Great Power Reclamation

In October, it rained incessantly in London.

Yang Chenglong sat at his desk in his dormitory, with the original French version of "The Little Prince" spread out in front of him and a cup of tea that had gone cold next to him.

By the time he reached Chapter Seven, he had already looked up over forty words, writing each one neatly in his notebook, with its phonetic transcription and Chinese definition next to it.

His French was still at the level of "Bonjour" and "Merci," but he read this book carefully. Not because of his French, but because of the person who gave him the book.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Lin Wanwan.

"Did you receive the book?"

"Received. Reading it."

"Can you understand it?"

"I don't understand. I'm looking it up in the dictionary."

The other person sent a smiling emoji. "Good luck. You can ask me if you don't understand."

Yang Chenglong looked at the line of text and a slight smile appeared on his lips. He wanted to say, "Teach me," but thought it was too cheesy and deleted it. He wanted to say "Okay," but thought that would be too perfunctory. In the end, he sent a message:
"how have you been?"

The reply came a little slowly. About two minutes later.

"It's alright. I've started working. I work for a foreign trade company, dealing with the European market."

Are you tired?

"It's alright. Better than staying at home."

Yang Chenglong thought for a moment, typed a line, deleted it, typed it again, deleted it again. Finally, he sent a very clumsy message:
"Don't overwork yourself. Go to bed early."

He regretted it as soon as he sent it. That sounds just like his mother.

But Lin Wanwan didn't mind and replied, "You too. Don't stay up late studying French, you have class tomorrow."

Yang Chenglong looked at the words and smiled. He put his phone on the table and continued flipping through "The Little Prince".

The two of them were doing quite well in London, and their online store was doing well too. But Lin Wanwan's family forced her to go back, so the two of them separated.

He read in Chapter Three, where the Little Prince said, "People don't have time to learn anything. They buy things ready-made in stores. But there are no stores where you can buy friends, so people have no friends."

He understood the sentence; he didn't need to look it up in the dictionary.

A few days later, Lin Wanwan sent a long message.

"Yang Chenglong, I have an idea. Since returning to China, I haven't had any good development. I'm tired of my current life, plus... plus I miss you."

I work for a foreign trade company and have come into contact with many European clients. Europeans really like handmade products, especially those with a story behind them. Have you ever thought about expanding your online store?

Yang Chenglong stared at the message, stunned.

He thought of the agricultural assistance platform Yang Wei had created, of Grandpa Habuli's sheep, and of those herders. But a scarf? He hadn't thought about it. It was just something he was doing for fun.

"Tell me more about it."

Lin Wanwan sent a voice message. Her voice sounded more energetic than before, and she spoke more fluently, returning to the capable girl Yang Chenglong had first met.

"Do you have any sources of goods? I have channels. European boutiques and multi-brand stores really like this 'from the Silk Road' concept. The key is that the products have to be good and the story has to be good. When you have time, ask around at home if you can get more styles, and I'll try to promote them."

After listening to the voice message, Yang Chenglong felt a pang of emotion. He recalled the wool scarves drying in Yang Geyong's yard—wove by the herdsmen themselves using traditional methods, with natural dyes and patterns passed down from their ancestors.

He always thought those scarves were tacky, but Lin Wanwan was right. Europeans might think that "tacky" means "authentic" or "has a story."

"I'll ask my family."

He made a phone call to Yang Wei.

"Dad, do the herders in northern Xinjiang weave scarves?"

Yang Wei paused for a moment on the other end of the phone. "They knit. The women of Hongshan Ranch have nothing to do in the winter, so they knit scarves. They use them themselves and sell them. But they don't sell for much; they only sell for a few dozen yuan each."

How's the quality?

"It's great. It's pure wool and hand-knitted. It's just that the design is a bit old-fashioned."

"Can you get some samples? Send a few to Hangzhou. A friend of mine wants to enter the European market."

Yang Wei paused for a moment. "What friends?"

“A…classmate.” Yang Chenglong hesitated for a moment, “who works in foreign trade.”

Yang Wei didn't press the matter. He's the kind of person who won't ask unless his son tells him.

"Okay. I'll have Lin Xiaoyu collect a few. Send me your friend's address."

Three days later, Yang Wei sent ten scarves to Hangzhou. Red, blue, green, plaid, striped—each one was different. Lin Wanwan received them, took photos, and sent them to several European clients.

