加密贝姐

In the last bull market, I was lucky. SOL, BGB, RAY, OM, PEPE, BOME—these all delivered 5x, 10x or even higher returns, and several spot positions also reached single-coin A7.

But now, the crypto market is very cold. Most people haven’t made any money, and a lot of capital has gone to trade AI. Overall traffic is also pretty poor. If you set up a private community group at a time like this, anyone with a clear mind knows you probably won’t be able to attract many members.

To be honest, last year I basically didn’t think much about private communities at all. Almost all my effort went into offline private placement business. By the end of last year, I had already completed the dividend distribution on schedule for everyone. Objectively speaking, if I had opened the group at the peak of market enthusiasm last year, riding on the tailwind of market gains, it would have been much easier to build a sizable membership base.

But looking back, at the beginning of last year Bitcoin was already above 100,000. We were right at a bull-to-bear transition point, and market operations were especially difficult. For ordinary people, entering at that level and still trying to make money is really hard. Being able to hold through it and avoid getting trapped in the bear market is already a big achievement. I don’t want to take advantage of the hype and lead everyone into a high-risk environment.

In my view, it’s the end phase of the bear market that’s more suitable for ordinary people to plan and position themselves. Enter gradually now to bottom-fish, and the odds and certainty will be much better. You can guide everyone to learn step by step while gaining hands-on experience. When I chose this timing to open the group, the first thing I considered wasn’t how many members I could bring in, but whether my investors would have a better chance to make money. That’s my most basic responsibility to everyone.

I’ve always believed in one thing: as long as I can truly deliver results and help everyone achieve outcomes, in the past few years my private fund has grown step by step, largely through word of mouth from long-time shareholders. This is the principle I’ve always followed. Let nature take its course. People with the same worldview, aligned investment philosophy, and friends who recognize and trust me will naturally come together.
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Post-95 couple “pounded out” an AI-produced hit webcomic drama, released 534 episodes across eight straight seasons. Views topped 4.1 billion—and more and more actors are facing unemployment and layoffs, because they’re simply never going to be hired with money. Back in the days of short dramas: everyone flocked to Zhengzhou’s “vertical-screen studio” to shoot real-person vertical phone dramas, burning money to assemble crews—working hard, producing a bunch of them—but hit content was purely a matter of luck. Out of ten, only two could actually survive. They even lost money to the point of doubting life.

They did experiment with AI comic dramas in the meantime. They managed to avoid the uncanny valley horror effect caused by AI faces, but the audience was too small, so it never caught fire—just a small circle cheering themselves on.

Then in March 2026, the ByteDance Seedance model made its appearance and basically smashed the industry gate wide open. Now, with just a regular person’s computer, you can tinker with AI to produce short, realistic dramas—achieving real production equality.

The biggest ace up AI short dramas’ sleeve: stacking sheer volume and gambling on luck. For urban-themed real-person shoots, it’s still “okay.” But for fantasy and sci-fi—where effects are expensive—traditional filming burns millions on special effects, while with just tens of thousands you can directly generate spells everywhere and grand fantasy worlds. The cost-effectiveness crushes the old approach.

In a single day, they can turn out 800–1000 minutes of footage, producing hundreds of episodes per month. They don’t rely on any one episode becoming a masterpiece; they cast a wide net with massive volume—there’s always going to be something that hits. A full AI short drama costs about 60,000–70,000 yuan to complete. The biggest expense is compute power, plus writing the scripts and post-editing.

By making money from revenue-splitting ads for free short dramas, there’s a player called “Soy Sauce Culture” who hauled in a staggering 300 million yuan in revenue in half a year, with net profit exceeding 100 million. That’s eating a whole lot of meat for real.

Now, 80% of people entering the industry aren’t even film-and-TV trained. Whether you can shoot or not doesn’t matter as much—what’s essential is picking the right content and understanding aesthetics. The platforms are also extremely laid-back in attitude: whether you shoot it yourself or generate it with AI, as long as you label it as AI, it’s fine. They only care whether audiences are willing to stay and binge. If the data looks good, then it’s good content.

Of course, there are pitfalls: mass production doesn’t equal hit-making. Lots of low-quality, factory-style short dramas will eventually bore viewers too—and the dividend won’t last forever.
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