The calf was no longer just a calf.
Its shoulders had broadened, legs thick with quiet strength. When it stood, the ground seemed to acknowledge its weight. Lin Yan watched it move through the pasture, eyes narrowed—not with greed, but with calculation.
"Good frame," Old Chen muttered beside him. "You're thinking breeding."
"Yes," Lin Yan said. "Not yet. But soon."
Breeding was not about multiplying numbers. It was about choosing futures.
That afternoon, Lin Yan did something the villagers didn't expect.
He asked questions.
Not of merchants—but of elders.
He visited three households, sitting on low stools, listening to old men speak of cattle from decades past. Which cows birthed strong calves. Which bloodlines sickened easily. Which survived drought.
Lin Yan said little. He remembered everything.
That evening, a man from the western hamlet arrived leading a lean, sharp-eyed cow.
"She calves easy," the man said. "Strong mother."
Lin Yan inspected the animal carefully—teeth, eyes, gait.
Then he shook his head. "Not this season."
The man looked disappointed. "You're too careful."
"Yes," Lin Yan agreed.
Night fell quietly.
Over dinner, pork appeared again—boiled this time, simple and clean. No one rushed. No one reached greedily.
Habit had changed.
After the meal, Lin Yan gathered the older children—his nephews and nieces—under the lantern.
"You can watch the animals," he said. "But you don't chase them."
A boy asked, "Why?"
"Because calm animals grow better," Lin Yan replied. "And calm people learn faster."
The youngest brother practiced writing beside them, brush wobbling slightly. Lin Yan corrected his grip.
"Straight wrist," he said gently.
Later, the system interface surfaced, steady and quiet.
[Breeding Knowledge: Acquired]
[Pasture Quality: Advancing]
[Hidden Trait Detected: Temperament Stability]
Lin Yan lingered on the last line.
Temperament mattered—in animals and in people.
Before sleeping, he walked the pasture once more.
The leather hat hung from his hand now, not needed in the cool night air. Crickets chirped. The cattle breathed softly.
He pressed his palm to the soil.
Warm. Alive.
"Good blood," he murmured—not just of cattle, but of family.
This was how legacies began.
Not with loud success—
But with careful choices made when no one was watching.