The first attempt did not look like an attempt.
It looked like routine.
A cart overturned on the southern bend of the road just after dawn—axle split, grain spilled, driver shouting for help. By the time the stewards reached the spot, the sun was barely above the hills, light slanting low and gold across the dust.
Lin Yan arrived minutes later.
He hadn't planned to. He was on his way to inspect the western pasture, riding with Gu Han, when a runner intercepted them—breathless, vague, eyes darting.
"Accident," the boy had said. "Big one."
Lin Yan dismounted without comment.
Routine.
That was the point.
The road curved gently there, hugging a shallow ravine where runoff collected during the rains. The cart lay at an angle, one wheel torn loose, sacks ripped open like bellies. Grain spilled everywhere, already attracting birds.
The driver—a middle-aged man Lin Yan recognized—was unhurt, just shaken.
"Axle snapped," the man said quickly. "Didn't hear a thing until—"
Lin Yan crouched and examined the break.
Too clean.
Gu Han saw it too. His hand lifted slightly, not signaling alarm, but awareness.
The stewards moved to secure the area, efficient, practiced. One took statements. Another waved carts around the bend.
Everything was almost perfect.
Almost.
The ravine was quiet.
Too quiet.
The first arrow came from behind the sound of falling grain.
It missed Lin Yan's head by less than a handspan and struck the dirt with a sharp, ugly thud.
Gu Han moved instantly.
He didn't shout. Didn't draw attention.
He stepped between Lin Yan and the ravine, body turning, knife already in his hand. Two stewards reacted half a breath later, shields up, voices raised.
"Down!" someone shouted.
Lin Yan dropped—not flat, but low, rolling behind the overturned cart, breath steady despite the sudden hammering in his chest.
Another arrow hissed past, striking wood.
Then silence.
The kind that waits.
They did not chase.
Gu Han forbade it with a single sharp gesture.
"Count," he said.
Three arrows recovered.
No more.
Whoever had loosed them had not come to fight.
They had come to send a message.
Lin Yan rose slowly.
His hands were steady.
"That was for me," he said.
"Yes," Gu Han replied. "Specifically."
The driver was shaking now, realizing what he had been part of—willingly or not.
Lin Yan turned to him. "You didn't know?"
The man shook his head frantically. "They paid extra for this run, that's all. I swear—"
Lin Yan believed him.
That, too, was part of the message.
Anyone can be used.
By noon, the village knew.
Not the details—but enough.
"Arrows."
"Ambush."
"They tried to kill him."
Fear surged like a struck hive.
Families pulled children indoors. Workers clustered in small groups, voices tight. Apprentices stared at Lin Yan as he walked past, eyes wide, as if trying to reconcile the man they knew with the target someone had marked.
Gu Han doubled patrols immediately.
Stewards rotated in tighter shifts. Routes changed. Schedules compressed.
Lin Yan did not hide.
That unsettled people more than if he had.
The county inspector arrived that evening.
Unannounced.
This time, he did not ask for tea.
"I heard there was an incident," he said, gaze flicking to the guards stationed near Lin Yan's gate.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "An attempt."
The inspector's mouth tightened. "This is what I warned you about."
Lin Yan met his eyes calmly. "You warned me about disorder. This is opposition."
"They're the same," the inspector snapped.
"No," Lin Yan said. "Disorder comes from absence. This comes from resistance."
The inspector exhaled sharply. "You are escalating."
"So are they," Lin Yan replied. "I just refuse to pretend otherwise."
The inspector hesitated.
Then said, quietly, "You should step back. Let others front this."
Lin Yan nodded once. "I am."
The inspector blinked. "You are?"
"Yes," Lin Yan said. "That's why they aimed at me."
The inspector left without another word.
That night, the Association convened for the first time in full.
Not all members came—distance, fear, necessity—but enough.
Lanterns ringed the meeting space. Faces were tense. Some angry. Some pale.
Lin Yan stood before them.
"I won't lie," he said. "They tried to kill me today."
A murmur rippled.
"I won't dramatize it," he continued. "It wasn't a battle. It was a warning."
He let that settle.
"They will try again," Lin Yan said. "Not necessarily with arrows. Maybe with law. Maybe with pressure on your children. Your elders. Your stores."
A woman stood. "Then why should we stay?"
Lin Yan nodded. "That's the right question."
He took a breath.
