Wang Hu had lived in Shuangxi Village for thirty-eight years.
He had seen good harvests and bad ones, drought years and flood years, officials passing through and never returning. He knew which land could grow crops and which land would only swallow sweat and spit out dust.
The Lin family's half mu?
That land was dead.
So when Wang Hu heard that green shoots had appeared, his first reaction wasn't curiosity.
It was suspicion.
"That doesn't make sense," he muttered, shouldering his hoe as he walked toward the eastern slope.
The air was cool that morning, thin clouds stretching like worn cloth across the sky. As he approached, he slowed his steps, eyes narrowing.
Green.
Not much—but unmistakable.
Rows of tiny sprouts stood upright, evenly spaced, their color pale but stubborn.
Wang Hu squatted and pinched a bit of soil between his fingers.
Still poor.
Still thin.
Yet it clung slightly instead of turning to dust.
"How…" he murmured.
He straightened, glancing toward the Lin family.
Lin Shouzheng was there with his sons, moving carefully along the rows, not trampling the sprouts. The youngest—Lin Yan—stood off to the side, leaning on a stick, watching rather than working.
That irritated Wang Hu more than it should have.
If it weren't for luck, he thought, that boy wouldn't be standing at all.
Luck never lasted.
By noon, half the village knew.
Not loudly—not in words—but through glances, pauses, and the way people unconsciously adjusted their paths to pass near the eastern slope.
Old Zhao stopped and stared for a full minute before shaking his head and walking on.
A pair of women whispered as they drew water.
Even the village head, passing through on his mule, slowed slightly.
No one congratulated the Lin family.
No one mocked them either.
That unsettled Wang Hu.
When something broke the usual order of things, it meant change was coming. And change always came with a cost.
That afternoon, Wang Hu went to the market town.
It was a half-day's walk—longer with a loaded basket—but market day didn't wait for tired legs. He carried dried roots and two bundles of firewood, hoping to exchange them for grain.
The market was already noisy when he arrived.
Vendors shouted prices. Buyers argued back. Children darted through legs like sparrows.
Wang Hu made his way toward the grain stalls—and stopped short.
Prices had gone up.
Not drastically—but enough.
"What happened?" he demanded of a vendor he recognized.
The man shrugged. "County granaries are tightening supply. Said there's pressure from above."
"Pressure from where?"
The vendor leaned closer. "Rumor says some households are selling vegetables privately. Undercutting official channels."
Wang Hu frowned.
Vegetables?
In this season?
He thought of the green shoots.
"Which households?" he asked.
The vendor chuckled. "You don't really need to ask, do you?"
Wang Hu didn't answer.
But his jaw tightened.
Back in the village, Lin Yan was unaware of any of this.
He sat on a low stool in the shade, a shallow bowl of water at his feet. One of the hens pecked near his toes, unafraid.
His mother came out with a cloth, wiping sweat from her brow.
"Someone came by earlier," she said quietly.
"Who?"
"A broker. From the market town."
Lin Yan looked up at once.
"What did he want?"
"He asked if we'd be selling vegetables soon."
Lin Yan's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And?"
"I said no," she replied quickly. "I didn't know what to say."
"You did the right thing," Lin Yan said.
He didn't explain further.
But the system panel flickered faintly.
[External Attention Detected]
Source: Market Intermediaries
Risk Level: Low (Current)
Low—for now.
Two days later, Wang Hu returned to the eastern slope.
The sprouts had grown taller.
Leaves broader.
Healthier than they had any right to be.
This time, Lin Yan noticed him.
"Uncle Wang," Lin Yan said politely.
Wang Hu grunted. "You really got something growing."
"Yes."
"…How?"
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "I paid attention."
Wang Hu scoffed. "That's not an answer."
"No," Lin Yan agreed. "But it's the truth."
They stood there in silence.
Finally, Wang Hu said, "You planning to sell?"
"Not yet."
"Good," Wang Hu said, then stopped himself. "I mean—why not?"
"Because if we sell now," Lin Yan replied, "we'll be noticed too quickly."
Wang Hu stared at him.
"You talk like someone much older."
Lin Yan didn't deny it.
Wang Hu looked back at the field again, expression conflicted.
"If grain prices keep rising," he said slowly, "people will start looking for alternatives."
Lin Yan nodded. "I know."
"And if they find you?"
Lin Yan's gaze hardened just a fraction.
"Then we'll have to decide who we sell to—and who we don't."
That answer unsettled Wang Hu.
It wasn't the response of a naive boy.
It was the calculation of someone who understood balance.
That night, Wang Hu lay awake.
He thought of the green shoots.
Of rising prices.
Of officials tightening their grip while villagers starved quietly.
He had laughed at Lin Yan before.
Now, he wasn't laughing.
He wasn't sure whether to be wary—
Or afraid.
Back at the Lin household, Lin Shouzheng spoke quietly to his son.
"The market's changing," he said. "People are watching."
"I know," Lin Yan replied.
"Are we ready?"
"No," Lin Yan said honestly. "But we will be."
He looked out at the darkened fields.
This was only the beginning.
The land had answered his effort.
Now the world was beginning to answer back.
And it would not always be kind