Great Power Reclamation

London in January is bitterly cold.

Yang Chenglong sat in his dormitory, facing a three-year-old laptop with an Excel spreadsheet on the screen, which contained densely packed sales data for "Tianma" over the past three months.

Two orders from an Italian boutique, totaling 150 scarves, amounted to 15,000 euros.

A German e-commerce platform tested fifty of these items and sold forty-one.

The collaboration with that French fashion blogger hasn't been released yet, but it has already amassed over two thousand followers on Instagram.

The numbers aren't large, but the direction is right.

He rubbed his eyes, picked up the now-cold tea on the table, and took a sip. His phone rang; it was a video call from Lin Wanwan.

"Wanwan." He answered the phone. On the screen, Lin Wanwan was sitting in a rented room in Hangzhou, with a wall covered with sticky notes behind her.

Those sticky notes, covered with customer information, order progress, and tracking numbers, were colorful, like a flag.

"Are you still working overtime?" Lin Wanwan frowned as she looked at his dark circles.

"Aren't you the same?"

"I'm in Hangzhou, it's only 10 p.m. It's already 2 a.m. where you are."

Yang Chenglong glanced at the time in the lower right corner of the screen, and sure enough, it was 2:17 a.m.

"I forgot to check the time." He scratched his curly hair. "I was looking at the reports. The quantity for the third batch of orders from Italy hasn't been finalized yet."

Lin Wanwan didn't urge him to go to sleep as usual. She paused for a moment and said, "Yang Chenglong, I have something to tell you."

Her expression changed. It wasn't the capable and decisive look she had before; instead, she seemed hesitant, as if she had something to say but didn't know how to say it.

"what happened?"

“My parents…” she bit her lip, “They want me to go back to China.”

Yang Chenglong was taken aback. "Didn't you already return to China?"

"It's not about going back to China. It's about... going home. Don't come out again."

Her voice lowered, “They found me a job at a bank. Nine to five, stable. They said I’ve been drifting around for too long, it’s time to settle down.”

Yang Chenglong held his phone, but didn't say anything.

He knew about Lin Wanwan's family situation. Her father was a mid-level manager in a public institution in Hangzhou, and her mother was a middle school teacher. The family wasn't wealthy, but they weren't short of money either.

They only have one daughter, Lin Wanwan, and everything she's ever had has been the best. They sent her to learn French, sent her to study in Paris, and never even calculated how much it cost.

But their expectations for Lin Wanwan were simple—to find a stable job, marry a reliable person, and live a peaceful life.

"What do you think?" Yang Chenglong asked.

Lin Wanwan remained silent for a long time.

“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I’ve been in London for so long, and I thought I was going to stay there. But you know… then those things happened.”

She didn't say what "those things" were, but Yang Chenglong knew. The French boyfriend who cheated on him, that four-year relationship that fell apart, the tears he shed alone in Paris.

"After I came back, I thought I could live a good life in Hangzhou."

Lin Wanwan continued, "But after you came to see me, I started thinking about it again. I thought about those days in Paris, those evenings strolling along the Seine, and those afternoons writing papers in cafes."

"It's not that I miss him, it's that...the feeling of being alive."

She looked at Yang Chenglong on the screen, her eyes filled with something indescribable.

"Later, when you asked me to help you with your scarf business, I was really happy. Not because I could make money, but because I had something to do."

"I'm busy every day, sending emails to clients, coordinating with factories, and negotiating with logistics companies. I'm always on the go, but I feel at ease."

“But now, my parents say that this is all improper. A girl like me shouldn’t be working properly and should be busy with cross-border e-commerce all day long. They say I’m crazy.”

As Yang Chenglong listened, he felt a pang in his heart.

“Wanwan,” he said, “would you like to do this?”

"Yes." She replied without hesitation.

"Then do it."

"But my parents—"

“I’ll talk to them.”

Lin Wanwan was stunned. "What did you say?"

“I said, I’ll talk to your parents.” Yang Chenglong’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. “I’m not telling you to fall out with your family. I’m saying I’ll go talk to them. Let them know that you’re not messing around, but doing something serious.”

Lin Wanwan looked at him, her eyes slowly reddening.

"you sure?"

