Great Power Reclamation

Winter in London moves slowly, like an old ox pulling a broken cart, no matter how hard you try to urge it on.

But once February was over, the days gradually got longer. At four o'clock in the afternoon, it was still light out, and although it was still gray, the chilly feeling had eased a bit.

Yang Chenglong came out of the library carrying three thick books in his arms and a brown paper envelope tucked under his arm.

The envelope arrived in the afternoon, sent from Junken City. Upon opening it, I found a letter from Yang Wei. His father rarely wrote letters, but this time it filled two whole pages.

He walked and looked around.

"Son, the platform has been running for two months now. Let me tell you about the progress. The third batch of sheep from Hongshan Ranch is ready for market, and the quality is better than the first two batches."

"The restaurant in Guangzhou signed a three-year contract for 6,000 animals per year. Fifteen kilometers of roads have been repaired at Qingshuihe Ranch, and the rest will be completed in the spring. Grandpa Habuli's grandson was admitted to an agricultural university to study animal husbandry and will come back to help after graduation."

Yang Chenglong's lips curled slightly when he saw this. He had heard about how Grandpa Habuli had driven his sheep for three days to see Yang Wei off. That stubborn old man, once he set his mind on someone, would treat them with all his heart.

"There's one more thing. Your Grandpa Ye came to the company last week. He sat in the small building on the platform every day. He didn't say anything, just watched everyone work. When he left, he said to me, 'Weizi, people are starting to cross this bridge you've built.'"

Yang Chenglong folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He stood on the steps at the library entrance, looking at the distant clock tower, for a while.

My phone rang. It was Ye Guigen.

"Jackie Chan, where are you? Professor Sachs' class is about to start. Today he's going to talk about a case study in development economics, specifically about agricultural cooperatives in Africa."

"Coming right away."

He quickened his pace, crossed the small square, and passed the old oak tree. The tree was still bare, but the buds on its branches were swelling, like tiny green millet grains, which could only be seen upon closer inspection.

The classroom was well-heated, and a thin layer of condensation covered the windows.

Ye Guigen sat in the third row by the window, with an empty seat next to him, his schoolbag occupying the space on the table.

Yang Chenglong sat down, and Ye Guigen handed him a cup of coffee.

"I bought it for you, an Americano, no sugar, no milk. Just like your dad's."

Yang Chenglong took it, took a sip; it was bitter, but it warmed his hands.

Professor Sachs walked in; he was an old man in his sixties with completely white hair, but his back was ramrod straight.

He worked in Africa for twenty years, traveling to more than a dozen countries, doing agricultural promotion, microcredit, and cooperative training.

His classes don't focus on theory, but rather on case studies and the people he's met and the things he's experienced.

“Today I’ll be talking about an agricultural cooperative in Kenya,” Professor Sachs said, placing a stack of materials on the podium.

"This cooperative is located in the Nakuru region and consists of 300 farmers who grow corn and beans. Two years ago, they couldn't even afford the seeds. Now, their products are sold in supermarkets in Nairobi, with annual sales of four million Kenyan shillings."

He drew a diagram on the blackboard, the lines were crooked, but the meaning was very clear: farmers—cooperatives—processing—logistics—market.

“What’s the key to this model?” Professor Sachs turned to look at the students in the classroom. “It’s not funding, it’s not technology, it’s trust.”

"Three hundred farmers entrust their harvest to the cooperative for unified sales. Why should they trust that the cooperative won't cheat them? Why should they trust that the accountant won't embezzle money? Why should they trust that the neighbor won't sell inferior goods?"

The classroom was silent for a few seconds. Then a voice rang out, in English with a slight Northwestern accent:

"Because they are people who have come through hard times together."

Everyone turned to look at Ye Guigen.

Ye Guigen sat up straight, his expression serious, without a hint of joking.

Professor Sachs looked at him, remained silent for a moment, and then nodded.

“You’re right. Trust isn’t built by signing contracts; it’s built by sharing hardships together. I’ve lived in Africa for twenty years and the best cooperatives I’ve seen aren’t the most well-managed, but the most cohesive. Where does that cohesion come from? From sharing hardships together.”

Yang Chenglong lowered his head, looking at his notebook. He thought of Hongshan Ranch, and of Grandpa Habuli driving his sheep for three days and three nights to see Yang Wei off.

