The solitary winter egg was a talisman. It didn't restart the laying cycle—the days remained too short, the light too feeble—but it shattered the psychological freeze that had gripped the family. The possibility of production, however faint, remained alive. They did not eat the egg; it stayed on the altar, a small, brown monument to stubborn hope.
The solstice festival arrived, a single day of communal defiance against the deepest dark. A bonfire was built in the village center, its sparks clawing at the star-strewn sky. The Lin family attended not as pitiable specters, but as participants. Lin Xiaohui and Wang Shi laid out their reed crafts on a scrap of cloth: six small, tight-woven sitting mats and a dozen little baskets, perfect for holding sewing needles, herbs, or a child's treasures.
The atmosphere was cautiously welcoming. Old Man Chen, his ox now recovering, made a point of stopping by their makeshift stall. "For my old bones," he said, picking up a mat and pressing two copper coins into Wang Shi's hand—double the asking price. It was repayment and endorsement in one. A few other villagers, curious or moved by the family's evident industry, bought baskets. By the end of the evening, they had earned nine copper coins.
It was a pittance against their debt, but it was currency earned by skill, not charity. As they walked home, the bonfire's glow fading behind them, the coins jingled softly in Wang Shi's pouch—a new, hopeful sound.
That night, after the family slept, Lin Yan lay awake, the system interface a calm blue constellation in his mind's darkness. 115 Points. The Shop's Tier 1 offerings glowed. The Enhanced Foraging Seed Mix cost 15. The Poultry Tonic Recipe was 25. He had vowed to wait for spring, but the winter's harsh lesson had changed his calculus. Waiting was passive. The system was a tool for creating advantage, not just reacting to seasons.
He focused on the seed mix description again: Contains high-protein legume and hardy grass seeds suitable for poor soils. Attracts beneficial insects. Rapid germination, deep-rooting for soil breakup.
'Rapid germination.' Could anything germinate now? The ground was frozen solid. But… not all ground. The system knowledge whispered of 'cold frames'—using transparent materials to trap heat and create a microclimate. He had no glass, no oiled cloth. But he had the south-facing wall of their hut, and he had the compost pile.
The compost pile, even in winter, generated a subtle, steady warmth at its core as organic matter decomposed. What if he created a small, sheltered seed bed directly against the compost pile, using its latent heat and the southern exposure? It was a gamble. The seeds might freeze, or sprout only to die. But if they succeeded… he could have a patch of hardy, soil-improving greenery weeks, maybe months, before anyone else. It would be feed for the pullets, green manure for the soil, and a psychological victory over winter itself.
He made his decision. He would buy the seed mix and try a forced, experimental planting. He would also buy the Poultry Tonic Recipe. If he could keep the pullets in peak health through the winter, their return to laying in spring would be stronger, more productive.
With a thought, he made the purchases.
[Expenditure: 15 Points for Enhanced Foraging Seed Mix. 25 Points for Simple Poultry Tonic Recipe.]
[Remaining Points: 75/100.]
Two new packets of knowledge unfurled in his mind. The seed mix contents became specific: a blend of crimson clover, a winter-hardy vetch, a deep-rooting forage radish, and a tough, perennial rye grass—all nitrogen-fixing or soil-busting plants. The tonic recipe was a simple herbal decoction: dried dandelion root, garlic, a touch of ginger, and a native herb he recognized as wild oregano, all steeped and added to their drinking water to boost immunity and digestion.
More immediately, a small, oilcloth packet materialized in the system's storage buffer. The seed mix. He retrieved it, feeling the satisfying weight of perhaps two pounds of tiny, diverse lives held in suspense.
The next morning, he presented his plan to the family. "The dream… has given more," he said, showing the seed packet and explaining the tonic. "The seeds are special. Hardy. I believe we can start them now, here." He led them to the southern side of the steaming compost pile. "We clear a patch of snow, loosen the earth right here against the warm pile. We plant thickly. It's an experiment. If it fails, we lose a handful of seeds. If it succeeds, we have early feed and better soil."
Lin Dashan crouched, putting his hand against the compost pile's side. He felt the faint, ambient warmth. He looked at the determined set of his second son's jaw. "We've gambled on less," he said finally. "Do it."
With hammers and sticks, they broke the frozen crust of the chosen patch. The earth beneath was cold but not rock-hard, slightly warmed by the pile. They loosened it, mixed in a little of the finished compost from the pile's heart, and created a rough, raised seed bed about the size of a door.
Lin Yan opened the oilcloth packet. The seeds were a motley mix: tiny brown clover seeds, slightly larger, angular vetch seeds, small round radish seeds, and slender grass grains. He scattered them evenly over the prepared soil, then covered them with a thin layer of more loose soil and compost. Finally, at Lin Qiang's suggestion, they laid a lattice of thin, bare branches over the bed to keep off any marauding birds, and heaped a little extra loose straw around the edges for insulation.
It looked like a tiny, carefully made grave. But they were burying hope, not death.
The poultry tonic was easier. They had dried dandelion root from autumn foraging. Wild garlic grew in sheltered spots even in winter; Xiaoshan found a patch. Ginger was a luxury, but Mei Xiang, when Lin Yan traded two of their precious reed baskets for a small, shriveled knob of it, included a few sprigs of the wild oregano she called "mountain mint" for free. "For the brave little seeds," she said, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
Wang Shi brewed the concoction in a small pot, filling the hut with a pungent, herbal smell. They let it cool and added it to the pullets' water. The birds drank it without complaint.
Days passed. The world remained locked in white and gray. The family fell into the deep winter rhythm: indoor weaving, relentless fuel and water chores, tending the pullets and their experimental bed. Lin Yan checked the seed bed every day, brushing away fresh snow, looking for any sign of green. Nothing.
