Great Power Reclamation

On the third day after returning to Junken City, Yang Wei could no longer sit still.

"Jianjiang, let's go to northern Xinjiang again."

Zhang Jianjiang was eating an apple when he nearly choked. Apple crumbs sprayed from the corner of his mouth, splattering onto the map of northern Xinjiang spread out on the table. He coughed and glared at Yang Wei: "Back again? Didn't you just get back? We haven't even warmed our seats yet!"

“This time is different.” Yang Wei stood up, his voice carrying something Zhang Jianjiang rarely heard—not impulsiveness, but a kind of well-thought-out determination. He walked to the window, looking at the gray sky over the military reclamation city. “Last time I went to visit, this time I’m going to do it.”

Zhang Jianjiang stared blankly at him. Outside the window was the most ordinary street scene in the military reclamation city—a few rows of bare poplar trees, a drainage ditch frozen over, and in the distance, the red flag of the corps compound fluttering in the wind. He had known Yang Wei for over a decade and knew him all too well. When Yang Wei said "go do it," he really meant it, unstoppable.

"What are you doing?" Zhang Jianjiang threw the apple core into the trash can and wiped his hands. "You have to let me know what kind of death we're going to commit."

Yang Wei didn't answer. He picked up his coat and walked out—the faded military overcoat was one Yang Geyong had worn when he was young, with frayed threads on the cuffs. Zhang Jianjiang watched his retreating figure, cursed, grabbed his bag, and followed.

"Hey, wait for me! I haven't even finished my sip of hot water!"

Two hours later, the car was already driving on the desolate road leading to northern Xinjiang.

The world outside the car window seemed to have been paused. The snow wasn't falling, it was pouring down—large flakes pounded against the windshield, the wipers screeching like an old ox panting. Everything was a vast expanse of white, indistinguishable from the sky, only the occasional flash of telephone poles on either side of the road reminding them that they were still on the fringes of human civilization.

Yang Wei drove his beat-up Santana, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his lips moving slightly as if he were muttering something. Zhang Jianjiang listened intently, and the words that drifted over intermittently were "goji berries," "channels," "training," and "variety improvement"—all things he had jotted down in his notebook during his last research trip to northern Xinjiang.

“Yang Wei,” Zhang Jianjiang said, tucking his hands into his sleeves and hunching his neck, “Are you possessed? It’s only been three days since you came back from northern Xinjiang, and you’re already acting like you’ve lost your soul. Last night, I got up to go to the bathroom and saw the light on in your room. When I went in, I found you asleep on a map, with the name of Tacheng imprinted on your face.”

Yang Wei ignored him. The steering wheel slipped slightly in his hands, so he gripped it tighter.

Zhang Jianjiang sighed and turned to look out the window. He recalled the journey back from northern Xinjiang three days ago, when Yang Wei had also driven silently, his eyes holding a light he couldn't describe. It wasn't excitement, nor anxiety, but rather the feeling of someone who had found something long lost and was carefully holding it in their hands, afraid to let go yet also afraid to hold on too tightly.

At 3 p.m., they arrived at Ayijiang's office again.

Ayijiang was reviewing documents. A stack of reports lay on the table, and next to her was a cup of tea that had gone cold. She was wearing a dark blue down jacket, her hair was tied in a ponytail, and there were a few fine lines on her forehead etched by her work. Hearing the door open, she looked up and saw Yang Wei and Zhang Jianjiang walk in, both shivering in the cold, and paused for a moment.

"Why are you here again?" She put down her pen, her gaze sweeping across Yang Wei's face. "You've only been back for a few days? Are you two like spinning tops, always on the go?"

Yang Wei didn't take off his coat or exchange pleasantries. He went straight to Ayijiang and sat down opposite her, the chair creaking as he sat down. He stared into Ayijiang's eyes and got straight to the point:
"Sis, I've made up my mind. Let's start with the hardest one."

Ayijiang raised an eyebrow. She had known Yang Wei for over twenty years—since he was a snotty-nosed kid. She had seen him skip school, fight, and be chased all over the yard by Yang Geyong. She had also seen the empty look in his eyes when he returned from Africa. But the Yang Wei sitting in front of her now was different from anyone else.

"The hardest one?" She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "Tell me about it."