That wasn't a contract; that was trust.

After class, the two walked out of the teaching building. It was getting dark, the streetlights came on, and their orange light shone on the wet, green stone path.

"That sentence you just said," Yang Chenglong said, "was it said by your grandfather?"

Ye Guigen laughed: "How did you know?"

"Because when you said that, your tone was exactly the same as his."

Ye Guigen didn't say anything, but took a few steps with his head down.

“My grandfather,” he said slowly, “didn’t like to preach. The sentence he said to me most often was: ‘In the end, you must remember that the most important thing in life is not how much money you make, but how much you do.’ When I was a child, I didn’t understand and thought he was talking nonsense. Now I slowly understand.”

The two men reached a fork in the road; Ye Guigen went left, and Yang Chenglong went right.

“Tomorrow’s the weekend,” Ye Guigen said. “Want to come to my place for dinner? Hans said he wants to show off his skills by making German sausages.”

"Row."

Yang Chenglong returned to his dormitory, put the book on the table, and took out Yang Wei's letter to read it again. Then he turned on his computer and sent Yang Wei a reply email.

"Dad, I received the letter. Do a good job with the platform, and I'll study hard in London. Professor Sachs talked about agricultural cooperatives in Africa today, and it reminded me of Red Mountain Ranch. What you've done is exactly the same as the case the professor mentioned. Dad, you're doing a great job."

After sending the email, he leaned back in his chair and looked out the window at the sky.

The London night sky is dark because the lights are too bright. But the night sky in the military settlement is different; it's filled with stars, so densely packed, like a sprinkle of salt.

He remembered when he was a child, Yang Wei took him to the back mountain to see the stars. He sat on his father's shoulders, tilting his head back, his neck aching, but he still couldn't get enough of the stars.

"Dad, what are those stars?"

"It's a lamp. The lamp that Great-Grandpa and the others lit."

"How long have you been waiting?"

"It's been lit for decades. It will continue to light up."

He closed his eyes, and the stars were still there.

When Yang Chenglong arrived at Ye Guigen's dormitory on Saturday noon, Hans was already busy in the kitchen.

A German kitchen is like a laboratory, with pots and pans neatly arranged and every seasoning measured with a measuring cup. Hans, wearing an apron with the German flag printed on it, is weighing flour with a small scale.

"Are you cooking or conducting a chemistry experiment?" Yang Chenglong leaned against the door frame, looking at the row of measuring cups and spoons, and couldn't help but laugh.

Hans didn't even look up: "Precision is the soul of good food. You Chinese cook too casually, using 'a little' and 'appropriate amount'—what kind of units of measurement are those?"

Ye Guigen sat on the sofa in the living room, a copy of "Introduction to Econometrics" on his lap, frowning as he looked at a formula. Hearing Hans's words, he looked up:

"We Chinese cook by feel. Do you understand what feel means? It means that after cooking thousands of times, you can tell how much to cook just by grabbing a handful. That's called experience, not randomness."

"Experience is the excuse that there is no standardization," Hans said seriously.

Ye Guigen shook his head, too lazy to argue with him. He patted the sofa next to him, gesturing for Yang Chenglong to sit down, and then handed him the book.

"Take a look at this. Chapter Seven, Instrumental Variable Method. I've read it three times, but I still don't quite understand it."

Yang Chenglong took it and looked at it for a while. His econometrics was better than Ye Guigen's, but this chapter was indeed difficult.

"I don't really know either," he said honestly. "How about I ask the professor on Monday?"

“I asked him.” Ye Guigen sighed. “The professor explained it once, and I thought I understood, but I forgot it again when I got back.”

Hans poked his head out from the kitchen: "Aren't you Chinese really good at math?"

"I am Chinese, not a mathematician." Ye Guigen closed the book and tossed it aside. "Never mind, let's eat first. We'll talk after we've eaten."

Hans made German sausages, mashed potatoes, and sauerkraut, filling the table to the brim. He also bought a bottle of German beer, saying it was sent from his hometown and he hadn't been able to bring himself to drink it.

“Today is a good day,” Hans said, pouring drinks for everyone. “My sister called yesterday to say that Ye Yini’s new song has risen five places on the European music charts. It’s now number fifteen.”