"I'm sure," Yang Chenglong said. "Wait for me. I'll fly to Hangzhou next week."

After hanging up the video call, Yang Chenglong sat in a chair and looked out the window at the London night view.

The snow stopped, and the moon came out. The moonlight shone on the windowsill, white and cold.

He took a deep breath, then picked up his phone and dialed a number.

"grandfather."

"Hmm." Yang Geyong's voice came through the receiver, thick with a Northwestern accent, with the sound of a television in the background. "Still not asleep so late?"

"Grandpa, I want to tell you something."

"explain."

"I have a girlfriend named Lin Wanwan. She's from Hangzhou. She's helping me with the 'Pegasus' project."

There was a three-second silence on the other end of the phone.

"Is that the girl your dad was talking about, the one who works in foreign trade?"

"Correct."

"Hmm." Yang Geyong's tone remained unchanged, as if he were listening to something utterly ordinary. "And then?"

“Her family wants her to go back to work in Hangzhou and stop her from doing this. I want to talk to her parents.”

There was another five seconds of silence.

"You're going to negotiate?" Yang Geyong's voice carried a hint of amusement. "Do you even know how to negotiate? You're so bad with words."

Yang Chenglong scratched his head. "We have to talk, whether we know how or not."

Yang Geyong laughed on the other end of the phone. It wasn't a polite laugh, but a genuine laugh, the kind that comes from the heart as if his grandson has finally grown up.

"Okay. Go talk to them. If you can't reach an agreement, call me. I'll go with you."

Grandpa, you—

"What's wrong? Can't I go to Hangzhou? I've never been to Hangzhou before. I've heard that West Lake is very beautiful."

Yang Chenglong's eyes welled up with tears.

"Grandpa, you don't need to get involved. I can manage on my own."

“Okay,” Yang Geyong said. “Go by yourself. But remember one thing.”

"What?"

“You’re doing something serious, not asking for favors. Stand up straight and speak.”

Yang Chenglong gripped his phone and nodded vigorously. Although Yang Geyong couldn't see it, he knew his grandfather could sense it.

"remember."

A week later, Yang Chenglong flew to Hangzhou.

This was his third trip to Hangzhou. The first time was last September, right after Lin Wanwan broke up with her boyfriend. He skipped class and came, waiting downstairs for six days.

The second time was last November, when we delivered samples of the first batch of "Tianma" products, and we stayed for two days. This is the third time.

He had booked a hotel in advance, a budget hotel near Lin Wanwan's house. After arriving, he sent Lin Wanwan a message, then took a shower and changed into clean clothes.

Ye Guigen helped him pick out the clothes: a dark blue shirt, khaki casual pants, and clean white sneakers. They weren't expensive, but he looked smart.

“Don’t wear a suit,” Ye Guigen said in the video. “It’s too formal, like you’re going to a business meeting. But don’t dress too casually either, like you’re going to freeload. Just dress neatly, like a proper young man.”

Looking in the mirror, Yang Chenglong felt that he was indeed quite serious.

Lin Wanwan waited for him at the entrance of the residential compound. She was wearing a beige sweater, her hair was tied in a ponytail, and she had light makeup on. She looked a little thinner than in the video.

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

"It's alright," Yang Chenglong said, then reached out and touched his ear.

Lin Wanwan laughed. "You touch your ear when you lie."

Yang Chenglong lowered his hand.

I'm a little nervous.

"Let's go." Lin Wanwan reached out and took his hand.

Her hands were cold, but her palms were warm.

Lin Wanwan's apartment was on the sixth floor, and there was no elevator. As the two of them climbed up, Yang Chenglong's heart raced.

I don't know if it was from climbing the stairs that I was tired, or from being nervous.

The door opened. Lin Wanwan's mother stood in the doorway, a woman in her early fifties with curly hair, wearing a maroon sweater, her expression somewhere between polite and scrutinizing.

"Hello, Auntie." Yang Chenglong handed over the gifts he was carrying—two "Pegasus" scarves, one red and one gray, packed in a gift box and tied with a ribbon.

"This is a handmade wool scarf from northern Xinjiang, a gift for you and your uncle."

Mrs. Lin took the gift box, glanced at it, and didn't open it. "Come in."