“Yes,” Yang Wei said, his voice as steady as if he were reading a speech he had rehearsed countless times. “Of the places you mentioned last time, which one is the poorest and most difficult to deal with? I’ll go there first.”

Ayijiang looked at him for a while. The office was quiet, with only the clicking of the radiators. Outside the window, the wind of northern Xinjiang blew the snow into wisps of white smoke. She opened a drawer, took out a document, placed it on the table, and pushed it across with her fingertips.

“There’s a ranch in Tacheng called Hongshan Ranch.” She looked at him. “More than 300 herding households, mainly Kazakhs. The grasslands are degrading, the sheep can’t be sold, all the young people have left, and what’s left are the elderly and children. Last year’s data—the average annual income per person was less than 2,000 yuan. In the coldest winter, when it’s minus 30 degrees Celsius, some herders can’t even afford coal to burn.”

Yang Wei took the document and flipped through a few pages. The paper was filled with dense text—grassland area, livestock numbers, population structure, poverty rate. Each number was like a nail, driven into his palm.

“I’ve been here before.” Zhang Jianjiang leaned over for a look, his expression changing. “I went there once ten years ago to deliver a batch of disaster relief supplies. The road was terrible; it took three hours to drive in, and the undercarriage was scraped countless times. The herders still lived in mud-brick houses, which leaked in the winter, and the temperature inside and outside was the same. An old man grabbed my hand and said, ‘Young man, we don’t need anything; just help us sell our sheep.’”

After he finished speaking, he glanced at Yang Wei, then hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but stopped himself.

Yang Wei closed the file. The movement was light, but it carried an undeniable force.

"That's it."

Ayijiang looked at him, her eyes filled with complex emotions. She had seen too many scenes like this—someone would pat their chest and say they wanted to change Hongshan Pasture, come, look, take pictures, and then leave. The herders would wait for wave after wave of people, until they were too exhausted to even feel disappointed.

“Yang Wei, do you know how difficult that place is?” Her voice lowered, not to discourage, but to remind her, “The problems there didn’t happen overnight; they’re the result of decades of accumulated problems. Grassland degradation is an ecological issue, the inability to sell sheep is a market issue, and the exodus of young people is a development issue. These three problems are intertwined, like a knot that won’t go away.”

Yang Wei nodded.

“Do you know how many companies went to inspect the village before, and then all of them withdrew?” Ayijiang continued, her tone like reading a medical record. “Seven companies. All seven of them left. The last one left the most decisively—the boss drove in in his Land Rover, rode for three hours, took one look at the village entrance, turned around and left without even getting out of the car.”

Yang Wei nodded again.

"Then why did you still go?" Ayijiang finally asked the question. There was a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in her voice.

Yang Wei thought for a moment. Not in a polite, perfunctory way, but genuinely—he thought of the eyes of the old people at Hongshan Ranch, the plastic sheeting pasted on the windows of the mud-brick houses, and the old man who said, "I'll kowtow to you." He thought of the refugees he had seen in Africa, and how they looked at everyone who passed by with the same eyes.

Then he said, "Because those herders are still there."

This sentence contained no rhetoric, no sentimentality. It was simply a statement, as plain as "It snowed today." But the moment Ayijiang heard it, she was stunned.

She lowered her head, pretending to tidy up the documents on the table. But Yang Wei saw it—her eyes were red.

That afternoon, Yang Wei and Zhang Jianjiang didn't stay a minute longer in Ayijiang's office. They left immediately and drove straight to Hongshan Ranch.

The road was truly awful. To call it a road would be an understatement. It was basically just two tire tracks worn into the Gobi Desert, completely obscured by snow, making it impossible to distinguish between the road and the potholes. The car bounced like a leaf, and Zhang Jianjiang gripped the handrail tightly, cursing the whole way—cursing the road, the weather, Yang Wei, and himself for being so stupid as to come along.

"Yang Wei! Do you have a grudge against me? I must have owed you something in my past life!" Zhang Jianjiang's head hit the roof of the car, and he grimaced in pain.

Yang Wei remained silent, gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands and staring straight ahead. The dazzling snow light brought tears to his eyes, but he didn't blink.

After driving for three and a half hours, we finally saw a few mud-brick houses.

