He stood on the slope, gazing out at the endless plains, the wind carrying the scent of grass toward him. The summer on the prairie was brief, and now it was August; the green grass was beginning to turn yellow. The Gobi was nothing like the eastern meadows and grasslands, devoid of the low winds that bring cattle and sheep; here, it was a desert plain, as the name suggested—perpetually shrouded in sand and dust. “At this time, the rapeseed flowers in the mountains should be in full bloom…” he thought, making his way into the hills.

As he had imagined, the mountains were a sea of golden rapeseed flowers. From the little path above, looking down, it resembled a wing that had fallen from a celestial bird. Colorful butterflies danced among the blooms, and he played with the bees and butterflies for a long while. When he grew tired, he lay down in the flower patch for a brief rest. Before leaving, he picked a bouquet to take home, and as he descended the mountain, twilight had already set in. Holding the bouquet of rapeseed flowers under the sunset, he appeared as holy as a deity, illuminated by the dying rays of the sun.

He was originally a spirit of the prairie, gradually gaining human traits and living like a person—working at sunrise and resting at sundown. In truth, he didn’t need to be this way; he was a spirit, needing neither food nor the cycles of human life. He absorbed the brilliance of the sun, moon, and stars; living like a human held little significance for him. The greatest difference between spirits and humans was that not everyone could see him. He was, indeed, a free-spirited entity, until over a decade ago, when he heard a series of haunting flute notes echoing from the mountains. Out of curiosity, he went to investigate and met the young general who played the flute.