Zhebu ducked into the tent and sat down, but the moment he did, his whole body felt wrong, as if someone had dragged him off a brightly lit stage and tossed him into a cold iron pot, and no matter how he looked around, nothing felt right, nothing felt like home.
He had grown used to the solid brick houses of Gao Family Village, walls thick enough to block the wind and hold in warmth, windows that shut tight, doors that did not flap like nervous birds in a storm, and now that he was back in a tent, staring at felt walls that trembled with every gust, he felt as if the world itself had become flimsy.
Outside, the sky slowly darkened. One by one, the Mongols lay down to sleep.
But Zhebu's body clock refused to cooperate.
At this hour in Gao Family Village, the lights would just be turning on.
That was when the real life began.
The entire commercial district of Gao Family Village would blaze into color, lanterns and electric lamps glowing together in wild extravagance, red and gold and blue and green spilling over the streets like liquid festival. Villagers who had just gotten off work would flood in laughing and stretching, some heading straight for the snack stalls, some for the opera stage, others for the performances at the Huahua World Star Agency, where singers belted out love songs beneath dazzling lights.
The cinema entrance would be packed shoulder to shoulder. People would wait for the next screening, chattering excitedly, then surge forward the moment the doors opened, like a tide released from a dam. Street vendors would seize the chance, weaving through the crowd with trays of pastries and fried treats, shouting their prices with heroic determination.
Once you had experienced that kind of bustling splendor, you could not pretend it did not exist.
Zhebu lifted the tent flap and glanced outside.
Darkness.
A heavy, endless darkness stretched across the grassland. The night wind cut through the plains colder than the cafeteria auntie's fish knife, no, colder than her heart when she caught you trying to take an extra bun.
Zhebu suddenly realized something that frightened him more than any blade.
He could no longer live like this.
Just as the thought formed, a figure emerged from the darkness and hurried toward the tent. It was his mother, Anjile. She stopped at the entrance, saw that he was still awake, and froze for a moment before sighing softly.
"You too…" she murmured.
"Me too," Zhebu replied.
Mother and son stood there, staring at each other.
The silence was so strange it felt alive. It lasted at least three full minutes.
Finally, Zhebu lowered his voice. "Mother, how about this. After staying here a few days, you use the excuse that you need to return to manage the Warm-So-Cozy Wool Sweater Factory and go back to Gao Family Village."
Anjile blinked. "And you?"
Zhebu let out a long breath. "Your son cannot go back yet. Father is old. I must stay and assist him. And I have a duty to our people. I cannot let them live like this forever."
Anjile's eyes softened, but she said nothing.
"After you return," Zhebu continued, "help me think of a way to bring the good things from Gao Family Village to the grassland. I want our people to experience that life too."
"I do not understand any of that," Anjile admitted honestly.
"If you do not understand, ask my brother Liu Maopao. He is a good man. He will help us."
She nodded slowly. "Very well. I will stay a few days, then say I must return to manage the factory."
The next day at noon, beneath a blazing sun, Zhebu sat astride a tall horse and stared across the vast grassland.
How could he make it prosperous?
He forced himself to recall everything he had learned in Gao Family Village.
Scientific farming techniques? Impossible. The grassland was not suited for crops.
Commerce? How would that work? With so few people, how could goods circulate? Then his mind seized on an idea. The horse market. They could produce goods and sell them through the horse market to the Han people.
Just then, laughter drifted from a distance. Zhebu turned his head and saw Anjile chatting animatedly with several Mongol women.
"Anjile, you lived among the Han for years. What is it like there?" one woman asked eagerly.
Anjile straightened proudly. "Life there is wonderful. Let me tell you, they have something called electric lights. At night, you flip a switch, and with a snap the entire room becomes bright as day."
The women gasped. "Truly? Such a magical lamp?"
"Of course," Anjile said. "The Han people do not sleep when it gets dark. They light up whole streets in colors and then eat, drink, sing, and dance all night."
More gasps.
"The women there can work in textile factories. Some even become singers or actresses. One performance earns them a great deal of silver."
The gasps grew louder, tinged with envy.
Watching this scene, Zhebu felt a sharp ache in his chest.
Life here was too bitter.
At that moment, a young Mongol woman's hair slipped loose and fell across her face. She quickly pulled out a horn comb and began brushing it back while still listening to Anjile's stories.
Zhebu's eyes flashed.
In a single stride, he was beside her, grabbing her arm.
The young woman nearly fainted from shock. For one wild instant she thought the young clan leader had taken a fancy to her, and her face flushed red as she imagined the names of their future children.
Zhebu raised the horn comb high. "This. This thing is excellent."
She blinked in confusion.
He examined it carefully. "Horn combs are better than the wooden combs used by the Han. They have quality, texture. If we carve them beautifully, we can sell them at a high price."
He lifted his head. "I will build a factory. A factory dedicated to producing horn handicrafts."
Anjile stared at him. "Build a factory here? We cannot even put up stone houses."
"We will use tents as workshops," Zhebu insisted. "It can be done."
"But we are nomads," she reminded him gently. "When the grass is gone, we move. Will your factory wander with us?"
That question struck him like a hammer.
After a long silence, he clenched his teeth. "Then we must stop wandering endlessly. We must settle down and build a city."
Anjile shook her head. "If we gather in one place, how will we survive?"
"We ask the Han for help," Zhebu said firmly. "We build our city as close to them as possible. If we are near, they can provide materials and support during the difficult early years. Once we develop handicrafts and some of our people no longer rely solely on herding, the city will stabilize."
By now, many Mongols had gathered around, including the Wushen clan leader. They listened to Zhebu's plan with troubled expressions.
"Will the Han truly help us?"
"What do they gain from it?"
"If we build a city near them, will it not lead to war?"
In recent years, relations between Mongols and Han had improved beyond anything seen in centuries, yet fear lingered deep in their bones.
Could they really trust former enemies?
Zhebu looked at them, his voice steady but burning with conviction.
"I know you are afraid. I am afraid too. But we are too poor. If we continue wandering and herding as we always have, we will never become prosperous. We must build a true city. Some will live in the city, some will continue herding outside. We must change our industrial structure. We must evolve."
The wind swept across the grassland, carrying his words far into the open sky, as if even the earth itself had been waiting for someone to say them aloud.