Ye Guigen raised his glass: "For my sister."

The three men clinked glasses. The beer was dark, with a strong malt flavor and a slightly burnt taste.

“Gui Gen,” Hans put down his cup and looked at him seriously, “when is your sister coming to London for another concert? I couldn’t get front-row tickets last time, I’m determined to get them this time.”

“I don’t know either. She’s recording in Paris right now, saying she’s going to write a new song about the military reclamation city.”

"Military reclamation city?" Hans's eyes lit up. "What kind of place is that?"

Ye Guigen thought for a moment and said, "It's a very far place. In Northwest China, on the edge of the Gobi Desert. My great-grandfather's generation went there. They had nothing, but they built their own houses, cleared wasteland, and planted trees. Now it's a city."

Hans listened intently: "Has your sister been there?"

"Of course I've been there, it's our hometown."

Yang Chenglong sat to the side, slowly eating his mashed potatoes. Hans, this German, was a devoted fan, following his idol from London to Germany, and then from Germany to Paris, never tiring of it.

But he couldn't understand what was so good about Ye Yini's songs. The melodies were catchy, and her voice was clear, but those weren't what moved people.

It's that kind of feeling in the song—that feeling of standing on the Gobi Desert, with the wind howling and an empty wilderness behind you, but with light in your heart.

After dinner, Hans went to wash the dishes. Yang Chenglong helped Ye Guigen clear the table and saw a notebook lying on the coffee table with a few lines of writing on the open page:
"The core of agricultural cooperatives: trust. The foundation of trust: shared experiences. The source of shared experiences: hardship and struggle."

Below is the drawing Professor Sachs made in class, which Ye Guigen redrawn in Chinese, with dense annotations written next to it.

“You’re really serious about learning this,” Yang Chenglong said.

Ye Guigen walked over and closed the notebook.

“I told you, I’m serious.” He leaned against the windowsill, his hands in his pockets. “My grandfather did all sorts of jobs in the military reclamation town back then. He didn’t learn it, he earned it through hard work. But I’m different. I haven’t experienced those hardships. I have to learn first.”

It's dark outside the window, and the streetlights are on. In the windows of the dormitory building across the street, lights are on, like little squares.

“My grandfather said,” Ye Guigen continued, “that his generation were the ones who paved the way. My father’s generation were the ones who built the road. Our generation are the ones who walk the road.”

Yang Chenglong remained silent. He recalled Yang Weixin's words: "People are starting to walk on this bridge."

“But those who walk,” Ye Guigen turned to look at him, “can’t just walk. They have to keep looking as they go, to see if the road is right, to see if the bridge is stable. If they see something wrong, they have to find a way to fix it. If they see something unstable, they have to find a way to reinforce it.”

So you studied agricultural economics?

“It’s not just agricultural economics.” Ye Guigen walked to the table and opened the notebook to the first page. A line of text was written on it, the handwriting neat and tidy:
"Foundation and Wings".

“This is my fund,” he said. “I set it up last year. It’s not a big one; it was started with seed money from my grandfather and father. I’ve invested in two projects, one in North Africa and one in Kenya. Both are agriculture-related.”

Yang Chenglong stared at the words and remained silent for a while.

When did you decide to do this?

Ye Guigen thought for a moment and said, "After that time in North Africa."

He didn't elaborate, and Yang Chenglong didn't press for details. He knew that Ye Guigen had gotten into trouble in North Africa; his office had been attacked, and Ye Guigen had used his family's influence to resolve the situation.

He didn't know the specific details, but he knew that the incident had a great impact on Ye Guigen.

“Sometimes I think,” Ye Guigen leaned against the windowsill, looking at the night sky outside, “that we people are just too lucky. Born into families like that, we lack nothing; we can study if we want, and start businesses if we want. But shouldn’t lucky people do more?”

Yang Chenglong did not answer. He didn't need to answer, because he already knew the answer.

The two were silent for a while. The sound of Hans washing dishes came from the kitchen, while the living room was quiet.

"Jackie Chan," Ye Guigen suddenly said, "are you really choosing Rural Development next semester?"

"real."

"Then let's go together."

"it is good."