The houses crouched in the snow, like a group of shivering old people. The mud walls were cracked, stuffed with rags and dry grass to try and block the wind, but it still seeped in through every crevice. Plastic sheets covered the windows, billowing and denting in the wind with a whooshing sound. The roofs were weighed down with stones, some as big as washbasins, others as large as watermelons, as if afraid the wind would blow them over. There were no road signs or streetlights at the village entrance, only a crooked utility pole with a single, dimly lit light bulb hanging from it.

Yang Wei parked his car at the village entrance, got out, and his heart sank.

It's not cold, it's frozen.

Several children squatted against the wall, their faces red from the cold, snot dripping from their noses, watching curiously as the two strangers got out of the car. They wore old, obviously oversized cotton-padded coats, the cuffs worn white, and their hands covered in chilblains. The oldest child, probably seven or eight, was holding a smaller one in his arms, the two huddled together for warmth.

An old man approached. He wore a black cotton overcoat with a patch of a different colored cloth at the collar. His sheepskin hat was perched askew, revealing his graying sideburns. He asked in broken Chinese, "Who are you looking for?"

Yang Wei stepped forward and extended his hand: "Grandpa, we're here to collect sheep."

The old man paused, stunned. His expression changed slowly—first confusion, then disbelief, and finally a bitter, habitual wry smile. Yang Wei had seen that kind of wry smile before, in refugee camps in Africa, on the faces of those who had given up hope.

"Buying sheep?" The old man shook his head, tucking his hands into his sleeves. "No one's coming to buy sheep this year. We can't sell them."

Yang Wei's heart sank. The words "No one is coming to collect the sheep" hit him like a stone.

Zhang Jianjiang whispered from the side, "See, I told you. This place—"

Yang Wei ignored him. He continued, "Grandpa, how many sheep do you have?"

“My family has over eighty sheep,” the old man said, pointing to a sheepfold in the distance. “Some in the village have over a hundred, others have twenty or thirty. There are tens of thousands of them in total, all of them are being held back. The more they are held back, the thinner they get; the thinner they get, the harder it is to sell them; the harder it is to sell them, the less money we have to buy feed; and the less feed we have, the thinner they get. It’s a vicious cycle.”

When he said the word "dead loop," he used standard Mandarin with precise pronunciation. Yang Wei later learned that the old man's name was Habuli, who had attended a Chinese language school in his youth and worked as the village accountant. He was one of the few people in Hongshan Ranch who could speak fluent Mandarin.

Yang Wei looked at the mud-brick houses, the children whose faces were red from the cold, and the gray horizon in the distance, remaining silent for a long time. Snow fell on his shoulders, on his worn-out military overcoat, and on his eyelashes. He didn't move.

Then he turned around, looked at Habuli, and said in a low but clear voice, "Grandpa, can you show me your sheep?"

Habuli glanced at him, said nothing, and turned to walk towards the sheepfold. Yang Wei followed behind, stepping on the snowdrifts Habuli had made.

The sheepfold was simply enclosed by wire mesh and wooden stakes, as rudimentary as it could be. There were many sheep, but they were all thin—their ribs protruded, their coats were dull, and their eyes were listless. The pastures had degraded, and there wasn't enough feed, so the sheep weren't growing fat. A handful of dry hay, yellowish-black in color, was scattered on the ground, but the sheep were reluctant to eat it.

Yang Wei squatted down, grabbed a handful of feed, looked at it, and then sniffed it. He then walked over to a sheep and touched its fur—rough, dry, like touching sandpaper. He examined the sheep's hooves and teeth with practiced ease.

Zhang Jianjiang watched from the side, somewhat surprised. He didn't know when Yang Wei had learned these skills.

Yang Wei stood up and patted the grass clippings off his hands.

“Jianjiang,” he said, his voice not loud, but with an undeniable calmness, “make a note of this.”

Zhang Jianjiang took out his notebook, breathed on it, and placed the pen tip against the paper.

"First, there's the issue of feed. We need to find experts to take a look and see if we can improve the pasture or supplement the feed with concentrated feed. The stuff we're feeding them now isn't even food the sheep like, so how can they possibly grow big?"

Zhang Jianjiang quickly jotted it down.

“Secondly, there’s the issue of breed.” Yang Wei squatted down, pried open the mouth of a sheep to take a look, and said, “This sheep’s breed is no good. It grows slowly, and the meat isn’t good enough. Look at its body shape; the meat yield is too low. We need to introduce better breeds and use superior rams for breeding to improve the offspring.”