The first week, nothing happened. The second week, a French client replied.

"Is this scarf handmade? Where is the wool from? What are the components of the dye? Does it come with a certificate?"

Lin Wanwan passed these questions on to Yang Chenglong, who then passed them on to Yang Wei. Yang Wei then went to ask Grandpa Habuli. Grandpa Habuli said:
"The wool comes from our own sheep, and the dye is made from minerals and grass roots from the mountains. We've been dyeing like this for generations. What kind of certificate do we need?"

Yang Chenglong relayed these words to Lin Wanwan verbatim. Lin Wanwan pondered for a moment, then crafted a very elegant copy and sent it to the French client.

"These scarves come from the northern Xinjiang region in Northwest China, close to the ancient Silk Road. The wool comes from Kazakh herders at the foot of the Tianshan Mountains, the dyes come from local minerals and plants, and the scarves are hand-woven by herder women, making each one unique."

After seeing the product, the French customer ordered five, each costing 120 euros.

When Yang Chenglong received Lin Wanwan's call, he was doing his calculus homework in the library.

"Sold!" Lin Wanwan's voice was excited on the other end of the phone. "Five of them, 120 euros each! After deducting shipping and commission, I make a profit on each one... Wait a minute, let me do the math..."

She quickly pressed a few buttons on her calculator. "One line can earn about 500 RMB! Five lines would be 2500!"

Yang Chenglong held his phone, stunned for several seconds.

A scarf that sells for a few dozen yuan in Red Mountain Ranch can sell for 120 euros in Europe—almost a thousand yuan.

"This..." He couldn't speak.

"Can you guarantee a stable supply?" Lin Wanwan asked. "I have a few clients who are interested."

Yang Chenglong snapped out of his daze. "I asked my dad."

He called Yang Wei again. After listening, Yang Wei remained silent for a long time.

"120 euros?" he said, his voice slightly unsteady.

"Yes. Around 1,000 RMB."

There was a silence of about ten seconds on the other end of the phone. Then Yang Wei said, "Son, your friend is very capable."

Yang Chenglong didn't say anything, but the corner of his mouth curled up slightly.

“Supply is not a problem,” Yang Wei said. “There are more than 300 herding households in Hongshan Ranch, and every household weaves scarves. But the problem is the quantity. Hand-woven scarves can only be made by one person for a month, about two or three. If there are more orders, we can’t keep up.”

“Then we’ll find more people,” Yang Chenglong said. “Not just Hongshan Ranch, but the surrounding ranches too.”

Yang Wei thought for a moment. "Okay. I'll have Lin Xiaoyu collect the goods and clear out the inventory. I'll supply whatever orders you have."

After hanging up the phone, Yang Chenglong sent Lin Wanwan a message: "My dad said there's no problem with supply. You can continue to accept orders."

Lin Wanwan replied with an "OK" emoji, and then sent another message: "Yang Chenglong, how do you plan to do this business?"

Yang Chenglong was taken aback. "What? How do I do it?"

"What I mean is, is it going to be a small business or a serious business? If it's going to be a serious business, then we need to have a plan. We need to think clearly about the brand, positioning, channels, and supply chain."

Yang Chenglong stared at the words for a long time.

"What do you think?"

“I think we can scale this up,” Lin Wanwan said. “The European market has a huge demand for these handmade products. The key is to tell a good story. You need to have a story—the Silk Road, the Tianshan pastures, Kazakh herders, hand weaving. Europeans are willing to pay for these stories.”

She paused, then sent another message.

“But you can’t just sell scarves. A scarf costs 120 euros, which sounds good, but the volume won’t be high and the profit will be limited. What you need to do is build a brand – turn the handicrafts of northern Xinjiang into a brand.”

“Scarves, rugs, shawls, hats—anything handmade and with a story can be sold.”

Yang Chenglong's heart skipped a beat as he read these messages.

He thought of Yang Geyong. He remembered what his grandfather had said—"Make the horse farm bigger."

Perhaps this is an opportunity. Not just to help his grandfather, but to help those herders.

"Lin Wanwan," he typed, "would you be willing to help me?"

The reply was very quick.

"Am I already helping?"

"I mean, to help seriously. Not just to play around."

The reply was a little slow this time. About a minute passed.

"Yang Chenglong, do you know what you're saying?"

"know."

"I'm in Hangzhou, and you're in London. We're 8,000 kilometers apart."

