The math was brutal.
Li Wei stood on the edge of the Westland, a stalk of grass between his teeth, staring at the calendar in his mind. Thirty days until the first frost. Thirty days to harvest, dry, and stack five hundred bundles of hay.
He looked at his workforce: one limping soldier, one malnourished teenager, and himself, a reborn office worker with the upper body strength of a wet noodle.
"If we work from dawn to dusk," Li Sheng said, his voice trembling as he did the math on a scrap of wood, "we can cut maybe fifteen bundles a day. That's... four hundred and fifty bundles. And that's if we don't sleep."
"We need efficiency," Li Wei said, spitting the grass out. "Hard work isn't enough. We need technique."
In his previous life, Li Wei had never held a scythe. But he had watched documentaries on Amish farming and modern haying operations. The local farmers used short, curved sickles, swinging them one-handed while crouching. It was back-breaking and slow.
"We need a different tool," Li Wei muttered. He sketched a design in the dirt with a stick. A long, straight snath (handle) with a curved blade at the bottom. A two-handed scythe. It allowed a standing user to harness the momentum of their hips and swing in a wide arc, cutting closer to the ground and covering more area with less effort.
"Chen Hu," Li Wei called. "Can the blacksmith make this?"
Chen Hu studied the drawing. "A long handle? It looks unwieldy. But if the balance is right... it could work. I'll go to town. I know a smith who owes me a favor for a quick job."
"Go. Take the horse. Buy food supplies. And get salt. Lots of salt."
As Chen Hu rode off, Li Wei turned to the task of moving the herd. To harvest the grass, they first had to clear the cattle out of the way. He needed to practice what the Americans called 'rotational grazing'.
"Sheng, saddle the other horse. We're moving the cows to the north ridge."
The north ridge was a section of the Westland Li Wei had earmarked for regeneration. The grass there was sparse, but the system had identified it as a recovering area. By moving the cattle there, he would concentrate their manure, fertilizing the soil for next spring, while freeing up the lush southern creek bed for haying.
Riding a swaybacked old horse was not like riding a stallion in a movie. The beast was slow, complaining with every step. But Li Wei didn't care. He felt the rhythm of the walk, the sway of the saddle.
He approached the herd. The 'General', the Black Bull, lifted his head.
"Move 'em out!" Li Wei shouted, tapping his heels into the horse's side.
He didn't use a whip. He used his voice, low and commanding, and his position. He rode wide, flanking the herd, applying pressure from the side to move them forward. It was 'low-stress livestock handling', a technique he had read about. Don't chase. Guide.
To Li Sheng's amazement, the cows began to move. They didn't scatter; they bunched up, following the Black Bull.
"They're moving like a unit!" Sheng yelled, running behind to push the stragglers.
As they moved the herd across the rolling hills, the sun beat down. The monotony of the work weighed on them. Sheng began to drag his feet.
Li Wei remembered the songs of the cowboys. Songs used to keep the cattle calm and the riders awake.
He took a deep breath and began to sing. It wasn't a traditional opera aria. It was a translation of an old country rhythm he remembered.
*"Oh, give me a home, where the buffalo roam..."*
He translated the lyrics in his head, adapting them to the Great Liang.
*"Give me a land, where the West wind blows,"*
*"Where the black cattle graze, and the river flows."*
*"Skies are not cloudy all day..."*
His voice was rough, untrained, but it carried a melody that was simple, repetitive, and catching. It was a working song.
Sheng looked up, confused. "Brother? What is that?"
"It's a song for the trail," Li Wei said, keeping the rhythm with his hand on his thigh. "Sing with me. It keeps the horses in time."
Sheng hesitated, then hummed along. Soon, the strange, melancholic yet uplifting tune was drifting across the Westland hills. Even the cows seemed to relax, their heads bobbing as they walked.
***
Three days later, the "Great Haying" began.
Chen Hu had returned with two scythes. The blacksmith had been skeptical, but the design was sound.
Li Wei stood in the tall grass. He gripped the long handles. It felt awkward at first. He swung.
*Swish.*
The blade sliced through the grass cleanly. He swung again. *Swish.*
He found the rhythm. Rocking from the heel of the left foot to the toe of the right. The blade sang.
"Work in rows!" Li Wei ordered. "Don't chop! Slice!"
Chen Hu took to the tool instantly. His soldier's discipline translated perfectly to the repetitive motion. He became a machine, cutting swaths three times as wide as a sickle could manage.