The living room wasn't large, but it was very clean. Opposite the sofa was a large television, and on the TV stand were several potted green plants that were growing very well.

Lin Wanwan's father sat on the sofa. He was in his fifties, with some gray hair, wearing glasses, and holding a newspaper in his hand.

"Hello, Uncle." Yang Chenglong stood in front of the coffee table, his back very straight.

Mr. Lin put down his newspaper and looked him up and down. "Sit down."

Yang Chenglong sat down. Lin Wanwan sat down next to him.

Lin's mother brought out three cups of tea and sat down opposite them. The four of them faced each other, and there were several plates of fruit and melon seeds on the coffee table, but no one touched them.

"Yang Chenglong," Lin's father spoke first, "Wanwan told us about you. You're studying in England?"

"Yes, Uncle. He's studying business at University College London."

What does your family do?

Yang Chenglong thought for a moment. He didn't want to bring up Yang Geyong's affairs; those weren't his, they were his grandfather's.

“My family is in northern Xinjiang, and we raise horses,” he said. “My grandfather had a horse farm where he raised Akhal-Teke horses.”

Mr. Lin's expression changed slightly. "A horse breeder?"

"Yes. But what I'm doing now has nothing to do with my family."

Yang Chenglong sat up straight. "I'm working on a brand called 'Tianma,' which sells handmade wool scarves from herders in northern Xinjiang to Europe. Wanwan helps me with sales in the European market."

Lin's mother frowned. "That online store?"

“Yes, Auntie. But it’s not just the online store.” Yang Chenglong took a stack of documents out of his backpack and placed them on the coffee table.

"These are our sales figures for the past three months. Two orders from Italy, 150 scarves in total, amounted to 15,000 euros."

"We tested fifty of these items on a German e-commerce platform and sold forty-one. We're currently in talks with a French fashion blogger about a collaboration."

He pushed the documents over and showed them to Mr. Lin, page by page. Orders, invoices, shipping documents, customer feedback—every page was clearly laid out.

"Our profit margin is around 40%. In three months, our net profit is about 40,000 RMB. The scale is not large, but the growth is very fast."

Mr. Lin flipped through the documents, and his expression slowly changed. He wasn't moved, but rather somewhat surprised.

"How did you, a student, come up with the idea to do this?"

Yang Chenglong thought for a moment and said, "Because I've met those herdsmen."

He told the story of Grandpa Habuli. He told the story of the old man who drove sheep for three days and three nights to see Yang Wei off, and the story of Grandpa Habuli's wife sitting at the door of the yurt knitting a scarf. He told the story of how those scarves only sold for a few dozen yuan each at Hongshan Ranch, but could sell for more than a thousand yuan in Europe.

"My grandfather 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 measured by how big the things are, but by how many people's things they do for others."

He paused.

“Those herders have woven scarves their whole lives, and they only sell them for a few dozen yuan each. I help them sell them in Europe, where they can sell them for over a thousand yuan each. This extra money is not mine; it belongs to them. I've just built a bridge.”

The living room was quiet for a few seconds.

Lin's father looked at him, and the scrutiny in his eyes slowly turned into something else.

"So, what's your relationship with Wanwan?" Lin's mother asked.

Yang Chenglong glanced at Lin Wanwan. Lin Wanwan lowered her head, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater.

"Boyfriend and girlfriend," Yang Chenglong said. "I like her. She likes me too."

Lin's mother's expression became complicated. "How long have you known each other?"

"More than a year."

"Long distance?"

“We lived together in London. After she came back, the ‘Tianma’ thing kept us in touch every day. It wasn’t the kind of long-distance relationship where we were just dating. We were doing things together.”

Mr. Lin took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on.

“Yang Chenglong,” he said, “it’s not that I don’t trust you. But Wanwan is our only daughter. She suffered so much in Paris, and after finally settling down here, she’s now getting involved in cross-border e-commerce. We’re not against her doing things, we’re just afraid she’ll get hurt again.”

Yang Chenglong nodded.

“Uncle, I understand,” he said, “but I’m different from that ex-boyfriend.”

He glanced at Lin Wanwan.

“He won’t fly 8,000 kilometers to see her every night when she’s feeling down,” he said. “But I will.”

Lin Wanwan looked up at him. Her eyes were red.

