Hua Wuye

In the early years of the Republic of China, the land of China was dominated by warlords and warlords were like a chessboard, and gunpowder smoke filled the entire Kyushu. The cold wind from the north carried the smell of scorched earth, passing over the dilapidated city walls and desolate fields. The embers of the Manchu Dynasty have not yet dissipated, and warlords from all over the country are like wolves fighting for food. Amidst the roar of artillery fire, the cries of the people and the ruins of the walls are falling into a pool of blood. The blue sky and white sun flag flutter in the wind, unable to cover up the blood of the troubled times. In Shanxi, giant dragons are entrenched in the Luliang Mountains, the Taihang Mountains are majestic and steep, the Buddhist light of Wutai Mountain is looming, the Hengshan Mountains are shrouded in clouds and mist, and the North Wudang Mountains are like a silent King Kong, guarding the vast expanse. Xiaojingou, where Jinhua Town is located, is hidden deep in the folds of these mountains. This place has high mountains, dense forests, and criss-crossing ravines. In winter, the fresh wind blows like a knife through the jagged rocks and withered yellow meadows, kicking up dust all over the sky. In the distance, the gold mine pits are like open wounds in the earth, twisting and turning, glowing with a strange dark gold in the setting sun. Two to three thousand people gathered in the ditch. They either put up dilapidated straw huts or built low houses with stones, and the smoke from their cooking pots swayed like weeping in the cold wind. Gold diggers get up before dawn every day, carrying bamboo baskets and shovels on their backs, walking through the frozen soil towards the mines. At the edge of the mine, the gold pan was clanking, and the muddy stream water was swirling in the pan with silt. You need to save enough gold sand to go to the town and exchange it for rice, grain and cloth. Then drive the ox cart through the rugged mountain roads, and then transport the grain back to the ditch. Along the way, the mountain wind roared past the bare branches, like a ghost whimpering, and the ruts left deep ravines on the frozen soil, carving the scars of struggle in troubled times.