Spring comes late to Junken City. By early April, the apricot blossoms in the inland areas have already faded, while the trees here are just beginning to bud.

Yang Wei stood by the roadside at Qingshuihe Ranch, watching the last kilometer of road being paved. The road roller rumbled over the newly laid gravel, kicking up clouds of dust. The wind was strong, and the dust was blown everywhere, making people cough.

Zhang Jianjiang got out of the car, holding a folder in his hand. His face was covered in dirt, but his eyes were bright.

"Brother Wei, the road is open. The last kilometer is paved."

Yang Wei glanced at his watch. It was 3:17 PM. He noted the time down.

“Call Lin Xiaoyu and tell her to bring people to collect the sheep tomorrow.” “I called. She’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning.” Zhang Jianjiang handed him the folder. “This is the list of 320 herders at Qingshuihe Ranch and their sheep numbers. There are a total of 13,200 sheep, 1,000 more than we counted last time.”

Yang Wei took the folder and flipped through it. He recognized some of the names on the list, and some he didn't. But he knew that behind every name was a family.

"Jianjiang, calculate it for me. At the current prices, how much income can these 320 households increase this year?"

Zhang Jianjiang took out his phone and pressed buttons for a while before looking up: "On average, each household's income increased by 80,000 to 100,000 yuan."

Yang Wei nodded. The number wasn't large, but for these herders, it was real income. Grandpa Habuli sold eighty sheep last year, earning over 300,000 yuan, which was his income over the past five years.

“Let’s go,” Yang Wei said, “back.”

The two got into the car. The car drove on the newly paved gravel road; it was still bumpy, but much better than before. Before, the journey to Qingshuihe took four hours, and the bumps were so bad it felt like my bones were going to fall apart. Now it only takes two hours.

Yang Wei was driving, and Zhang Jianjiang was sitting in the passenger seat. Neither of them spoke.

The scenery outside the window is typical of the Gobi Desert—the sky is blue, the ground is yellow, snow-capped mountains are in the distance, and withered grass grows nearby. Spring hasn't arrived yet, but the sunlight shining on the snow-capped mountains is dazzlingly bright.

“Brother Wei,” Zhang Jianjiang suddenly said, “tell me, what exactly are we after when we created this platform?”

Yang Wei thought for a moment and said, "What are you after?"

Zhang Jianjiang remained silent for a while. He was a straightforward man and didn't like to say fancy words.

“I wanted peace of mind,” he said. “Our company used to make ten times more money than it does now. But every night when I lay in bed, I didn’t feel at ease. I didn’t know what the point of all that I was doing was. Now it’s different. I’m exhausted every day, and when I get back to my dorm, I just collapse into bed and sleep. But I feel at peace.”

Yang Wei remained silent. He knew Zhang Jianjiang was telling the truth. He had felt that way too—when he was in Africa, he made money, but felt empty inside. After returning and starting this platform, he earned less money, but felt fulfilled.

"I just want an explanation," Yang Wei said.

"Explain? Explain to whom?"

"For my dad, for my mom, for those herders, and for myself."

Zhang Jianjiang glanced at him but didn't ask any more questions.

It was getting dark when the car arrived at the military reclamation town. Yang Wei parked the car in front of a small building on the platform and saw that the lights were on inside.

"Who's inside?" Zhang Jianjiang asked.

Yang Wei got out of the car and went inside. In the lobby on the first floor, Lin Xiaoyu was sitting in front of a computer, processing data. Two people were sitting next to her—one was Zhao Donglai, and the other was a young man Yang Wei didn't recognize.

“Mr. Yang,” Lin Xiaoyu stood up, “this is a student from the Agricultural University named Baheti. He is the grandson of Grandpa Habuli.”

The young man stood up. He was short, with a tanned face and bright eyes. He wore a faded jacket and carried a cloth bag.

"Hello, Mr. Yang," Bahiti said nervously. "My grandfather asked me to come and see you. He said you have helped our family so much that he has nothing to repay you with, so he asked me to come and do some work for you."

Yang Wei looked at him and thought of Grandpa Habuli. That stubborn old man had driven his sheep for three days to see him off, saying, "It's not that I should, it's that I'm willing."

How is your grandfather's health?