Mr. and Mrs. Lin exchanged a glance. Neither of them spoke.

There was a long silence. The sunlight outside the window slowly moved, from one end of the coffee table to the other.

Finally, Mr. Lin sighed.

"Let's eat." He stood up. "Your aunt made braised fish."

Yang Chenglong paused for a moment, then laughed.

"Thank you, Uncle."

That evening, Yang Chenglong had dinner at Lin Wanwan's house. They had braised fish, sweet and sour pork ribs, stir-fried vegetables, and tomato and egg soup. Lin's mother was a very good cook, and Yang Chenglong ate three bowls of rice.

After dinner, Lin's mother cleared the dishes, while Lin's father brewed a pot of tea and sat on the sofa chatting with Yang Chenglong.

"What are your plans for the next step with that 'Pegasus' of yours?" Mr. Lin asked.

Yang Chenglong put down his teacup and said seriously, "I want to register a company. Not an online store, but a formal foreign trade company."

“Wanwan is responsible for the supply chain and customer maintenance in the European market in China, while I am responsible for brand promotion and new channel development in London. We now have stable customers in Italy and Germany, and the next step is to open up the French market.”

"Registering a company costs money."

“I have an investment. £50,000, invested by a friend.”

Mr. Lin glanced at him. "What friend?"

“Brother,” Yang Chenglong said, “a brother I’d risk my life for.”

Mr. Lin didn't ask any more questions. He picked up his teacup, took a sip, and looked out at the night view.

“Jackie Chan,” he said, “I’m not an old-fashioned person. I know that young people these days think differently from us. But Wanwan is my daughter, and I can’t help but think about her.”

"I know."

"I believe what you just said. But you have to show me that you're not just talking."

Yang Chenglong looked at him and nodded seriously.

"Uncle, you will see."

Back at the hotel, Yang Chenglong sent Lin Wanwan a message.

"Your parents don't seem to be as opposed anymore."

The reply came quickly. "My mom said you're an honest person."

Yang Chenglong laughed. "So what did you say?"

“I said, honest people are the best.” Yang Chenglong felt a surge of warmth as he looked at those words.

“Wanwan,” he typed, “once the company is registered, you’ll be a partner of ‘Tianma.’ Not helping me, but working together.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then they sent a voice message.

He clicked to listen. Lin Wanwan's voice was a little hoarse, but very firm.

"Yang Chenglong, thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?"

"Thank you for not leaving me to shoulder this alone."

Yang Chenglong listened to the voice message three times.

Then he replied with a text message: "I will never let you shoulder the burden alone again."

In early March, "Tianma Trading Co., Ltd." was officially registered and established in Hangzhou.

The registered capital is one million RMB. Ye Guigen's 50,000 pounds sterling accounts for 30% of the shares, Yang Chenglong accounts for 40%, and Lin Wanwan accounts for 30%. The legal representative is Lin Wanwan—she's in China, which makes things easier for her.

Yang Wei sent a plaque from the military reclamation city, written by Yang Geyong. The two characters "Tianma" (Heavenly Horse) were crooked, but every stroke was powerful.

Lin Wanwan hung the plaque on the wall of her office—the office was rented in a creative park in northern Hangzhou. It wasn't big, only 30 square meters, but the windows were large and the sunlight was great.

On the day the company was founded, Yang Chenglong flew to Hangzhou.

Lin Wanwan picked him up at the airport. She was wearing a black down jacket and a gray scarf with a Pegasus logo. Her hair was a little messy from the wind, but her eyes were bright.

“Come on,” she said, “I’ll show you our office.”

The two took a taxi to the creative park. The office was on the second floor, at the end of the corridor. Pushing open the door, sunlight streamed in.

Yang Chenglong stood at the door, looking at the small office. There was a large table with two computers, a printer, and a pile of folders on it.

On the wall are product posters for "Tianma", designed by someone commissioned by Lin Wanwan - Tianshan Mountains, pastures, flocks of sheep, yurts, and a photo of Grandpa Habuli's wife knitting a scarf.

Several potted green plants, bought by Lin Wanwan, sat on the windowsill. A small refrigerator in the corner held drinks and snacks. A tea set, a gift from Lin's father, sat on the coffee table.