A week after the solstice, a different visitor came to their gate. It was Old Man Chen's eldest son, leading a small donkey cart. On the cart were two large, woven baskets, steaming slightly in the cold air.
"Father sends this," the man said, his manner respectful. "From our ox and pig pens. Well-rotted. He says… he says it's for the boy who understands the worth of good earth."
Lin Yan pulled back the mat covering one basket. It was full of rich, dark, crumbly manure, mixed with straw—already well-composted, the heat of decomposition still within it. The other basket held the same. It was a gift of incredible value: the very essence of fertility, the result of months of animal digestion and careful management. It was worth more than silver to a farmer.
Old Chen was repaying them not with coin, but with the foundation of future wealth. It was a farmer's gift, profound and perfect.
"Thank you," Lin Yan said, his voice thick with emotion. "Please tell Grandfather Chen his gift is received with deepest gratitude. It will not be wasted."
They stored the precious manure next to their compost pile, covering it with straw to preserve its nutrients. It was a promise of spring's work.
The days began, imperceptibly, to lengthen. A minute more of light in the evening, a slightly less delayed dawn. Lin Yan felt it more than saw it. Then, on a morning when the cold seemed especially biting, he went to check the experimental bed as usual. He brushed away the night's light dusting of snow.
And there, nestled against the dark earth and pale straw, he saw it: a faint fuzz of green.
He knelt, his heart hammering. It wasn't his imagination. Dozens of tiny, brave sprouts had pushed through the frozen crust. Most were the delicate, twin-leaved sprouts of the clover and vetch. A few were the broader, rougher first leaves of the forage radish. They were pale, fragile, but unmistakably alive.
"Xiaoshan! Father! Mother!" he called, his voice cracking.
The family crowded around, staring at the impossible green in the dead of winter.
"The ancestors…" Wang Shi breathed, making a sign of blessing.
"The warm pile," Lin Qiang said, nodding with engineer's approval. "And the southern sun. It worked."
It was a tiny victory, a square foot of defiance against the entire season. But it was a catalyst. The sight of living green fed their spirits as nothing else could. They were not just enduring winter; they were cheating it.
The sprouts grew with agonizing slowness, but they grew. The pullets, enjoying their tonic-laced water and occasional treats of the precious barley sprouts from indoors, remained bright-eyed and active. Captain laid another egg, then another, sporadically—perhaps one every five days. It wasn't a flood, but it was a trickle re-established.
Lin Yan used a few of their reed craft coins to buy a large, cheap pottery bowl from Auntie Sun. He placed it in the main room and dropped every coin they earned into it—the reed money, the occasional egg money. The Debt Bowl, they called it. The clink of a coin hitting pottery became the family's most cherished sound.
One afternoon, with a thaw softening the air, Lin Yan took a walk around their fenced mu. He studied the barren soil, imagining it covered in the clover and grass now sprouting by the compost pile. He used his Basic Soil Analysis on a spot near the fence. The numbers were unchanged: pH: 8.3, Organic Matter: <1%. But it no longer felt like a life sentence. It felt like a problem with a solution. Old Chen's manure was the key. Come spring, they would till it in, along with their own compost. They would sow the rest of the enhanced seed mix. They would begin the true transformation.
As he stood there, a figure approached from the village path. It was the scribe from Village Head Li's compound, the pinched-faced man. Lin Yan's stomach tightened.
The scribe stopped outside the gate, not entering. He held a small wooden tally stick. "Lin Yan. The Village Head wishes to know the status of your… agricultural enterprise. For his records." His tone was neutral, bureaucratic.
Lin Yan understood. This was a check-up. A reminder. He opened the gate. "You may look." He showed him the pullets in their warm coop, now clearly thriving. He showed him the compost pile, steaming diligently. He did not show him the secret green patch by its side.
The scribe's eyes took in everything, his expression unreadable. He made a note on his wax tablet. "The laying has resumed?"
"It has begun again," Lin Yan said carefully. "The winter pause is ending."
The scribe nodded, made another note. "The debt bowl?" he asked, his eyes flicking toward the hut.
Lin Yan hesitated, then led him inside. He pointed to the pottery bowl on the table. Inside lay fourteen copper coins—a meager hoard, but a visible one.
The scribe counted them silently, noted the amount. He looked around the clean, poor hut, at the family watching tensely, at the weaving materials in the corner. He gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod, as if confirming something to himself. "Very well. The Village Head will be informed." He turned and left.
The visit had been intrusive, humiliating. But as the scribe disappeared down the path, Lin Yan realized something: the man had not sneered. He had noted facts. He had seen industry, order, and a plan in action. He had seen the Debt Bowl.
They were being taken seriously. As a debtor, yes. But as a debtor with a credible, if long-shot, plan.
That night, Lin Yan made another decision. He spent 20 of his remaining 75 points on the Basic Tool Maintenance Kit from the Shop. The leather pouch with oil and stone appeared. He presented it to Lin Gang. "For the work to come. Our tools must be as ready as we are."
Lin Gang accepted it with a solemn nod. "They will be."
Spring was still a distant promise on the wind, but in the Lin household, it had already taken root. It lived in a square foot of green shoots defying the frost, in the steady clink of copper in a pottery bowl, in the rich, dark promise of two baskets of ox manure, and in the hardened, hopeful eyes of a family that had stared down winter and seen not just an end, but a beginning.
They had survived the barren time. Now, they were preparing to conquer it.
[System Note: Experimental cultivation successful. Resource network expanding (Community Gift). Debt pressure acknowledged but managed. Host is transitioning from defensive survival to preparatory aggression. The thaw is both literal and metaphorical. Continue preparations.]