Spring did not arrive all at once.
It tested the land first.
A thaw here.
A trickle of water there.
A morning when breath no longer stung the lungs, and the frost on the fence vanished before noon.
Lin Yan noticed these things before the villagers did—not because he was sharper, but because he was listening for them.
Winter had been endured.
Spring had to be managed.
The first sign was the grass.
Not greener—softer.
Lin Yan knelt on the southern slope, fingers sinking slightly into the soil. The ground no longer resisted him like stone. It gave just enough, holding moisture without drowning it.
Chen Kui stood nearby, rubbing his hands together.
"It's waking up," Chen Kui said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "And it's hungry."
Chen Kui blinked. "Hungry?"
"For pressure," Lin Yan said. "For roots. For weight."
Chen Kui followed his gaze downslope, where the pasture stretched wide and quiet.
"Cattle," he said.
"Not yet," Lin Yan replied. "Not until the grass asks."
Spring work began without announcement.
Fences were repaired—not replaced, just tightened. Drainage channels cleared. Old manure spread thinly where the soil had shown promise before the snow.
The sheep were released earlier each day, grazing in longer arcs, their hooves loosening the topsoil without tearing it. The oxen were walked, not worked—slow circuits to strengthen legs and lungs.
Gu Han organized the labor with minimal words.
No shouting.
No rushing.
Men worked longer hours without noticing because no one wasted effort.
That was the difference now.
The villagers noticed.
They always did.
Old Sun came first, carrying a small sack of seed grain.
"I thought I'd try your way," he said awkwardly. "Spacing. Rotation."
Lin Yan accepted the sack and returned half.
"Test it," he said. "Don't copy it yet."
Old Sun nodded, relief flickering across his face.
One by one, others followed.
Not asking permission.
Asking how.
Lin Yan answered when asked. He refused when rushed. He explained failure as readily as success.
Soon, people stopped saying Lin Yan's pasture.
They said the southern slope.
Ownership softened into influence.
That was more dangerous—and more powerful.
The cattle broker returned on the fifth day of spring.
The same old man.
This time, he brought a younger companion and a different look in his eye—not curiosity, but confirmation.
"You were right to wait," he said after walking the grass. "This land can carry cows now."
"How many?" Lin Yan asked.
The broker squatted, pinched soil, sniffed it.
"Two cows," he said. "Three if you're brave. Four if you're foolish."
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "I'm none of those."
The broker chuckled. "Then you're ready."
They agreed on two.
Both cows arrived before sunset—lean, healthy, alert. Not exceptional, but clean of illness, teeth good, eyes clear.
Lin Yan checked them himself.
Then he nodded.
The deal was done.
The news spread faster than it should have.
Cows meant milk.
Milk meant daily value, not seasonal.
Women came to look. Children too.
Lin Yan allowed it—but only from a distance.
"No touching," he said calmly. "Yet."
His mother watched the cows with something like disbelief.
"We'll have milk," she said softly.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "But not all of it."
She looked at him.
"Some will be sold," he continued. "Some fed back. Some saved."
She nodded slowly.
She had learned his rhythms.
The first milking was awkward.
The cows were restless. The hands unsure. Milk spilled.
Lin Yan did not scold.
"Every animal teaches," he said. "If you listen."
By the third morning, the rhythm settled.
Buckets filled.
The smell of fresh milk joined the familiar scents of hay and earth.
For the first time, breakfast included something rich.
The younger siblings drank carefully, eyes wide.
"This tastes like festival food," one whispered.
Lin Yan smiled and said nothing.
Gu Han brought troubling news that afternoon.
"Zhang Qu sold off his southern routes," he said. "Cheap."
Lin Yan paused.
"That's retreat," Gu Han added. "Or preparation."
"Let him prepare," Lin Yan replied. "We're busy."
Gu Han nodded.
"You'll need more hands soon," he said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "But not all at once."
That evening, Lin Yan stood at the pasture edge alone.
The sheep grazed farther now, confident. The oxen rested near the shelter. The cows stood alert but calm, ears flicking at insects.
The grass bent beneath them—and rose again.
The system panel appeared.
[Large Livestock Development: Unlocked]
[Milk Yield Projection: Stable]
[Regional Influence: +1]
Lin Yan closed it.
He didn't need numbers tonight.
He needed to feel the land.
Spring continued its careful advance.
Flowers appeared at the edges first, as if testing permission. Streams ran clearer. The hills lost their gray.
And people changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
They walked a little straighter. They argued a little less. They planned further ahead.
Lin Yan noticed something else too.
When disputes arose, people no longer asked who's strongest.
They asked what does Lin Yan do.
That made him uneasy.
Influence carried responsibility heavier than cattle.
One night, his father joined him outside.
"You've become a reference," the older man said.
"I didn't intend to."
"That's how it happens," his father replied. "Quietly."
Lin Yan was silent.
"You should think about the next generation," his father continued. "Not just animals."
Lin Yan understood.
Brothers.
Sisters.
Marriages.
Children yet unborn.
The ranch was no longer just survival.
It was a foundation.
The chapter of winter had closed.
Spring had opened—not with noise, but with hooves stepping carefully onto grass that was finally ready to carry them.
Lin Yan watched the cows graze, the sheep spread wide, the oxen breathe deep.
This was no longer a gamble.
It was a system—living, responsive, growing.
And as the sun dipped behind the hills, casting long shadows over land that no longer felt fragile, Lin Yan allowed himself one quiet certainty:
The next years would be harder.
But they would also be his.
Built step by step.
Hoofprint by hoofprint.
Root by root.