Zhang Jianjiang continued recording.

“Third, the sales problem.” Yang Wei stood up, his gaze sweeping over the sheepfold and towards the distant snow-capped mountains. “I’ll figure that out.”

Habuli listened from the side, his cloudy eyes slowly brightening. The brightness wasn't a sudden burst, but rather like a lamp that had been lit for a long time, finally having its wick adjusted, causing the flame to leap up.

"You...you really came to collect sheep?" His voice trembled.

Yang Wei turned around and looked at Habuli. He saw what was in those eyes—not gratitude, but a cautious, shattered hope. He knew how fragile that hope was, and he knew that if it were shattered again this time, it might never be able to be pieced back together.

“Grandpa,” he said earnestly, emphasizing each word, “I’m not here to buy your sheep. I’m here to help you sell them.”

Habuli stood there stunned for a long time. Snow had settled on his sheepskin hat, forming a thin layer. Then he suddenly bent over—no, he was about to kneel down. Yang Wei reacted quickly, grabbing him and pulling him up by the arm.

"Sir! Please don't do this!"

"Young man, if you can help us sell our sheep, I'll kowtow to you!" Habuli's voice was hoarse, and something was welling up in his eyes. "You have no idea how many years we've waited... how many years..."

Yang Wei supported him, feeling the thin, trembling arms. He felt a tightness in his chest, as if a wad of cotton had been stuffed inside.

“Grandpa, I’m not here to ask you to kowtow.” His voice was a little hoarse. “I just feel that your sheep shouldn’t be rotting here.”

That night, Yang Wei and Zhang Jianjiang didn't leave.

They stayed at Habuli's house. The house was small, with only two rooms: the outer room served as both kitchen and living room, and the inner room was the bedroom. The walls were mud, the floor was dirt, and the roof, covered with newspapers, had turned yellow from smoke. Cow dung was burning in the stove, and the house had an indescribable smell—a mixture of muttony, cow dung, and the aroma of naan bread.

Habuli told them to sleep on the kang (heated brick bed) in the inner room, while he slept in the outer room. Yang Wei resolutely refused, and in the end, the three of them squeezed onto the kang, sharing a patched quilt.

Hearing that people were coming, the herders arrived one after another. One, two, five, ten—the small house was packed with people, some sitting on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), some squatting on the ground, and some leaning against the door frame. They talked all at once, some in Chinese, some in Kazakh, with Habuli translating beside them.

Yang Wei asked many questions—where did the sheep breed come from, where was the feed bought, when did the grasslands begin to degrade, who did the sheep go to in previous years, how much were they sold for, and what were the herders' thoughts?

A young man named Ganibek said, "People have come to buy sheep before, but they offer ridiculously low prices, only 300 yuan per sheep. Our cost of raising one sheep is more than 300 yuan."

A woman named Gulinar said, "We want to sell them ourselves, but we don't have any channels. If we take them to the county town, they won't accept free-range animals. They say we need some kind of quarantine certificate, which we can't get."

An old man named Tohtar said, “When I was young, this pasture was knee-deep. Now look at it, the grass roots are showing. The sheep have nothing to eat, and there’s nothing we can do.”

As Yang Wei listened, he gradually came to understand. Zhang Jianjiang frantically took notes beside him, turning page after page of his notebook, his fingers stiff with cold, but he kept writing.

At two in the morning, the crowd gradually dispersed. Yang Wei lay on the kang (a heated brick bed), listening to the wind outside, his mind a jumble of thoughts. He went through the information he had heard that day one by one—feed, breeds, technology, funding, distribution channels, quarantine, branding, logistics—each one a pitfall, and each one had to be filled.

The next morning, they continued walking in.

Hongshan Ranch is vast, with each ranch essentially functioning as a township. They spent three days visiting over a dozen settlements and meeting with hundreds of herding families. The furthest settlement was nestled in a river valley, inaccessible by car; it took them two hours to reach it. The herding family there was an elderly couple; their son had gone to work in the city and hadn't returned for three years. The old couple raised over fifty sheep, all emaciated, but the old woman still offered them the few naan breads she had.

Every night, Yang Wei would lock himself in his room and write down everything he had seen and heard during the day in a notebook. Feed, breeds, technology, funding, channels, branding, logistics, policies, training—he wrote them down one by one, densely packed. His handwriting was ugly, like ants crawling, but each character was written with such force that it almost tore the paper apart.

