Dawn came grey and brittle.
Lin Yan woke to the sound of coughing—a dry, racking sound from the main room. His younger brother, Lin Wen. The boy tried to stifle it, burying his face in his thin blanket, but the sound carried through the thin partition.
For a long moment, Lin Yan lay still, listening. To the coughing. To the soft murmur of his mother already moving about. To the creak of the floorboards as his father rose, his joints popping like kindling.
Memories not his own surfaced: winters past. Sickness that lingered because medicine cost silver. Neighbors who didn't survive the cold months. The unspoken rule of the poor: you either got better on your own, or you didn't.
He pushed himself up. The dizziness was less today, replaced by a deep, bone-deep weakness. But his mind felt clear—shockingly clear. The dual consciousness that had plagued him yesterday had settled into an uneasy integration. He was both Lin Yan, the modern man who remembered supermarkets and antibiotics, and Lin Yan, the farmer's son who knew which wild roots could stave off hunger and where the mountain stream ran cleanest.
He dressed slowly. The clothes were rough-spun hemp, patched at elbows and knees, smelling of woodsmoke and old sweat. As he tied the cloth belt, his fingers brushed against his ribs. Prominent. Too prominent.
When he stepped through the bamboo screen, the main room was already a portrait of morning ritual.
His father, Lin Tieshan, knelt by the cold fire pit, carefully arranging the thin sticks of firewood his eldest son had gathered yesterday. Each piece was placed with ritual precision—nothing wasted, nothing frivolous. The man's back was a permanent curve, as if decades of bending to the earth had reshaped his spine.
By the low table, Lin Wen sat hunched over a worn book, his finger tracing characters in the dim light filtering through the paper window. The boy was sixteen, all sharp angles and intense eyes. Even now, shivering in the morning chill, he read as if the words could warm him.
The two sisters—Lin Hua and Lin Lan—were rolling sleeping mats against the wall, their movements synchronized from years of practice. They glanced at him as he emerged, their eyes wide with concern and something else… curiosity. He looked different, they seemed to be thinking. He felt different.
"You shouldn't be up," his mother said without turning from the clay stove. She was stirring the morning porridge, the pot already emitting the familiar scent of thin grain and water.
"I'm better," he said, and was surprised to find he meant it.
His father looked up, his eyes assessing. "Fever's gone?"
"Gone."
A nod. That was all. But in this family, it was approval.
Breakfast was a silent affair. The porridge was, if possible, even thinner than yesterday. Lin Yan watched as his mother ladled it out, her hands steady but her eyes avoiding the children's bowls. She gave the two toddlers—his nephews—a slightly thicker portion, which meant the adults got less. No one complained. This was the arithmetic of survival.
As they ate, Lin Yan studied them. Really studied them.
Eldest brother Lin Fu, twenty-eight but looking a decade older, his shoulders already rounded from carrying burdens both physical and familial. His wife, Zhang-shi, quiet and efficient, feeding their son with mechanical patience.
Second brother Lin Lu, sharper-eyed, watching the distribution of food with a calculator's gaze. His wife, Li-shi, pregnant again though not yet showing, her face pale with more than morning sickness.
And Lin Wen. The scholar. The hope. Eating slowly, as if trying to make each mouthful count, his mind clearly already wandering back to his books.
"The chickens," Lin Yan said into the quiet.
All movement stopped.
His father's spoon hovered halfway to his mouth. "What about them?"
"They're not laying. They're eating grain we don't have."
The words hung in the air, blunt and ugly.
"They're the last breeding pair," Second Brother said, his voice careful. "If we slaughter them, we have no poultry at all."
"If we don't slaughter them, we might not have spring planting," Lin Yan countered. "Weak bodies make weak workers. Weak workers mean poor harvests. Poor harvests mean..."
He didn't need to finish. They all knew the equation.
His mother was watching him, her face unreadable. "What do you propose, Yan'er?"
He took a breath. "Slaughter the two old hens. Make broth. The meat will give us strength for a few days. The broth will help Wen's cough and the children's hunger."
"And then what?" Eldest Brother asked, not challenging, just weary. "We eat well for three days and starve for ten?"
"No," Lin Yan said. "Then we use that strength to make something new."
He had their attention now. Even Lin Wen looked up from his book.
"The government wasteland west of the village," Lin Yan continued. "The rocky section by the stream that no one leases because nothing grows there."
