The completion of the mountain pipeline was a quiet revolution. The clear, cold water flowing into the stone pond, then coursing through dug channels to the pastures and stable, changed the very cadence of the Lin Ranch. No longer were mornings dominated by the back-breaking hauling of buckets from the creek. The constant, low-grade anxiety about Chen Fu's potential to throttle their life at the source was gone. The water just was, as reliable as sunrise, a silent, gleaming assertion of their independence.
It was into this new, more confident rhythm that the imperial inspector arrived.
His name was Commander Liang, and he was nothing like the bureaucratic Apprentice He or the politically-minded Undersecretary Wen. He was a career cavalry officer from the Northern Garrison, a contemporary of Captain Feng who had judged the trial. He arrived with two junior officers, riding tough, serviceable mounts of his own. He wore a practical, travel-stained uniform, and his eyes were the colour of weathered slate, missing nothing.
He dismounted in the yard, his gaze sweeping over the compound: the whitewashed buildings, the orderly hay sheds, the new stone water pond with its clever wooden sluice gates, the distant, healthy pastures dotted with animals. His expression gave nothing away.
Lin Dahu, Lin Yan, and Zhao He bowed in greeting. "Welcome to Lin Ranch, Commander," Lin Dahu said.
"Lin Dahu," Liang acknowledged, his voice a gravelly baritone. "This is the 'Priority Observation Site.' Captain Feng's reports were… intriguing. I am here to observe. Not your paperwork. Your horses."
He wanted to see the foundation stock, the foals, the training methods, the land that produced them. He was not interested in ledgers; he was interested in capability.
The inspection began immediately. Liang walked to the broodmare pasture where Whisper, Rime, and Sumac grazed, their foals—Dawn, Summit, and Ember—now weanlings, nursing less but sticking close. The commander observed them from the fence for a long time, noting their conformation, their movement, their interaction.
"The grey filly," he said, pointing to Dawn. "Fine bone. Good length of neck. A thinker, you can see it in her eye." He turned to Zhao He. "You imprint them?"
"From the first hour," Zhao He replied.
"Show me."
Zhao He entered the pasture. He didn't call or chase. He stood still. After a moment, Dawn, the boldest, broke away from her mother and trotted over, curious. Zhao He offered a flat hand, let her sniff, then began running his hands over her body—along her neck, down her legs, over her back. The filly stood calmly, ears flicking. He picked up a front foot, held it, set it down. The entire process was one of mutual trust, not dominance.
Commander Liang watched, his slate eyes thoughtful. "That takes time."
"It saves time later," Zhao He said. "And it builds a horse that doesn't panic. A scout whose horse panics is a dead scout."
Liang grunted, neither approving nor disapproving, simply filing the information away.
Next, he asked to see Granite. The dun stallion was in his own paddock, a picture of contained power. At Zhao He's soft whistle, he came to the fence, not submissively, but with a proud, intelligent curiosity. Liang examined him up close, feeling the density of his bone, the hardness of his hooves, the deep spring of his ribs.
"Seen his like before," Liang muttered. "North of the Wall. They're the ones still standing when the fancy southern breeds have foundered in the mud or broken a leg on scree." He looked at Lin Yan. "You aim to breed more of this, specifically?"
"Yes, Commander," Lin Yan said. "But improved. We're crossing him with our hardiest mares, selecting for temperament as much as strength. The goal is an animal that is as intelligent and willing as it is tough."
"A goal," Liang echoed, his tone unreadable. "Goals are for dreamers. I need remounts. In two years, you have three foals. You need seven more."
"The mares are bred back," Lin Yan said, keeping his voice steady. "We will have three more foals next spring. The year after, four. We will meet the number."
"Meeting a number is the minimum," Liang said, turning away from the fence. "Now, show me where they become horses, not just foals."
They moved to the training arena. Mist, the grey mare, was saddled. Under Zhao He's direction, Lin Yan mounted and put her through her paces—walk, trot, canter, smooth transitions, a series of precise turns and stops. He then demonstrated the beginning of neck-reining, the lightest touch of the rein against her neck guiding her direction. Mist responded flawlessly, her movements fluid and attentive.
Liang watched, arms crossed. "She's further along than I expected for a ranch horse. You train all of them to this standard?"
"We start them all this way," Lin Yan said, dismounting. "But we match the training to the individual. Some will be steady patrol mounts. Others, with quicker reflexes, might be suited for scout work. We aim to produce a range within the type."
It was a nuanced answer, acknowledging that not every horse was identical, and that the army had diverse needs. Liang's eyebrow twitched, the first hint of a reaction. "Practical," he conceded.
The tour continued. Liang inspected the forge, asked detailed questions about the shoes Lin Zhu made. He walked the pastures, kneeling to examine the grass—the hardy system strain and the new, silvery patches of Tsagaan Burgas. He scooped a handful of soil, rubbing it between his fingers.
"Your land is better than the maps say," he stated.
"We've worked to make it so," Lin Dahu said simply.
"Hmm."
