By the third day, Lin Yan's hands no longer bled. The raw skin had hardened into tough, yellow-edged calluses that made his grip both stronger and clumsier. He could feel every groove of the wooden lever handle through them, a map of pressure and friction etched into his flesh.
The work had settled into a brutal rhythm: wake in darkness, walk to Old Zhang's field under stars, work until hands trembled and backs screamed, eat the meager lunch Old Zhang's wife continued to provide, work until the light failed, stumble home.
But something was changing.
The cleared area had grown from a patch to a swath. The stone wall along the western edge was now chest-high and twenty paces long—a jagged, grey monument to their labor. And Old Zhang had begun to join them for stretches, not supervising, but working alongside. He moved slower, his old joints protesting, but his technique was efficient, born of a lifetime reading soil and stone.
"Don't just pull," he grunted at Lin Yan on the fourth morning as they worked on a flat, slate-like stone. "Talk to it."
Lin Yan, sweat stinging his eyes, paused. "Talk to it?"
"The land listens. Not with ears, but with patience. Feel where it holds tight. Feel where it's ready to let go." Old Zhang placed his hands on the stone, closing his eyes briefly. "Here. The left side is wedged under a root. Dig there first."
He was right. A thick, gnarled root from a long-dead tree had twisted around the stone's base. Once they cut through it with a hatchet, the stone lifted free with surprising ease.
As they rolled it toward the growing wall, Old Zhang said quietly, "Your father. He's a good man. Stubborn as mountain oak, but good."
"He is," Lin Yan said.
"Stubbornness kept you alive this long. But it won't grow grass." The old man wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "You need something else for that."
"What?"
"Flexibility." Old Zhang looked toward the wasteland, visible as a pale stretch in the distance. "The land out there… it's not like field soil. It's spiteful. It resists. You can't fight it head-on. You have to work with its anger. Use the stones it throws at you. Follow the water's whim instead of fighting it."
It was the most Old Zhang had said at once since Lin Yan had known him. It felt like a lesson, not just about land, but about survival.
The morning wore on. Villagers passing by no longer stared with open curiosity; their glances had become brief, assessing. Some nodded now. The Lin men were becoming a fixture—a fact of the landscape as much as the stones they moved.
At midday, as they ate their buns, Lin Wen appeared at the field's edge, a book tucked under his arm. He hesitated, then approached.
"Brother," he said to Lin Yan. "A moment?"
Lin Yan stood, his muscles protesting, and walked over. "Shouldn't you be studying?"
"I was. In the classics." Lin Wen's eyes were bright with excitement he was trying to contain. "I found something. About grass."
He opened his book—not one of the standard exam texts, but a handwritten compendium of local flora and fauna, borrowed from Teacher Chen. The pages were filled with careful drawings and notes in multiple hands, added over generations.
"Here," Lin Wen said, pointing to a page. The drawing showed a tufted grass with fine seed heads. The notes read: 'Mountain Bristlegrass. Grows on south-facing slopes in poor, rocky soil. Observed: deer seek it out after frost, when other grasses brown. Possibly higher winter nutrition.'
Lin Yan's breath caught. "That's the grass I saw."
"There's more." Lin Wen turned a few pages. A drawing of a low, spreading plant with three-part leaves. 'Red Clover. Fixes the soil, cattle favor it. Grows where little else will. Seeds can be harvested in late summer.'
The very plant Old Zhang had given them seed for.
"Where did you find this book?" Lin Yan asked.
"Teacher Chen lent it to me. He said…" Lin Wen hesitated. "He said if the Lin family is going to try something new, they should at least know what has been tried before."
It was a significant gesture. Teacher Chen, the failed scholar, was throwing his meager weight behind them.
"Thank you," Lin Yan said, his throat tight.
Lin Wen nodded, closing the book carefully. "There's a section on livestock ailments too. Common ones. I'll study it." He looked at his brother's calloused hands, the dirt ground into his nails. "You're really doing it, aren't you?"
"Trying."
"Good." Lin Wen smiled—a rare, unguarded expression. "It's better than just reading about other people doing things."
He left as quietly as he'd come, the book clutched to his chest like a shield.
That afternoon, the weather turned. A bitter wind swept down from the mountains, carrying the promise of snow. The sky lowered, grey and heavy. Working became an act of defiance against the cold.
Lin Yan's hands, though hardened, began to crack at the knuckles. The cracks bled, staining the lever handle. He wrapped them again, but the cloth kept slipping.
