Great Power Reclamation

Yang Chenglong learned about it on a very ordinary afternoon.

That day, London was unusually sunny, and the sunlight made the white walls of the dormitory building shine.

He sat on the bed folding clothes—a package sent from the military reclamation city, containing three wool scarves, two kilograms of milk tea powder, a bag of dried horse meat, and a pair of felt boots.

Felt boots were unnecessary in London. But he still kept them by his bedside as a keepsake.

Ye Guigen pushed open the door and came in, carrying two cups of coffee. He handed one of them over, his gaze falling on the pile of things on the bed, and smiled.

"Did your grandfather send something again?"

"Okay. I'll share half of the milk tea powder with you."

Ye Guigen took it, sat down on the opposite bed, tore open the packaging, smelled it, and had a complicated expression.

"To be honest, I don't like this. It's salty."

“Your grandfather doesn’t like it either.” Yang Chenglong folded the last scarf. “But every time he came to my house, he would drink two big bowls.”

The two of them drank their coffee and chatted idly. Hans wasn't there; he'd gone to the library, and the dorm was quiet.

Yang Chenglong's phone rang. It was a video call from Yang Wei.

"Dad." He answered the phone. Yang Wei's face on the screen looked tired, but his eyes were bright.

"Son, have you eaten?"

"I've eaten. What about you?"

"Just finished eating. Is Guigen next to you?" Yang Wei's gaze drifted to the side.

Yang Chenglong paused for a moment, then handed the phone to Ye Guigen. "My dad's looking for you."

Ye Guigen took the phone and chatted with Yang Wei for a few minutes. It was nothing more than matters concerning the platform, the weather, and his health.

Then Yang Wei said something, and Ye Guigen's expression changed—not with surprise, but with a "I know, but I don't know how to say it" kind of change.

"Okay, Uncle Yang, I understand. I'll talk to him about it."

After hanging up the phone, Ye Guigen returned the phone to Yang Chenglong, his expression somewhat unnatural.

"What's wrong?" Yang Chenglong asked.

Ye Guigen hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath.

"Jackie Chan, I need to tell you something. Don't be in a hurry."

Yang Chenglong looked at him, and his heart skipped a beat.

"Your grandfather donated money to get you into UCL," Ye Guigen said.

The dormitory was quiet for about five seconds.

"What do you mean?" Yang Chenglong's voice was calm, but his fingers tightened around the coffee cup.

Ye Guigen placed the coffee cup on the table and sat up straight.

"Your grandfather, Yang Geyong, donated a sum of money to UCL. Not much, two million pounds. It was specifically designated for the 'Northwest Region Outstanding Student Scholarship.' You are the first person to receive this scholarship."

Yang Chenglong remained silent.

“Your grades are good enough,” Ye Guigen quickly added. “Your A-Level results are fully qualified, and you passed IELTS. That money wasn’t for a place, it was for—”

“It opened a door for me,” Yang Chenglong finished speaking for him.

Ye Guigen nodded.

Yang Chenglong stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Ye Guigen. The sunlight outside shone on him, casting a long shadow.

He remembered many things.

Why did Yang Geyong insist on sending him to the UK, not the US or Australia, but specifically UCL?

Why does Yang Geyong always ask "How is the school? Are the professors good?" every time he calls?

Why could Yang Geyong casually say, "I don't have much to spend money on," after giving Yang Wei five million?

"Are you angry?" Ye Guigen asked from behind.

Yang Chenglong remained silent for a long time.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I should be angry. But I can’t get angry.”

He turned around, leaned against the windowsill, and had a complicated expression on his face.

"You know, when I was little, my dad was rarely home. I'd only see him a few times a year. My mom was even busier, and my grandpa was never home either, but he would take care of me."

"You know my grandfather—he's rude, has a bad temper, and never praises anyone."

Ye Guigen nodded. He knew all too well.

“Whenever he’s home, he gets up every morning to make me breakfast. In winter, he’ll turn the heating on full blast so I don’t get cold. When I get good grades, he’ll say, ‘Not bad,’ but then he’ll go and brag to his old comrades, ‘My grandson is number one in the whole school.’”

Yang Chenglong's voice was a little hoarse.

“He never mentioned this to me. He didn’t say a word about donating money.”

“He probably doesn’t want you to think…” Ye Guigen carefully chose his words, “that you got in through connections.”

“But that’s who I am.” Yang Chenglong gave a wry smile. “At least part of me.”

“Jackie Chan,” Ye Guigen stood up and walked up to him, “Listen to me. You’re in this school not because of the money. It’s because you’re qualified. Your grades speak for themselves, your papers speak for themselves, and you know in your heart how your professors evaluate you.”

"That money only makes you visible. But whether you can stand firm after being seen is up to you."

Yang Chenglong looked at him without saying a word.

“Do you know how my dad got into Harvard?” Ye Guigen said. “My grandfather donated a building.”

Yang Chenglong was stunned for a moment.

“It’s true. It’s a building. The Harvard East Asian Research Center, there’s a floor called ‘Ye’s Hall’. My dad studied at Harvard for three years and was in the top three in the entire department. But whenever people asked him how he got in, he always said it was through a donation.”

"why?"

“Because that’s the truth,” Ye Guigen said. “But it’s not the whole truth. The truth is, someone else opened that door, but he walked the path that led him there.”

