The village woke slowly after the funeral.
No one said it aloud, but death always changed the air. Conversations softened. Movements slowed. Even the chickens seemed quieter, clucking less sharply as they scratched the earth.
Lin Yan woke before dawn.
He sat on the edge of his bed, listening.
Wind through the cracks in the wall.
A cough from the neighboring house.
The faint creak of bamboo as someone drew water early.
Everything sounded normal.
And that was exactly what he wanted.
He opened the system panel.
[Ranch Status]
Land: 0.5 mu (Stable, Low Fertility)
Crops: Leafy greens, beans (Early growth)
Livestock: Chickens x3 (Healthy)
Attention Level: Village – Medium | Market – Low
Below it, a small note blinked.
[Suggestion: Increase Low-Visibility Output]
Lin Yan closed the panel.
He already knew what that meant.
Eggs.Vegetables drew eyes.
Fields were visible. Growth could be measured. Harvests could be counted.
Eggs were different.
One here. One there. Eaten quietly. Traded discreetly.
Lin Yan stepped into the yard.
The hens were already awake, pecking calmly. The rooster watched him approach, head tilted, as if recognizing him as the one who decided its fate.
"You're doing well," Lin Yan murmured.
He reached into the coop.
Two eggs.
Warm.
Perfectly formed.
He weighed them in his palm.
In the market, eggs were never questioned. Everyone sold them. Everyone bought them. No broker tracked egg flow.
They were invisible wealth.
His mother emerged with a basin.
"Oh," she said softly when she saw the eggs. "Another two?"
"Yes."
Her lips curved faintly upward.
She didn't cheer.
She didn't exclaim.
She simply nodded and continued working.
That quiet acceptance meant more than excitement.They ate thin porridge again—but with chopped greens stirred in.
The taste was mild but real.
Lin Shouzheng cleared his throat.
"Yan'er," he said, "your mother and I talked."
Lin Yan looked up.
"We think…" his father hesitated, choosing words carefully, "we should stop taking vegetables to market for a while."
Lin Yan's eyes softened.
"That's wise," he said.
Lin Erniu frowned. "But we need money."
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "Which is why we'll sell eggs."
Lin Dahu blinked. "Eggs?"
"Only a few," Lin Yan said. "Through neighbors. Not stalls."
His father considered it.
"That won't earn much."
"No," Lin Yan agreed. "But it won't earn attention either."
Silence followed.
Then Lin Shouzheng nodded.
"Do it your way."
That was not blind trust anymore.
That was recognition.The first egg didn't go to market.
It went next door.
Old Zhao's granddaughter was sick—feverish, coughing weakly. Lin Yan's mother brought an egg in a small cloth.
"Boil it soft," she said gently. "She needs strength."
Old Zhao bowed deeply, eyes red. "We'll repay you."
"No need," Lin Yan's mother replied. "Just let her recover."
The next day, Old Zhao returned—with two copper coins pressed awkwardly into her palm.
"For medicine," he insisted.
She hesitated.
Then accepted.
No one saw.
No one asked.
The system panel updated quietly that night.
[Income Source Registered: Domestic Eggs (Low Visibility)]
Copper Gained: +2
Lin Yan stared at the number.
Two copper.
Laughable.
And perfect.Over the next few days, similar exchanges happened.
An egg for lamp oil.
An egg for salt.
An egg quietly eaten by a pregnant woman whose husband was away hauling goods.
No stalls.
No shouting.
No prices.
Just necessity.
Wang Hu noticed first.
"You're not selling vegetables anymore," he said one evening.
"No," Lin Yan replied.
"But you still eat better."
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "Chickens don't attract officials."
Wang Hu chuckled. "Smart."
Then he grew serious.
"Someone's asking questions again."
Lin Yan's expression didn't change. "Who?"
"Not a broker. A clerk. Same one from the funeral."
Lin Yan nodded slowly.
"He hasn't come to you yet?"
"No," Wang Hu replied. "But he's watching water usage."
Lin Yan exhaled.
That meant one thing.
Agricultural records.
Fields.
Yield estimates.
"Thank you," Lin Yan said.
Wang Hu shook his head. "Just don't drag the rest of us into trouble."
"I won't," Lin Yan promised.
And meant it.That night, Lin Erniu pulled Lin Yan aside.
"You're holding us back," he said quietly.
Lin Yan looked at him calmly.
"From what?"
"From earning," Lin Erniu replied. "We could be selling more. People need food."
"Yes," Lin Yan said. "And when officials think we're the reason prices stabilize—or don't—they'll intervene."
Lin Erniu clenched his fists. "So we just stay poor?"
"No," Lin Yan said gently. "We stay alive."
Lin Erniu looked away.
After a long pause, he muttered, "I hate this feeling."
Lin Yan nodded. "So do I."
That honesty eased something between them.From the village head's courtyard, Zhao Mingyuan wrote notes.
Not formal reports.
Personal ones.
Lin family: small output. Chickens. Vegetables limited. No stall presence.
He tapped the brush against the page.
Not worth action yet.
But he underlined yet.
He had seen enough years to know—
The quiet ones were often the most dangerous.
Late at night, Lin Yan opened the system panel again.
[Long-Term Recommendation:]
Introduce grazing livestock (low-density)
Utilize marginal land (hillside, pasture)
Reduce dependence on visible crops
Grazing.
Sheep.
Cattle—later.
Not here.
Not yet.
He closed his eyes.
One more season.
Just one more season of invisibility.
Then he would move outward—to the hills, the mountains, the places officials didn't bother to count.
Where grass grew freely.
Where bells didn't ring.The rooster crowed softly.
A new day began.
The Lin family did not grow richer that day.
They did not expand land.
They did not attract praise.
But they ate.
They rested.
They endured.
And sometimes—especially in times like these—that was the most dangerous kind of progress of all.