"I know."

"Then you still want my help?"

Yang Chenglong took a deep breath and typed a line.

"want."

There was a long silence on the other end. Yang Chenglong stared at the screen, his heart pounding.

Then the news came.

"Okay. But I have one condition."

"What conditions?"

"Don't call me Lin Wanwan anymore. Just call me Wanwan."

Yang Chenglong stared at those two words for a moment, stunned.

Late evening.

He typed it once, then deleted it. He typed it again, then deleted it again. When he finally sent it, his hand was shaking a little.

"Okay, Wanwan."

The other side replied with an emoji, a small flower.

Yang Chenglong put his phone on the table, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling.

It was still raining in London outside the window, the raindrops pattering against the glass.

But his heart was filled with sunshine.

London got cold in November.

Ye Guigen has been back from Kenya for almost two months, and both of the fund's projects are progressing steadily. The photovoltaic agriculture project in North Africa has already started to generate profits, albeit small ones, but the direction is correct.

Cooperatives were also established in Kenya, with Village Chief Joseph serving as chairman, and the first batch of sixty farmers joining.

He was sitting in his dorm room, looking at financial statements on his computer. His phone rang; it was Yang Chenglong.

"Brother, are you in the dorm?"

"Yes. What's wrong?"

"I want to discuss something with you."

Ten minutes later, Yang Chenglong arrived. He was wearing a thick coat, a scarf wrapped around his nose, and his hair was soaked from the rain, with curly hair sticking to his forehead.

"Why aren't you using an umbrella?" Ye Guigen handed him a towel.

"I forgot." Yang Chenglong dried his hair and sat down in the chair.

"what's up?"

Yang Chenglong recounted the scarf business. From Lin Wanwan's suggestion, to the French customer's order, to Yang Wei's supply, to Lin Wanwan's talk of "building a brand."

After listening, Ye Guigen remained silent for a while.

"So you want to expand?"

“Yes,” Yang Chenglong said, “but I’m not sure what to do. I’m a business student, but I’ve only been studying for two months and I don’t know anything.”

Ye Guigen smiled. "When did you become so humble?"

"It's not modesty, I really don't understand," Yang Chenglong said earnestly. "I haven't even figured out calculus yet."

Ye Guigen stood up, walked to the table, and pulled out a notebook. It was the business plan for his "Cornerstone and Wings" fund, which he had prepared last year; it was a thick stack of over forty pages.

"Take a look at this." He handed the notebook to Yang Chenglong.

Yang Chenglong took it and flipped through it. Inside were market analyses, competitive landscapes, financial forecasts, and risk assessments. Every page was densely covered with writing, charts, data, and references.

"Did you write this?"

"Yes. I wrote it last year." Ye Guigen leaned against the windowsill.
“I didn’t understand it at the time either. But if you don’t understand, you have to learn. If you want to build a brand, you have to figure out a few things first: First, what is your product? Second, who are your customers? Third, who are your competitors? Fourth, where are your advantages? Fifth, how do you make money?”

Yang Chenglong listened and memorized each point.

“And another thing,” Ye Guigen continued, “don’t think about doing it all by yourself. Don’t you have Lin Wanwan? She’s in foreign trade in Hangzhou and knows about the European market. You’ll be in charge of the supply chain, and she’ll be in charge of sales. It’s a division of labor.”

Yang Chenglong nodded.

“But you need to think this through,” Ye Guigen looked at him, “Are you and Lin Wanwan going into business together, or are you dating?”

Yang Chenglong was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that going into business together and dating are two different things. Going into business together involves discussing interests, division of labor, and rules. Dating is about feelings. Mixing the two together can easily lead to chaos."

Yang Chenglong remained silent for a while.

“I didn’t think that much about it,” he said. “I just love her. And I want to help those herders.”

Ye Guigen looked at him and smiled.

"Okay. Let's not think about it for now. Let's get things done first. As we go along, things will become clearer."

Yang Chenglong laughed too. "You're starting to sound more and more like my grandfather."

“You’re starting to sound more and more like my grandfather,” Ye Guigen said. “Your saying, ‘The road will become clear as you walk it,’ is exactly the same thing my grandfather said.”

They both laughed.

After laughing, Ye Guigen took a card out of the drawer and handed it to Yang Chenglong.

“Here’s £50,000. Consider it an investment on my behalf. It’s not a loan, it’s an investment. I want a 10% stake.”