"He's doing well. It's just that his legs aren't very good, so he can't walk far anymore. But he still thinks about the sheep and goes to the pen to check on them every day."

Yang Wei nodded: "When do you start school?"

"There are still two weeks left."

"Then you can help out here. Learn the technology from Brother Dong and the quality control from Sister Xiaoyu. Learn as much as you can."

Bahiti's eyes lit up: "Thank you, Mr. Yang!"

Yang Wei waved his hand: "Don't call me General Manager Yang, call me Brother Yang."

He went upstairs to the second floor and pushed open the office door. On the desk was a letter from Yang Chenglong.

He opened the letter, sat down in the chair, and slowly read it.

“Dad, Professor Sachs said that the core of development economics is not numbers, but people. He said that the most important thing he learned in his twenty years in Africa is: don’t make decisions for others, help them make their own decisions.”

“I thought of you. You didn’t decide what to do for the herders of Hongshan Ranch; you found the path for them and let them walk it themselves. Grandpa Habuli drove his sheep to see you off, not because you gave him money, but because you respected him.”

Yang Wei read the letter twice, then put it away in his drawer.

He walked to the window and opened it. A breeze blew in, carrying an earthy smell, but it wasn't cold. The spring wind, though still sharp, was no longer biting.

In the distance, the outline of the hill behind the house gradually blurred in the twilight. He recalled Ye Yuze's words: "The purpose of a bridge is not to stand on it, but to let people walk across it."

He recalled Yang Geyong's words: "You are doing a great job now."

He recalled what Grandpa Habuli had said: "It's not that you should, it's that you're willing."

He stood by the window for a long time.

Then he took out his phone and sent a message to Yang Chenglong.

"Son, I received the letter. You're right, it's much harder to help others make their own decisions than to make decisions for them. But if they make the right decision, you'll feel at peace with yourself."

The reply came very quickly.

“Dad, I’m studying rural development. Ye Guigen is also studying agricultural economics. We’re both learning how to help others stand up for themselves.”

Yang Wei looked at the line of text and smiled.

Outside the window, the wind had stopped. In the distance, the last ray of light had not yet completely disappeared, leaving a faint orange-red trail on the horizon.

Spring is really coming.

In mid-April, London finally showed signs of spring.

The trees on campus are sprouting new buds, tender green, so translucent they look like paper in the sunlight. The flowers on the lawn are in bloom, yellow, white, and purple, in clusters that sway in the breeze.

Even the air has changed. It's no longer the damp, cold, and sticky feeling of winter, but dry, refreshing, and smells of grass and earth.

Ye Guigen and Yang Chenglong sat on the lawn, several books and notebooks spread out in front of them. The sun was warm and inviting, making them feel drowsy.

“You tell me,” Ye Guigen lay down, covering his face with the book, “why is spring in London so short? It feels like it just arrived and then it’s gone.”

“Because good things are short-lived.” Yang Chenglong sat next to him, flipping through a book called “Introduction to Rural Development.” “Spring in Junken City is also short. The apricot blossoms only lasted a few days before they withered.”

"But those days were beautiful," Ye Guigen's voice came from under the book, muffled.

“When I was a child, every spring, my grandmother would take me to see the apricot blossoms. There is an apricot grove on the east side of Junken Town, which was planted by my great-grandfather’s generation. My grandmother said that those trees are older than her.”

Yang Chenglong remained silent. He thought of spring in the military reclamation city, and of the old apricot tree in Yang Geyong's yard. Every spring, the apricot blossoms would bloom, pink and white, and when the wind blew, the petals would fall to the ground.

Yang Geyong sat under the tree, drinking tea and looking at the petals, without saying a word.

“Going back to the source,” Yang Chenglong closed the book, “you said why your grandfather sent you to London? Not to America, not to return to China, but to London.”

Ye Guigen removed the book from his face and sat up. A red mark from the book pressed against his face looked somewhat comical, but his expression was serious.

“My grandfather said that London is a good place. It is between East and West, neither East nor West. Here, you can see things from both sides, but you don’t belong to either side.”

Yang Chenglong thought about it and felt it made sense.

“He also said,” Ye Guigen continued, “Americans are too hasty; they want to see results in three months. Europeans are too slow; they might not get anything done even in three years. As for the Chinese, sometimes they are too sentimental, and sometimes they are too unsympathetic. In London, you can learn how to find a balance between the two.”