On the fourth night, they returned to Habuli's home.

Habuli cooked a pot of mutton and insisted that they eat it. The mutton was from the only sheep that hadn't become skin and bones; Habuli had originally saved it for the New Year. Yang Wei couldn't refuse, so he sat down.

While they were eating, Habuli suddenly said, "Young man, you're from the Production and Construction Corps, right?"

Yang Wei was taken aback: "How did you know?"

Habuli laughed, his wrinkles gathering together like a crumpled map: "I see you walk like a soldier. Straight back, steady steps, and decisive speech and actions. When I was young, I also herded sheep for the Production and Construction Corps. Back then, the cadres of the Corps walked like this."

Yang Wei's heart skipped a beat.

"Sir, have you ever herded sheep?"

"Let them go." Habuli picked up his teacup and took a sip. "Back then, the Corps had just been established, and construction was underway everywhere. There was a shortage of meat. We supplied the Corps with sheep for several years. Later, the Corps started raising their own sheep and stopped needing ours."

He sighed and looked out the window at the snow. The world outside was a vast expanse of white, probably no different from what it had been decades ago.

"For decades, we haven't had any dealings with the Production and Construction Corps."

Yang Wei fell silent. He held his teacup but didn't drink it. The tea had gone cold, but he didn't realize it.

That night, he thought for a long time. Lying on the kang (a heated brick bed), staring at the yellowed newspaper above him, he kept pondering one question: What exactly separates the Production and Construction Corps from the local communities? Is it the long distance? Is it the incompatibility of policies? Or is it the wall in people's hearts?
The next morning, he called Ayijiang.

The phone rang for a long time before it was answered. Ayijiang's voice was a little hoarse, probably because she hadn't slept all night.

"Sister, I want to start a pilot project at Hongshan Ranch."

Ayijiang was silent for a few seconds. The sound of turning pages came from the other end of the phone; she was probably looking for information about Hongshan Ranch.

What pilot program?

“The Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps (XPCC) is cooperating with local authorities,” Yang Wei said, his voice clear in the open snow. “The XPCC has the technology, the channels, and the brand. Local authorities have the resources and the labor force. By cooperating, we can develop the sheep industry at Hongshan Ranch. The XPCC will provide the technology and standards, while the local authorities will provide the sheep and manpower. Together, we will build the brand and find the market.”

Ayijiang was silent for a few seconds. Those few seconds felt long, so long that Yang Wei thought the signal had been lost.

"Do you know how difficult this is?" she finally asked.

"know."

"Did you know that other people have tried this before, and all of them failed?"

"know."

Ayijiang fell silent again. This time, the silence lasted even longer. Yang Wei could hear her breathing, one breath at a time, as if she were restraining herself from something.

Then she said, "Wait for me. I'll come tomorrow." The next day, Ayijiang really came.

She had traveled for four hours, a bumpy ride, to Red Mountain Ranch. When she got off the bus, her face was pale and her lips were bloodless. She stood by the bus door for a while, took a few deep breaths, and then forced herself to walk forward.

Yang Wei looked at her, his heart filled with mixed feelings. He knew that Ayijiang was prone to motion sickness, and that such a long car ride was torture for her.

"Sister, you don't need to come in person."

Ayijiang waved her hand, her voice weak but her tone firm: "I have to come. It's such a big deal, I won't feel at ease if I don't see it with my own eyes."

She followed Yang Wei for three days. They visited more than a dozen settlements, met with hundreds of herding families, and walked dozens of kilometers. Her boots were worn out, and her heels were blistered, but she didn't utter a sound.

On the third night, she sat on the earthen bed in Habuli's house, silent for a long time. She held a bowl of tea in her hand, but the tea had long since gone cold, and she didn't drink it.

The cow dung in the stove was burning brightly, and the firelight cast flickering shadows on her face. Her eyes stared at the cracked mud walls, the windows covered with plastic sheeting, and the patched quilts for a long time.

Then she turned her head and looked at Yang Wei.

"Let's do it."

Yang Wei was stunned. He hadn't expected Ayijiang to be so decisive. He had prepared a whole speech to persuade her, but he hadn't used a single word.