"How is it?" Lin Wanwan stood next to him.

Yang Chenglong didn't speak. He walked to the window and looked at Hangzhou outside. In March, the willows in Hangzhou had sprouted new buds, tender green, and translucent like paper in the sunlight.

“Very good,” he said.

Lin Wanwan walked to his side and also looked out the window.

“Yang Chenglong,” she said, “what do you think we should make ‘Pegasus’ in the future?”

Yang Chenglong thought for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I do know it won’t just be an online store that sells scarves.”

He turned around and looked at the wall with the "Tianma" plaque hanging on it.

"It will be a bridge. Connecting northern Xinjiang with Europe, connecting herders with cities, connecting..."

He paused, looking at Lin Wanwan.

"Connecting you and me."

Lin Wanwan blushed. She lowered her head and kicked at the crack in the floorboards.

"You're good at saying nice things."

“I’m telling the truth.”

Lin Wanwan looked up at him. Sunlight shone on her face, and her eyes shone.

“I know,” she said.

In April, spring finally arrived in London.

Yang Chenglong sat in his dormitory, a new webpage on his computer screen—the official website of "Tianma".

Lin Wanwan commissioned a designer; the style is simple and clean. The homepage features a large image: a pasture at the foot of the Tianshan Mountains, with sheep grazing on the grass, snow-capped mountains in the distance, and yurts in the foreground. Above the image is a line of text:

"A gift from the foot of the Tianshan Mountains."

The website is available in English, French, German, and Chinese.

The product line has expanded from its initial scarves to include shawls, hats, gloves, and several limited-edition handmade rugs.

Each product comes with a detailed description—which pasture the wool comes from, which mountain the dye comes from, the name of the shepherd who wove the scarf, and how many years she has been weaving it.

Lin Wanwan said this is called "story marketing." Europeans aren't just buying a scarf; they're buying a story. The story of the Tianshan Mountains, the story of the herdsmen, the story of the Silk Road.

Yang Chenglong thought she was right.

The website doesn't have high traffic, but its conversion rate is very high. Each visitor spends an average of over three minutes on the site, and the order rate is close to five percent. This is a very good figure in the e-commerce industry.

The buyer from the German e-commerce platform sent me an email saying that "Tianma" products are among the scarf brands with the highest positive reviews on their platform.

Italian boutiques have placed a third order, this time for two hundred items.

The French fashion blogger has finally launched a collaboration – a gray and white checkered scarf, limited to 500 pieces, which she promoted on her social media.

Five hundred items sold out in two hours.

Yang Chenglong was doing his accounting homework in the library when he saw the news.

He stared at the screen for a full ten seconds, then stood up, rushed out of the library, and called Lin Wanwan.

"Wonder! Five hundred! Sold out in two hours!"

Lin Wanwan screamed on the other end of the phone. Then the two of them laughed for a long time, laughing until tears streamed down their faces.

After laughing, Lin Wanwan said, "Yang Chenglong, we need to expand our production capacity."

Yang Chenglong calmed down. "That's right. There are more than 300 herding households in Hongshan Ranch. Each household weaves two or three garments a month, which is only about a thousand garments a month. Now that the number of orders has increased, we can't keep up with the demand."

What did your dad say?

I'll call him tomorrow.

After hanging up the phone, Yang Chenglong sat on the steps at the entrance of the library, looking at the springtime in London.

The sky was blue, the trees were green, and several students were playing football on the lawn. The sun shone on him, warm and comforting.

He took out his phone and called Yang Wei.

"Dad, the collaboration with France sold out in just two hours, with 500 pieces available."

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

"Five hundred?" His voice was slightly unsteady.

Yes. Two hours.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then Yang Wei said, "Son, do you know how many sweaters the herders at Hongshan Ranch can weave in a year?"

"How many?"

“A skilled weaver can weave a maximum of four scarves a month. That’s only fifty a year. There are probably a little over a hundred women at Red Mountain Ranch who can weave scarves. At most, they can weave five or six thousand a year.”

Yang Chenglong did the math. "That's not enough. Just this one collaboration with France alone will get several thousand units a year. Add in the orders from Italy and Germany, and it'll at least double."

"so what?"

