Great Power Reclamation

In winter, darkness falls early in Junken City. By six o'clock in the afternoon, the sun has already set, leaving only a touch of orange-red on the horizon, like someone has casually smeared a line of paint with a brush.

Yang Wei stood on the roof of the small building on the platform, looking at the Tianshan Mountains in the distance.

The snow-capped peaks turned a deep blue in the twilight, like knives stuck upside down in the sky.

His phone rang. It was Lin Xiaoyu.

"Mr. Yang, the third batch of sheep from Qingshuihe Ranch has been sold. The quality is better than the first two batches, and the boss in Guangzhou said he wants to place an additional order."

"How much?"

"Eight thousand a year."

Yang Wei did the math in his head. Eight thousand chickens, at the current price, would generate 24 million in sales.

Adding the 6,000 animals at Hongshan Ranch, the two ranches together generate over 100 million yuan in revenue annually. A few years ago, he wouldn't have dared to even imagine such a figure.

"Xiaoyu, keep an eye on quality control. Every single sheep has to pass through your hands. Not a single one that doesn't meet the standards can be sent out."

"clear."

After hanging up the phone, Yang Wei stood on the rooftop and lit a cigarette. The wind blew, scattering the ash, and the embers flickered in the twilight.

He recalled this time last year when the platform was just starting out, with nothing at all: a sign, a few people, and a dilapidated warehouse.

And now? Two ranches, hundreds of herding families, and an annual revenue of over 100 million yuan. Roads are built step by step, bridges are laid brick by brick. It can't be rushed, nor can it be stopped.

Footsteps sounded downstairs. Zhang Jianjiang climbed up, carrying a bottle of baijiu and two paper cups.

"Hey Wei, wanna grab a drink?"

Yang Wei glanced at him. "Where did you get this wine?"

“Zhao Donglai brought it from his hometown. He said it was brewed by his father himself, pure grain liquor, and it won’t give you a headache.”

Zhang Jianjiang poured two cups and handed one to Yang Wei. The two stood on the rooftop, holding their paper cups, and clinked them together.

The liquor was very strong; drinking it felt like a fire burning from my throat all the way down to my stomach.

"Brother Wei," Zhang Jianjiang wiped his mouth, "what do you think our platform can achieve?"

Yang Wei thought for a moment. "I don't know. But I do know it won't just be a platform for selling sheep."

"Then what is it?"

"It is a bridge. It connects pastoral areas with cities, and connects herders with consumers."

Zhang Jianjiang was silent for a moment. "Brother Wei, you're starting to sound more and more like your dad."

Yang Wei was taken aback. "My dad? My dad would never say something like that. He would only say, 'Just do it, stop dawdling.'"

Zhang Jianjiang laughed. "That's true. Uncle Yang has always been like that."

The two stood on the rooftop, gazing at the distant Tianshan Mountains. Dusk deepened, and the orange-red hue of the sky slowly turned into a profound purple, like a giant silk ribbon spread across the heavens.

“Jianjiang,” Yang Wei suddenly said, “do you think the herders trust us?”

Zhang Jianjiang thought for a moment. “They believed. But not from the very beginning. They believed step by step. When you helped them sell their first batch of sheep, they believed. When you helped them repair the road, they believed even more. When you solved their children’s tuition problems, they believed completely.”

Yang Wei nodded. He thought of Grandpa Habuli, and the old man who had driven his sheep for three days and three nights to bring him here.

Grandpa Habuli's letter wasn't just spoken, it was demonstrated through his actions.

He drove the sheep for three days and three nights, walking hundreds of kilometers, to bring the sheep to him. That wasn't a transaction; it was trust.

"Brother Wei," Zhang Jianjiang downed the drink in his paper cup in one gulp, "do you think our platform can be passed down to the next generation?"

Yang Wei looked at him. "The next generation?"

"Yang Chenglong, your son. Didn't you say he was going to come back after he graduated?"

Yang Wei paused for a moment. Yang Chenglong. His son. Studying in London, he runs a brand called "Tianma," selling handmade scarves from northern Xinjiang to Europe.

That kid is better than him. Not because he's better at making money, but because he has people on his mind.

Grandpa Habuli's scarves used to sell for only a few dozen yuan each. Now? They sell for over a thousand yuan each in Europe.

The extra money wasn't taken by him, it was taken by the herders. That kid, he had others on his mind.

“Whether he comes back or not is his business,” Yang Wei said. “I will fix the bridge. Whether he leaves or not is his choice.”

Zhang Jianjiang looked at him and remained silent for a while. "Brother Wei, you're a good person in every way. It's just that you're too stubborn."

"So what if it's hard?"

"A tough person is easily broken."

Yang Wei didn't say anything. He finished the wine in the paper cup, crushed the cup, and threw it into the trash can next to him.