By midday, they had cut three times what they had done the previous day with the sickles.
But the work was exhausting. Li Wei's back screamed in protest. His hands were wrapped in cloth, but blisters still formed underneath.
They collapsed by the creek for a break. The mood was tired but triumphant.
"Boss," Chen Hu said, wiping his face. He pointed to a trap line near the forest edge. "I caught something."
It was a wild boar. A large, tusked male, snarling in the pit trap.
Li Wei's eyes lit up. The prompt had mentioned BBQ. The Westland needed a culture, not just work. And pork was the meat of the dynasty. This was the perfect opportunity to test his culinary theories—and boost morale.
"Sheng, start a fire. A big one," Li Wei said, standing up with renewed energy. "We aren't just cutting grass today. We're eating like kings."
They hauled the boar out. Chen Hu dispatched it quickly and efficiently. Li Wei directed the butchering, taking the ribs and the belly.
He didn't have modern spices. He had salt, some wild garlic Chen Hu had found, and soy sauce from the supplies.
He built a spit using green bamboo sticks. He rubbed the meat with a mixture of crushed garlic, salt, and crushed peppercorns.
"This is... rough cooking," Sheng observed, watching Li Wei slap the meat onto the grate over the open fire. "We usually stew or boil."
"Boiling loses the flavor," Li Wei said, watching the fat drip into the flames. "Fire is the soul of meat. Watch."
He explained the Maillard reaction in simple terms. "The heat turns the sugars in the meat brown. That is where the taste lives."
The smell began to fill the air. It was primal. Charred fat, roasted garlic, sweet pork.
Li Wei took a branch and used it to baste the meat with a mixture of soy sauce and a little honey he had found in the supplies. The glaze caramelized, turning a sticky, dark amber.
The cattle in the nearby pen stopped chewing. Even the horses lifted their heads.
Chen Hu stood by the fire, his eyes locked on the sizzling ribs. His stomach growled loudly—a sound he immediately tried to cover with a cough.
"Enough," Li Wei declared. He took his knife and sliced a rib. The meat fell off the bone, pink and juicy inside, charred black on the outside.
He handed the first piece to Sheng. "Taste."
Sheng took a bite. His eyes widened. He chewed, his mouth full of smoke and fat. "It's... it's sweet? And salty? And the skin is hard but the meat is soft!"
Li Wei handed a piece to Chen Hu. The soldier took it, bit into it, and closed his eyes. A look of pure, simple peace crossed his scarred face.
"Good," Chen Hu grunted. Then, he took another bite.
Li Wei took a piece for himself. It wasn't Texas brisket. It wasn't Kansas City ribs. But it was his. Cooked on his land, by his fire.
"This is the Cowboy way," Li Wei said, juice running down his chin. "We work hard. We eat hard. We sleep hard. And we sing."
He leaned back against a log, feeling the warmth of the fire and the fullness of his belly. The pain in his back faded into the background.
"Chen Hu," Li Wei said, "tonight, you and Sheng sleep in the shelter. I'll take the second watch."
"I can take the watch, Boss," Chen Hu started.
"No," Li Wei smiled. "I want to look at the stars. I haven't really seen them yet."
Later that night, Li Wei sat alone by the dying embers of the BBQ pit. The 'General', the Black Bull, was silhouetted against the moonlight.
Li Wei pulled out his notebook. He wrote: *Day 10. Morale: High. Hay Stock: 45 bundles. Food: Delicious.*
He hummed the tune again, softer this time.
*"Home, home on the range..."*
The system flickered.
**[Mission Update: Winter Feed Progress 9%.]**
**[Cultural Event Triggered: First Westland BBQ.]**
**[Ranch Reputation (Local Workers): High.]**
**[New Trait Unlocked: "Campfire Cook" - Food prepared by the Host provides a slight stamina recovery boost to consumers.]**
Li Wei chuckled. "A stamina buff? Useful."
He looked up at the vast, star-strewn sky of the ancient world. No light pollution. Just the Milky Way spilling across the heavens like spilled milk.
In his old life, he had looked at this sky through a screen. Now, he sat under it, smelling of woodsmoke and wild boar, with a blisters on his hands and a ranch to build.
It was a good life.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to the stars, "we cut another fifty bundles."
He closed his eyes, the sound of the wind in the grass acting as a lullaby. The Westland was slowly, inexorably, becoming home.