“So we can’t rely solely on handcrafting,” Yang Chenglong said. “I’m not saying we should use machines. Machine-woven fabrics and hand-woven fabrics are not the same thing. Europeans are buying the word ‘handmade’.”

"However, we can optimize the process. The processing of wool, the dyeing process, and the design of patterns can all be standardized."

The herders only do the final weaving; the rest is handled centrally. This increases efficiency without sacrificing the traditional handcrafted characteristics.

Yang Wei thought about it for a long time on the other end of the phone.

"Your line of thinking is the same as your grandfather Ye's."

"Grandpa Ye?"

“He said something similar to me when he came to Junken City last time. He said that helping farmers is not about giving them money, but about helping them to do things smoothly. When the process is smooth and the efficiency is high, their income will naturally increase.”

Yang Chenglong was taken aback. He hadn't expected that Ye Yuze had already considered all of this.

"Dad, then I—"

"Write down your proposal and send it to me," Yang Wei said. "I'll discuss it with Lin Xiaoyu. She's in charge of quality control and knows these processes best."

"Row."

After hanging up the phone, Yang Chenglong returned to his dormitory, turned on his computer, and began writing a proposal.

He wrote for three days. He wrote and revised, revised and wrote. Ye Guigen visited him once in between and gave him some suggestions.

Following his suggestions, Yang Chenglong revised the second draft and then asked Professor Sachs to review it. Professor Sachs had worked in Africa for twenty years and was very knowledgeable about the agricultural supply chain. After reading it, he nodded and said:
"Your approach is correct. But you must remember that efficiency is not the only goal. The interests of the herders must come first. Any changes must be discussed with them first."

Yang Chenglong kept those words in mind.

In early May, he sent the proposal to Yang Wei.

The core of the plan is a "cooperative + family workshop" model. Specifically:
First, the platform centrally procures wool and handles pre-treatment processes such as cleaning, combing, and dyeing. These processes are highly technical, and centralized processing ensures consistent quality and reduces costs.

Second, the pre-treated wool is distributed to the herders' weavers, who then hand-weave it at home. Weaving is the core process, and its handmade characteristics must be preserved.

Third, the platform will uniformly collect finished products, conduct quality inspection, packaging, and branding, and then sell them through the "Tianma" channel.

Fourth, in terms of profit distribution, the weavers take the lion's share—of the sales profit of each scarf, 60% goes to the weavers, 20% goes to the platform as operating costs, and 20% is invested in the development fund of the "Tianma" brand.

After reviewing the proposal, Yang Wei made a phone call.

"Son, how long have you been thinking about this plan?"

"About a month."

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

“You’re better than your dad,” he said. “Dad only knows how to work, not how to think. You’re both capable and thoughtful, so you’ll definitely be more successful than your dad in the future.”

"dad--"

“I’m not just being polite,” Yang Wei said. “I’m telling the truth. You’ve learned something outside, so come back and help Dad make the platform even better. That’s the important thing.”

Yang Chenglong held his phone, unsure of what to say.

“Alright,” Yang Wei said, “I’ll discuss it with Lin Xiaoyu and Grandpa Habuli. The plan is good, but the herders need to agree.”

In mid-May, Yang Wei called.

"Grandpa Habuli agreed. He said, 'You young man, you think the same way he does.'"

Yang Chenglong felt a surge of warmth in his heart. "What about the other herders?"

"They're still discussing it. But most of the people at Hongshan Ranch have agreed. They trust Grandpa Habuli. If Grandpa Habuli says it's okay, they'll follow suit."

Yang Chenglong took a deep breath. "Dad, shall we get started?"

"Let's get started."

In June, summer has arrived in the military reclamation city.

The grasslands of Hongshan Ranch have turned green, and flocks of sheep graze on the grass, looking like white clouds fallen on a green carpet from a distance.

Yang Wei stood in front of Grandpa Habuli's yurt, gazing at the distant Tianshan Mountains. The snow on the mountains had not yet completely melted, shimmering in the sunlight.

“Uncle Habuli,” he said, “do you really think my son’s plan is feasible?”

