Great Power Reclamation

Northwest China, Military Reclamation City Sanatorium.

At six o'clock in the morning, as the first rays of sunlight crossed the snow-capped peaks of the Qilian Mountains and shone on the Gobi Desert, the heated swimming pool at the Hongliutan Sanatorium was already rippling.

The pool water is drawn directly from a 300-meter-deep hot spring well, maintained at a constant temperature of 38 degrees Celsius, and rich in selenium and lithium.

This well was drilled three years ago by a German medical team that Ye Feng specially commissioned to explore the site. The well alone cost 20 million yuan.

At the poolside, 87-year-old Ye Wancheng slowly entered the water. His movements were slow; an old injury on his left leg from when he was moving sheep made each bend painful, but the old man insisted on swimming 800 meters every day.

“I’m lucky to be alive,” he often told his caregivers. “I want to live a few more years and see what my children can do to the world.”

Not far away, 92-year-old Company Commander Ma Quanyi was doing breathing exercises on a deck chair.

The smart device in front of him monitors his blood oxygen saturation, and the curve on the screen rises and falls steadily with the old man's breathing.

Ma Quanyi is the oldest survivor in the infrastructure company. He was a 20-year-old young man when he followed the army into Xinjiang in 1950.

"Old Company Commander, your heart rate is a bit fast."

Ruyi gently reminded her. This 65-year-old woman was the director of the sanatorium. She was Tang Cheng's classmate whom Ye Yuze had abducted—and later married Liu Qingshan, a soldier in the infrastructure company.

“What do you mean fast?” Ma Quanyi said without even opening his eyes. “I’m just excited because I’m going to video chat with that kid from the Ye family today.”

Ruyi smiled. She knew the old company commander was referring to Ye Yuze, the "Ye family boy" who now remotely controlled transoceanic businesses in Boston, whom Ma Quanyi would always call:
"That clever guy in the infrastructure team who's both the laziest and the most opportunistic."

The main building of the sanatorium houses a restaurant called "Rooting Hall".

Breakfast time. Unlike typical sanatoriums with plastic tables and chairs, this place features long wooden tables reminiscent of those used in the old construction company's canteen, only the material has been changed to African rosewood.

More than a hundred black and white photos hang on the wall—a group photo of all members of the construction company in 1962, as well as records of every gathering thereafter.

"Meihua, your son was on the news again last night." Eighty-five-year-old Liu Sannu sat down, holding her bowl of porridge, referring to Ye Yuze.

"The international financial channel said he started something like a new energy alliance in Africa."

Eighty-six-year-old Meihua—Ye Yuze's mother—was carefully peeling an egg.

Her finger joints were somewhat deformed, a result of years of manual labor.

"Let him go," the old man said calmly. "Even if he causes a huge problem, he's just a kid who spills rice while eating."

At the next table, the ninety-year-old quartermaster, Xi Dehe, with his sharp ears, interjected:
“Plum Blossom, what are you saying? Yuze is a big shot now. Last month, at that international conference in the Junken City Development Zone, the city leaders wanted to invite him back to cut the ribbon. They called Boston, and guess what he said?”

Several elderly people looked over.

He learned and imitated Ye Yuze's tone of voice:

“‘I won’t go to the ribbon-cutting ceremony, just make two more pots of mutton stew for my parents and the old folks in the infrastructure construction team.’ This left the city leaders speechless.”

The elderly people all smiled. There was a complex pride in their laughter—for the child who had walked out of here, and for that unchanging core value.

“If you ask me,” said 88-year-old carpenter Li, putting down his chopsticks. His fingers were still strong, but now he wasn’t holding a plane; he was holding a smart massager.
"Of all the Ye family's children, the one who most embodies the spirit of our infrastructure company is not Yuze, but Ye Mao."

"How so?" Ma Quanyi asked.

“Yuze is daring, enterprising, and has guts,” Carpenter Li said slowly. “But Ye Mao, that kid, who is such a high-ranking official in the capital, still asks me for advice on carpentry every time he comes back.”

“Last time he told me, ‘Grandpa Li, the mortise and tenon structure you taught me back then is now being used in policy design—every step has to fit perfectly, not a bit more or less is acceptable.’”

A moment of silence fell over the restaurant. These elderly people had lived through so many changes in history; they understood what true wisdom was.

"And those two girls, Ye Rou and Ye Mei," Mei Hua said softly, her eyes shining.

