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In the autumn of the 15th year of the Republic of China, Ningxia Road. The water of the Yellow River glows with an iron-gray light under the waning moon, like a tired python, twisting slowly between the Helan Mountains and the Ordos Platform. The wooden trestle of the ancient ferry has long since decayed, and several dilapidated sheepskin rafts are tied to the shore, swaying with the waves and making a squeaking cry. The wind blew in from the Helan Mountain Pass, carrying sand and dried camel thorns, which hit my face painfully. "Ahead is the 'Yongye Hotel', the only place on the Huangsha Ancient Ferry that can block the wind and rest." The guide Lao Wang pointed to a lone lamp in the distance. His Ningxia accent was mixed with the wind and was a little blurry. "Don't go out at night - this place was the ancient battlefield where the Xixia and the Mongols fought for the last time. It was not peaceful." Su Chen looked up and saw that the hotel was renovated from a typical Ningxia Hui dwelling. The earthen walls were as thick as a fortress, the eaves were low, and the lintels were engraved with blurred Arabic scriptures and lotus patterns. There are several broken brick carvings piled up in the corner of the wall. Through the moonlight, you can barely make out that they are the remains of Xixia script. When a group of people dragged their luggage into the courtyard gate, they were startled by several sand sparrows perched on the well railing. On the stone circle at the mouth of the well, the crescent moon and the carvings of thorns were deeply embedded, glowing with a cold light in the moonlight.