Yang Chenglong was stunned.

"Fifty thousand pounds? Where did you get so much money?"

"Profits from the fund. The North African project made a small profit this year," Ye Guigen said casually.

"Don't be so polite with me. You need money to build a brand. Packaging, design, promotion—all of these cost money. Fifty thousand pounds isn't a lot, but it's enough for you to get started."

Yang Chenglong stared at the card in silence for a long time.

“In the end,” he said, “why did you help me?”

Ye Guigen thought about it.

“Because you’re doing the right thing,” he said. “Helping those herders sell their scarves in Europe and make money will improve their lives. Isn’t that what your dad did? A platform to help farmers, a scarf brand—they’re all bridges.”

He handed the card to Yang Chenglong.

"Take it. Don't be so dramatic."

Yang Chenglong held the card, his eyes welling up with tears.

“Okay,” he said. “10% of the shares. Once we make money, I’ll pay you back with interest.”

"What do you mean, 'repay'?" Ye Guigen said. "I'm investing, not borrowing money. If we make money, we'll share it; if we lose, we lose. There's no such thing as a sure thing in business."

Yang Chenglong put the card away and stood up.

“Come on,” he said, “I’ll treat you to dinner. The XJ restaurant next to the school.”

"Okay. I want to eat hand-pulled noodles."

"Large portion?"

"Large portion."

The two left the dormitory and headed towards the cafeteria. The rain had stopped, the sky was still overcast, but the wind had died down. The plane trees along the roadside had lost all their leaves, their bare branches stretching towards the sky like the withered fingers of an old man.

But the two young people walked together, their bodies radiating warmth.

“Back to the roots,” Yang Chenglong said as he walked, “what do you think should be the name of my brand?”

Ye Guigen thought about it.

What's your grandfather's name?

"Yang Geyong".

"Not a name. I mean, what did your grandfather do?"

"Horse breeders. Breeders of Akhal-Teke horses."

Ye Guigen stopped and looked at him.

“How about calling it ‘Tianma’? Ancient books say that the Ferghana horses of the Western Regions are called Tianma. Your grandfather raised Tianma, and you’re selling scarves from the northern frontier. Tianma, just the name sounds like it has a story.”

Yang Chenglong pondered for a moment.

"Pegasus...a celestial horse soaring through the sky. Easy to remember, and also interesting."

“Besides,” Ye Guigen said, “your grandfather will definitely be happy to know.” Yang Chenglong smiled. “Okay. Let’s call it ‘Pegasus’.”

The two continued walking. Yang Chenglong took out his phone and sent a message to Lin Wanwan.

"Wanwan, I've decided on a brand name. It'll be 'Pegasus'."

The reply came quickly. "Pegasus? Why is it called that?"

"Because my grandfather raised Akhal-Teke horses. In ancient books, they were called Heavenly Horses."

The other person sent a smiling emoji. "Okay. Let's call it 'Pegasus' then. I'll register the trademark tomorrow."

Yang Chenglong felt a surge of warmth as he looked at the words.

“Wanwan,” he typed, “I’ve found investment. Fifty thousand pounds. We can get started.”

"So many? Who voted for them?"

"Like leaves returning to their roots. My brother."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then they sent a message:
"Yang Chenglong, you're really lucky. You have such a good brother."

Yang Chenglong glanced at Ye Guigen. Ye Guigen walked ahead, hands in his pockets, neck hunched, humming an unknown song.

“Yes,” he typed, “I’m really lucky.”

That night, the two of them ate two large plates of hand-pulled noodles at XJ Restaurant. Ye Guigen insisted on paying the bill.

“Consider it part of my investment,” he said.

Yang Chenglong didn't try to take it from him. He knew that Ye Guigen was a man who meant what he said when he offered to treat people, and there was no way he could win against him.

After finishing their meal, the two walked out of the restaurant. It was dark, and the streetlights came on. The orange light shone on the wet sidewalk, reflecting a soft glow.

“Jackie Chan,” Ye Guigen said, “you know what my grandfather once said? He said that the most important thing in a person’s life is not how much money they make, but how much they do. And how much they do is not about how big the things are, but about how many people’s things they do for others.”

Yang Chenglong nodded.

