Three Cave Dwellings at the Beginning, with Millions of Troops at Hand

In the deepest folds of the Taihang Mountains, they used their roughest hands to light the first lamp of their own. The light, like a bean at first, swayed on the drawings of the cave dwelling, mixed with engine oil, iron filings and the fragrance of ink. That's not the light of electricity, it's the fire of the heart. They melted steel from the enemy's rails, calculated ballistic trajectories with the crackle of abacus, and used gunpowder to guide spring thunder in the night sky. They believe that the true backbone of a country is not obtained by kneeling and begging, but is forged hammer by hammer on the anvil; it is calculated stroke by stroke on a dusty blackboard. They carefully sealed the dreams gushing with flames, the thoughts woven by vacuum tubes, and all the distant places they could not reach in rusty iron boxes and buried them in the silent mountains. They know that they may not be able to reach the promised land, but they must leave this compass pointing to the stars for those who come after them. Therefore, the fire does not go out and the sound of books continues. What flows in the blast furnace is hot dignity; what spins on the lathe is precise hope. The light went from one light to one piece, and finally connected to form the Milky Way on the ground. One generation squats down and becomes the cornerstone for the next generation to stand on their shoulders. Knowledge is like blood, technology is relayed, and fire is passed on - from a pair of trembling, calloused hands to another pair of young, determined hands. Until one day, this spark lit up the prairie fire, illuminating every face looking up and warming every inch of land eager to grow. This is the glimmer of light that a nation guards in the darkest moment, and the entire belief in tomorrow that is sown in the desolate land.