its prices as well.

Nongguoyuan wasn't just in Shijingshan—it had stores all across the capital.

It ranked among the top ten fruit chains in Beijing.

When the top two market leaders went head-to-head in a price war, the real casualties would be the third, fourth, and smaller competitors.

Many couldn't hold out—some were forced to transfer ownership, while others simply left the industry.

Unlike the internet sector, where businesses compete for nationwide user bases, fruit retail relied on customers within a 500 to 1,000-meter radius.

If a massive, well-stocked fruit supermarket with unbeatable prices emerged in a neighborhood, it would spell disaster for small fruit shops.

A predator swallowing its prey whole.

Especially now that Tengsheng Fruits and Nongguoyuan were fully locked in battle.

Customers always compare prices—if one store was cheaper today, they'd buy twice before switching to the other.

Tomorrow, if the competitor undercut them, customers would flock there instead.

This game tested who could endure longer.

It all boiled down to capital.

Chen Pingsheng wasn't worried—he had a well-honed strategy.

All he needed was for customers to develop purchasing habits at his stores. Then, he'd launch a recharge promotion.

Given the scale of his five stores, he estimated that a single recharge event could bring in at least 20 to 30 million yuan within a month.

With that capital, he could rapidly expand, opening another 30 to 50 community stores.

Even if he couldn't take Nongguoyuan down completely, he could strip it of its dominance in Shijingshan.

At that point, he would become a major name in Beijing's fruit business.

For customers, this price war was a huge win.

It was just like the competition between Didi and Kuaidi in the ride-hailing industry.

One had Tencent backing, the other had Alibaba support.

To capture market share, both companies kept raising funds—today one would pour in a billion yuan in subsidies for drivers and passengers, and tomorrow the other would raise two billion.

The battle was brutal, but customers and drivers benefited greatly.

Passengers got the cheapest rides, and drivers earned more without excessive platform fees.

The worst-case scenario? When only one company remained.

A monopoly meant they could dictate the rules, squeezing both customers and drivers.

Many people had already experienced this firsthand.

Chen Pingsheng knew he couldn't operate at cost forever.

Eventually, profits had to be made.

It was all just a process.

With five stores successfully opened in Shijingshan and the price war raging on, he had little to worry about.

After all, Lao Guo and the team were ensuring a steady cash flow.

At the core of his strategy? Delayed payments.

Wholesalers wouldn't collect payment for three months.

He was waging a price war with suppliers' money—while earning interest on his own.

It was a perfect setup.

Lao Guo saw through it, but he didn't mind.

In three months, not only would he recover his investment, but he'd also rake in a full year's worth of profits.

The only thing left to do was charge ahead.

By August, with daily foot traffic across the five stores stabilizing above 500 customers, Chen Pingsheng remained aggressive in his pricing strategy.

Two more months until National Day.

He still had five million yuan in his account.

That money couldn't just sit there—it had to be put to work.

The TV series investment? Yang Jiancheng was busy filming Lu Zhen's Legend, with no updates yet.

The high-end beauty business he wanted to enter? He hadn't found the right partner.

So, the safest bet was reinvesting in fruit retail.

This time, he wouldn't go as big—just community stores of 100 to 200 square meters.

Each store would require around 500,000 yuan in investment.

Once the recharge promotion for the first five stores ended, these new locations could take over the momentum.

That way, he'd have a steady stream of major cash inflows over the next few months.

With five million yuan, he could open ten new stores.

So, he got to work.

With Tengsheng Fruits expanding rapidly, the headquarters kept growing.

Not only had he set up a marketing and finance department, but also a logistics team—drivers and general operations staff.

It was at this stage that the headquarters finally took shape as a real company.

And Chen Pingsheng?

He was starting to look like a real business owner.

His approach was steady and methodical.

July was all about the price war with Nongguoyuan.

August was for community store expansion.

By September, he would shift focus to structuring the headquarters—building an operational framework with standardized processes.

From then on, everyone would follow established procedures.

As usual, he kept up with lectures from "Teacher Ma."

In his eyes, Ma was a true strategic genius.

As for the title of "God of Business in China"?

Only Li Ka-shing from Hong Kong deserved that honor.

That man was the most underrated billionaire in Asia.

His business philosophy alone was enough for a lifetime of study.

For now, Chen Pingsheng modeled himself after these two figures.