Yang Chenglong remained silent for a long time.

There were birds chirping outside the window; it's quite a rare thing to hear birds chirping in the heart of London.

"When did you find out?" he asked.

“Last year,” Ye Guigen said, “my grandfather told me. He said your grandfather donated this money and told me not to tell anyone. He said he would be unhappy if you knew.”

"Then why are you saying this now?"

Ye Guigen thought about it.

"Because I've found that if you don't talk about it, it will become a thorn in your side. The less you know, the deeper the thorn will pierce. And when you finally find out, it will be even more painful."

Yang Chenglong leaned against the windowsill, looking up at the ceiling.

"Where is your grandfather now?" he asked.

"Junken City. At home."

Yang Chenglong took out his phone and checked the time. Junken City is seven hours behind London; it should be evening there.

He dialed Yang Geyong's number.

It rang three times, then I answered.

"Hello?" Yang Geyong's voice came through the receiver, with a heavy Northwestern accent, and the sound of a television in the background, as if the news was being broadcast.

"grandfather."

"Hmm. What's wrong? Out of money?"

"No. I have money."

"Then why make a phone call? It's a waste of money."

Yang Chenglong took a deep breath.

"Grandpa, I know about UCL."

There was a three-second silence on the other end of the phone. The news broadcast was still going on, with the announcer saying that a leader from a certain country was visiting.

"Who told you?" Yang Geyong's voice changed. It was no longer the casual, carefree tone from before, but rather it became deep and somber, like a stone thrown into deep water.

"That's what I told you."

There was another five seconds of silence.

“This ‘returning to one’s roots’,” Yang Geyong muttered, “is looser than a cotton-padded trouser waistband.”

Yang Chenglong almost burst out laughing, but he held it in.

"Grandpa, why didn't you tell me?"

A sigh came from the other end of the phone. Yang Geyong turned off the TV, and the background fell silent.

"Why would I tell you?" he said, "So you'd feel ashamed?"

"It's not shameful—"

"So that's what makes you feel like you owe me?" Yang Geyong raised his voice. "Jackie Chan, let me tell you, you don't owe me anything. I spent that money willingly. You're my grandson, who else would I spend it on if not you?"

"But you can just give it to me directly—"

"If I just gave it to you, would you be able to get into UCL?" Yang Geyong interrupted him. "I know your grades are good enough. But do you know how difficult it is to study abroad these days? Do you know how many people have stronger connections and more powerful backing than you?"

"I didn't help you cheat, I just helped you open the door. After you opened it, you went in by yourself, it has nothing to do with me."

Yang Chenglong held his phone, speechless.

“Jackie Chan,” Yang Geyong’s voice softened, taking on a hoarse quality typical of an old man, “Your mother is busy, your father is busy. I haven’t given you anything good in my life. And besides money, I don’t have anything good to offer. If I don’t give it to you, what am I supposed to do with it? Buy a coffin?”

"grandfather--"

"Alright, alright," Yang Geyong reverted to his usual carefree tone.
"Stop being so dramatic. If you really feel bad, then study hard. Don't embarrass me. Also, did you receive the milk tea powder? I asked someone to bring it from Yili, it's authentic. Share some with that kid Ye Guigen, don't keep it all to yourself."

"received."

"Okay. I'm hanging up. International calls are expensive."

beep - beep - beep -

Yang Chenglong put down his phone and looked at the call log on the screen: 2 minutes and 47 seconds.

In two minutes and forty-seven seconds, he resolved something he thought would be very complicated.

This is Yang Geyong. He speaks for no more than three minutes, but every word he utters is like a nail, hitting the nail on the head.

"How is it?" Ye Guigen asked.

Yang Chenglong put his phone in his pocket and took a deep breath.

He told me not to be dramatic.

Ye Guigen smiled. "So what do you plan to do?"

Yang Chenglong thought for a moment, then walked to the bedside, opened the packet of milk tea powder, and poured two cups. He mixed them with hot water, handing one cup to Ye Guigen.

"I'll have milk tea," he said. "The salty kind."

Ye Guigen took it, frowned, and took a sip.

"I still can't get used to the taste."

"You'll get used to it after drinking it a lot."

The two sat on the bed, each holding a cup of salty milk tea. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the cups and causing wisps of steam to rise.

“Going back on our roots,” Yang Chenglong said, “how did you feel when your grandfather donated a building?”

Ye Guigen thought about it.

"To be honest? I think it's pretty awesome."

Yang Chenglong glanced at him.

“Really,” Ye Guigen said, “At the time, I thought, my grandfather is really rich. But then I realized, it’s not about the money. It’s about his willingness. He’s willing to spend the money he earns on things he feels are worthwhile. My dad is worthwhile, and so am I. Your grandfather also thinks you are worthwhile. That’s enough.”

Yang Chenglong didn't speak. He took a sip of milk tea; it was salty and astringent, but there was a sweet aftertaste.

“Your grandfather,” he said, “did he spend all his money?”

Ye Guigen thought about the five million yuan that Yang Geyong gave to Yang Wei, about the donation, and about the faded military overcoat that Yang Geyong usually wore.

“Probably,” he said. “But he doesn’t care. The kind of person he is, thinks it’s better to spend money on something worthwhile than to save it.”

Yang Chenglong nodded.