"Because if you step away now," he said, "you'll be alone when they come. If you stand together, you'll be targeted—but not erased."
Another man shouted, "You're asking us to bleed for you!"
Lin Yan shook his head. "I'm asking you to bleed with me. Or not at all."
Silence.
Then Gu Han spoke, voice low but carrying.
"They shot at Lin Yan today," he said. "Tomorrow, they shoot at whoever replaces him."
That landed.
After a long moment, an elder from the riverbend village rose.
"We're in," he said simply. "We've always been targets. At least this way—we choose why."
One by one, others nodded.
Not all.
But enough.
The system panel appeared later that night.
[Leadership Target Confirmed]
[Collective Commitment Increased: +11%]
[New Condition Unlocked: Symbolic Authority]
Lin Yan dismissed it.
Symbols were dangerous.
But unavoidable.
At home, the strain broke through.
His youngest brother burst out that night.
"Why do they want to kill you?" the boy demanded, eyes bright with tears and fury. "You didn't steal. You didn't hurt anyone!"
Lin Yan knelt and took his shoulders gently.
"Because sometimes," he said softly, "helping people takes something away from others."
His brother clenched his fists. "Then stop!"
Lin Yan's chest tightened.
His mother intervened, pulling the boy close. "Enough."
Later, when the house slept, she sat beside Lin Yan.
"I knew this would come," she said quietly.
"So did I," Lin Yan replied.
She studied his face. "Then why don't you step aside?"
Lin Yan answered honestly. "Because if I do, it won't stop. It will just choose someone weaker."
She nodded slowly.
Then she said, "Then come home alive."
The second attempt came three days later.
Not with arrows.
With fire.
A storage shed on the edge of the pasture was torched at night—small, controlled, meant to destroy feed, not kill animals. The stewards caught it early. Damage was limited.
But the message was unmistakable.
We can reach you anywhere.
Gu Han stood beside the charred beams at dawn.
"They're probing reactions," he said.
Lin Yan stared at the blackened wood.
"Then we answer," he said.
"How?" Gu Han asked.
"Not with fire," Lin Yan replied. "With daylight."
The response was public.
Measured.
Lin Yan invited the county magistrate, the inspector, and representatives from all Association villages to inspect the damage. Ledgers were open. Testimonies recorded. No accusations—only facts.
He did not name Xu Wen.
He didn't have to.
By afternoon, rumors were already ahead of the truth.
That night, Xu Wen finally sent word.
A request.
Private.
Urgent.
Gu Han read it and scoffed. "Now he wants to talk."
Lin Yan folded the note.
"He's running out of clean moves," Lin Yan said.
"And you?"
"I still have daylight," Lin Yan replied.
They met at the same teahouse as before.
Xu Wen looked… thinner.
Not weaker.
But tighter.
"You're forcing my hand," Xu Wen said without preamble.
Lin Yan poured tea calmly. "You fired first."
Xu Wen's jaw twitched. "You don't understand how this works."
"I do," Lin Yan replied. "That's why I didn't hide."
Xu Wen leaned forward. "If you fall, this collapses."
"No," Lin Yan said. "If I fall alone, maybe. That's why I didn't build it that way."
Xu Wen stared at him, something like frustration—and reluctant respect—flickering across his face.
"What do you want?" Xu Wen asked.
Lin Yan met his gaze.
"Distance," he said. "And time."
Xu Wen laughed bitterly. "You're asking me to retreat."
"I'm offering you a boundary," Lin Yan replied.
Silence stretched.
Finally, Xu Wen said, "You're heavier than you look."
Lin Yan nodded. "And you're lighter than you think."
They parted without agreement.
But something had shifted.
Back in the village, Lin Yan stood again at the pasture's edge.
The dogs lay nearby, alert but calm. The cattle chewed slowly, unbothered.
Gu Han joined him.
"They'll try one more time," Gu Han said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
"And after?"
"After," Lin Yan said, "they'll decide whether I'm worth the cost."
Gu Han studied him.
"You're not just carrying weight anymore," he said. "You're becoming it."
Lin Yan watched the horizon, where the land stretched farther now than it ever had.
"Someone has to," he replied.
The night settled in.
And for the first time since the arrows flew—
Lin Yan did not feel hunted.
He felt… anchored.
Like something that had grown roots deep enough to resist being pulled free.
Whatever came next—
It would have to tear up more than just him.