The grass told the truth before people did.
Lin Yan learned that on a cold morning when frost clung to the upland slope like thin glass. He walked the ridge slowly, boots crunching softly, eyes scanning where the sheep had grazed the day before. In one patch the blades lay torn and uneven, roots exposed where hooves had lingered too long. In another, the grass stood springy and intact, cropped evenly as if cut with care.
Pressure, he thought, was visible—if you looked at the ground.
He marked the damaged patch in his mind and moved on.
The labeled lambs drew attention faster than he expected.
Not loud attention. Not applause.
Questions.
A man paused longer than necessary near the pen. A woman asked, casually, whether the wool from those three felt different. A boy repeated a word he didn't understand—"line"—and was shushed by his mother.
Lin Yan answered only what he was asked. No more.
Yes, they grew evenly.
Yes, they ate a bit less for the same weight.
No, they were not for sale.
That last answer traveled the farthest.
The merchant who came next did not bring a smile.
Zhang Qu returned on a gray afternoon, cart newly repaired, wheels greased enough to shine. Two men walked with him this time—not guards, exactly, but not helpers either. They kept their hands visible and their eyes active.
Stone rose at once.
Ash stood shoulder to knee with Lin Yan.
Zhang Qu stopped at the edge of the pen and did not step closer.
"That's a fine fence," he said. "Sturdy."
"It needs to be," Lin Yan replied. "People lean."
Zhang Qu smiled thinly. "I hear you've created a special lot."
Lin Yan did not deny it.
"Market wants it," Zhang Qu continued. "Word spreads."
"Word distorts," Lin Yan replied.
"Not always," Zhang Qu said. "Sometimes it sharpens."
He gestured toward the labeled lambs.
"I'll buy them," he said. "All three. At a premium."
"No," Lin Yan replied.
Zhang Qu's smile faded.
"You refused before," he said. "That was business. This is… opportunity."
"This is timing," Lin Yan corrected. "And the timing is wrong."
Zhang Qu took a step closer.
"You're holding back value," he said. "That invites correction."
Lin Yan met his eyes evenly.
"Correction by whom?"
Zhang Qu glanced briefly toward the two men behind him.
"By the market," he said.
Lin Yan nodded. "Then the market can wait."
The air tightened.
Zhang Qu exhaled slowly. "You think registration protects you."
"It clarifies me," Lin Yan replied.
"Officials don't like disruptions," Zhang Qu said.
"They like stability," Lin Yan replied. "I provide it."
Zhang Qu's jaw worked.
"You'll sell," he said. "One way or another."
Lin Yan's voice remained calm. "No."
Stone growled—low, vibrating.
Ash did not bark.
That was worse.
Zhang Qu held Lin Yan's gaze for a long moment, then laughed without humor.
"You'll regret being difficult. Again."
"Everyone says that," Lin Yan replied. "Few return to prove it."
Zhang Qu turned and left.
The two men followed.
Stone barked once—sharp, final.
The pressure shifted shape that night.
Not on the hills.
In the village.
A rumor spread that Lin Yan planned to monopolize grazing. Another claimed he'd struck a secret deal with officials to drive prices up. A third suggested he'd refused to sell because the lambs were sick.
Lin Yan heard none of it directly.
But his mother did.
"They say strange things," she said quietly, hands busy kneading dough. "Should we answer?"
Lin Yan shook his head. "Let it burn out."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we'll know who fed it."
The system panel flickered late that evening.
[External Coercion Attempt Detected]
[Merchant Risk: Elevated]
[Recommended Action: Diversify Assets]
Lin Yan closed it slowly.
"Already planned," he murmured.
He began with grass.
Not the sheep.
Grass was quieter.
Less political.
More patient.
The next morning, Lin Yan walked the southern slope with Chen Kui, carrying nothing but a short staff and a pouch of seeds wrapped in oilcloth.
"You're moving the flock?" Chen Kui asked.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "Rotating earlier."