The sunlight outside the window dimmed a bit as a cloud drifted by, obscuring the sun. But after a while, the cloud drifted away, and the sunlight shone in again.

“Back to one’s roots,” Yang Chenglong said. “Thank you for telling me.”

Ye Guigen waved his hand. "Don't thank me. I'm just afraid that if you hear it from someone else one day, you'll feel even worse."

After the two finished their milk tea, Ye Guigen stood up to leave.

“By the way,” he said, turning back as he walked to the door, “your grandfather was right about what he said last time. Don’t be sentimental. Every day you’re at this school, you’ve earned it yourself. That money only brought you here; you’re the one who stays.”

The door closed.

Yang Chenglong sat alone on the bed, looking out the window.

The sun was shining brightly, and the sky was a clear blue. The clock tower in the distance gleamed in the sunlight; the chimes hadn't rung yet, it was almost the hour.

He picked up his phone and sent a message to Yang Geyong.

"Grandpa, the milk tea is delicious. I shared some with Guigen. He said he still can't get used to it, but I told him he'll get used to it if he drinks more."

The reply came quickly, just four words.

"That's right."

Yang Chenglong looked at those four words and smiled.

He placed his phone next to his pillow, picked up the book "Introduction to Rural Development" from the table, and turned to Chapter 3.

Outside the window, the sun is shining brightly.

Ye Guigen left Yang Chenglong's dormitory and, instead of going straight back to his own place, took a stroll around the campus.

He walked slowly with his hands in his pockets, like an idle man with nothing to do. The sunlight shone on him, warm and comforting, making him a little sleepy.

As he walked across the lawn, he saw a boy practicing skateboarding. The boy fell, got up, dusted off his pants, and then fell again.

He stood by and watched for three minutes. The boy fell four times, and on the fifth time, he finally slid off at a wobbly distance of more than ten meters.

"Awesome!" Ye Guigen exclaimed.

The boy turned around, gave him the middle finger, but was smiling.

Ye Guigen smiled and continued walking forward.

He walked to the entrance of the XJ restaurant next to the school and pushed the door open. The owner was a man in his fifties who came from WLMQ and spoke with a strong mutton kebab accent.

"You're here? What's for dinner today?"

"Large portion of hand-pulled noodles."

"Okay. Have a seat."

Ye Guigen found a seat by the window, took out his phone, and sent a message to Ye Yini.

"When are you coming to London? Hans is asking for your autograph."

The reply came very quickly.

"Brother, are you using me as a favor again?"

"No. He's a real fan. He's German; he was the one who chased you all the way to Paris."

"Hahaha, okay. Next month. For the new album promotion, you buy me milk tea."

"Okay. Salty."

"roll."

Ye Guigen smiled and put his phone away. The hand-pulled noodles arrived, a huge plateful, the noodles as thick as chopsticks, topped with scrambled eggs with tomatoes and beef with green peppers. He broke off a pair of disposable chopsticks and began to eat heartily.

Halfway through the meal, my phone rang again. This time it was Elizabeth.

"Where are you?"

"XJ Restaurant next to the school. We eat hand-pulled noodles."

"what is that?"

"Noodles. Are you coming?"

"No, I'm in a meeting. Are you free tonight? My dad wants to see you."

Ye Guigen's chopsticks stopped in mid-air.

"Your father?"

“Mr. Cavendish. He wants to talk to you about the fund.”

"Oh. Okay. What time?"

"Seven o'clock. I'll send you the address."

"it is good."

He put down his phone and continued eating his noodles. But suddenly his appetite wasn't as good.

Mr. Cavendish. Elizabeth's father. The head of a prominent British financial family. He had met him once, at a charity dinner last year. They shook hands, exchanged three sentences, and he felt scrutinized by the man's gaze throughout, as if he were a commodity awaiting valuation.

He wasn't afraid. He just felt tired.

I've been with Elizabeth for almost a year now, and our relationship has always been simple—cooperation, companionship, and occasional intimacy.

No promises, no future, only the present. Elizabeth said it was good this way, and he thought it was good this way too.

But meeting the parents is never something that seems "simple".

He finished the last few bites of noodles, paid the bill, and walked out of the restaurant.

The sun was still warm, but he started sweating.

At seven o'clock in the evening, Ye Guigen arrived at the agreed place on time. It wasn't the Cavendish family's manor, but an office building in the City of London, on the top floor with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city's nightscape.

Elizabeth was waiting for him at the door. She was wearing a black dress, her hair was up, revealing her long neck and a pair of pearl earrings.

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

"I'm not nervous," Ye Guigen said.

"You touch your ear when you lie."

Ye Guigen took his hand off his ear.

Elizabeth smiled and reached out to straighten his collar. "Don't be afraid. He just wants to see you. He won't eat you."

"I'm not afraid."

"Then why do you keep touching your ears?"

Ye Guigen put his hands into his pockets.

Mr. Cavendish was waiting in his office. He was in his early sixties, with gray hair that was neatly combed.

He was wearing a dark blue suit, no tie, and the top button of his shirt was undone. He stood in front of the French windows, holding a glass of whiskey, and turned around when he heard the door open.

“Mr. Ye.” He extended his hand.

“Mr. Cavendish.” Ye Guigen shook hands. The other man’s hand was dry and strong, and he released it after two seconds.

