The county report didn't arrive.
That was the problem.
Three days passed.
Then five.
Then ten.
No notice. No summons. No confirmation.
In Qingshui Village, silence from above was never neutral. It meant the matter was being passed from one desk to another, weighed by people who would never step on the land themselves.
Lin Yan adjusted his routine accordingly.
He stopped expanding.
No new plots. No visible changes.
The soybeans continued to grow—slow, patient. He harvested eggs regularly but sold fewer, distributing some quietly to neighbors in exchange for firewood or straw.
Invisible preparation.
Winter came early to poor families.
One afternoon, Lin Yan attempted his first bulk storage experiment.
He sealed several clay jars of sweet potatoes with ash and straw, following a method he'd half-remembered from books and half-adapted from local practice.
Two weeks later, he opened one.
Rot.
Not total—but enough to smell wrong.
Lin Yan closed his eyes briefly.
It wasn't catastrophic. But it was a loss he couldn't afford to repeat.
That night, he dismantled the remaining jars.
Failure was quieter than success. No one noticed. No one commented.
Only the numbers in his head shifted.
Less storage.
More drying.
More rotation.
Adaptation was survival.
The first real winter prep began the next day.
Lin Yan repaired gaps in the roof, reinforcing them with mud and straw. His father sharpened tools. His mother dried soybeans and stored them in cloth sacks hung from the rafters.
Shen Qinghe arrived without announcement, carrying a bundle of reeds.
"My father said your roof catches wind," she said.
Lin Yan didn't ask why her father cared.
They climbed up together, passing tools, steadying each other against the cold breeze. The work was slow. Fingers stiffened. The sky stayed gray.
At one point, a gust nearly pulled Lin Yan off balance.
Shen Qinghe caught his sleeve.
She didn't say anything afterward.
Neither did he.
When they finished, dusk had settled.
They sat on the ground, backs against the wall, sharing a single steamed bun she'd brought.
It wasn't romantic.
It was enough.
Two days later, Uncle Zhang came again.
This time alone.
He didn't sit.
"The county hasn't replied," he said. "That's… unusual."
Lin Yan waited.
"They may send someone again," Uncle Zhang continued. "Or they may adjust the numbers without notice."
A pause.
"You should prepare."
Lin Yan nodded. "We are."
Uncle Zhang studied him, expression unreadable.
"People who grow too steadily," he said at last, "make others uneasy."
Then he left.
The warning wasn't kind.
But it was real.
That night, Lin Yan changed his winter plan again.
He slaughtered two of the five chickens earlier than intended.
Not for meat alone.
For preservation.
Salted, dried, hidden among other stores.
Egg production slowed—but visibility dropped with it.
The system panel flickered briefly.
Adaptive Decision Recorded
Short-Term Loss for Long-Term Stability
Winter Survival Rating: Improved
It wasn't praise.
Just confirmation.
Snow fell for the first time that week—thin, uncertain.
The soybeans were nearly ready. He harvested early, sacrificing yield for safety. The soil beneath them felt richer already.
Rotation worked.
Slowly.
One evening, Shen Qinghe lingered longer than usual.
"My father says," she said quietly, "if inspectors come after the snow, they won't stay long."
Cold discouraged thoroughness.
Lin Yan nodded. "Then we just need to endure."
She looked at the stored sacks, the reinforced roof, the quiet house.
"You're not gambling," she said. "You're narrowing risk."
He glanced at her, surprised.
She met his eyes steadily. "That's harder."
Outside, the wind picked up.
Winter hadn't arrived yet.
But it was close.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Lin Yan felt prepared—not confident, not safe—but ready.
That was enough.