"That'll thin them."
"For now."
Chen Kui nodded. "And this?"
"Testing," Lin Yan said.
They stopped at a patch where wild grass grew thicker, blades broader, roots deeper. Lin Yan knelt, pressed his fingers into the soil, crumbled it between thumb and forefinger.
"See the color?" he asked.
Chen Kui squinted. "Darker."
"More life," Lin Yan said. "Holds water."
He scattered a small handful of seed—not all at once, but spaced, deliberate.
"Not much," Chen Kui said.
"No," Lin Yan agreed. "I want to see what survives without help."
Chen Kui watched him carefully.
"This isn't for sheep," he said.
"No," Lin Yan replied. "This is for weight."
Chen Kui's eyes narrowed. "Cattle."
Lin Yan didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
He didn't tell anyone else.
Not his family.
Not the villagers.
Not the officials.
He adjusted routes subtly, letting the sheep graze less aggressively on certain slopes, allowing others to rest. He collected manure carefully and spread it thin where soil showed promise.
No fences moved.
No announcements made.
Only the grass knew.
The villagers pushed again.
Old Sun returned, more anxious this time.
"They're saying prices will fall," he said. "That merchants won't buy small lots anymore."
"They always say that," Lin Yan replied.
"But what if it's true?"
"Then they'll buy quality," Lin Yan said. "Or they'll leave room for someone else."
Old Sun hesitated. "People are nervous."
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "That means they're thinking short-term."
"And you?"
"I'm thinking winter."
Old Sun stared at him, then sighed. "You always are."
The labeled lambs thrived.
Not dramatically.
Reliably.
Their coats thickened. Their frames filled out without heaviness. When startled, they regrouped faster than the others.
Xu Wen returned—alone this time.
He watched quietly for a long while before speaking.
"You turned Zhang Qu away again," he said.
"Yes."
"He's not patient."
"No."
"He's dangerous when cornered."
"So are animals," Lin Yan replied. "That's why I train them."
Xu Wen smiled faintly. "You're not selling."
"No."
Xu Wen nodded slowly. "Then I won't ask."
That was new.
"I'll buy the wool," Xu Wen continued. "Same rate as before."
Lin Yan considered.
"And the lambs?"
Xu Wen shook his head. "Not yet."
Lin Yan smiled. "Good."
They shook hands.
Not in relief.
In recognition.
The rumor reached the officials too.
Qiu Ren sent a note—not a summons.
Maintain order. Report disturbances. Avoid escalation.
Lin Yan read it once and burned it.
He didn't need the reminder.
The confrontation came not with noise, but with absence.
One morning, Lin Yan noticed a trail where none should be—grass pressed flat in a careful line, stones shifted just enough to mark passage. Someone had walked the perimeter in daylight.
Measuring again.
Chen Kui followed the trail with his eyes.
"They're patient," he said.
"So am I," Lin Yan replied.
He adjusted nothing.
No extra guards.
No show of force.
He moved the labeled lambs closer to the central pen, within clearer sight of the house. He rotated Ash and Stone's patrol patterns slightly.
Then he waited.
Waiting worked.
Two days later, Zhang Qu sent a boy with a message.
We should talk. Privately.
Lin Yan did not reply.
That silence was his answer.
On the hill at dusk, Lin Yan stood watching the sheep move as one, the grass beneath them bending and springing back.
Chen Kui joined him.
"You're betting on grass," Chen Kui said.
"I'm betting on time," Lin Yan replied.
"And cattle?"
"Eventually."
Chen Kui smiled faintly. "That'll change everything."
"Yes," Lin Yan agreed. "That's why I'm not rushing."
Below them, the village lights flickered.
Above them, the hills held steady.
Lin Yan felt the weight of the ground beneath his feet—not as burden, but as promise.
Grass could be trampled.
Or it could be cultivated.
He intended the latter.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Until even those who tried to press him down found themselves standing on something stronger than before.