Grandpa Habuli sat on a rug by the door of the yurt, holding a bowl of milk tea in his hand. He took a sip and said slowly:
"Your son is a good person."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he has someone in his heart." Grandpa Habuli looked at the sheep in the distance:
“When he came to the ranch, he didn’t rush to look at the scarves or take pictures. He sat next to me, drank a bowl of tea, and asked me how many years my wife had been knitting them.”

“My husband said he’s been knitting for forty years. He said, ‘Forty years, how many strips must he have knitted?’”

“My husband said he couldn’t count them all. He said it was good that they couldn’t be counted, because each one was different and each one was a story.”

Grandpa Habuli smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling together.

“Your son is different from you. You are a practical person, he is a thoughtful person.”

Yang Wei was taken aback. "What's the difference?"

"A practical person gets things done. A thoughtful person gets things done," said Grandpa Habuli. "Once the work is done, it's over. But if you do things right, the work will never be over."

Yang Wei remained silent for a long time.

"Uncle Habuli, what about this plan—"

"Cheers." Grandpa Habuli put down his bowl. "I believe your son."

At the end of June, the "cooperative + family workshop" model was officially launched at Hongshan Ranch.

The platform purchased a batch of high-quality wool and sent it to the town's processing plant for cleaning and combing.

The dyeing process follows the traditional recipe of Grandpa Habuli's wife—using minerals and plants from the mountains to grind into dye, ensuring that the color and texture are exactly the same as before.

The pre-treated wool was distributed to 120 weavers on the ranch. Each person received enough wool to weave 20 scarves, which they took home to weave.

When the first batch of products came out, Yang Wei personally delivered them to Hangzhou.

Lin Wanwan opened the package in her office and checked each item one by one.

The wool is now more evenly textured and the color is more stable, but the simple, hand-knitted feel remains—each stitch is slightly different, and it is precisely this difference that makes each scarf unique.

"The quality is better than before," Lin Wanwan said. "And it's much more stable."

Yang Wei stood in that small office, looking at the "Pegasus" plaque hanging on the wall, and remained silent for a long time.

“Wanwan,” he said, “thank you.”

Lin Wanwan was taken aback. "Uncle Yang, what are you thanking me for?"

"Thank you for helping Jackie Chan," Yang Wei said. "And thank you for helping those herders too."

Lin Wanwan lowered her head, her face slightly flushed.

"Uncle Yang, it's not me helping him. It's him helping me."

Yang Wei looked at her and smiled.

“You young people,” he said, “help each other.”

London in July is unbearably hot.

Yang Chenglong sat in his dormitory, a newly opened webpage on his computer screen—"Tianma's" semi-annual report.

Sales revenue: €180,000. Net profit: €72,000. Number of cooperating weavers: 120. Average increase in income per herder household: RMB 8,000.

He looked at the numbers three times, then leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Outside the window, the London sky was a vibrant, clear blue, as if it had been washed clean. In the distance, the clock tower chimed, its sound carrying far and wide.

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

"Grandpa, 'Pegasus' sold for 180,000 euros in the first half of the year. The herders earned an extra 8,000 euros."

The reply came quickly. Not with text, but with a photo.

In the photo, Yang Geyong is standing in the horse farm, next to a chestnut Akhal-Teke horse.

The old man was wearing a white vest, his face tanned a deep reddish-brown by the sun, but his eyes were bright. He held the horse's reins in one hand and gave a thumbs-up with the other.

Yang Chenglong looked at the photo and smiled for a long time.

He then saved the photo and set it as his phone wallpaper.

He sent Lin Wanwan another message.

"Wanwan, by this time next year, we want every herding family in Hongshan Ranch to join 'Tianma'."

The reply came very quickly.

“It’s not just Hongshan Pasture. There’s also Qingshuihe, Guozigou, and Nalati.”

Yang Chenglong looked at the words and smiled.

Yes. All the ranches.

Outside the window, the sun is shining brightly.

The distant clock tower gleamed in the sunlight; the chimes had stopped, but their echoes lingered.

Yang Chenglong stood up, walked to the window, and opened it. A hot breeze rushed in, carrying the smell of grass and earth—of course, it wasn't real; there was no grass smell in central London, but he could smell it nonetheless.

That's the smell of the military reclamation city. That's the smell of the Tianshan Mountains. That's the smell of home.

He took a deep breath and then exhaled.

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

(To be continued) (End of this chapter)