The dawn after the hailstorm revealed the damage in stark, humbling detail. The Lin family stood together at the edge of their compound, surveying a world scoured clean of easy hope. Mud, churned with melting ice and shredded vegetation, covered everything. The garden was a graveyard of delicate shoots. The new pasture looked like a battlefield. Only the main hay field and the older pasture, while bruised, stood with a battered dignity.
No one spoke. The work ahead was too vast for words.
Lin Yan broke the silence. "We split the work. Father, you and Xiao assess the hut's roof for leaks. Mother, prepare the strongest anti-inflammatory poultices for Breeze. Big Brother, Zhu—with me and Zhao He. We start on the pasture."
There was no discussion, only nods. The crisis had forged them into a single organism with a unified will: survive, recover, rebuild.
Lin Yan's first action was to claim the 'Weather-Resistant Crop Varieties' knowledge from the system. It cost nothing; it was the reward for accepting the crisis mission. Information flooded him: fast-turnover greens like hardy spinach and certain rugged radishes that could be planted even now and yield before the deepest frost. Tough, perennial herbs that could withstand pounding rain and hail. It wasn't a solution, but it was a thread to grasp.
He spent fifty of his remaining points on 'Emergency Soil Revitalization Techniques'—methods to quickly nurse battered earth back to life using compost teas and specific mineral amendments.
The work on the pasture was backbreaking. They couldn't repair the broken blades of grass. Instead, they worked to save the roots and the soil itself. Lin Yan and Zhao He used broad wooden scoops to carefully clear the worst of the ice-sludge from the new expansion, trying not to tear up the precious root systems beneath. Lin Tie and Lin Zhu hauled cartloads of their stored compost—the black gold they'd been nursing for months—and spread it in a thin, nurturing layer over the mud.
"For the roots to breathe," Lin Yan explained, his voice hoarse with effort. "And to tell the plants we're still here, fighting for them."
In the main hut, Wang Shi worked her own magic. She simmered a potent brew of comfrey, plantain, and a precious pinch of turmeric traded from a traveling merchant long ago. The smell was pungent and green. She applied the warm poultice to the massive bruise on Breeze's flank, whispering soothing words. For the swollen eye, she used a chilled infusion of chamomile and honey, applied with a feather-light touch.
Breeze, in her pain, was docile. She seemed to understand the intent, leaning into Wang Shi's ministrations with a soft sigh.
The garden was the hardest loss to accept. Lin Xiaohua and Lin Xiaolian knelt in the mud, their hands carefully sifting through the wreckage, salvaging any root or stem that might yet live. It was heartbreaking work. Lin Yan joined them, bringing the newly acquired knowledge. He directed them to clear a small, sheltered plot near the southern wall of the hut.
"Here," he said. "We plant again. Not millet. Not beans. These." He showed them the small, dark seeds from their stores that fit the system's new criteria—hardy winter greens. "They won't feed us for long, but they will feed us. And they will prove to the land, and to ourselves, that we are not finished."
As they worked, replanting with a determination that felt like defiance, Old Chen came by again. This time, he wasn't alone. He brought the village head. Their visit was under the guise of checking on the welfare of all villagers after the storm. But their eyes were on the Lin's efforts.
"You replant?" the village head asked, astonished. "After this? The season is too late."
"Some things grow quickly if you ask them nicely," Lin Yan said, not looking up from carefully spacing the seeds. "And we have need of green things, however small."
Old Chen watched them spread the precious compost on the pasture. His eyes narrowed at the quality of it. "You waste your stores on mud. That compost could have been traded for grain."
"It is an investment in next year's grass," Lin Yan replied evenly. "The mud today is the pasture tomorrow."
Chen shook his head, a performance of paternal concern. "Hope is a fine thing. But winter is a realist." He and the village head moved on, their doubt hanging in the air like a chill.
Their visit, however, had an unintended effect. It lit a fire under the Lin family. They would not be pitied. They would not be proven right.
Days blurred into a routine of repair and care. Lin Yan used his soil revitalization knowledge to create a fermented tea from compost, molasses (a tiny, precious store), and crushed eggshells. They sprayed it on the battered pastures. It smelled foul, but within days, a difference was visible. The surviving grass perked up, a deeper green. The mud on the new expansion began to firm, showing hints of green fuzz where the roots had survived.
Breeze's eye opened fully after three days. The swelling on her flank began to recede, the purple fading to an ugly yellow-green. She started grazing again, tentatively. Her recovery was their first tangible victory.
Then, a week after the storm, a miracle occurred. In the small, replanted garden plot, the first brave, thread-like green shoots pushed through the dark earth. They were so fragile, so improbable against the advancing chill of autumn, that the entire family gathered to look at them in reverent silence.
"It's working," Lin Xiaolian whispered, tears in her eyes.
"It's fighting," Lin Yan corrected, but he was smiling, a real smile for the first time in days.
The system acknowledged their progress.
[Crisis Mission: 'Weather the Storm.' Progress: 25%. Soil recovery initiated. Livestock injury healing. Alternative food source established.]
[Points Awarded for Milestone Recovery: +50.]
The points were a fuel for their resolve. Lin Yan invested them in 'Basic Cold-Frame Construction' (30 points)—a way to build simple, transparent covers to protect the new seedlings from early frosts. Lin Zhu understood the concept instantly, and within two days, they had fashioned frames from salvaged wood and scraps of oiled parchment.
The ranch began to breathe again. The rhythm returned, though it was a harder, leaner rhythm. The loss of the main garden meant their diet was plainer—more porridge, less variety. But the weekly egg money and the hay contract were untouched. They were poor again, but not desperate. They were wounded, but not crippled.
One evening, as they sat around the hearth, the mood was contemplative rather than despairing. Zhao He, who had been quietly observing the family's dynamic, spoke up.
"The storm showed you your weaknesses," he said, staring into the fire. "The garden was exposed. The new pasture was exposed. The shelter had a weak point. A good soldier does not curse the arrow; he mends his armor and learns the archer's range."
"What are you saying?" Lin Dahu asked.
"I am saying the storm was your teacher," Zhao He said, looking at Lin Yan. "Your 'method' was about growing. Now it must be about withstanding. You need a storm cellar for roots. You need stronger shelter for the cattle, especially with a pregnant heifer. You need to look at the land and see not just where the sun is best, but where the wind is worst."
It was a shift in perspective. From offense to defense. From pure growth to resilient stewardship.
Lin Yan nodded slowly. "You're right. We got lucky with Breeze. It could have been Ember. It could have been Founder." The thought was chilling. "We rebuild, but we rebuild stronger. Smarter."
The next morning, he walked the land with Zhao He and Lin Zhu, not as a farmer, but as a general surveying a fortress. They identified a more sheltered spot for next year's garden, backed by a stone outcrop. They planned a larger, sturdier cattle barn, with a solid, hail-resistant roof made of thicker timber and packed clay. They noted which tree lines could be thickened to break the wind.
The storm had been a bitter medicine. It had purged them of complacency. It had forced them to look at their dream and see not just its beauty, but its fragility.
But as Lin Yan stood on the slope, looking at the faint green haze returning to the new pasture, at the cold frames protecting their defiant shoots, and at the steady figures of his family working below, he knew the medicine was working. They were digesting the hardship. It was becoming part of their strength.
The storm had not broken them. It had tempered them. And from the battered earth, a tougher, more resilient Lin Ranch was beginning to grow.