The inspectors arrived the morning the snow finally settled.
Not heavy snow—just enough to soften the road, just enough to make everything slower and more irritable. Two men in padded coats, boots caked with mud, followed by a clerk carrying a box of ledgers.
They came unannounced.
Lin Yan was in the field, harvesting the last soybeans with numb fingers, when Shen Qinghe ran up the path.
"They're here," she said, breath fogging. "At your house."
Lin Yan didn't rush.
Rushing looked guilty.
By the time he returned, the inspectors were already inside, stamping their feet against the cold. Uncle Zhang stood to one side, hands tucked into his sleeves, expression mild.
"Lin Yan," the older inspector said, not looking up. "We're verifying yields."
Verification again.
They measured. Counted. Asked about crops already harvested.
"How much did you sell?"
"How much did you store?"
"How many chickens?"
Lin Yan answered carefully—truthfully, but not generously.
Then came the miscalculation.
The clerk compared numbers, frowned, and tapped the page. "Your sweet potato yield doesn't match market sales."
Lin Yan's chest tightened.
He'd underestimated egg-for-goods exchanges—firewood, straw, labor. Value that never passed through copper coins.
To officials, unrecorded value was suspicious.
"Explain," the inspector said.
Lin Yan paused.
This wasn't something he could explain alone.
Before he could speak, a voice came from the doorway.
"He gives eggs to people," Shen Qinghe's father said, stepping inside, snow on his shoulders. "I trade meat for them sometimes."
Another villager followed. Then another.
"He paid me with sweet potatoes for helping fix his roof."
"He gave my wife eggs when she was sick."
Not loud. Not emotional.
Just statements.
The inspector glanced around, clearly irritated.
"Barter," he muttered. "Hmph."
Uncle Zhang's eyes narrowed.
Barter blurred ledgers. Ledgers were his leverage.
After a long silence, the inspector closed the book.
"We'll note it," he said. "No adjustment for now."
Not approval.
Just delay.
When they finally left, the house felt smaller, colder.
Lin Yan exhaled slowly.
That night, snow fell harder.
Winter labor began in earnest.
Lin Yan joined the men clearing paths, hauling firewood, reinforcing roofs. Shen Qinghe worked alongside the women, mending, drying, cooking. Sometimes they crossed paths, exchanged tools, nodded.
No talk.
Just shared cold.
Three days later, when the roads cleared slightly, Lin Yan did something he'd planned for weeks.
He took his family to the market.
Not to sell.
To walk.
His mother hesitated, smoothing her patched sleeves. His sister's eyes were wide the entire way.
At the market, Lin Yan bought things they never did.
Hot millet cakes—still steaming.
A small skewer of roasted meat, split carefully so everyone tasted it.
A paper-wrapped bundle of candied hawthorn for his sister.
They ate standing, hands warming around food.
His father chewed slowly, eyes distant. "Haven't eaten like this since before…"
He didn't finish.
Lin Yan didn't push.
They walked past stalls selling cloth and tools they couldn't afford yet. But they looked. Together.
For a moment, they were just a family.
No ledgers. No inspectors.
That evening, back home, Lin Yan adjusted plans again.
Less isolation.
More visible cooperation.
Winter labor shared openly.
If numbers were dangerous, people were protection.
The system panel flickered faintly.
Community Reliance Triggered
Trust Network: Forming (Early Stage)
It wasn't a reward.
It was a reflection.
Later, Shen Qinghe stopped by, carrying a pot of thick soup.
"My father said today was… good," she said.
Lin Yan nodded. "It could've gone worse."
She hesitated. "You didn't have to give so much."
"I didn't," he replied. "I invested."
She almost smiled.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
The inspectors were gone.
The cold remained.
But so did the people.
And for now, that balance held.