"Being a queen in Africa... I never even dared to dream of it back then. But look at what they do—building schools, repairing hospitals, teaching people how to farm. How is that any different from us clearing land, digging canals, and building houses in the Gobi Desert back then?"

“The difference is in scale,” Ma Quanyi summarized. “We have a little over a hundred people building a city. They are one family, helping a country, or even a continent, to stand up.”

At that moment, Dean Ruyi walked into the restaurant. In her hand was a newly delivered international express package, sent to "Ye Feng, New York".

"Grandpas and grandmas, Ye Feng sent some things from the United States."

Ruyi opened the package, which contained dozens of exquisite gift boxes. "He said that this is a newly developed 'sleep-aiding aromatherapy' from East Africa, made from wildflowers and herbs from Mount Kilimanjaro, which helps the elderly sleep."

The elderly people gathered around. The gift box was thoughtfully designed—the cover featured a sunrise over Mount Kilimanjaro, and inside, besides the aromatherapy diffuser, was a small card with a handwritten note by Ye Feng:

"Dedicated to the roots of the military reclamation city. May you sleep peacefully every night and dream of the oasis."

“This child…” Mei Hua stroked the card, her eyes a little moist, “always thinking about us old folks.”

"That's not all." Ruyi took out another document. "Queen Ye Rou and Queen Ye Mei jointly sent an invitation, inviting the nursing home to organize all the elderly to go to East Africa for three months of recuperation when the climate is suitable. All expenses will be borne by the Royal Foundation, and a medical team will accompany them throughout the trip."

The restaurant suddenly became lively.

"Go to Africa? My old bones are too weak..."

"Look at the empire that girl Ye Rou has built!"

“There are farms and textile factories there that we helped build.”

Ma Quanyi tapped the table, and everyone quieted down. The old company commander looked around and slowly said:
“We can’t go for nothing. Ruyi, tell Ye Rou and Ye Mei – we’re going, but we have to go with a mission. The veterans from our infrastructure company can be consultants for their agricultural projects. I can’t guarantee anything else, but people who can grow crops in the Gobi Desert can’t be useless in Africa, can they?”

These words were spoken with great pride, and the elderly people straightened their backs. That long-lost pride belonging to the builders reappeared on their wrinkled faces.

Deep within the sanatorium lies a "memory corridor".

This is a glass corridor that stretches for 100 meters. Instead of paintings or handicrafts, there are real objects on both sides: a rusty hoe (XJ farm tool), a military water bottle that has been patched and repaired, a kerosene lamp, a yellowed copy of "Selected Works of Mao Zedong", and even half of a wooden level that was used to measure water canals back then.

Each item has a nameplate and a QR code. Scanning the QR code will bring up a video—the owner of the item recounting the story from back then.

In the afternoon, Mei Hua pushed Ye Wancheng's wheelchair slowly down the corridor. They stopped in front of the military water bottle.

The number on the water bottle was faded, but Ye Wancheng recognized it at a glance: "This is mine. In 1953, when we were digging the West Main Canal, I didn't sleep for three days and three nights, and I survived on this water bottle."

Mei Hua bent down to scan the QR code. The screen displayed footage of Ye Wancheng from several years ago—videos recorded five years ago when the sanatorium had just been built. The elderly man in the video was wearing an old military uniform and had a loud voice:

"...Back then, there were no machines; it was all done by hand. Each dig with a hoe left a white mark on the Gobi Desert. Even if our hands were cracked from the effort, we'd just wrap them with strips of cloth and keep going. Why? Because the political commissar said, 'For every meter of irrigation canal we dig, we can cultivate ten more acres of land downstream, which can feed one more family...'"

The sound from the video echoed down the corridor. Several young nurses happened to be passing by; they stopped and listened quietly.

“My grandfather also participated in the construction of the Production and Construction Corps,” a nurse whispered, “but he never talked about it.”

"Because they felt there was nothing to talk about."

Dean Ruyi appeared behind us at some point. “These old people always feel that what they are doing is what they should do. Just like your Uncle Ye Yuze often says—the more than one hundred people in the infrastructure company are all ordinary people. They just happened to gather at that time and place and did what was later called a ‘miracle’.”

At the end of the corridor is a huge touchscreen. The screen displays real-time images of the military reclamation city—drone aerial views of thousands of acres of cotton fields, modern industrial parks, a high-speed railway running through the city, and wind turbine blades slowly rotating in the distance beneath the Qilian Mountains.

