Three days passed in a blur of sweat, mud, and the rhythmic sound of construction.
The Westland, once a silent and desolate place, now hummed with activity. The green shoots of the Optimized Ryegrass had exploded upward, fed by the Spirit Spring water and the system's accelerated growth triggers. The valley floor was no longer yellow dust but a carpet of emerald green, swaying gently in the breeze.
Lin Wanshan stood by the stream, wiping grime from his forehead. He watched the herd. The change in the animals was undeniable. The ten scrawny cows had filled out, their ribs no longer visible. Their coats held a luster that made them look like different beasts. And Captain...
The black bull stood near the ridge, his hump of muscle on the shoulder more pronounced, his stance wide. He looked less like a local draft ox and more like a tank built of muscle.
"Boss," Zhao Tiezhu called out, walking up from the quarry. He carried a massive stone slab on his shoulder as if it were a basket of laundry. "The foundation for the storehouse is set. But we're running low on timber."
"We'll cut more from the northern copse," Lin Wanshan said. "But not today. Today, we need to settle in. We can't keep sleeping on the dirt."
They walked together toward the center of the valley. Lin Wanshan had picked a spot on a slight rise, protected from the wind, for their living quarters. He wasn't building a traditional Chinese wooden hut with a tiled roof. He didn't have the skills or the money for that.
Instead, he was directing the construction of a "Bunkhouse."
Using the stones Tiezhu quarried and the mud from the riverbank mixed with dried grass (a technique the system provided called *Adobe*), they were building a long, low structure with thick walls.
"It's ugly," Lin Wen had complained earlier. "It looks like a barn."
"It *is* a barn," Lin Wanshan had replied with a grin. "But we sleep in it. It keeps the heat in during winter and stays cool in summer. It's practical."
Inside, Lin Wanshan directed the placement of wooden bunks. He insisted on raised beds—platforms of wood off the ground—to avoid the dampness that plagued local peasants.
"Boss," Tiezhu said, setting the stone down. "About the leather."
Lin Wanshan's eyes lit up. "Ah, yes. Bring it."
In the corner of the construction site lay the hide of the old pig they had bought from a passing farmer a few days ago. They had eaten the meat, but Lin Wanshan had carefully preserved the hide. He was no tanner, but the system's "Basic Ranching" knowledge included basic leather care.
While the adobe walls dried in the sun, Lin Wanshan sat on a log. He took the treated hide and a needle and thread he had purchased in the city.
"What is he making?" Lin Wen whispered to Tiezhu.
Tiezhu shook his head, watching intently.
Lin Wanshan was cutting the leather into specific shapes. He wasn't making the cloth shoes of the dynasty. He was making boots. *Cowboy boots.*
He crafted a pair for himself first—sturdy, with a small heel designed to catch in a stirrup, pointed toes to slip easily into the saddle, and high tops to protect his legs from brush and snakes. It was rough work, crude compared to modern manufacturing, but functional.
He also fashioned a wide belt, and with the leftover scraps, he began weaving a wide-brimmed hat using flexible willow branches reinforced with leather strips.
"What is that contraption for your head?" Tiezhu asked, genuinely baffled.
"It's to keep the sun out of my eyes," Lin Wanshan said, placing the hat on his head. He stood up, wearing his rough scholar's robe tucked into his new leather boots, the wide hat casting a shadow over his face. "It beats squinting all day."
Tiezhu looked at him. The Boss didn't look like a scholar anymore. He looked like... a foreign mercenary.
"Make me a pair," Tiezhu said suddenly. "My feet are hard, but the thorns here are sharp."
"Deal," Lin Wanshan nodded. "But first, we have work to do."
He walked over to the fire pit. Iron was expensive, but he had managed to buy a few iron rods from a scrap merchant in the city. He heated one end in the fire until it glowed red.
"Bring Captain," Lin Wanshan said.
Lin Wen paled. "Brother? Are you punishing him?"
"No. I'm claiming him."
