At ten o'clock in the morning, Xing Jun published a 31,000-word article titled "The Qin Zhao I Know." There is a line of small print at the end of the article: This article is purely fictitious and any similarity is purely coincidental.
At three o'clock in the afternoon on the same day, the court filed the case. The plaintiff Xing Jun, the defendant Qin Zhao, and her sixty-year-old mother.
He probably forgot one thing - she remembered every day written in those thirty-one thousand words.
In thirty-six hours, Qin Zhao lost four endorsements, a film that had already been launched, and all the dignity he had saved in twelve years.
Everyone was waiting for her to cry, or for her to post a longer post.
She didn't.
She printed out the thirty-one thousand words, totaling forty-seven stanzas, and spread them out on a long table in front of forty-six people.
"I will deal with the seventh section today. I will deal with the forty-seven sections one by one until others can tell their own differences."
"He wrote that he was sitting across from me. But he was not in Fengcheng that day."
No one was available that day.
Only someone at the door of the box began to applaud - the joke about spending 23 million on a brick and building it in front of his company three years ago was ridiculed by the entire Internet for three years.
He said: "I will defrost your parents' apartment."
Someone in the box asked him about his conditions.
"Three years. In these three years, she and I were husband and wife."