Ye Wancheng moved the wheelchair closer, his aged fingers swiping across the screen. He pulled up a map of the military reclamation city from 1952—

Back then, there were only a dozen or so dugouts and a dirt road. Then he overlaid today's satellite imagery.

The contrast between the two images is shocking.

From a dozen or so locations, it has grown into a modern city with a population of one million and a GDP ranking among the top three prefecture-level cities in the country.

From a dirt road to a transportation hub with highways, railways, and airports.

From relying on the weather for a living to now achieving 180% self-sufficiency in grain, accounting for 7% of the national cotton production, and leading the western region in new energy equipment manufacturing, the old man murmured, "We dug all of this out shovel by shovel."

“Not only that.” Ma Quanyi’s voice came from behind. He was also in a wheelchair, being pushed by a caregiver.

“We were the ones who dug the first shovel, and then generation after generation continued to dig. Yuze’s generation sold the products of Junken City all over the country, and now Ye Feng’s generation is bringing the spirit of Junken City to the world.”

The two elderly people sat side by side, watching the images on the screen switch automatically.

From the military reclamation city to the Ye family farm in Boston, to the Brothers Group headquarters in New York, to the agricultural demonstration zone in Kyiv, to the new energy factory in Kilimanjaro, and then to the diagram of the "root network" being woven across three continents.

“Old Ma,” Ye Wancheng suddenly said, “do you remember that winter of 1954? A cold wave came, and all the saplings we had just planted froze to death. Everyone sat in their dugouts, and no one said a word.”

“I remember,” Ma Quanyi nodded. “Later, you stood up and said, ‘If the saplings die, we’ll plant more. As long as we’re alive, we can keep planting until they survive.’”

“Now,” Ye Wancheng pointed to the cross-border connection lines on the screen, “our 'saplings' have been planted in Africa.”

The two old men looked at each other and smiled. In that smile lay seventy years of hardship, and seventy years of pride.
-
The director's office of the sanatorium.

Ruyi was on the phone with the current top official of Junken City.

“…Secretary Zhang, I understand your difficulties. But the rules of the sanatorium were set by Uncle Ye Yuze—only members of the infrastructure company who participated in the construction of the military reclamation city before 1958 and their spouses are accepted. Yes, I know that Deputy Senior Officer Wang’s father also made contributions to the military reclamation city later, but rules are rules.”

What else was said on the other end of the phone?

Ruyi's tone remained polite, but not yielding:
"Sir, you may not know that the annual operating cost of the Junken City Sanatorium is 80 million RMB, which is entirely borne by the Ye Family Foundation."

"Ye Yuze made it clear—this money is only for the 'roots' of the military reclamation city. What are the roots? They are the more than one hundred people who planted the first red willow in the Gobi Desert and their families."

She paused for a moment: "Last year, the father-in-law of a leader in the Ministry of Finance wanted to get in. Ye Mao called from Beijing and only said one sentence: 'Aunt Ruyi, follow the rules.' Even he didn't dare to break this precedent. Do you think I can?"

The call finally ended. Ruyi rubbed her temples. She received several such calls every week—from all sorts of people with various connections, all wanting to send their family members to this "most mysterious sanatorium in China"—

This place has a medical team of academicians from the Chinese Academy of Sciences, world-class anti-aging research projects, and an environment more comfortable than a five-star hotel, yet it is home to a group of ordinary elderly people.

But it is precisely because these elderly people are ordinary that this place seems so extraordinary.

The encrypted terminal on the desktop lit up. It was a video request from Ye Yuze.

The call connected smoothly. On the screen, Ye Yuze was in a greenhouse at a Boston farm, with lush crops in the background.

"Ruyi, I heard someone asked you to use connections again today?" Ye Yuze asked with a smile.

"It's due to connections at the provincial level. I declined according to protocol."

“Well done.” Ye Yuze nodded. “Hongliutan is not a retirement home for the powerful and wealthy, but a sanatorium for meritorious officials. This bottom line cannot be crossed, not even by the Emperor himself.”

“Yuze, sometimes I wonder,” Ruyi said softly, “is it really worth it for you to spend so much money building this nursing home? These elderly people… they never make any demands, and their food, clothing, and daily necessities are simple.”

“Ruyi,” Ye Yuze’s tone became deep, “do you know how much Junken City is worth now? The price of one acre of land in the development zone has been speculated to be millions. But where did all this start? It started with my father’s generation, drinking alkaline water and living in dugouts on the Gobi Desert.”