“I support you,” Ayijiang said, her voice soft but firm. “I’ll help you coordinate with the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps. I’ll negotiate with the local authorities. I’ll fight for whatever policies, funding, and technology I can.”

Yang Wei's eyes welled up with tears. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something.

"sister……"

Ayijiang interrupted him, her tone slightly amused: "Don't call me sister. Call me Ayijiang."

Yang Wei paused for a moment, then smiled. This was the first time he had smiled in days.

"Okay, Ayijiang."

That night, the three of them sat on the earthen kang (heated brick bed) and discussed things until midnight. Habuli also sat beside them, occasionally chiming in to tell them about the local conditions—which season had the strongest winds, which roads were the most difficult to travel, which pastures were the most suitable for grazing, and which herders were the most knowledgeable about raising sheep.

Ayijiang was in charge of policy coordination—she made a list of departments that needed coordination, funding that needed to be applied for, and policies that needed to be addressed. Yang Wei was in charge of the specific execution—he opened the notebook filled with notes and broke down the tasks one by one, assigning tasks and scheduling them. Zhang Jianjiang was in charge of running errands and taking notes—he took two sets of meeting minutes, one for Yang Wei and one for Ayijiang.

At two o'clock in the morning, Yang Wei closed his notebook.

"That's about it. Let's start working on it tomorrow."

Ayijiang looked at him, her eyes filled with something indescribable. The firelight reflected in her eyes, making them shine brightly.

“Yang Wei,” she said, “you know what? I always thought you were just someone who coasted through life.”

Yang Wei scratched his head, a little embarrassed: "I used to be like that."

“But not anymore,” Ayijiang said softly. “Now you’re someone who gets things done.”

Yang Wei didn't speak, but he felt a warmth in his heart. It wasn't the warmth from the fire, but the warmth of being seen and acknowledged.

The next day, they started working.

The first thing to do is to solve the feed problem.

Yang Wei contacted experts in the military reclamation city and invited them to take a look at Hongshan Ranch. The expert arrived—a man in his fifties surnamed Chen, wearing glasses, a military overcoat, and mud-caked liberation shoes. He stayed at Hongshan Ranch for three days, inspected the pastures and sheep, took soil and water samples, and then proposed a plan—to improve the pastures, plant alfalfa and oats, supplement with concentrated feed, and feed the sheep scientifically.

The herders were skeptical. This was how they had herded sheep for generations, and no one dared to try a new method.

Yang Wei then bought the feed with his own money and let a few herders try it first. He said to Habuli, "Uncle, you try it first. If it doesn't work, I'll cover the loss. If it does work, then you can teach others."

A month later, the sheep in the pilot program were noticeably fatter. Their coats were shinier, their eyes were more alert, and they walked with more energy. Habuli stroked his sheep, which had gained a lot of weight, and couldn't stop smiling.

The herders believed it.

The second thing is to introduce good varieties.

Through Ye Yuze's connections, Yang Wei imported a batch of high-quality sheep breeds from abroad. Ye Yuze scolded him on the phone, saying, "You little rascal, you never come to me for anything good." But after scolding him, he still helped him contact the suppliers.

Breeding sheep are expensive, costing several thousand yuan each. The Production and Construction Corps subsidized part of the cost, and the herders paid the rest themselves, barely managing to scrape together enough money. Some herders couldn't afford it, so Yang Wei covered the difference himself.

The new breeding sheep bred with local sheep produced lambs that were noticeably stronger—with thicker legs, denser wool, and faster growth.

The herders were overjoyed. Ganibek held the newborn lamb and circled the sheepfold three times, calling out "Jax, Jax."

The third thing is sales channels.

This was the most difficult hurdle. Yang Wei brought over the brand model from the Military Reclamation City—a traceability system, brand packaging, and e-commerce channels. Each sheep has a number; scanning the code reveals which ranch it belongs to, who raised it, what feed it ate, what vaccines it received, and when it was sold.

He took photos and videos of this information, posted them online, and contacted several e-commerce platforms.

The first batch of sheep was sold to a high-end restaurant in Guangzhou. The supplier was introduced by a friend Yang Wei met in Africa; the restaurant chain specializes in sourcing premium ingredients. The price was three times higher than the local purchase price.

When the news reached them, Habuli was feeding the sheep in the sheepfold. He stood there stunned for a long time, then stuck his shovel into the ground, squatted down, and cried.

