Distant Mountain Battle Song

Chapter 1 The Unique Romance of the Gobi Desert

Whenever the cold air from the far north reaches the Gobi Desert at the southern end of the Hexi Corridor, the wasteland truly becomes a wasteland.

In the field, some unharvested corn stalks shivered in the cold wind, looking poor and spineless.

However, those sunflowers that stretched for miles, after being beheaded by humans, still stood proudly in the cold wind, barely moving, showing a rather unyielding appearance.

Of course, the jujube tree is different. This thing has been rooted in the Northwest for thousands of years and seems to be indifferent to the cold wind that comes every year. It even gently sways its few tender branches, taking advantage of the wind to send the jujube seeds far away.

The sky here is incredibly high, so high that even eagles don't bother to visit. So, apart from a few tattered plastic bags fluttering haphazardly and decorating the sky, there is only the azure sky, which doesn't even bother with the clouds.

The bright sunlight, after passing through the cold wind, had virtually no warmth left. Even if it fell on this barren wasteland, it would do no good, but instead make the earth even colder.

The wolves ran away, the eagles flew away, the leaves fell to the ground, the crops were harvested, and only the people remained.

Nestled in a low mountain valley stands an old yet sturdy mud hut. Behind the hut stands an ancient pear tree. After the last fiery red leaf on the old pear tree is carried away by the wind, the old pear tree, bearing the marks of time, complements the old house perfectly, like an old married couple.

A small window that lets in an orange glow, a stove with flames rising, a black iron kettle emitting white steam, a small bed made of willow wood, covered with a thick and fluffy mattress, and a thick cotton quilt that has just been sunned.

If it suddenly snows right now, you can crawl into this little warm world, take off your clothes, even your underwear, and put your thing in a familiar position, allowing yourself as much freedom as possible.

The whistling wind still raged high in the sky, snowflakes pattered against the window, and the water on the stove bubbled in the kettle. We pressed one ear against the buckwheat hull pillow and put the other ear outside the blanket.

Half bustling, half tranquil, at this moment, your heart is completely immersed in the story...

With stories, even dreams in the desolate Northwest wilderness become vibrant and colorful.

(End of this chapter)