Good animals carried weight before they were ever weighed.
Lin Yan noticed it in the way the lambs moved.
Not in size alone—though some were already broader through the chest—but in confidence. They stood sooner after birth. They followed their mothers without hesitation. When startled, they regrouped instead of scattering.
That mattered.
Scatter meant loss.
He did not celebrate.
He observed.
Each morning, before the sun cleared the eastern ridge, Lin Yan walked the pens slowly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes tracing muscle lines beneath wool, watching breathing patterns, listening for uneven steps on stone.
Chen Kui followed a pace behind, saying nothing unless asked.
Finally, one morning, Lin Yan stopped.
"This one," he said quietly.
The lamb in question lifted its head, ears twitching. It did not bolt.
Chen Kui crouched, examined the legs, the stance, the alertness in the eyes.
"Born to the thin ewe," he said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "But fed carefully."
"And paired well."
"Yes."
Chen Kui straightened.
"You're changing the flock," he said.
"Slowly," Lin Yan replied.
"But visibly."
Lin Yan allowed himself a small nod.
The change did not stay unnoticed.
Villagers who had entrusted animals to Lin Yan began comparing quietly.
"My lamb doesn't wheeze," one man said.
"Mine stands longer," another replied.
They spoke in low voices, as if louder praise might summon envy.
Lin Yan heard none of it directly.
But he felt it.
Pressure always arrived before praise.
The merchants came on the tenth day of the second month.
Two men.
One cart.
No banners.
They did not go to the village head first.
They came uphill.
Stone barked once.
Ash stood.
Lin Yan stepped forward before they reached the fence.
"State your business," he said calmly.
The older of the two smiled. His beard was neatly trimmed, his robe plain but well-kept.
"My name is Xu Wen, from the east market," he said. "We buy wool. Sometimes meat."
"And sometimes trouble," Lin Yan replied.
Xu Wen laughed. "Only when people lie."
"I don't," Lin Yan said.
"Good," Xu Wen said. "Then we'll get along."
They did not dismount.
That was deliberate.
Xu Wen gestured toward the flock.
"You have quality," he said. "Not a lot. But improving."
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
"We can pay early," Xu Wen continued. "Lock in future delivery. Cash now."
"How early?" Lin Yan asked.
Xu Wen named a number.
It was tempting.
Too tempting.
Lin Yan shook his head.
"I don't sell futures," he said.
Xu Wen raised an eyebrow. "You're poor."
"Yes."
"And still refuse?"
"Yes."
Xu Wen studied him carefully.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not selling wool," Lin Yan replied. "I'm selling consistency."
Xu Wen smiled thinly.
"That takes time."
"Yes," Lin Yan agreed. "Which is why I won't rush it."
The younger merchant shifted impatiently.
"We can go elsewhere," he muttered.
Xu Wen waved him silent.
"You're new to this," Xu Wen said to Lin Yan. "People like you usually break when offered safety."
Lin Yan smiled faintly.
"I already have safety," he replied, gesturing subtly to the dogs, the fences, the hills. "You're offering speed."
Xu Wen laughed softly.
"Well said."
He dismounted.
That alone changed the conversation.
They walked the pens together. Xu Wen asked questions—not only about numbers, but about feed, rotation, winter planning.
Lin Yan answered honestly.
Not fully.
Honesty did not require completeness.
Finally, Xu Wen nodded.
"I'll buy this season's wool," he said. "At market rate."
Lin Yan considered.
"Transport is yours," he said.
"Agreed."
"No exclusivity."
Xu Wen hesitated.
Then nodded again.
"Very well," he said. "But I'll be back."
"I expect you to," Lin Yan replied.
They shook hands.
Not as equals.
But not as prey and hunter either.
The system panel flickered that evening.
[Merchant Contact Established]
[Trade Stability: Early Stage]
[Hidden Risk: Price Suppression Potential]
Lin Yan closed it.
He had already thought the same.
The real test came later that week.
A lamb fell ill.
Not sudden.
Gradual.
Less appetite. Slower steps. Shallow breathing.
Lin Yan noticed it before anyone else did.
He isolated the lamb immediately.
Adjusted feed.
Reduced exposure.
The lamb survived.
Barely.
But the rest did not fall sick.
Chen Kui watched closely.
"You're separating lines," he said.
"Yes."
"And people will notice."
"They already are," Lin Yan replied.
"They'll ask why theirs don't look the same."
"Yes."
"And when they copy you?"
Lin Yan smiled faintly.
"Then I'll be ahead again."
Chen Kui laughed quietly. "You think like a merchant."
"No," Lin Yan replied. "I think like a steward."
At home, his family felt the shift too.
The meals were still simple.
But fuller.
Not because of money.
Because of planning.
His mother stopped rationing quite so carefully.
His father spoke more during meals.
Lin Erniu trained harder, walking patrols without complaint.
"You're not just feeding us," Lin Erniu said one night. "You're… anchoring us."
Lin Yan looked at him.
"That's heavier," he said.
"I know," Lin Erniu replied. "That's why I'll help."
Lin Yan nodded.
The village head returned again.
"You turned down future coin," he said.
"Yes."
"Foolish," the village head said.
"Maybe."
"But they'll respect you more."
"Probably."
The village head sighed.
"You're becoming difficult to place."
"That's safer," Lin Yan replied.
The village head laughed.
"Only you would say that."
One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the hills, Lin Yan sat alone near the pen.
The lambs clustered together, their breath warm in the cooling air.
Ash slept, twitching occasionally.
Stone listened.
Lin Yan thought of his old life again—not with bitterness, but distance.
There, effort vanished into systems that never remembered his name.
Here, effort stayed.
It grazed.
It bled.
It breathed.
He reached out and touched the fence, feeling the rough wood beneath his fingers.
"This," he murmured, "is worth guarding."
The hills said nothing.
But they stood.