"Sit down. What would you like to drink?"

"Water is fine. Thank you."

Mr. Cavendish glanced at him and nodded slightly. It was unclear whether he was pleased with the choice of "water" or with the politeness of "thank you."

The three people sat on the sofa. Elizabeth sat next to Ye Guigen, and Mr. Cavendish sat opposite her.

“Elizabeth told me about your fund,” Mr. Cavendish said bluntly, “Cornerstone and Wings. Nice name. What projects has it invested in?”

"Two. One is in North Africa, a photovoltaic agriculture project. The other is in Kenya, rural microcredit."

"What about the rate of return?"

"The North African projects are not profitable yet. The Kenyan projects have an annualized return of about 12%."

Mr. Cavendish picked up his whiskey, took a sip, and his expression remained unchanged.

Do you know what my fund's annualized return is?

"do not know."

"Last year it was 18%. The average over the past ten years has been 15%."

Ye Guigen remained silent.

"Your 12% is nothing in the market."

Mr. Cavendish said, "Those two projects you invested in, most people probably wouldn't even look at them. North Africa? The political risk is too high. Kenya? The credit risk is too high. Why did you invest?"

Ye Guigen thought for a moment and said, "Because someone needs it."

Mr. Cavendish looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds.

“Elizabeth told me that you are a different kind of young man. I met you today and I think she was right. But you have to know that in the business world, the words ‘someone needs’ are worthless.”

“I know,” Ye Guigen said. “So what I invested in wasn’t goodwill, but a need. That village in North Africa lacked electricity, water, and jobs.”

"Photovoltaic agriculture projects can solve these three problems. Once they are solved, they can make money. Once they make money, they can be replicated. The project in Kenya is the same."

Mr. Cavendish did not speak immediately. He put down his wine glass, leaned back on the sofa, and sized up Ye Guigen.

"How old are you?"

"nineteen."

“When I was nineteen, I was studying at Cambridge. Every day I was thinking about how to get on the cricket team and how to pick up the prettiest girl at the ball. I never thought about ‘anyone needing me’.”

Ye Guigen didn't know what to say, so he remained silent.

"I've met your father, Ye Feng. It was at an investment summit in New York in 1998. He had just founded the Brothers Group, was in his early thirties, and was full of vigor."

I was giving a speech on stage, and he was asking questions in the audience. He asked a really tricky question that left me speechless.

Ye Guigen was taken aback. He had never heard of this before.

“We became friends later,” Mr. Cavendish continued. “He’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. But you’re not like him.”

"What's different?"

“He’s like a knife, sharp, direct, and deadly. You’re like…” Mr. Cavendish thought for a moment:

"You are like a stone. An unpolished stone. Angular, but not sharp. Ordinary-looking, but with something inside."

Elizabeth smiled slightly.

"Dad, your analogy is too poetic."

Mr. Cavendish glanced at his daughter, and the corners of his mouth curled up slightly—the closest Ye Guigen had ever seen to his expression of "smile."

“Mr. Ye,” he said, “I’m not interested in your fund. A 12% return isn’t worth my time. But I’m interested in you as a person. Elizabeth rarely brings people to meet me. You’re the first.”

Ye Guigen glanced at Elizabeth. She was looking down, fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist, her ears slightly red.

“So,” Mr. Cavendish stood up, “what I want to say today is: don’t let my daughter down.”

Ye Guigen also stood up.

"I won't."

Mr. Cavendish looked at him and nodded.

"Let's go. It's late. Let Elizabeth see you off."

The two walked out of the office building, the London night breeze blowing against them, carrying a damp chill. The lights of the City of London shone behind them, and the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf looked like luminous crystal pillars.

“Your father…” Ye Guigen said.

"Ok?"

"That's pretty scary."

Elizabeth smiled. "You did a great job just now. He rarely praises people. Saying you 'have something inside' is the highest compliment he can give."

"He was talking about something my dad did in 1998 that made him lose face, do you know that?"

"I don't know. He never tells me these things."

The two walked along the Thames for a while. The water was dark, but it reflected the lights on both banks, creating a shimmering effect.

“After all,” Elizabeth suddenly said, “were you sincere about what you just said—'because someone needs it'?”

Ye Guigen stopped and looked at her.

"It's true."

Elizabeth stopped and stood in front of him. The streetlight shone on her face, half bright and half dark.

“You know, I’ve met a lot of people. In London, in New York, in Paris. They all say they want to change the world. But most of them are just talking. You’re different. What you say and what you do are the same things.”

Ye Guigen didn't know how to respond to that sentence.

“I’m not praising you,” Elizabeth said. “I’m saying why I’m willing to be with you. Not because of your family, not because of your foundation, but because you are genuine.”

Ye Guigen looked at her and suddenly felt a little embarrassed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Elizabeth smiled. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

The two continued walking. Ye Guigen's phone vibrated in his pocket, but he didn't look at it.

It was almost ten o'clock when I got back to the dorm. Hans was watching TV in the living room; it was a German documentary about beer brewing.

"You're back?" Hans asked without turning around. "Did you know your sister is coming to London for a concert next month?"

"know."

"Can you get me some front-row tickets?"

"can."

Hans then turned his head and looked at him seriously.

"Are you serious?"

"Seriously. But I have one condition."

"What conditions?"

