The hills beyond the village did not belong to anyone.
Not truly.
They were marked on no ledger, taxed by no clerk, and measured only by how far a man was willing to walk before turning back. Wild grass grew unevenly there—patches of green mixed with stone, thorn bushes clinging stubbornly to slopes where farming would never be worth the effort.
For most villagers, the hills were places to gather firewood, cut wild herbs, or let goats wander if one had them.
For Lin Yan, they were possibility.
He stood at the village edge in the early morning, a bamboo pole resting across his shoulders, a woven basket hanging from one end. From a distance, he looked no different from any other youth heading out to forage.
Only his eyes lingered longer on the land.
The grass was winter-tough, thin but resilient. Not rich enough for cattle—not yet—but sheep could live here. So could goats. Animals that turned weeds into meat, stones into wool, neglect into value.
Behind him, Lin Erniu shifted his weight impatiently.
"You're sure about this?" his brother asked. "If someone asks why we're going uphill every few days…"
"They won't," Lin Yan replied. "Everyone does."
Erniu snorted. "Not this often."
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "Then we'll bring back firewood."
That ended the argument.
They walked.
The path narrowed as they climbed. The village sounds faded—the clatter of bowls, the low hum of morning chatter, the distant bark of a dog. Wind replaced it, brushing through tall grass and stirring seeds into the air.
Lin Yan crouched, fingers pressing into the soil.
Dry. But not dead.
He brushed aside a stone and saw roots gripping firmly beneath.
"This land holds," he murmured.
Erniu frowned. "You talk like Father when he inspects fields."
Lin Yan didn't deny it.
He rose and scanned the slope. From here, the village was barely visible. No one would notice animals grazing for a few hours. No one would count them.
That mattered.
They returned before noon, baskets filled with firewood and wild greens.
No one stopped them.
No one cared.
That night, Lin Yan lay awake, staring at the darkened ceiling.
The system panel hovered faintly at the edge of his vision.
[Environmental Analysis Complete]
[Hillside Suitability: Low Crop | Moderate Grazing]
[Recommendation: Introduce Small Ruminants]
He closed it.
Not yet.
First, he needed cover.
Two days later, the clerk arrived.
He came in the late afternoon, when shadows stretched long and most villagers were too tired to argue.
Zhao Mingyuan spotted him first and sighed.
The man was young, barely past twenty-five, his robe clean but worn thin at the edges. He carried a wooden tablet under one arm and wore the expression of someone who believed paperwork was a form of power.
He stopped at the Lin family's gate.
Lin Yan was feeding the chickens.
The clerk cleared his throat loudly.
Lin Yan straightened and bowed, just deep enough to show respect.
"Sir."
The clerk looked him up and down. "You're Lin Yan?"
"Yes."
"I'm here to verify agricultural output."
Lin Yan gestured calmly toward the yard. "As you can see, we grow vegetables for our own use."
The clerk's eyes flicked to the chicken coop. "And poultry?"
"Three hens," Lin Yan replied. "They lay irregularly."
"That's still output."
Lin Yan nodded. "For household consumption."
The clerk frowned. "Your family has sold produce recently."
"Earlier," Lin Yan said. "We stopped."
The clerk tapped his tablet. "Why?"
"Rain was poor," Lin Yan replied easily. "And my health is weak."
The clerk studied him.
Lin Yan met his gaze without flinching.
Silence stretched.
Finally, the clerk snorted. "Very well. Keep your records clean."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"If output increases," he added, "it must be reported."
"Of course," Lin Yan said.
The clerk left.
Only after his footsteps faded did Lin Yan exhale.
From behind the house, his mother emerged, hands clenched nervously.
"Did we do something wrong?" she asked.
"No," Lin Yan said softly. "We did nothing at all."
That night, Zhao Mingyuan's lamp burned late.
He reread his notes.
Lin family remains compliant. No expansion.
He hesitated, then added a line.
Watch hillside activity.
A week passed.
The village returned to routine.
The Lin family remained quiet.
Too quiet.
Which was why no one noticed when a small lamb appeared.
It arrived wrapped in rough cloth, bleating softly in Lin Yan's arms as he slipped through the back gate at dusk.
Lin Erniu stared.
"Where did you get that?"
"Traded," Lin Yan replied.
"For what?"
"Labor," Lin Yan said. "And patience."
The lamb was small, thin, and unimpressive.
Perfect.
They kept it behind the house at first, feeding it kitchen scraps and wild grass. It made little noise. Smelled little.
After three days, Lin Yan led it uphill at dawn and brought it back at dusk.
No one questioned a boy walking with a rope.
Within days, the lamb grew stronger.
So did Lin Yan's confidence.
He learned its habits, its appetite, the rhythm of grazing. The system fed him quiet corrections—what grass to avoid, how long was too long, when shade mattered more than feed.
He didn't rush.
He never rushed.
Lin Shouzheng watched all this with a furrowed brow.
"You're sure this won't cause trouble?" he asked one evening.
"It won't," Lin Yan replied. "Because no one's counting."
His father sighed. "You sound like someone who's done this before."
Lin Yan smiled sadly. "I've lived long enough to know what draws attention."
That night, they ate boiled greens with a sliver of egg mixed in.
The lamb slept quietly.
Outside, the wind moved through the hills.
And no one wrote its name down.
By the end of the month, two more lambs joined the first.
They grazed at different times, different slopes.
Lin Erniu helped now, saying little but learning much.
"This feels…" he hesitated, searching for the word, "…safe."
Lin Yan nodded. "That's the point."
The system updated.
[Livestock: Sheep x3 (Juvenile)]
[Income Projection: Low (Current) | Moderate (6–8 months)]
[Risk Level: Minimal]
Lin Yan closed the panel.
Six to eight months was nothing.
He had waited his whole previous life for things that never came.
Waiting, this time, felt like power.
On the village road below, a cart rolled past.
Someone laughed.
Someone argued.
Life went on.
And above it all, on land no one bothered to measure, grass was being eaten.
Slowly.
Steadily.