The mistake revealed itself at dawn.
Lin Yan noticed it before anyone spoke—before shouting, before blame. The pasture grass nearest the southern path lay bent too deeply, the color dulled, the soil compacted in uneven patches.
Hoof marks.
Too many.
Too long in one place.
He crouched and pressed his palm into the ground. The earth resisted him, harder than it should have been.
Someone had copied the form.
Not the care.
By midmorning, the village already knew.
"It's Zhao Liang," someone whispered.
"He fenced his land just like Lin Yan."
"But his goats fell sick overnight."
Zhao Liang arrived soon after, face pale, voice tight with panic.
"My animals won't eat," he said. "They lie down and won't rise."
Lin Yan didn't answer immediately.
He walked with Zhao Liang to the man's plot.
The fence stood straight. The layout mimicked Lin Yan's almost exactly. Even the rope knots were the same.
But the smell was wrong.
Sharp.
Sour.
Lin Yan opened the pen gate and stepped inside.
The goats lay scattered, breathing fast. Their eyes were dull. Flies hovered near damp patches of soil.
"You never rested the ground," Lin Yan said quietly.
"I copied your rotation," Zhao Liang insisted. "Morning here. Afternoon there."
"You rotated feet," Lin Yan replied. "Not time."
Zhao Liang stared blankly.
Lin Yan knelt and lifted a clump of grass.
The roots were short.
Torn.
"This grass never learned to hold," Lin Yan said. "You fed animals before you fed land."
The villagers gathered, drawn by the tension. No one spoke.
Zhao Liang's voice cracked. "Can you fix it?"
Lin Yan stood.
"I can help," he said. "But you'll lose animals."
Zhao Liang bowed deeply, forehead nearly touching the ground.
"I accept."
Lin Yan didn't rush.
He instructed Zhao Liang to move half the goats out immediately—back to open grazing, no matter how poor. The remaining animals were separated and given watered feed mixed with ash and salt.
"Rest the land," Lin Yan said. "No hooves for ten days."
Ten days felt like eternity to a poor farmer.
But Zhao Liang obeyed.
That afternoon, Lin Yan gathered the villagers—not to scold, not to boast.
"To warn," Old Chen muttered.
"Copying tools is easy," Lin Yan said evenly. "Copying patience is hard."
He pointed toward Zhao Liang's field.
"That fence looks like mine," Lin Yan continued. "But it does not act like mine."
Someone asked quietly, "Then how do we do it right?"
Lin Yan exhaled slowly.
"You start with less," he said. "And you wait longer."
That night, pork was served—but no one spoke of taste.
The family ate quietly, aware of the day's weight.
The youngest brother looked up suddenly. "Third Brother… if waiting is so important, why do people rush?"
Lin Yan considered.
"Because hunger teaches speed," he said. "But stability teaches endurance."
Later, under lantern light, the system interface appeared.
[Imitation Event Resolved]
[Authority Reinforced: Non-Coercive]
[Hidden Risk: External Attention Increasing]
Lin Yan lingered on the last line.
External attention meant outsiders.
Merchants. Performers. Officials.
And contests.
The next morning, Zhao Liang returned.
Two goats had died.
But the rest stood.
"They're eating," he said hoarsely.
Lin Yan nodded. "Then the land can heal."
As Zhao Liang left, Old Chen spoke quietly. "You let people fail."
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "Safely."
He adjusted the leather hat and looked down the road, where dust rose faintly.
A cart was coming.
Larger than usual.
Pulled by two horses.
Visitors rarely traveled in pairs.
Change was approaching—not from within the village this time, but from beyond it.
Lin Yan stood still, waiting.
Waiting, he had learned, was not inaction.
It was preparation.