"Help me with my econometrics homework."

Hans's face fell. "I'm a philosophy major!"

"Didn't you say last time that philosophy is the study of all studies? If it's the study of all studies, writing an econometrics assignment shouldn't be difficult, right?"

Hans paused for three seconds, then turned back to continue watching his documentary.

"I'll get you tickets, you do my homework. Want to trade?"

"No change."

"That's it."

"Wait—" Hans turned his head again, his face contorted in pain as if he were having a tooth pulled, "Which chapter?"

Chapter Seven. The Instrumental Variable Method.

Hans took a deep breath.

"make a deal."

Ye Guigen smiled, went into his room, and closed the door.

He lay in bed, took out his phone, and saw the message he had just received. It was from Yang Chenglong.

"In conclusion, I've thought a lot today, about my grandfather donating money. You're right, someone else opened that door, but I walked the path myself after I stepped through it. I won't think about it anymore. What I owe my grandfather isn't repaying a debt, but moving forward."

Ye Guigen smiled as he read the passage.

He replied.

"That's right. Stop being so dramatic."

Yang Chenglong's reply came quickly, just one word.

"roll."

Ye Guigen placed his phone next to his pillow, turned over, and closed his eyes.

Outside the window, the London night sky was devoid of stars, but he knew that eight thousand kilometers away, in the Junken City, the night sky was full of them.

In May, London enters exam season.

A heavy atmosphere hung over the entire campus. The library was open 24 hours a day, the coffee machine was used three times more often, and everyone wore an expression that seemed to say, "Why did I choose this course?"

Yang Chenglong sat in a corner of the library, with three textbooks and a large stack of notes spread out in front of him. His hair was a mess, like a bird's nest, and his eyes were bloodshot.

He had been studying for six hours straight, only going to the bathroom once, drinking two cups of coffee, and eating an energy bar. “This,” he said, pointing to a formula in his notebook, to Ye Guigen sitting opposite him, “explain it to me again.”

Ye Guigen leaned closer for a look. "This is a method for correcting heteroscedasticity. Weighted least squares. What don't you understand?"

"All."

Ye Guigen remained silent for a moment.

"Didn't you say your grandfather told you to study hard?"

"Yes. But he didn't say the book was that hard to read."

Ye Guigen suppressed a laugh, picked up his pen, and re-derived the steps on the paper. He wrote slowly, step by step, explaining each step clearly.

Yang Chenglong stared at the paper, frowning as if he were deciphering a life-or-death code.

"I think I understand," he said.

"Do it again."

Yang Chenglong picked up a pen and worked out the formula himself. He got stuck halfway through, but Ye Guigen pointed it out, and he continued. After finishing, he looked at the page full of formulas and let out a long sigh.

"If my grandfather saw me now, he would probably think I'm too stupid."

What did your grandfather study back then?

"He never went to college."

Ye Guigen leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "He started herding sheep at sixteen and worked his way up to where he is today. He never studied economics, but every decision he made was more accurate than anything written in books."

“That’s because he’s done it before,” Yang Chenglong said. “The things in books are summaries by others, but the things he did were summaries by himself.”

Ye Guigen glanced at him. "You're starting to sound more and more like your dad."

"You're starting to sound more and more like your grandfather."

The two looked at each other and then smiled.

The laughter sounded particularly jarring in the quiet library. A girl reading a book next to them looked up and glared at them fiercely.

"I'm sorry," they both said at the same time.

On the afternoon of the day he finished his last exam, Ye Guigen walked out of the exam room, stood on the steps at the entrance of the teaching building, and took a deep breath.

The sky was blue, the wind was warm, and even the gray buildings of London seemed more pleasing to the eye.

The phone rang. It was Ye Yini.

"Brother, I've arrived in London! Have you finished your exams?"

"Just finished the exam."

"Then come pick me up quickly! I'm at the hotel. Has Hans arrived yet?"

Ye Guigen was taken aback. "Hans knew you were here?"

He said he wanted to come and get an autograph. Didn't you tell him?

Ye Guigen thought about it and realized that he had indeed forgotten.

"I'm coming right away."

When he arrived at the hotel, the lobby was already in complete chaos.

Hans, having somehow gotten wind of the situation, arrived ten minutes earlier than Ye Guigen.

He stood in the center of the lobby, like a sculpture, wearing a faded German national team jersey and holding a poster of Ye Yini.

Several staff members tried to stop him, but he remained unmoved.

"Hans!" Ye Guigen walked over. "What are you doing?"

"I need an autograph!" Hans's eyes gleamed frighteningly. "You promised me!"

"I'm talking about after the concert! You'll get thrown out by security if you stay like this!"

"I do not care!"

Just then, the elevator doors opened. Ye Yini stepped out, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, her hair tied in a ponytail, and without makeup, looking like an ordinary nineteen-year-old girl.

But Hans's eyes shone even brighter.

“Ye Yini!” He held up the poster, his voice trembling, “I’m your fan! I’m from Germany! I attended three of your concerts! London, Berlin, and Paris!”

Ye Yini paused for a moment, then saw Ye Guigen beside her.

"elder brother?"

Ye Guigen covered his face.

Ten minutes later, the four of them were sitting in a coffee shop next to the hotel.