“The ‘Pegasus’ you’re working on isn’t just your business; it’s the business of those herders. They’ve spent their whole lives weaving scarves, selling them for a few dozen yuan each. You’re helping them sell them in Europe, where they sell them for a thousand yuan each. That extra nine hundred yuan is what gives them extra days.”

He patted Yang Chenglong on the shoulder.

So, do your job well. Don't overthink it. The road ahead is long, take it one step at a time.

Yang Chenglong stood under the streetlight, watching Ye Guigen's figure disappear around the street corner.

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

"Grandpa, I want to create a brand. I want to sell handmade scarves from northern Xinjiang to Europe. The name will be 'Pegasus'. Do you agree?"

The reply came very quickly.

"Pegasus? What a great name. It sounds much better than your dad's 'Bingtuan Helping Farmers Platform'."

Yang Chenglong laughed. He then posted another message:
“Grandpa, this brand is for you and those herders.”

The reply was a little slow this time. About a minute passed.

"What help are you offering? I'm your grandfather, not your project. You should focus on your work and stop worrying about me. I'm perfectly healthy; I even cycled twenty kilometers yesterday."

Yang Chenglong's eyes welled up as he looked at the words.

He knew that Yang Geyong was happy inside, even though he said that.

He put his phone away and turned to walk back to his dormitory.

The sycamore trees along the roadside were bare, but the buds on the branches were already swollen, and you could only see them when you got close.

Winter hasn't arrived yet, but spring is already on its way.

In December, the Christmas atmosphere in London is in full swing.

The streetlights came on, the shop windows were decorated with colorful decorations, and Christmas gifts were sold everywhere. Yang Chenglong had no interest in any of that.

Besides attending classes, he spends all his time online researching how to build a brand.

Ye Guigen's £50,000 investment has arrived. Lin Wanwan registered the "Tianma" trademark in Hangzhou for 2,000 yuan. Yang Wei collected 300 scarves in northern Xinjiang and piled them up in a warehouse in the military reclamation city.

Everything is ready; all that's left is to sell it.

But how to sell them? Lin Wanwan's French customer only ordered five, and then there was no further news. Several other European customers looked at the samples and said "not bad," but none of them placed an order.

Yang Chenglong became anxious.

"Wanwan, what should we do?"

Lin Wanwan paused for a moment on the other end of the phone. "I'm trying to figure something out. Europeans are slow to buy things, especially new brands; they want to wait and see."

"When will that be?"

"I don't know. But you can't just wait around. You have to do something."

Yang Chenglong thought for a moment. "What?"

“Tell a story,” Lin Wanwan said. “Your scarf isn’t an ordinary scarf; it’s a scarf with a story. You have to tell that story. Let more people know about it.”

Yang Chenglong scratched his head. "What do you mean?"

"Do you have any photos? Photos of the pasture, the sheep, the herders weaving scarves. Videos would be even better. I'll find someone to edit them and post them on social media."

Yang Chenglong hung up the phone and called Yang Wei.

"Dad, do you have pictures of the ranch?"

"Photos? What photos?"

"It's the scenery of Hongshan Ranch, with flocks of sheep and photos of herders weaving scarves."

Yang Wei was taken aback. "What do you need these for?"

"Telling stories. Selling scarves."

Yang Wei was silent for a moment. "Wait a minute, let me ask Grandpa Habuli."

The next day, Yang Wei sent me a folder containing dozens of photos—

The snow-capped mountains, grasslands, flocks of sheep, and yurts of Hongshan Ranch, along with the image of Grandpa Habuli's wife sitting at the door of the yurt knitting a scarf. The sunlight shines on her face, revealing deep wrinkles, but her eyes are bright.

There's also a video, filmed by Yang Wei with his phone. Grandpa Habuli is standing in front of the sheepfold, saying something in Kazakh.

Yang Wei translated from the side: "Grandpa Habuli said that these sheep are from the Tianshan Mountains. They eat Chinese herbal medicine, drink mineral water, and the scarves they knit are very warm."

Yang Chenglong sent the photos and videos to Lin Wanwan. Lin Wanwan had them edited, added music and subtitles, and posted them on Instagram and TikTok.

The title reads: "A gift from the foot of the Tianshan Mountains - Tianma handmade scarves".

The first week, there was no response. The second week, people started liking it. The third week, an Italian boutique sent me a message.

"These scarves are beautiful. Could you send a few samples to Milan?"

Lin Wanwan sent five messages. A week later, the other party replied.