"Then have you found it?"

Ye Guigen shook his head: "Not yet. But I'm starting to understand."

The two fell silent again. A few students were playing soccer on the lawn, their laughter drifting over from afar, as if muffled by something.

“Jackie Chan,” Ye Guigen suddenly said, “what do you think is the biggest problem for our generation?”

Yang Chenglong thought about it for a long time.

“I’ve never experienced hardship,” he said, “but I know what it’s like to experience hardship.”

Ye Guigen looked at him, a hint of surprise in his eyes, and then smiled.

“You’re absolutely right. We’re the ones standing on the bridge admiring the scenery, but the ones who built the bridge were our grandfathers and our fathers. We see the scenery, but we don’t know how difficult it was to build the bridge.”

“So we need to learn,” Yang Chenglong said, “how to build bridges. Not so that we can stand on them, but so that more people can walk across them.”

Ye Guigen extended his hand, and Yang Chenglong extended his hand as well. Their hands clasped together in the spring sunshine on the lawn of London.

“Bridge piers,” Ye Guigen said.

“Bridge piers,” Yang Chenglong said.

In the distance, the bells of the clock tower rang out, their chimes carrying far and wide.

At the same time, in Junken City.

Yang Wei stood on the roof of the small building on the platform, looking down at the entire city.

The sun was shining brightly, and the sky was a clear blue. The Gobi Desert in the distance was still yellow, but the trees nearby were green, and the wheat seedlings in the fields were green too, forming patches like a chessboard.

Downstairs, Bahiti was learning programming from Zhao Dong. Habuli's grandson was a quick learner; he'd mastered basic data processing in just half a month. Lin Xiaoyu watched from the side, occasionally offering a few pointers.

Zhang Jianjiang had just returned from Qingshuihe, bringing a box of mutton, which he said was a gift from the herders. Three hundred and twenty herder households each contributed a leg of lamb, filling the entire truck.

“Brother Wei,” Zhang Jianjiang climbed up and stood next to him, “the first batch of sheep from Qingshuihe Ranch has already been sent out. The boss from Guangzhou called and said that the quality is even better than that of Hongshan Ranch, and asked if we could add another two thousand.”

“We can’t add more,” Yang Wei said. “Quality comes first. We can’t ruin our brand for the sake of quantity.”

“That’s what I said too.” Zhang Jianjiang lit a cigarette. “By the way, Uncle Ye called. He said he’ll be coming to Junken City next week to check on the platform.”

Yang Wei nodded. Ye Yuze stayed for three days last time he came, but left without saying a word. This time, he probably has something to say.

“Jianjiang,” Yang Wei said, “how big do you think our platform can become?”

Zhang Jianjiang exhaled a puff of smoke and thought for a moment: "I don't know. But I do know that as long as we're on the right path, we can keep going."

Yang Wei didn't speak. He looked at the distant horizon, where there was a faint outline of a mountain range—the Tianshan Mountains.

The snow on the Tianshan Mountains hadn't completely melted; it was white and shimmered in the sunlight. Above the snow line, the sky was a clear, unblemished blue, without a single cloud.

He remembered Yang Chenglong when he was a child, sitting on his shoulders, looking up at the stars.

"Dad, what are those stars?"

"It's a lamp. The lamp that Great-Grandpa and the others lit."

"How long have you been waiting?"

"It's been lit for decades. It will continue to light up."

He took out his phone and checked the time. Four o'clock in the afternoon. It should be nine o'clock in London; Yang Chenglong was probably in class.

He didn't make a phone call, he just sent a text message.

"Son, spring has arrived in Junken City. The apricot blossoms are in bloom."

This time, the reply didn't come immediately. He waited a while, then put his phone back in his pocket.

It's okay. He knew his son would see it.

London, 9 a.m.

Yang Chenglong walked into the classroom and found his seat. His phone vibrated, and he took it out to look at it.

"Son, spring has arrived in Junken City. The apricot blossoms are in bloom."

He looked at the words and smiled.

Then he silenced his phone, opened his notebook, and prepared for class.

Outside the window, the London sun shone in, falling on the table and on his hands.

warm.

(To be continued) (End of this chapter)