Ye Yini signed the poster and took a photo with Hans. Hans held the poster as if it were a rare treasure, his expression somewhere between ecstasy and dazedness.

"Are you alright?" Yang Chenglong asked him.

“I’m fine,” Hans said, his voice fading. “I have no regrets in this life.”

Ye Yini looked at him and couldn't help but smile.

Are you German?

Yes. From Hamburg.

"Hamburg? I've been there. I had a concert there."

"I know! November 15, 2019! Elbphilharmonie! I was sitting in the third row!"

Ye Yini glanced at Ye Guigen, her eyes saying: You're serious about being my roommate.

Ye Guigen shrugged, his eyes replying: I already said so.

“Ye Yini,” Hans suddenly became serious, “I’ve listened to your new song, ‘The Light of the Military Reclamation City.’ It’s very good. But I have a question.”

"What's the problem?"

"Where is the Military Reclamation City? I've been to many places in China, such as Beijing, Shanghai, Xi'an, and Chengdu. But I've never heard of the Military Reclamation City."

Ye Yini glanced at Ye Guigen.

“You say it,” she said.

Ye Guigen picked up his coffee and took a sip.

“Military reclamation city,” he said, “is located in Northwest China, in Xinjiang, on the edge of the Gobi Desert. My great-grandfather’s generation went there. Back then, there was nothing, just a wasteland. They built houses, reclaimed land, and planted trees themselves. They worked for decades and built a city.”

Hans listened very attentively.

"Was your great-grandfather a soldier?"

"No. He was a farmer. But back then, people who went there were called 'military reclamation workers.' They weren't soldiers; they were people who reclaimed the land."

Hans remained silent for a moment.

“So that song,” he said, “was it about them?”

“Yes,” Ye Yini said. “I’ve never been to the military reclamation city. But my grandfather told me a lot of stories. Those stories inspired me to write this song.”

Hans lowered his head and looked at the poster in his hand.

“I understand,” he said.

Then he stood up, carefully rolled up the poster, and put it into his backpack.

"Thank you," he said to Ye Yini. "Your song is very good. It's not just pleasant to listen to. It has power."

Ye Yini paused for a moment, then smiled.

"Thank you."

Hans left. As he walked out of the café, his steps were light and airy, as if he were walking on clouds.

“Your roommate,” Ye Yini said, “is a real talent.”

“He’s a philosophy major,” Ye Guigen said. “He’s always thinking about random things.”

“That’s not just idle talk. He said my songs are ‘powerful,’ which is the best compliment I’ve ever received.”

Ye Guigen didn't speak. He looked out the window as Hans's figure disappeared around the street corner.

“Let’s go,” he stood up, “I’ll take you to eat some hand-pulled noodles.”

"Pulled noodles?" Ye Yini's eyes lit up.

"A new XJ restaurant has opened next to the school. It's authentic."

The three of them walked out of the coffee shop and down the street. Ye Yini walked in the middle, while Ye Guigen and Yang Chenglong walked on either side.

"Brother," Ye Yini said, "how did you do on the exam?"

"It's alright. I should be able to pass."

"should?"

"There's an econometrics course, but I'm not entirely sure."

What will Grandpa say when he finds out?

He would say, "As long as you pass, the grade doesn't matter."

Ye Yini smiled. "He always says that. But when I got first place, he would secretly call everyone."

Ye Guigen smiled too.

Yang Chenglong walked beside them, listening to the siblings' conversation, and a slight smile appeared on his lips.

He thought of Yang Geyong. That old man who would say "It's alright" but then turn around and brag to his old comrades.

Upon reaching the restaurant entrance, Ye Guigen pushed open the door.

"Boss, three bowls of hand-pulled noodles. Large portions."

"Alright! Have a seat!"

The three of them found seats by the window. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the table and their young faces.

Ye Yini looked out the window and suddenly asked, "Brother, what do you think Grandpa is doing right now?"

Ye Guigen checked his watch. Junken City is seven hours behind London; it should be morning there.

"He's probably reading in his study, or watering the flowers in the backyard, or playing chess with Grandpa Yang."

How is Grandpa Yang's health?

"I'm much better now after my last hospitalization. I even went for a horse ride a few days ago."

Ye Yini smiled. "No one can stop Grandpa Yang."

The hand-pulled noodles arrived. Three large plates, piled high, the noodles as thick as chopsticks, topped with scrambled eggs with tomatoes and beef with green peppers.

"Eat up." Ye Guigen handed the chopsticks to Ye Yini.

Ye Yini took it, picked up a large mouthful, and stuffed it into her mouth.

"Delicious!" Her eyes lit up. "A hundred times better than those Chinese restaurants in London!"

“Of course,” Ye Guigen said. “The authentic one.”

The three of them began to eat heartily. Sunlight shone on the plate, on the noodles, and on their smiling faces.

Outside the window, the streets of London bustled with people. There were office workers, tourists, students, and mothers pushing strollers. Everyone was going about their own business.

But in this small restaurant, three young people from the military reclamation city sat together, eating a bowl of hand-pulled noodles.

The noodles are salty, the soup is sour, but my heart is sweet.

Ye Guigen's phone rang. It was a video call from Ye Yuze.

He answered the call. On the screen, Ye Yuze sat in a chair in the study, holding a cup of tea. Behind him, the bookshelves were filled with books and photos.

"grandfather."