His father frowned. "That's cursed land. Nothing but stones and bitter weeds."
"For crops, yes. But grass can grow there. Certain types of grass."
"Grass?" Second Brother's eyebrow lifted. "We're not herders. We're farmers."
"We're starving," Lin Yan said softly. "That makes us whatever we need to be."
He set down his bowl. The system hadn't given him specific knowledge yet—not until he acquired livestock—but his modern memories provided snippets. Grasses that thrived in poor soil. Legumes that fixed nitrogen. Rotation patterns.
"If we could lease that land—just a small section, the cheapest rate—and improve the grass," he said, choosing his words carefully, "we could graze a goat. Or a calf. Even one animal would change everything. Manure for our fields. Milk eventually. And if it's a calf..."
"Calves cost silver," his father said, but there was less dismissal in his voice now. More... calculation.
"Not if it's sickly. Not if it's the runt no one wants."
"A sick animal dies. Then we've wasted everything."
"A sick animal can be healed with care and the right forage." Lin Yan met his father's gaze. "I've been watching Old Zhang's cattle. I've been reading the weather, the land. I think I can do this."
The silence that followed was different from before. Not the silence of despair, but of consideration.
It was his mother who broke it. "How much to lease the land?"
"A few copper coins per mu per year," Second Brother said automatically. He had a head for numbers, for transactions. "But the magistrate's office charges a filing fee. And we'd need to improve it within three years or lose the lease."
"We could start with five mu," Lin Yan said. "Just the section by the stream. The water is there. The stones..." He paused. "The stones could be used for fencing later."
He was building the picture in their minds. Not with grand promises, but with practical steps. Stone by stone. Blade of grass by blade of grass.
His father finished his porridge, setting the bowl down with a soft click. He stared into the empty vessel for a long moment, as if reading fortunes in the few remaining grains.
"The chickens," he said finally. "Do it today. Make the broth rich." He looked at Lin Yan. "If you're strong enough by tomorrow, you'll come with me to the wasteland. Show me what you see."
It wasn't agreement. Not yet. But it was a crack in the wall of impossibility.
"Yes, Father."
The day unfolded with a new tension—a nervous energy that hadn't been there before. After the meal, the men went to the fields to continue salvaging the frost-bitten beans. The women began the grim task of slaughtering the chickens, their movements efficient and unsentimental. These were not pets. They were food that had stopped earning its keep.
Lin Yan was ordered to rest, but instead, he walked to the edge of their small plot, leaning against the fence post. From here, he could see the village—two dozen thatched roofs clustered around a dirt path. Smoke rose from a few chimneys. A dog barked listlessly.
And beyond, to the west, the wasteland.
It stretched along the stream, a patchwork of stones and poor soil, dotted with scrubby bushes and tough, unpalatable grass. The village called it "Ghost Grazing Land" because even goats wouldn't touch the vegetation there.
But Lin Yan saw something else. He saw contours that could be terraced slightly to prevent erosion. He saw the stream providing year-round water. He saw the stones that everyone cursed as building material waiting to be gathered.
And in his mind, the system provided a faint, almost imperceptible nudge:
[LAND ASSESSMENT: POOR QUALITY, HIGH DRAINAGE, ACIDIC SOIL]
[RECOMMENDED GRASSES: BRACHARIA, BERMUDA - DROUGHT RESISTANT]
[NOTE: SOIL AMENDMENT REQUIRED FOR OPTIMAL GROWTH]
No magic. Just information. The kind of information a modern farmer might have from soil tests and agricultural extensions.
"Third Brother?"
He turned. Lin Wen stood a few feet away, his book tucked under his arm. The boy looked younger in the daylight, all sharp cheekbones and serious eyes.
"Shouldn't you be studying?" Lin Yan asked.
"I needed air." Lin Wen hesitated. "What you said at breakfast... about the grass. How do you know?"
It was the question Lin Yan had been waiting for. The first test of his new reality.
"I've been watching," he said, which was true. He had spent years observing the land, even if he hadn't known what to do with the observations. "And I've been thinking. The grass that grows on the south slope of the mountain—the kind the wild deer eat—it's different from the grass here. Thicker. Greener. Even in poor soil."
"So you want to bring that grass down?"
"I want to understand why it grows there. Then make it grow here."
Lin Wen considered this. "The scholars say everything has a reason. A principle. If you find the principle..."
