After Divorce, I Can Hear the Future

Chapter 83: The Lu Net Cleanup Campaign

After leaving PandaTV, Lu Liang headed to Jincheng Law Firm to meet Ye Wei, who had handled his legal matters previously. He was preparing for the clarification statement he planned to release that evening.

Lu Liang instructed Ye Wei to gather evidence and target a few high-profile “chickens” to scare the “monkeys” causing chaos online. Instead of issuing meaningless cease-and-desist letters, he decided on a heavy-handed approach: no settlements, only court summons.

Carefully selecting five “lucky winners,” Lu Liang allocated 2 million yuan to hire ten lawyers to play this legal game to the bitter end. Even if he lost, the cumbersome legal process alone could grind his opponents down.

At 8:30 p.m., Lu Liang quietly logged into Weibo.

“So the investigation is complete, but you people won’t shut up. Do you think I’m made of clay?”

He posted this status and tagged Jincheng Law Firm: “Get to the bottom of this.”

Jincheng Law Firm replied: “Understood~”

They then tagged five notable Weibo commentators with follower counts ranging from 20,000 to 500,000 and shared five lawsuit notices. The firm had collected sufficient evidence to sue them for defamation, instructing them to await their court summons.

“Straight to lawsuits? Isn’t this a bit harsh?”

The targeted individuals were stunned, realizing Lu Liang wasn’t bluffing. They scrambled to delete their posts and issue public apologies.

Lu Liang, seeing this, reposted their apologies but with no comment other than a train schedule meme captioned: “Even crying needs to be timely.”

The implication was clear: he wouldn’t accept their apologies or let the matter rest—he intended to see it through.

Netizens quickly flooded the comment section:

“Whoa, Lu always has watched Let the Bullets Fly, hasn’t he?”

“These picks are spot on! That Xiao Jiang guy was the one supporting wearing kimonos on memorial days and preaching ‘freedom of clothing’ for women, right?”

“Oh, and there’s Zhou Zhou! Didn’t she defend American GMOs last time?”

“Damn, is Lu boss settling personal and public scores all at once?”

As the dust settled, more netizens noticed that the influencers targeted by Lu Liang were far from innocent. They were infamous for sowing discord and spreading divisive rhetoric.

Gradually, people started joking that this wasn’t just a personal vendetta—it was the “Lu Net Cleanup Campaign.” That night, prominent online commentators were silenced, either deleting posts or resorting to passive-aggressive emojis.

“Are these troublemakers really so unpopular?”

Lu Liang stroked his chin in surprise. He had braced himself for backlash, expecting to be labeled petty and vengeful. Instead, the incident inexplicably turned into a public service effort, with his follower count skyrocketing toward the two-million mark—surpassing Li Manli in the process.

“Well, a good outcome is a good outcome,” Lu Liang said with a smile. His primary goal was to shift public attention away from the CSRC’s investigation.

While the process had its twists and turns, the results were satisfying. At least no one questioned the CSRC’s findings anymore.

That same night, he received a text from Zhao Jisheng: “Thank you.”

As one of the case’s lead investigators, Zhao faced immense pressure to control public opinion. Lu Liang’s diversionary tactics had inadvertently helped the CSRC avoid further scrutiny.

“You’re welcome,” Lu Liang replied before deleting the text. He saw no harm in banking a favor from Zhao, the CSRC team leader, for potential future needs.

The “Lu Net Cleanup Campaign” lasted two days and three nights.

Initially, some influencers clung to hope until one of them received an actual court summons.

This individual uploaded a tearful video, claiming to be a struggling single mother who had lost tens of thousands in Teli A’s crash. She apologized, attributing her defamatory comments to a moment of anger and pleading for Lu Liang to withdraw his lawsuit.

Her story garnered considerable sympathy, especially from retail investors who could empathize with her plight.

Lu Liang responded directly: “Send me your trading records privately. If it’s true, I’ll withdraw the suit.”

However, hours later, after returning home from the gym, Lu Liang still hadn’t received any message from her.

He posted a screenshot, captioned: “Use your brains, people. Don’t fall for every sob story. Don’t let them sell you out and count your money afterward.”

His straightforward tone earned him a new nickname among netizens—Uncle Lu.

Sharp-eyed fans noticed Lu Liang’s private message inbox was flooded with pictures, many from women. They clamored for him to make the images public.

“Kids, don’t look—you’ll get a sty,” Lu Liang replied cheekily, indirectly confirming the content was rather risqué.

Amidst a wave of teasing and memes, Lu Liang’s weekend surfing spree pushed his follower count past three million. The internet enjoyed an unprecedented calm, free from the usual chaos.

“Without these troublemakers, the web feels so harmonious,” one user remarked. “Lu boss, you should do this more often.”

Lu Liang ignored the suggestion. Who knew if these troublemakers had foreign sponsors? If they did, their actions weren’t innocent mistakes but calculated moves, and taking them down repeatedly might risk his own safety.

By Monday, Teli A resumed trading.

The pre-market orders were sparse, leading to a strange horizontal stagnation in the stock price.

Although Li Jianlin and Wu Junle had offloaded their shares, they still retained some base stock. Lu Liang was in the same position.

The current situation left everyone hesitant to act, unsure of the stock’s future direction.

“Is this stock completely ruined now?”

As Lu Liang ate his breakfast bun, he pondered his next move. His current influence on the market was enough to alter the trajectory of individual stocks.

Teli A’s previous peak of 108.25 yuan seemed out of reach now, and even another rally was uncertain.

At 9:23 a.m., two minutes before the market opened, someone sold 1,500 lots, slamming the stock down to its limit.

After a moment of consideration, Lu Liang decided to use his institutional account’s special privileges in the final minute of pre-market bidding.

Setting the price at 24.15 yuan for 1,600 lots, he ensured Teli A opened at the previous trading day’s closing price.

Lu Liang held 20,000 lots, currently valued at 48.3 million yuan.

If no one else stepped in to stabilize the price, he planned to play the role of a minor market maker. He set a mental budget of 10 million yuan—if that couldn’t stabilize the price, he would aggressively sell off his shares, as his cost per share was below 11 yuan.

The market opened at 24.15 yuan, with 1,600 lots, but 1,200 of them were consumed in seconds, totaling 2.898 million yuan in trades.

Seeing some selling pressure emerge, Lu Liang injected another 4 million yuan to lift the price, avoiding stagnation.

Teli A, currently the hottest stock on the A-share market, was being watched by countless retail investors and institutions.

“Stagnation always leads to a crash,” Lu Liang muttered. “If I’m taking the lead, I need to instill confidence in the market.”

His 4 million yuan disappeared within seconds, raising the price slightly from 24.15 yuan to 24.28 yuan, a 0.72% increase.

“Is someone secretly offloading shares while I’m stabilizing the price?”

Frowning, Lu Liang suspected a shareholder might be quietly exiting, making his efforts feel like patching a leaking tire. As a speculative trader, he knew the risks of playing market maker were high—without enough shares to control the market, he could end up inadvertently helping the shareholders cash out.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!