"Are you done with the exam?"

"The exam is over."

"How about it?"

"It's alright. There's one subject I'm not entirely sure about."

Ye Yuze nodded, without asking which subject it was or what score he got.

"What about your sister?"

"Over there. Eating hand-pulled noodles."

Ye Guigen handed the phone to Ye Yini. Ye Yini took the phone, her mouth still full of noodles, and mumbled, "Grandpa!"

Ye Yuze looked at his granddaughter on the screen and smiled.

"Eat slowly. Don't choke."

"good to eat!"

"Eat more if it's delicious. Don't try to save money."

"understood."

Ye Yuze spoke a few more words to Yang Chenglong. It was nothing more than "study hard" and "take care of your health." Then he looked at the three young people on the screen and remained silent for a while.

“You three,” he said, “are doing well.”

Then it hung up.

Ye Yini returned the phone to Ye Guigen, and stared blankly at the black screen for a moment.

"What's wrong with Grandpa?" she asked. "He's been so quiet today."

Ye Guigen thought about it.

"He probably just wanted to see us."

The three of them finished their noodles. Ye Guigen paid the bill and walked out of the restaurant. The sunlight shone on their faces, warm and pleasant.

“Let’s go,” he said to Ye Yini, “I’ll take you back to your hotel. There’s a concert tomorrow, get some rest.”

"elder brother."

"Ok?"

"Thank you. You treated me to noodles."

Ye Guigen reached out and ruffled her hair.

"No need to thank me. You're my sister."

Ye Yini pushed his hand away and glared at him.

"Don't touch my hair!"

The three of them laughed as they walked into the spring sunshine of London.

Three days after the concert ended, Ye Yini flew back to the United States.

Ye Guigen took her to the airport. In front of the security checkpoint, Ye Yini turned around and looked at him.

"elder brother."

"Ah."

"You're doing well in London."

"I know."

"Stop staying up late. Stop drinking coffee all the time. Stop arguing with Elizabeth all the time."

"We didn't argue."

"Then don't make her angry."

Ye Guigen laughed. "When did you become a relationship expert?"

Ye Yini didn't smile. She looked at Ye Guigen, her eyes holding something indescribable.

"Brother, sometimes I wonder, aren't you tired living alone in London?"

Ye Guigen was taken aback.

"I'm not tired," he said.

"You touch your ear when you lie."

Ye Guigen took his hand off his ear.

“A little,” he said.

Ye Yini nodded.

“Me too,” she said. “When I was in America, I would get tired when I was alone. But when I thought of Grandpa, Dad, and you, I didn’t feel tired anymore.”

Ye Guigen looked at her and suddenly felt a pang of sadness.

“You’ve grown up,” he said.

“I’m all grown up now.” Ye Yini glared at him. “You’ve always treated me like a child.”

"You'll always be a child in my eyes."

Ye Yini didn't say anything, but reached out and hugged him.

"I'm leaving." She let go of his hand, picked up her backpack, and turned to walk into the security checkpoint.

Ye Guigen stood there, watching her figure disappear into the crowd.

Then he turned around, walked out of the airport, and took the subway back to the city.

The subway rumbled along, the carriage packed with people. Some were looking at their phones, some were sleeping, and some were lost in thought. Ye Guigen leaned against the door, looking out at the tunnel, pitch black except for the occasional flash of a light.

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

My sister is gone.

"Yes. Are you alright?"

"good."

"You touch your ear when you lie."

Ye Guigen took his hand off his ear and smiled.

"You're just as annoying as my sister."

"Then you should change your habit of touching your ears."

Ye Guigen put his phone away, leaned against the car door, and closed his eyes.

The subway emerged from the tunnel, and sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating his face. It felt warm and cozy.

He remembered many things.

I remember Grandpa drinking tea in his study, Grandma making braised fish, the tombstone on the hill behind the military reclamation town, and Yang Geyong riding his horse through the snow.

I think of that village in North Africa, of Fatima's eyes, and of what Mbeki said: "True success is whether the locals can function on their own after you leave."

I recall Elizabeth's words on the banks of the Thames: "You are real."

I am reminded of what Yang Chenglong said: "The biggest problem for our generation is that we have never experienced hardship, but we know what it is like to experience hardship."

I recalled what Ye Yini said at the airport: "Thinking about them makes me feel less tired."

The subway arrived at the station. He opened his eyes, stood up, and stepped out of the carriage.

The platform was bustling with people, their footsteps echoing. He followed the flow of people up the subway line, and as he exited, the sunlight streamed in.

He stood at the subway station entrance, squinting at the sky.

The sky was blue, the clouds were white, and the wind was gentle.

He took out his phone and checked the time. Three o'clock in the afternoon. Springtime in London, the sun at its brightest.

Instead of returning to his dormitory, he turned onto a side path and walked slowly.

Rows of houses lined both sides of the path, with red brick walls, white window frames, and flowers planted in front of the doors. Tulips were in bloom, red, yellow, and purple, dazzling in the sunlight.

He walked to a small square and found a bench to sit down.

An old man sat on a bench, feeding pigeons. He wore an old overcoat, his hair was completely white, and the wrinkles on his face looked like they were carved by a knife.

"Good afternoon," Ye Guigen said in English.

"Good afternoon." The old man glanced at him and continued sprinkling breadcrumbs.