Finally, Liang asked to see the high pastures, the source of the pipeline. The climb was steep, but the commander, despite his age, moved with the sure-footed endurance of a lifelong campaigner. When they reached the spring and saw the beginning of the wooden pipeline snaking down the mountain, Liang stopped. He looked from the spring, to the pipe, to the distant ranch below, a green oasis in the valley.
"You did this?" he asked, his voice flat.
"We did," Lin Yan said. "After a dispute over water rights with a downstream neighbour. We preferred a permanent solution to a perpetual argument."
Liang was silent for a long moment, staring at the ingenuity of it. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his stern mouth. "Captain Feng said you were stubborn. And clever. He understated both." He turned his penetrating gaze fully on Lin Yan. "The empire is vast. Its needs are endless. It is also slow, clumsy, and choked with men who talk more than they do. What I have seen today is a place that does. You have ten horses to deliver. Deliver them. If they are as good as these three," he nodded toward the distant broodmare pasture, "and your methods are as sound as they appear, then a ten-horse contract will be a beginning, not an end. The Northern Garrison has more than one frontier."
It was not a promise. It was a vision of a possible future, conditional upon flawless execution. It was the most encouraging thing any imperial representative had ever said to them.
The inspection ended there. Commander Liang and his officers declined a meal, merely refilling their water skins from the new pond—a silent, powerful endorsement—before mounting up and riding back toward the county road.
The family gathered, exhausted but buzzing with a nervous energy.
"What does it mean?" Wang Shi asked, watching the dust settle.
"It means we passed," Zhao He said, a rare note of satisfaction in his voice. "He saw what we are, not just what we have. He saw the system."
"He saw the pipeline," Lin Zhu added, grinning. "I think he liked the pipeline."
Lin Yan nodded slowly, processing. "He saw that we solve our own problems. That we think ahead. To the garrison, that's as valuable as the horses themselves. A reliable supplier isn't just one who delivers good stock. It's one who doesn't create problems, who isn't dependent on the empire's protection for every little thing."
The inspector's visit had been the ultimate test of their "demonstration plot." They had demonstrated not just agriculture, but resilience, innovation, and martial preparedness. They had shown they were not peasants hoping for imperial favour, but partners capable of upholding their end of a demanding bargain.
In the days that followed, the ranch's atmosphere settled into a new, firmer confidence. The external validation seeped into their bones. Work continued with renewed purpose. The three weanlings were formally separated from their dams, a stressful but necessary step. They were put in a paddock together, learning to be a herd of young horses, their bond shifting from mother-offspring to peer companionship. They were fed a carefully balanced diet for growing bones and introduced to more structured handling.
Lin Yan, using the points he'd accumulated, invested in 'Yearling & Two-Year-Old Development Programs' and 'Foundational Saddle Training Techniques.' The knowledge gave him a roadmap for the next critical two years of the foals' lives.
The pipeline, now a settled fact, allowed for new projects. They expanded the vegetable garden, irrigating it from the pond. They built a proper bathhouse for the hired hands, Lao Li and his son, a small luxury that cemented their loyalty and improved hygiene.
The subtle change in their village standing became overt. The village head came to ask Lin Dahu's opinion on a dispute about grazing rotations on the communal land. Families who had previously been neutral now brought small gifts—a basket of early berries, a clutch of duck eggs—seeking advice on their own chickens or goats. The Lin Ranch was no longer just a successful oddity; it was a source of respected knowledge and, implicitly, a source of power.
Even the lingering shadow of Chen Fu seemed to shrink. He was seen less and less, rumours suggesting he was spending time trying to broker deals in the county town, away from the place where his influence had crumbled.
One evening, as the family shared a meal of garden vegetables and rabbit stew (a gift from Lao Li, who was a skilled snarer), Lin Dahu looked around the table. "When the commander stood by our pond, drinking our water that came from our spring… I felt it. This is no longer just land we work. This is a holding. A legacy. Your mother and I… we kept you alive. You children are building something that will outlive you."
It was a profound acknowledgement. The immigrant computer programmer, the frail village youth, the desperate family on the brink—they had all been transformed. They were builders now. Ranchers.
Later, under a sky dusted with early stars, Lin Yan walked the fence line of the yearling pasture. Dawn, Summit, and Ember stood sleeping, one hind leg cocked, their silhouettes sleek and promising against the twilight. In the stable, Granite munched his hay. In the house, his family's laughter drifted out through an open window.
The inspector's eye had seen the tangible assets: the horses, the grass, the water system. But Lin Yan knew the true asset, the one that made all the rest possible, was the invisible web of knowledge, trust, and shared purpose that bound them all together—family, hired hands, even the loyal, watchful animals.
The empire had given them a number: ten. But they were building so much more. They were building a way of life, a fortress of their own making, and with every passing day, every well-shod hoof, every drop of water from their own mountain spring, that fortress grew stronger, its roots digging deeper into the resilient heart of the Azure Hills. The inspector had come to judge. He had left, perhaps, with the first glimmer of understanding that the Lin Ranch was not just filling an order for the empire. It was quietly, steadily, becoming an institution.