I Paid 2,980 Yuan for the AI Wedding Course That Promised 2 Million a Year

Two million.

I saw the post on the subway. I held my phone up. The car lurched. My thumb almost slid past. In the title, the word AI sat after “two million,” one size smaller, as if it lacked confidence.

Shuqi Bay, Liangzhu New Town, Yuhang. A woman born in 1996. One AI workflow. High-end custom plans compressed from three to seven days to 1.5 hours. Plans under 100,000 yuan generated in just over ten minutes. From AI training alone, two million yuan a year.

I clicked into her profile. The pinned post showed her in profile at a computer. On the monitor was a wedding rendering, pink and purple, the light more even than any wedding I had ever shot.

First comment: “How much is the course?” The blogger didn’t reply.

Second: “Can I learn it with zero foundation?” The blogger replied, “DM me.”

Third: “Can I take orders after learning it?” No reply.

I screenshotted the first two. I sent a DM: “I’m interested.”

The reply came faster than I expected.

“Hey, are you a wedding planner or just want to learn AI?”

I said I plan weddings. Four years, in Hangzhou, mostly mid-range, take-home around 200,000 a year. Tired.

She said, “Then you’re perfect for this. The wedding industry is brutal now. AI is the only thing that can let you overtake everyone on the curve. My students improve their plan efficiency by more than ten times.”

Course price: 3,980. Early bird: 2,980. Tonight only.

I hesitated for about eleven minutes. Paid.

The course was recorded. Forty-two lessons, each eight to fifteen minutes. Lesson one: “The underlying logic of AI wedding planning.” Lesson two: “The core mindset of prompts.” Lesson three began the tools: Stable Diffusion, Midjourney, and a domestic software I had never heard of.

I watched two lessons every night after work, around eleven. Dust had settled on my laptop keyboard. I wiped it with a wet tissue. The pothos on the balcony needed water. Its leaves drooped. I watered it. Water seeped from the bottom of the pot and spread a small dark patch on the tile.

In the third week, I produced my first AI plan.

The clients were a couple born in the nineties. Budget: 80,000 yuan. They wanted “French vintage plus new Chinese mix.” Before, a job like this meant three nights of pulling reference images, building a deck, and revising. This time I broke the request into prompts, ran about forty images, picked twelve, and dropped them into a template.

The day I delivered the plan, the client said, “Something feels off.”

I asked what.

She said, “I can’t say. It just doesn’t feel real.”

I stared at the screen. The flowers, the lighting, the tablecloths. Every part made sense. Together they looked like a showroom. No trace of people. No bouquet was crooked. No chair had been moved at the last minute. No carpet had a crease from being walked on.

I opened the course folder. Inside was a set of prompt templates, close to what I had written myself, only better formatted. There was also an “advanced toolkit.” I unzipped it. A few preset files. I still haven’t installed them.

The VPN, I still haven’t got it working.

In the group chat, someone asked, “Has anyone taken an order?”

No one replied.

I scrolled up. The last message was three days earlier. Someone posted an AI-generated wedding rendering with the caption “Homework.” Below it, the blogger had replied: “Not bad.”

Above that, a course update notice.

I opened the blogger’s profile. She had a new post: “Student feedback: in the third week after finishing, got first AI wedding order, charged 20,000.” The image was a chat screenshot. The client’s avatar was blurred. The conversation showed only half a sentence: “So satisfied.”

Comments below: “How did you get it?” “Please teach me.” “DM’d.”

I scrolled down. Down to the earliest post. Two million. Shuqi Bay. 1996.

I clicked into the comments again.

“How much is the course?” Still no reply.

“Can I learn it with zero foundation?” Still “DM me.”

“Can I take orders after learning it?” Still no reply.

I closed the page. Put the phone on the desk. The screen went dark.

A layer of dust had settled on the pothos leaves. I wiped them with a wet tissue. I lifted the keyboard cover. Fine dust underneath. Outside the balcony, it was raining. Not hard. The rain slanted against the glass, like someone drawing a light line.

I set the group chat to mute. The last message stayed at “Not bad.”

I didn’t leave the group.

I didn’t open the course folder again.

Sometimes on the subway I still see posts like “XX field, millions a year,” “AI boosts XX industry,” “the last chance for ordinary people to turn it around.” My thumb still stops for a second.

But only for a second.

Then I scroll past.