“We want to order fifty. Each one is 100 euros. If they sell well, we can cooperate long-term.”

Fifty articles! Yang Chenglong was doing his accounting homework in the library when he saw the message. He almost jumped up from his chair.

He called Lin Wanwan, his voice trembling. "Fifty! Wanwan! Fifty!"

Lin Wanwan laughed on the other end of the phone. "Don't get excited. This is just the beginning."

"So what do we do next?"

"Next, you need to think about something carefully." Lin Wanwan's voice became serious:
“Fifty scarves, 100 euros each, sales of 5000 euros. After deducting costs and shipping, you can make about 2000 euros. That's a lot of profit for one person. But if you want to build a brand, this scale is far from enough.”

"I know. So what should we do?"

“Two paths,” Lin Wanwan said. “The first is to expand our product line. Not just scarves, but also shawls, hats, and gloves.”

"Any handicrafts with distinctive features of northern Xinjiang can be sold. Secondly, we need to open up more channels. This includes not only boutiques, but also e-commerce platforms, pop-up stores, and brand collaborations."

Yang Chenglong listened, but his mind couldn't quite process it.

"Take your time. I'll take notes."

Lin Wanwan smiled. "Don't rush. Take it one step at a time. Let's finish these fifty scarves first. Quality is the most important thing. Not a single one can be defective."

"clear."

After hanging up, Yang Chenglong called Yang Wei.

"Dad, fifty of them. From Italian boutiques."

Yang Wei remained silent for a long time on the other end of the phone.

“Son,” he said, “your friend is really something.”

"She is my lover, her name is Lin Wanwan."

"Lin Wanwan," Yang Wei repeated the name. "When you have the chance, treat her to a meal."

Yang Chenglong blushed slightly. "I understand."

Before the scarves were distributed, Yang Chenglong made a special trip to the military reclamation city.

This was his first trip back to China since arriving in London. After a flight of more than ten hours and two transfers, he arrived in Junken City at 2 a.m.

Yang Geyong hadn't gone to sleep and was waiting in the living room. There was a bowl of milk tea and a plate of naan bread on the table.

"You're back?" The old man sat on the sofa, a blanket covering his legs, watching the opera channel on TV.

"I'm back." Yang Chenglong put down his luggage and sat on the sofa.

Yang Geyong glanced at him. "You've lost weight. Is the food in London not good?"

"It's alright. I just miss home-cooked meals a bit."

"I'll have your grandma make you some hand-pulled noodles tomorrow," Yang Geyong said. "No, your grandma doesn't know how. Let your dad make them. His hand-pulled noodles are better than your grandma's."

Yang Chenglong smiled.

"Grandpa, I came back this time to look at scarves. I ordered fifty from Italy, and I need to check the quality myself."

Yang Geyong nodded. "Your dad told me everything. Tianma, it's a good name. It sounds better than your old 'Platform'."

He took a bundle from under the coffee table, opened it, and inside were fifty scarves. Red, blue, green, plaid, striped, each one neatly folded.

“This was woven by Habuli’s wife, this was woven by Nurgul’s daughter-in-law, this was woven by Baheti’s old lady…” Yang Geyong pointed to each one, “They are all the best handmade.”

Yang Chenglong picked up a red scarf and touched it. The wool was soft and warm, and although the pattern was simple, it had a rustic beauty.

“Grandpa,” he said, “how much did these scarves cost each before?”

"A few dozen yuan. Nobody will buy more than that."

"now what?"

Yang Geyong looked at him, his eyes shining.

"Now, one of them sells for over a thousand yuan. The Italians are the ones paying for it."

Yang Chenglong put the scarf back and looked at Yang Geyong.

“Grandpa, this extra money doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to those herders. I created this brand not to make money.”

Yang Geyong remained silent for a while.

“Jackie Chan,” he said, “your dad looks like me. You look like your mom.”

Yang Chenglong was stunned for a moment.

“Your mother is a person who cares about others,” Yang Geyong said. “Back when she was in the Production and Construction Corps, she donated all her salary to families in need. I told her she was foolish, but she said she wasn’t foolish, it was the right thing to do.”

He paused.

"You're just like your mother. Stupid."

But he smiled. When he smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes gathered together, like a fan.

Yang Chenglong also laughed.

The next day, Yang Chenglong went to Hongshan Ranch.