He walked in front of the camera, his face very close to the screen: "We Chinese people value remembering where we come from. Now that we have money, we can invest all over the world and make our children queens, governors, and CEOs. But if we forget where the source is, all of this is just building a tower on sand, and it will collapse at any moment."

“So the monument at the Military Reclamation City Sanatorium,” Ruyi understood, “was erected by you.”

“No,” Ye Yuze shook his head, “The monument is erected in our hearts. The sanatorium is just… to allow those who erected the monument for us to spend their later years in peace. To let them know that their sweat, blood, and suffering were not in vain.”

After the video ended, Ruyi sat alone for a long time. Outside the window, the sun was setting, and the lights in the sanatorium came on one by one.

The heated swimming pool shimmered, soft music drifted from the therapy room, elderly people strolled in the garden, and caregivers pushed wheelchairs and chatted quietly.

Behind all this peace and tranquility lies the shouts, sweat, and even lives of a group of young people on the Gobi Desert more than half a century ago.

And today, the children of those young people are changing the world.

Ruyi opened the safe and took out the yellowed roster of the infrastructure company. Of the 137 names on the roster, 121 are still alive today. The average age is 88.

She solemnly wrote down a sentence she had just learned that day on the title page of the register with a fountain pen—it was from Queen Yerou's speech at the fifth anniversary celebration in East Africa:

"Glory does not belong to those who stand at the top, but to those who pave the way for those who follow."
-
Nighttime at the sanatorium's "observatory".

This is the highest point of the nursing home; the transparent dome allows the elderly to lie in bed and watch the stars. Tonight, the sky is clear and the Milky Way stretches across the heavens.

Ye Wancheng and Meihua lay on adjacent beds, hand in hand. They had been holding hands like this for sixty-five years.

"Old woman," Ye Wancheng said softly, "look at those stars, don't they look like the ones we saw at the entrance of our dugout the night we first arrived at the infrastructure company?"

“Yes,” Plum Blossom said, “except that we were shivering with cold that night, but now… it’s very warm.”

The caregiver quietly dimmed the lights. The dome's intelligent system began playing soothing music, interspersed with soft natural sounds—

That was the sound of the wind in the Qilian Mountains, the chirping of insects in the red willow beach, and the faint sound of... a hoe digging in the soil.

This is a unique design for the nursing home, recreating the ambient sounds based on the elderly residents' memories.

“Listen,” Mei Hua suddenly said, “it’s the work chants from when we were digging the canal back then.”

Sure enough, the music faintly carried the work chants of that era: "Heave-ho—keep it up—heave-ho—the water's coming—"

Tears welled up in Ye Wancheng's eyes. They weren't tears of sorrow, but tears of awe at the thought of time flowing backward.

“Old man,” Meihua squeezed his hand, “our lives have been worthwhile.”

“It was worth it,” the old man repeated. “From taking off my collar insignia and cap badge, to building a city on the Gobi Desert, to watching my children and grandchildren venture into the world… this life has been so worthwhile.”

They stopped talking and just gazed at the starry sky.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, dawn is breaking in East Africa, the New York stock market has just opened, the BJ policy meeting is underway, seeds are sprouting in Kyiv, and technology is being tested in Moscow.

All of this began many years ago, at the foot of the Qilian Mountains, when a group of ordinary people used the simplest tools to plant the first red willow in the most desolate land.

That red willow tree is still there, now grown into a towering tree.

Its roots have already pierced through the earth and across the ocean, sprouting new shoots all over the world.

The lights in the sanatorium gradually went out, leaving only the observatory dome reflecting the Milky Way. Under that starlight, twenty-one elderly people, with an average age of eighty-eight, slept peacefully.

What they dream of might be the hammer they wielded in their youth, the platform where they bid farewell to their children on their journeys in middle age, or perhaps it is now—the new legends being written by their children and grandchildren all over the world, using the resilience and wisdom they have passed down.

What they didn't know was that in New York, Beijing, Kyiv, Kilimanjaro, and Moscow, the second generation of the Ye family would subconsciously look northwest whenever they made a major decision.

Their roots are there.

There are those elderly people who have spent their lives proving that "ordinary people can also create history."

There is that military reclamation city that miraculously grew up on the Gobi Desert.

And then there's that simplest yet most profound saying, passed down through generations:

"Only when the roots are deep can the tree grow tall."

Tonight, the roots of the military reclamation city remain deeply embedded in the soil of the red willow beach.

Its branches and leaves have already covered half the Earth. (End of Chapter)