The vegetables grew faster than expected.
Not unnaturally fast—nothing that would make an experienced farmer cry out in alarm—but fast enough that anyone paying attention would notice.
Lin Yan noticed everything.
Each morning, before the sun fully cleared the eastern ridge, he would walk to the half mu with slow, deliberate steps. He never rushed. Rushing led to mistakes, and mistakes on fragile land could undo weeks of effort.
He crouched low, fingers brushing leaves gently, checking color and firmness. The greens had taken on a healthy sheen, the kind that only came from roots that had settled properly into soil. The bean vines had begun to stretch, thin tendrils curling instinctively toward nearby stalks.
"This row can be harvested in three days," Lin Yan murmured to himself.
Behind him, Lin Erniu scratched his head. "Already?"
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "But not all of it."
Lin Erniu blinked. "Why not?"
"Because if we take everything at once," Lin Yan said, standing slowly, "we announce ourselves too loudly."
Lin Erniu frowned. "Isn't that the point? To sell?"
"To live," Lin Yan corrected gently. "Selling is only a method."
Lin Erniu didn't fully understand—but he nodded anyway.
He trusted his younger brother now, even if he couldn't explain why.
The harvest began quietly.
Not at dawn, not with fanfare—but late morning, when the sun had warmed the leaves and the village had already settled into its routines.
They harvested less than a third of the greens.
Lin Dahu cut carefully, leaving the roots intact. Lin Yan oversaw spacing, ensuring nothing was trampled. Their mother washed the vegetables in the yard, her movements slow and reverent, as if handling something precious.
Because it was.
Fresh food.
Not grain scraps.
Not watery porridge.
Real vegetables.
The smell alone drew glances from neighbors.
"Lin family's cooking smells good today," someone muttered as they passed.
Lin Yan heard it.
He said nothing.
That afternoon, Lin Shouzheng tied the vegetables into neat bundles.
"How many?" he asked.
"Twelve," Lin Yan replied. "That's enough."
His father hesitated. "We could sell more."
"Yes," Lin Yan agreed. "And regret it."
Lin Shouzheng looked at his son for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll go."
"I'll go with you," Lin Yan said.
His mother stiffened. "Your body—"
"I'll sit in the shade," Lin Yan replied. "I won't carry anything."
After a brief argument, she relented.
The market town buzzed with noise.
Not lively noise—strained noise.
Voices were louder than usual. Bargaining sharper. Tempers closer to the surface.
Lin Yan noticed everything.
Grain stalls had fewer sacks.
Buyers lingered longer, calculating.
Vegetable vendors were scarce.
That alone told him they had arrived at the right moment—and that this moment was dangerous.
Lin Shouzheng set the bundles down on a cloth near the edge of the market, not pushing forward, not shouting.
They waited.
It didn't take long.
A woman stopped first.
"Are these fresh?" she asked.
"Yes," Lin Shouzheng replied.
She reached out, pinched a leaf between her fingers, then inhaled sharply. "How much?"
Lin Yan answered before his father could. "Two copper per bundle."
The woman blinked. "That's expensive."
"Yes," Lin Yan agreed calmly. "But you won't find cheaper today."
She hesitated—then sighed and paid.
One sale.
Then another.
Then a man pretending not to be interested circled back.
In less than half an hour, half the bundles were gone.
Too fast.
Lin Yan felt it immediately.
"Father," he said quietly, "stop selling."
Lin Shouzheng stiffened. "What?"
"Pack up," Lin Yan repeated. "Now."
His father trusted him enough not to argue.
They sold two more bundles—then stopped.
A man in plain robes approached just as they finished tying the cloth.
"You're leaving already?" the man asked casually.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied, meeting his gaze.
The man smiled faintly. "Pity. Fresh vegetables are rare."
"So I hear," Lin Yan said.
The man studied him more closely. "You're young."
"Yes."
"And yet you set prices."
"Yes."
Interesting, the man thought—but he said nothing more.
They left.
On the way home, Lin Shouzheng couldn't contain himself.
"That was ten bundles we could have sold!" he said. "We earned—"
"Twenty copper," Lin Yan finished.
Lin Shouzheng stopped walking.
He looked down at the coins in his hand.
Twenty copper coins.
In the Lin family's poorest months, that could buy grain for days.
His hands trembled slightly.
"This is… real," he said quietly.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "And that's why it's dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Lin Shouzheng frowned. "How?"
Lin Yan looked ahead at the winding road back to the village.
"Because once people realize this land produces vegetables reliably," he said, "they'll want a share."
"Who?"
"Brokers. Village heads. Possibly officials."
Lin Shouzheng's steps slowed.
"We're not breaking the law," he said.
"No," Lin Yan agreed. "But hunger doesn't care about law."
That night, the Lin family ate vegetables again.
Not much—Lin Yan insisted most be saved—but enough that everyone felt the difference.
Their mother wiped her eyes quietly while eating.
"These greens taste like when I was a child," she whispered.
Lin Yan said nothing.
Later, alone, he opened the system panel.
[Ranch Progress Update]
Income Generated: 20 copper coins
Milestone: First Market Sale Completed
Below it, a warning appeared.
[Attention Level: Increased]
Recommendation: Controlled Growth
Lin Yan closed the panel.
He had expected this.
Money was weight.
Not freedom.
Two days later, Wang Hu came by again.
He stood at the edge of the field, hands clasped behind his back.
"I heard you sold vegetables," he said.
"A little," Lin Yan replied.
"And stopped."
"Yes."
Wang Hu chuckled. "Smart."
He grew serious. "Someone asked me about you in the market."
Lin Yan's eyes sharpened. "Who?"
"A broker. Name I don't know. He asked how long your land's been producing."
"And what did you say?"
"That it barely feeds your family," Wang Hu replied after a pause.
Lin Yan looked at him.
"Why?"
Wang Hu sighed. "Because I don't like the way prices are moving. And I don't like officials asking questions."
Silence stretched between them.
"Thank you," Lin Yan said at last.
Wang Hu waved him off. "Don't thank me. Just… be careful."
That night, Lin Yan lay awake.
Twenty copper coins sat wrapped in cloth beneath the bed.
Not much.
But heavy enough to change how the world looked at him.
He understood now.
Wealth didn't start with riches.
It started with attention.
And attention, once drawn, never fully left.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would plant the next rows.
Slowly.
Carefully.
One step ahead—but never too far.