A 70-year-old Kazakh man squatted in the snow, crying like a child.

The herders were in an uproar. The news spread like wildfire throughout the entire Hongshan Ranch—from house to house, from settlement to settlement, from flock to flock. People came from all directions on horseback, motorcycles, and tractors, gathering around Habuli's house, shouting that they wanted to join.

Yang Wei was surrounded by countless hands, which were grasping, shaking, and patting him. He heard someone shout "Rehemat" in Kazakh, someone shout "Thank you" in Chinese, and someone say nothing but shake his hand tightly.

News also came from the surrounding ranches. Each one was farther away and more urgent than the last.

"Mr. Yang, could you help us with that too?"

"Mr. Yang, the sheep here are even better than those at Hongshan Ranch. Come and take a look!"

"Mr. Yang, we've been waiting for you for a long time!"

Looking into those expectant eyes, Yang Wei felt a mix of emotions. He recalled what Ayijiang had said: "Those farms waiting for change, those farmers hoping for a better future."

Now, they've really arrived.

The 23rd day of the twelfth lunar month is the Little New Year.

Yang Wei and Zhang Jianjiang were driving back from Hongshan Ranch. The trunk was crammed with things the herders had insisted on giving them—dried mutton, horse sausage, milk curds, naan bread, and a sheepskin hat that Habuli insisted on giving them.

Outside the car window, the snow in northern Xinjiang was falling heavier and heavier. The world was a vast expanse of white, exactly the same as when they arrived. But in Yang Wei's heart, it felt as warm as spring.

He was driving when he suddenly said, "Jianjiang, you know what? I used to always want to go to Africa."

Zhang Jianjiang looked at him. The sunlight from the snow outside the car window reflected on Yang Wei's face; his expression was calm, his eyes were looking ahead, and the corners of his mouth were slightly upturned.

"I don't want to think about it now."

"why?"

Yang Wei thought for a moment. The steering wheel was firmly in his hands, and the wheels made a soft, rustling sound as they rolled over the snow.

"Because there are people here who need me more."

Zhang Jianjiang smiled. He took out the crumpled notebook from his pocket, flipped through a few pages, and found it filled with notes about the work of the past few months—feed, breeds, channels, training, funding—each item was checked off, except for the last item, "long-term sustainable development," which was still blank.

“Yang Wei,” Zhang Jianjiang closed the notebook and stuffed it back into his pocket, “you’ve really changed.”

Yang Wei smiled too. He reached out and patted Zhang Jianjiang on the shoulder.

“You’ve changed too. You would never have come to places like this with me before.”

“Nonsense,” Zhang Jianjiang rolled his eyes, “You’ve never done anything proper before either.”

The car drove slowly through the snow, leaving two tire tracks that stretched into the distance. The distant snow-capped mountains glowed with a pale purple light in the twilight, while the lights of Red Mountain Ranch gradually blurred into a warm orange hue.

But Yang Wei knew he would come back.

Many times.

Upon returning to Junken City, Yang Wei's first action was to find Yang Geyong.

Yang Geyong was drinking inside. On the table were a dish of peanuts, a plate of smashed cucumbers, and a bottle of Yili Special liquor. He sat there alone, pouring himself a drink, and paused for a moment when he saw Yang Wei enter.

"Why are you back at this hour? Weren't you in the northern frontier?" His voice was somewhat muffled, indicating he had probably been drinking for a while.

Yang Wei sat down and poured himself a glass of wine. The wine was strong; one sip burned from his throat to his stomach.

"Dad, the Red Mountain Ranch deal is done."

Yang Geyong looked at him without saying a word. His hand remained on the wine glass, not picked it up.

Yang Wei recounted the whole story. He explained how the feed issue was resolved, how the breeds were introduced, how sales channels were established, the herders' reactions, and how Ayijiang provided support. He spoke calmly, without embellishment or self-praise, simply stating the facts.

But Yang Geyong listened intently. He held his wine glass but didn't drink, just listened. When he heard Habuli was about to kowtow, his lips twitched. When he heard Ayijiang say "Cheers," his eyes reddened.

After Yang Wei finished speaking, he picked up his wine glass and drank it all in one gulp.

Yang Geyong remained silent for a long time. The room was quiet, with only the occasional click of the radiator. Outside the window, the snow was still falling in the military reclamation city, and the streetlights made the snowflakes look like a swarm of moths.

