Ink changed things more than blood ever did.
Lin Yan understood that the morning after the hills returned to normal. No tracks. No broken fences. The sheep grazed as if nothing had happened. Even Ash seemed less restless, posture easing now that the night had passed without challenge.
But the village was not the same.
People spoke more softly. Doors closed earlier. When Lin Yan walked through the lanes, conversations paused—not out of fear, but recalculation. He had crossed an invisible line. Not into power, but into notice.
And notice always demanded accounting.
The officials arrived just before noon.
Not patrolmen this time.
A clerk, two constables, and a man in plain robes whose shoes were too clean for village dust. He carried no seal, no banner, but everyone knew instinctively to stand straighter when he passed.
Zhao Mingyuan met them at the village edge.
Lin Yan came when summoned.
"You're Lin Yan," the man said, voice mild.
"Yes."
"I am Qiu Ren, assistant registrar for the county," the man said. "I handle irregular assets."
Lin Yan almost smiled.
"Then I imagine you're busy," he replied.
Qiu Ren studied him carefully.
"Yes," he said. "Lately."
They did not go to the yamen.
They went uphill.
That alone told Lin Yan this was not an accusation.
It was an inspection.
Stone barked once, then lay down. Ash sat beside Lin Yan, eyes fixed on the newcomers.
Qiu Ren noticed both dogs.
"Good animals," he said. "Trained, not angry."
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
"They don't chase strangers," Qiu Ren observed.
"No," Lin Yan agreed. "They mark them."
Qiu Ren nodded faintly.
They walked the pens. Counted sheep. Observed spacing. Inspected fences. Qiu Ren asked questions—not many, but precise.
"How many animals not your own?"
"Nine."
"Any written contracts?"
"No."
"Any disputes?"
"Not yet."
Qiu Ren stopped walking.
"Not yet," he repeated.
"Yes," Lin Yan said calmly. "That's why I keep it small."
Qiu Ren looked at him for a long moment.
"Most men say that after things break," he said. "You say it before."
Lin Yan did not reply.
Qiu Ren smiled slightly.
"That's inconvenient," he said. "But useful."
They sat at a rough table near the pen.
Qiu Ren took out a ledger—not thick, but clean.
"You've created a concentration of livestock," he said. "That attracts thieves. You repelled them."
"Yes."
"You did not pursue."
"No."
"You did not kill."
"No."
"Good," Qiu Ren said. "That means I can write this as stabilization, not escalation."
Lin Yan understood then.
This man was not here to stop him.
He was here to frame him.
Qiu Ren dipped his brush.
"You will register as a private herding steward," he said. "Informal title. No rank. No stipend."
"And obligations?" Lin Yan asked.
"Report disturbances," Qiu Ren replied. "Limit herd size without notice. Accept inspection."
"And benefits?"
Qiu Ren smiled. "Legibility."
Lin Yan nodded.
"I accept."
The brush moved.
Ink dried.
Names entered.
When Qiu Ren closed the ledger, the air felt heavier—and safer.
Word spread quickly.
Too quickly.
By afternoon, three men Lin Yan had never met appeared near the hill path, pretending to admire the grass.
One asked casually, "Heard you're official now."
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "I'm recorded."
The man laughed awkwardly. "Same thing."
"No," Lin Yan said. "Very different."
They left soon after.
The system panel updated that evening.
[Host Status Updated: Registered Herding Steward]
[Official Risk: Reduced]
[Expansion Threshold: Unlocked (Limited)]
Lin Yan read it once.
Then closed it.
The system did not understand what this truly meant.
People did.
The breeding work began quietly.
Not with announcements.
With observation.
Lin Yan spent evenings watching how the ewes moved, which ones recovered faster after birth, which lambs stood sooner, which nursed without guidance.
He marked nothing publicly.
But in his mind, patterns formed.
"This one," he said one evening, pointing subtly with his chin.
Chen Kui watched. "She eats less."
"And gives more," Lin Yan replied.
"And that one?" Chen Kui asked.
"Strong legs," Lin Yan said. "Bad temperament."
Chen Kui nodded. "Cull later."
"Not yet," Lin Yan replied. "Temperament can be trained. Weak lungs cannot."
They adjusted feed accordingly.
No magic.
Just intent.
Lin Erniu noticed the change first.
"You don't treat them the same anymore," he said.
"I never did," Lin Yan replied. "I just didn't know why before."
His father watched silently, approval in his eyes but concern too.
"This kind of thinking changes things," Lin Shouzheng said. "People will copy you."
"Good," Lin Yan replied. "Then I won't be alone."
The village head came that night.
Not angry.
Worried.
"You're drawing lines," he said.
"Yes."
"They don't like lines."
"I know," Lin Yan replied.
"But they respect ink," the village head added.
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
"Just don't forget where you came from," the village head said finally.
Lin Yan bowed slightly.
"I can't afford to," he replied. "It's my leverage."
The village head laughed despite himself.
Later, alone near the pens, Lin Yan watched the sheep settle.
Ash slept.
Stone listened.
The hills held steady.
He thought of the future—not in dreams, but in systems.
Better stock.
Better pasture.
Better people.
One day, cattle.
Not yet.
First, foundations.
He touched the fence, feeling its firmness.
Once, his name meant nothing.
Now it was written.
Not in legend.
In ink.
And ink, Lin Yan knew, was harder to erase than blood.