"You can change the outcome," Lin Yan finished.
The boy nodded, and in that moment, Lin Yan saw it—the scholar's mind at work. Not just memorization, but analysis. Connection.
"If you succeed," Lin Wen said quietly, "there might be silver for books."
It wasn't a demand. It was a statement of fact, so bleak it stole Lin Yan's breath. His younger brother wasn't dreaming of glory or officialdom. He was dreaming of books. Of the basic tools of his supposed escape.
"If I succeed," Lin Yan said, meeting his eyes, "you'll have more than books."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The promise hung between them, fragile as a spider's web in morning dew.
The afternoon brought visitors.
Old Zhang Shun appeared at their gate just as the scent of chicken broth began to spread through the yard—a rich, undeniable aroma that made empty stomachs cramp with anticipation.
The old farmer stood awkwardly, his hat in his hands. "Heard Third Son Lin was sick," he muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Brought some wild ginger. For the broth."
It was a small gesture—a few knobs of wild ginger root—but in a village where every mouthful counted, it was significant. Lin Yan remembered then: Old Zhang had carried him down the mountain. Had probably saved his life.
"Thank you, Uncle Zhang," Lin Yan said, bowing slightly.
The old man grunted, but his eyes lingered on Lin Yan's face. "You look different."
"The fever broke."
"Hmm." Old Zhang's gaze was shrewd. "Heard you talking about the wasteland."
News traveled fast in a village of twenty families.
"Just ideas," Lin Yan said carefully.
"Ideas get men killed," Old Zhang said bluntly. Then he paused. "Or fed. My father tried to farm that land fifty years ago. Starved for three seasons before giving up."
"I'm not planning to farm it."
That caught the old man's attention. "Oh?"
"Grass," Lin Yan said simply. "For grazing."
Old Zhang stared at him for a long moment. Then he did something unexpected: he laughed. A dry, rasping sound. "You're either a fool or..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "My ox died last year. You know why?"
Lin Yan waited.
"Because I had nowhere to graze him properly. The common land is overgrazed. My own plot is too small. He ate straw and bitterness, and his stomach turned." The old man's face tightened. "If you could grow good grass on that cursed land..."
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
"If I could," Lin Yan said slowly, "would you help? You know more about cattle than anyone in the village."
Old Zhang's eyes narrowed. "Help how?"
"Advice. When the time comes."
The old man studied him, and in his weathered face, Lin Yan saw not suspicion, but calculation. The calculation of a man who had lost everything once and was weighing the risk of hope.
"Grow your grass first," Old Zhang said finally. "Then we'll talk."
He turned and walked away, his steps slow and deliberate.
Lin Yan watched him go. That was two. His father's cautious permission. Old Zhang's conditional interest.
It was a start.
That evening, the chicken broth was a revelation.
Rich, golden, fragrant with ginger and the few wild herbs his mother had gathered. The meat—tough from age—was shredded into the pot, every bit of fat and cartilage rendered down. Each person received a bowl, and for the first time in months, there was enough. Not plenty, but enough.
Lin Yan watched his family eat. Watched the color return to his mother's face. Watched his father's shoulders relax just a fraction. Watched the children's eyes light up with something besides hunger.
It was only two chickens. Only one meal.
But it was proof. Proof that change was possible. That the equation could be altered.
As darkness fell and the family prepared for sleep, Lin Yan stood once more at the door, looking west toward the wasteland. The moon was rising, casting silver light over the stones and scrub.
In his mind, the system updated:
[FIRST STEP COMPLETED: FAMILY NOURISHMENT IMPROVED]
[MORALE INCREASE: MINIMAL BUT DETECTABLE]
[NEXT OBJECTIVE: SURVEY WASTELAND, IDENTIFY 5-MU PLOT FOR LEASE]
[TIME REMAINING FOR LIVESTOCK ACQUISITION: 29 DAYS]
Twenty-nine days.
He had slaughtered the chickens. He had planted an idea. He had gathered the first threads of support.
Tomorrow, he would walk the wasteland with his father. Tomorrow, he would see if the land could be persuaded to grow something besides despair.
Behind him, in the house, his family slept with fuller bellies than they'd had in weeks. The sound of Lin Wen's coughing had lessened.
It was a small thing. A feather's weight of change.
But sometimes, Lin Yan thought as he finally turned toward his bed, the smallest weight could tip the balance.