Pressure, Lin Yan discovered, never arrived head-on.
It circled first.
The notice came three days after Zhang Qu's message went unanswered.
Not a summons.
Not an accusation.
Just a thin strip of bamboo paper delivered by a junior clerk, stamped lightly with the county seal.
Routine registration review. Livestock numbers. Land use confirmation.
Routine.
Lin Yan read it once, then folded it neatly and set it beside the oil lamp.
His mother watched him from the stove, worry carved deep into her brow.
"Is it bad?" she asked.
"No," Lin Yan said. "It's expected."
That didn't reassure her.
Officials never came unless someone pointed.
The clerk arrived at mid-morning, accompanied by two record-keepers and a constable who leaned more than stood. Their boots were clean. Their hands empty.
This was inspection, not enforcement.
Still, the village gathered at a distance.
Lin Yan greeted them calmly, offering water, not tea. The clerk accepted, eyes flicking briefly toward the pens.
"You've expanded," the clerk said.
"Within my registered limits," Lin Yan replied.
The record-keepers opened their books.
They counted sheep.
They measured pens.
They checked boundary markers.
Lin Yan answered every question without embellishment.
When asked about the labeled lambs, he did not hide them.
"They're a breeding line," he said.
The clerk paused. "Registered?"
"As experimental stock," Lin Yan replied, producing the stamped addendum he had filed weeks earlier.
The clerk read it twice.
Then nodded.
No objection.
The constable shifted, disappointed.
The inspection took longer than expected.
Not because of problems—but because of thoroughness.
Lin Yan did not rush them.
He let them see the grass.
Let them notice the rotation.
Let them observe that nothing was hidden.
When it was done, the clerk closed his book.
"Everything is in order," he said.
He hesitated.
"You should be careful," he added quietly. "Growth draws attention."
Lin Yan inclined his head. "So does stagnation."
The clerk almost smiled.
Zhang Qu heard the result before sunset.
That night, he drank alone.
His leverage had failed—not because Lin Yan was powerful, but because he was clean.
Clean records were harder to twist than muscle.
The next move came from a different direction.
A cattle broker arrived two days later.
Not Zhang Qu's man.
A stranger.
He wore dust like a second coat and spoke little. His eyes lingered on the hills more than the sheep.
"You're Lin Yan," he said.
"Yes."
"I hear you want cattle."
"I hear many things," Lin Yan replied. "Some are true."
The broker smiled faintly.
"I have two head," he said. "Old stock. Cheap."
Lin Yan shook his head.
"I don't buy old," he said.
"They pull plows."
"I don't need plows."
The broker studied him more closely.
"You're waiting," he said.
"Yes."
"For what?"
"For grass to speak first."
The broker laughed softly. "You're different."
"Only careful."
They parted without a deal.
But the seed was planted.
That evening, Lin Yan walked the southern slope alone.
The grass there had changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
The blades stood thicker, greener, their roots holding firm even where sheep had grazed lightly.
He crouched, tugged gently.
Resistance.
He smiled.
The system panel flickered.
[Soil Vitality: Improved (Localized)]
[Grass Yield Projection: +12%]
Not enough for cattle.
But enough to promise them.
In the village, talk shifted again.
Not accusations now.
Speculation.
"If officials checked him and found nothing…"
"If merchants can't push him…"
"If his sheep really do grow better…"
People began watching with different eyes.
Not envy.
Calculation.
Old Sun came again, slower this time.
"They say you'll start buying cattle," he said.
"Eventually."
"They say you won't sell sheep anymore."
"I sell what I can afford to lose."
Old Sun nodded. "That's new thinking."
"No," Lin Yan said. "It's old. Just forgotten."
Zhang Qu made one last attempt.
A letter this time.
Polite.
Measured.
Joint distribution. Shared risk. Guaranteed profit.
Lin Yan burned it without reading twice.
He had seen the grass.
That was answer enough.
On the hill at sunset, Chen Kui joined him again.
"The pressure's easing," Chen Kui said.
"For now."
"And cattle?"
Lin Yan watched the light fade over the pasture.
"Soon," he said. "But not yet."
Chen Kui smiled. "You always wait until the ground agrees."
Lin Yan nodded.
Below them, sheep moved quietly.
Above them, the sky darkened without threat.
The first battle had ended without blood.
The next one would be heavier.
Hoofed.
Slow.
Unavoidable.
And Lin Yan would meet it the same way he met everything else—
By making sure the ground beneath him was ready to carry the weight.