"Here."
He looked up. Old Zhang was holding out a pair of worn leather gloves, the fingers stiff with age but the palms thick and intact.
"I can't," Lin Yan said automatically.
"You can. And you will. I need those hands functional, not frozen." Old Zhang thrust them into his chest. "They were my son's. He… doesn't need them anymore."
The words hung in the cold air. Old Zhang had had a son, Lin Yan remembered vaguely. He'd gone to the city as a laborer years ago and never returned. Presumed dead, though no one said it aloud.
Lin Yan took the gloves. They were too large, but he could tighten the wrist ties. The leather was cold at first, then warmed to his skin. The palms were reinforced with extra layers, worn smooth by work.
"Thank you," he said, the words inadequate.
Old Zhang just grunted and returned to his stone.
The gloves changed everything. Lin Yan could grip harder, work longer. The pain in his hands receded to a dull ache. He moved faster, clearing a path for his father and brothers to tackle the larger stones.
By late afternoon, they had cleared over half the field. The transformation was startling. Where there had been a jumble of stone and struggling weeds, there was now dark, exposed soil—still poor, but visible. Promise made tangible.
As they were packing up tools in the gathering gloom, a figure approached from the village. Not Sun Dahu this time, but a younger man Lin Yan recognized as Zhao Erniu—the orphan who lived on the charity of various families, doing odd jobs for food.
The boy—he was maybe sixteen, but looked younger with his thin frame and overlarge coat—stopped a respectful distance away, twisting his hat in his hands.
"Uncle Lin," he said, addressing Lin Tieshan. "Ma'am Li at the well said you might need extra hands. For the wasteland work later."
Lin Tieshan studied him. "We have no coin to pay."
"I don't want coin." The boy's voice was quiet but firm. "Food. And… to learn."
"Learn what?"
"What you're doing." Zhao Erniu's eyes flicked to Lin Yan. "Everyone's talking about it. About the grass. About the calf you're going to get. I'm strong. I work hard. I just… want to be part of something that isn't begging."
The raw honesty of it silenced them. Here was the village's invisible boy, asking to become visible.
Lin Tieshan looked at Lin Yan, a silent question in his eyes.
Lin Yan stepped forward. "Can you handle a lever? Clear stones?"
"I can learn."
"Then meet us here tomorrow. Dawn. We'll see what you can do."
Hope flashed across the boy's face so brightly it was painful to see. He bowed deeply. "Thank you, Third Brother Lin. I won't disappoint you."
He scurried away, his step lighter than when he'd arrived.
Lin Fu frowned. "Another mouth to feed."
"A strong back to share the load," Lin Lu countered. "And he's right—he works for scraps already. If we feed him one meal a day, it's less than we'd spend hiring later."
The economics of poverty, always calculating.
Lin Tieshan nodded slowly. "We'll try him for a week. See if he's earnest."
As they walked home through the first flurries of snow, Lin Yan felt the gloves on his hands—the ghost of Old Zhang's son, the hope of an orphan boy, the weight of seeds not yet sown.
The system updated as snow dusted his shoulders:
[LABOR PROGRESS: 58%]
[PHYSICAL CONDITION: ADAPTING (CALLUSES FORMED, ENDURANCE INCREASING)]
[NEW ALLIANCE FORMED: ZHAO ERNIU (ORPHAN, LOYALTY POTENTIAL: HIGH)]
[VILLAGE REPUTATION SHIFT: FROM 'FOOLHARDY' TO 'DETERMINED']
[WEATHER ALERT: EARLY SNOW MAY DELAY INSPECTION]
Snow. It would complicate everything. But as Lin Yan looked at his gloved hands, at the faint tracks they left in the gathering white, he felt something unfamiliar kindle in his chest.
Not just determination.
Belonging.
He was no longer a modern man in a foreign body. He was Lin Yan, third son of the Lin family, with hardened hands and a field half-cleared of stones. With a brother who studied grass in ancient books. With an old man's gloves warming his fingers. With an orphan boy looking to him for a chance.
The snow fell thicker as they reached their gate. Inside, the hearth fire would be burning, the family waiting, the thin soup steaming.
Tomorrow, they would clear more stones.
The day after, more.
And somewhere in the white-covered distance, the wasteland waited, and a sick calf breathed in a cold pen, and a permit hung in bureaucratic limbo.
But for tonight, there were gloves on his hands, and they were his.