"Let's go down. We're going to Guozigou tomorrow."

"Guozigou? What are you going to Guozigou for?"

"We're discussing cooperation. The ranches over there also want to join the platform."

Zhang Jianjiang was taken aback. "Guozigou? There's no road access to that place. How are you going to get there?"

"Drive there. If there's no road, make one."

Zhang Jianjiang shook his head and followed him downstairs. The two walked one after the other, their footsteps thumping on the stairs like two old horses galloping across the Gobi Desert.

London, East End docks, the same afternoon.

Yang Chenglong sat in the "Foundation and Wings" office, the "Pegasus" ledger spread out in front of him. His eyes were fixed on the numbers, but his mind was elsewhere—Yang Wei. His father. The man who built the bridge in the military reclamation city.

He picked up his phone and sent Yang Wei a message: "Dad, how's the platform doing lately?"

The reply came quickly: "Great. The third batch of sheep from Qingshuihe Ranch has been sold, and Guangzhou is placing an additional order."

Yang Chenglong felt a little more at ease after reading that message. He sent another message: "Dad, how are you feeling?"

"It's alright. My knees just hurt a little."

"Go to the hospital to get it checked out."

"No, I don't have time."

Yang Chenglong looked at these words and his nose suddenly stung with tears. His father, like him, was the kind of person who would say "it's nothing."

They don't complain about the pain, the fatigue, or the illness. It's not that they don't want to talk about it, it's that they're embarrassed to.

He typed: "Dad, after I graduate, I'll come back and help you."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then a voice message came through. He listened to it; Yang Wei's voice was a little hoarse, but very steady.

“Son, you don’t need to help me. You do your ‘Pegasus,’ and I’ll do my platform. We’ll each do our own thing. But there’s one rule—come back when you’re tired. Dad’s here.”

Yang Chenglong listened to it three times. He pressed the phone to his chest and closed his eyes. Outside the window, the Thames River was gray and flowing very slowly.

But he wasn't cold inside. Because he knew that eight thousand kilometers away, someone was waiting for him.

That person wasn't Lin Wanwan. It was her father.

He opened his eyes and sent another message:
"Dad, I understand. If your knee hurts, go to the hospital to get it checked out. Don't push yourself too hard."

"Okay. I'll go tomorrow."

Yang Chenglong looked at the words and smiled. He knew that "going tomorrow" meant "not necessarily going." But his father's "okay" was already a concession.

He put his phone on the table and continued looking at the ledger.

Junken City, on the same evening.

Yang Geyong sat in Ye Yuze's study, slurping down a bowl of milk tea. Ye Yuze sat opposite him, a chess game in progress on the chessboard in front of him.

“Old Yang,” Yang Geyong put down his bowl, “Yang Wei’s platform has grown big.”

Ye Yuze held a chess piece in his hand, twirling it around. "How big?"

"Annual revenue of over 100 million."

Ye Yuze placed the chess piece down with a snap. "Hundreds of millions? That's no small amount."

"It's not small. But he still wants to go to Guozigou."

Ye Yuze looked up. "Guozigou? There's no road access to that place yet."

"So he has to clear the way."

Ye Yuze paused for a moment. "Your son looks like you."

Yang Geyong laughed. "Unlike me. He's better than me. I only know how to mine oil, he knows how to build roads."

Ye Yuze laughed too. "You've spent your whole life comparing yourself to others. Aren't you tired of it all?"

"It's not tiring. You get used to it after a while."

Ye Yuze shook his head, picked up a chess piece, and placed it down. "Checkmate."

Yang Geyong looked down and saw that his old marshal had been cornered again, with nowhere to go.

When will you—

"While you're drinking milk tea," Ye Yuze leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped on his stomach, "Old Yang, don't drink milk tea while playing chess. You'll lose if you do.

Yang Geyong put down his bowl and glared at him. "Another plate, please."

"I'm not coming. It's too late. You should go home."

Yang Geyong stood up, picked up his coat from the sofa, and draped it over his shoulders. He walked to the door and stopped.

"Old Ye."

"Ah."

"Do you think Yang Wei's platform can be passed on to the next generation?"

Ye Yuze looked at him. "You mean, it got into Jackie Chan's hands?"

"Correct."

Ye Yuze thought for a moment. "Yes, he can. But not now. Jackie Chan is still young, and his heart is still elsewhere. When he gets tired of flying, he will come back. By the time he comes back, his father will have already repaired the bridge. He can just walk on it."

Yang Geyong nodded, opened the door, and went out. The door closed. The study became quiet, with only the old clock on the wall ticking away.

Ye Yuze sat alone in his study, looking at the chessboard. The red rook had already crossed the river, while the black knight was still guarding its home ground.

He didn't know who would win the game. But he knew the game was still going on.

The next game of chess should be played by the younger generation.

(To be continued) (End of this chapter)