Then he picked up his glass and drank it all in one gulp.

“Wei Zi,” he said, his voice hoarse as if it had been sanded, “I respect you, Dad.”

Yang Wei was stunned. He had never heard Yang Geyong say "I toast you" before. Yang Geyong had always scolded, beaten, and reprimanded him; any praise he offered was always indirect. This was the first time his father had raised his glass and said, "I toast you."

Yang Geyong looked at him, his eyes red like a rabbit's. On that face, etched with the marks of time, was an expression Yang Wei had never seen before—not pride, nor relief, but a sense of relief.

“The people I’ve wronged the most in my life are Ayijiang’s mother and Ayijiang herself.” His voice trembled. “For so many years, every time I think about this, it feels like my heart is being torn apart. Now that you can help her, I feel... much better.”

Yang Wei felt a pang of sadness. He remembered how, whenever Ayijiang was mentioned in their childhood, Yang Geyong would fall silent. That silence wasn't because he didn't want to talk about it, but because he was afraid to. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, feeling dizzy just looking down.

"Dad, this is what I should do."

Yang Geyong shook his head. He poured Yang Wei another glass of wine and filled his own glass as well.

“It’s not about what you should do. It’s about what you’re willing to do.” He picked up his glass, looking at the wine inside. “Willing to do something is much harder than what you should do. Anyone can do what you should do. But only you can do what you’re willing to do.”

He stood up and patted Yang Wei on the shoulder. The hand was heavy, but also warm.

"Wei Zi, Dad is proud of you."

That night, Yang Wei drank too much.

He lay in bed, his mind a jumbled mess. The alcohol was kicking in; the ceiling was spinning, the lights were spinning, and the snow outside the window was spinning too. But his mind was clear—clearly thinking of the old people at Hongshan Ranch, of the children whose faces were red from the cold, of Ayijiang standing in the wind and snow saying "Let's do it!"

Then he thought of his son, Yang Chenglong.

He took out his phone and sent a message to Yang Chenglong. His finger hovered over the screen for a long time, typing several typos, deleting and correcting them repeatedly, before finally sending the message:
"Son, Dad accomplished something today."

A reply came quickly. The WeChat notification sound rang out briefly in the quiet room.

"what's up?"

Yang Wei thought for a moment. He originally wanted to say, "He helped the herders sell their sheep," but then he felt that this sentence was too simple, so simple that it didn't seem like a real matter. But then he thought again, the matter was indeed very simple—it was simply helping the herders sell their sheep.

So he replied:
"We helped those herders sell their sheep."

A while later, Yang Chenglong's reply came.

It's not text, it's a photograph.

In the photo, Yang Chenglong and Lin Wanwan stand on a London street, smiling at the camera. It's a cloudy day in London, but their smiles are radiant. Yang Chenglong is holding a sign with a few crooked Chinese characters written on it in marker.

"Dad, you're my idol!"

Yang Wei looked at the photo and smiled.

He laughed and laughed until he fell asleep.

In his dream, he returned to Red Mountain Ranch.

The snow stopped. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, illuminating the entire pasture. The mud-brick houses were gone, replaced by rows of brand-new brick houses with red roofs, white walls, and bright glass windows. The children, their faces red from the cold, wore new clothes and ran around in the snow, having snowball fights and building snowmen, their laughter as clear as bells.

The herders surrounded him, their smiles beaming. Habuli, wearing his sheepskin hat, stood at the front, holding a plump sheep in his hand, shouting something. Ganibek rode his horse back and forth outside the crowd, his hooves kicking up snow that glittered in the sunlight. Gulinar, carrying a large plate of hand-pulled mutton, squeezed through the crowd, insisting that he eat some.

Ayijiang stood at a distance, leaning against the car door, watching him and smiling. The wind ruffled her hair, but she ignored it, just smiling as she looked at him.

Yang Wei stood there, watching all of this, feeling an indescribable sense of peace.

So this is what he wanted to do.

It's not Africa, not a hail of bullets, not an exploration, not an adventure.

It's here, it's now, it's these people.

Outside the window, the snow was still falling in the military reclamation city. The snow fell on the poplar trees, on the rooftops, on the red flag in the corps compound, and on the windshield of that old Santana.

But in Yang Wei's heart, spring had already arrived. (End of Chapter)