In this world, cattle often wandered. There were no fences high enough to stop a determined bull. Ownership was usually determined by proximity or memory. But Lin Wanshan needed a symbol. He needed to mark his property in a way that screamed *this is mine*.
Zhao Tiezhu brought the bull forward. The animal was calm; the Spirit Water had made it docile, though its size was intimidating.
Lin Wanshan pulled the red-hot iron from the coals. It had a simple shape he had hammered into it earlier: a stylized "W" inside a circle—the brand of the Westland Ranch.
"Hold him steady, Tiezhu."
Tiezhu gripped the bull's halter. Captain snorted but didn't pull away.
*Sssssss-HISS!*
The smell of singed hair and burnt skin filled the air. Captain bellowed, a deep, thunderous sound, and stamped his feet. But Tiezhu held him like a vice.
When Lin Wanshan pulled the iron away, a black mark remained on the bull's flank. The Westland Brand.
"Branding," Lin Wanshan said, cooling the iron in a bucket of water. "Now, even if he wanders to the ends of the empire, people will know he belongs to the Ranch."
He turned to Lin Wen. "Wen, bring the cows. We brand them all today."
It was a grueling afternoon. The smell of burning hair lingered, but as the sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the valley, the herd was marked. They were no longer just random cattle; they were a unit.
***
That evening, the atmosphere in the Bunkhouse was different.
The crude windows were covered with oiled paper, keeping the wind out. A small fire burned in the central hearth, filling the room with warmth.
Lin Wanshan sat on his raised bunk, leaning back against the wall. He was tired, but the good kind of tired—the kind that came from building something real.
"Supper time," Lin Wen announced, carrying a pot inside.
It was a stew. But not just any stew.
Lin Wanshan had taken the tough, dried pork from the market, cut it into chunks, and boiled it for hours with wild onions, root vegetables he had found on the hill, and a generous amount of the salt and pepper mix. He had also added a handful of the dried snails he had collected from the river, crushing them into a powder to thicken the broth—a protein boost.
He ladled it into their bowls. They dipped their hard biscuits into the broth, softening them.
"Eat up," Lin Wanshan said, raising his bowl. "Tomorrow, we start rotational grazing. We need to move the herd to the northern slope."
"Rotational grazing?" Tiezhu asked, tearing into a piece of meat with his teeth.
"We don't let them eat all the grass in one spot until it dies," Lin Wanshan explained. "We move them. Let the eaten grass rest and grow back. It's a cycle. The grass feeds the cattle, the cattle feed the land with their manure."
Tiezhu chewed thoughtfully. "It sounds like... crop rotation."
"Exactly. But for meat."
Tiezhu looked at his bowl, then at Lin Wanshan. He had spent years in the army, following orders that often made no sense, watching generals waste lives like they were nothing. Here, in this crude mud house, listening to a man talk about grass and manure, he felt a strange sense of order. A logic to life.
"Boss," Tiezhu said, his voice gruff. "The boots. Can you finish them tonight? I want to try them on patrol tomorrow."
Lin Wanshan smiled. "Pass me the leather."
As the night deepened, the three men sat by the fire. Lin Wanshan stitched leather, humming a low tune—a melody that sounded like wind over the prairies. Lin Wen drifted off to sleep. Tiezhu sat by the door, sharpening a knife, watching the dark outside.
For the first time since his rebirth, Lin Wanshan felt the rhythm of the ranch falling into place. The buildings were rising, the herd was marked, and his team was loyal.
But just as he was about to blow out the oil lamp, the system flickered in his vision.
*[Warning: External intrusion detected at the perimeter. 500 meters north.]*
Lin Wanshan's hand froze on the lamp. He looked at Tiezhu.
Tiezhu had heard it too. A twig snapping. The low growl of a predator.
"Wolves," Tiezhu whispered, blowing out the candle instantly.
The Bunkhouse plunged into darkness. The peaceful silence of the night was broken by a haunting, high-pitched howl.
Lin Wanshan grabbed a pitchfork. "Welcome to the Westland," he muttered in the dark. "It's going to be a long night."