Grandpa Habuli was waiting for him at the door of the yurt. The old man was wearing an old cotton-padded coat and felt boots. The wrinkles on his face were deeper than in the photo, but his eyes were bright.

"Are you Yang Wei's son?" he asked in Kazakh, with someone translating.

"Yes. I am Yang Chenglong."

Grandpa Habuli looked him over for a while, then nodded.

“Your father was a good man,” he said. “So was your grandfather.”

He turned and went into the yurt, took out a cloth bag, opened it, and inside was a scarf. It was dark blue, with a very intricate and densely woven pattern.

“This is the best one my husband ever knitted,” he said. “It’s for you.”

Yang Chenglong took it and touched it.

"Thank you, Grandpa Habuli."

Grandpa Habuli waved his hand. "No need to thank me. We should be thanking you for helping us sell our scarves abroad."

He pointed to the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

“Look, that’s the Tianshan Mountains. Our sheep graze on those mountains. The water from the Tianshan Mountains flows down and irrigates our pastures.”

"The grass of Tianshan feeds our sheep. Our wool is woven into scarves. When you sell these scarves abroad, you are telling the story of Tianshan to foreigners."

Looking at the snow-capped mountains in the distance, Yang Chenglong felt a surge of warmth in his heart.

“Uncle Habuli,” he said, “I’ll remember that.”

After spending three days in the military reclamation city, Yang Chenglong flew back to London.

Besides the fifty scarves, he also took the dark blue one that Grandpa Habuli had given him.

He hung the scarf on the wall of his dormitory and looked at it every day.

After the fifty scarves arrived in Milan, the Italians were very satisfied. The owner of the boutique emailed to say that the scarves were selling very well and he wanted to order a second batch, this time one hundred scarves.

Meanwhile, Lin Wanwan's promotion on Instagram also paid off. A German e-commerce platform sent a collaboration invitation, wanting to import "Tianma" products. A French fashion blogger contacted her, saying she wanted to collaborate on a co-branded scarf.

Yang Chenglong was extremely busy. He taught classes during the day and processed orders, replied to emails, and held video conferences with Lin Wanwan at night. Sometimes he was busy until two or three in the morning, and then he would get up at seven the next morning to teach classes again.

Ye Guigen visited him several times, and each time he saw him busy in front of the computer.

"Can you still hold on?" Ye Guigen asked.

"It's alright," Yang Chenglong rubbed his eyes. "Just a little tired."

"Don't push yourself too hard," Ye Guigen said. "Your health is the most important thing."

“I know,” Yang Chenglong said, “but this is a critical period, and we can’t let our guard down.”

Ye Guigen looked at him and didn't try to persuade him anymore.

He knew that once Yang Chenglong made up his mind about something, nothing could sway him.

Just like his grandfather, Yang Geyong.

At the end of December, just before Christmas, Yang Chenglong received a special gift.

It was sent by Lin Wanwan. A package that took seven days to travel from Hangzhou to London.

I opened it, and inside was a scarf. It was gray, very plain, but finely woven. Attached was a note:
"Yang Chenglong, I knitted this myself. It's my first time, so it's not very good. But I want you to know that you're not alone. I'm learning too. Wanwan."

Yang Chenglong held the scarf and looked at it for a long time.

The scarf wasn't knitted very well. Some stitches were loose, some were tight, and the edges weren't neat. But it was warm.

He put the scarf around his neck, stood by the window, and looked out at London.

The snow started falling. It was fine and dense, shimmering under the streetlights.

He took out his phone and sent a message to Lin Wanwan.

"Wanwan, I received the scarf. It's very warm. Thank you."

The reply came very quickly.

"Does it look good when you wear it?"

Yang Chenglong looked at himself through the window. Gray scarf, curly hair, looking rather foolish.

"It looks good," he typed.

The other person sent a smiling emoji.

"That's a lie."

Yang Chenglong smiled.

"It's really beautiful."

Outside the window, the snow was falling heavier and heavier. But the light from the streetlights was warm.

The distant clock tower was faintly visible in the snowy night; the bells hadn't rung yet, it would be time to ring on the hour.

But Yang Chenglong knew that no matter whether the bell rang or not, life would keep moving forward.

The scarf business is slowly growing, French is being learned gradually, and Lin Wanwan is slowly getting closer.

Everything is slowly getting better.

Just like his grandfather said: The road ahead is long, but there's no rush.

(To be continued) (End of this chapter)