Pigeons fluttered over and surrounded the ground.

"Are you a student?" the old man asked.

Yes. From the London School of Economics.

What do you study?

"Development economics".

The old man nodded. "It's a very professional field, but it's not easy to learn."

"Yes. It's quite difficult."

“The difficult part isn’t economics,” the old man said, “it’s development. Economics has formulas, models, and data. Development doesn’t. Development is about people, about life, about how to live.”

Ye Guigen looked at him, somewhat surprised.

What did you do before?

“Me?” The old man thought for a moment. “I’ve done a lot of things. I spent ten years in India and fifteen years in Africa. I’ve done aid work, projects, and assessments. But I found that in the end, nothing beats a small cooperative run by a local.”

Ye Guigen remained silent.

"Do you know why?" the old man asked.

"why?"

"Because it belongs to them. It wasn't given to them by others, nor built by outsiders; it's their own. Only things that belong to them will be cherished. Only paths that belong to them will be walked."

The old man finished scattering the breadcrumbs in his hand, clapped his hands, and stood up.

"Young man, study hard. But don't just learn from books. What's in books is the path others have walked. You have to walk your own path."

He left. Slowly, with a hunched back, he disappeared around the street corner.

Ye Guigen sat alone on a bench, watching the flock of pigeons.

After the pigeon finished eating the breadcrumbs, it circled around on the ground a few times, then fluttered up and flew up, circling over the square before landing on the rooftop opposite.

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

"Where are you?"

"The library. What's wrong?"

"Let's go for a walk. The weather's nice."

"Where?"

"Just taking a walk."

A little while later, Yang Chenglong arrived. He was wearing a gray hoodie, carrying a backpack, and holding a cup of coffee.

"Aren't you in class?" he asked.

"Exams are over. No more classes."

The two walked slowly along the path. The sunlight shone on them, casting long and short shadows behind them.

“I received a message from my dad,” Yang Chenglong said, “The platform’s second batch of sheep has been sent out. The boss in Guangzhou is very satisfied and said he wants to sign a five-year contract.”

"That's great news."

"Yes. Also, the road to Qingshuihe Ranch has been repaired. Bahiti—that is, Grandpa Habuli's grandson—is learning technology on the platform and is learning very quickly."

“Your dad is a really capable man,” Ye Guigen said.

Yang Chenglong nodded.

The two people came to a fork in the road. The road to the left led back to school, while the road to the right led to the Thames.

"Which way?" Yang Chenglong asked.

Ye Guigen thought about it.

"Let's walk towards the river."

The two turned right onto the road. After walking for about twenty minutes, they reached the Thames River.

The river water was still dark, but the sunlight shining on it made it sparkle and look a little better.

The buildings on the opposite bank gleamed in the sunlight, some with modern glass curtain walls, others with ancient stone churches, all crammed together in a chaotic yet pleasing manner.

The two leaned against the railing by the river, watching the water flow slowly.

"Let's get back to basics," Yang Chenglong said. "Tell me, what will we be doing ten years from now?"

Ye Guigen thought about it.

"I don't know. Maybe in the military reclamation city, maybe in London, maybe somewhere else."

Do you want to go back to Junken City?

Ye Guigen remained silent for a while.

"I want to. But not now. If I go back now, I won't know anything. I need to learn something solid here first before going back."

Yang Chenglong nodded.

"Me too."

The two remained silent for a while. The river flowed beneath their feet, unhurried and unhurried, with an air of nonchalant ease.

“Jackie Chan,” Ye Guigen said, “do you think we’re being too hasty?”

"What's the rush?"

"Everything is rushed. Rushing to learn things, rushing to do things, rushing to prove oneself."

Yang Chenglong thought for a moment.

"Maybe. But isn't that how it is when you're young?"

Ye Guigen smiled. "That's true."

He took a coin out of his pocket, twirled it between his fingers twice, and then flicked it up. The coin tumbled a few times in the air, flashed twice in the sunlight, and then fell down, which he caught.

"Heads or tails?" he asked Yang Chenglong.

"front."

Ye Guigen opened his palm. It was the reverse side.

“I lost,” he said, putting the coin back in his pocket.

What did you bet on?

"I didn't gamble anything. I just threw it in randomly."

Yang Chenglong looked at him without saying a word.

“You know,” Ye Guigen leaned against the railing, looking up at the sky, “my grandfather once told me something. He said, ‘Guigen, the road ahead is long, but there’s no rush.’ I didn’t understand it before. Now I think I understand a little.”

"What do you understand?"

"I understand why he said he wasn't in a hurry to leave. It wasn't because he didn't want to leave, but because he knew the road was there and he couldn't run away from it. Taking it slow would actually take him further."

Yang Chenglong didn't speak. He looked at the river, watching the sunlight shatter into a golden hue on its surface.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We have class tomorrow.”

"Didn't you say you finished the exam?"

"I chose a summer course: Rural Development. I'm starting it early."

Ye Guigen looked at him and smiled.

"You really chose it?"

"Really? Aren't you also going to choose agricultural economics?"

"Choose. Let's go together."

The two turned around and walked back the way they came.

The sunlight behind them cast long, long shadows.

The sky in London was still overcast, but spring had truly arrived.

The road ahead is long, but there's no rush.

(To be continued) (End of this chapter)