The Lin Ranch's first cart of goods for public sale did not go to Yellow Creek. It went to Fenghuang, the prefectural capital. The journey was a statement.
The cart, one of Lin Zhu's masterpieces, was drawn by two of their sturdiest mountain-bred oxen. It carried a carefully curated selection of their identity: ten wheels of "Shadow's Gift" cheese, each wrapped in waxed cloth and stamped with the LR brand; five bolts of the unique "Stone-Wool" cloth, its water-resistant quality now proven; and twenty dozen of their cleanest, largest eggs, nestled in straw-filled crates. It was a modest load, but each item was a testament to their niche, their quality.
Lin Yan did not drive the cart. Lin Zhu did, accompanied by Zhao He. Their presence—the master craftsman and the formidable ex-cavalryman—was part of the product. They were not just vendors; they were ambassadors.
Merchant Huang had paved the way, sending letters of introduction to specific, high-end purveyors in the capital: a chandler who supplied wealthy households, a tailor who worked for minor officials, and the master of the prefectural courier station's kitchens. The goal was not bulk sale, but placement. To get their products into hands that appreciated distinction and could pay for it.
While the cart rumbled toward the city, the ranch itself prepared for its own, more localized market day. Lin Yan had proposed, and the village head had agreed, to a "Willow Creek Spring Fair." It would be held on the common ground between the village and the ranch. The Lin family would provide the space and security; villagers would bring their surplus—eggs, vegetables, woven baskets, simple tools. The Lin Ranch's stall would sell only two things: their eggs (at a fair village price, not the city premium) and their expertise.
This was the heart of Lin Yan's dual strategy after Borjigin's warning. Tie the community to them not just through shared defence, but through shared prosperity. They would sell the villagers eggs, but also offer free advice on chicken coops and feed. They would display a young, halter-broken Blackcloud cross calf (not for sale, just for show), and talk about pasture management. They would demonstrate basic farrier skills on a placid gelding. The fair was a showcase for the "Lin Ranch Method," offered as a rising tide to lift all boats in Willow Creek.
The day of the fair dawned bright and warm. The common ground transformed. Colourful awnings were rigged from poles and cloth. The air filled with the smells of baking, of turned earth from displayed seedlings, of animal hide and polish. It was a fraction of the scale of their autumn festival, but it hummed with a purposeful, commercial energy.
The Lin stall was a centrepiece. Wang Shi and the girls handled the egg sales, their manner friendly and firm. Nearby, Lin Yan stood with Onyx, the glossy black calf, who stood with remarkable calm amidst the bustle, a living advertisement for their breeding program. He answered a stream of questions from curious farmers.
"What do you feed her?"
"The same grass as yours, Uncle Liu. But we manage the pasture differently. We rotate, we let it rest. The grass stays sweeter, more nutritious."
"Is that bull of yours for hire?"
"For select herds, yes. But more importantly, the principles are what matter. A good bull on overgrazed land is like a fine brush painting on mud."
He gave away nothing proprietary—no specifics on the Blackcloud genetics, no details of their soil amendments. But he disseminated the core philosophy: care for the land, and it will care for your animals.
At the farrier's station, Lin Xiao, under Lin Zhu's watchful eye, demonstrated trimming a hoof on their oldest, most patient gelding. A small crowd of boys and young men watched, fascinated. It was skill, made visible and accessible.
The fair was a quiet triumph. Silver changed hands, but more importantly, ideas did. Villagers left with not just goods, but with a new way of looking at their own scraggly chickens or weedy pastures. The Lin Ranch's status shifted subtly again—from powerful neighbour to knowledgeable leader.
Two days later, Lin Zhu and Zhao He returned from Fenghuang. They were tired, dusty, but their eyes held a spark. They unloaded the empty cart, but from a locked chest, Lin Zhu produced a fat pouch of silver and, more importantly, three sealed contracts.
The chandler had taken all ten cheeses at a price that made Wang Shi gasp. He wanted a standing order for two per month. The tailor had purchased three bolts of the Stone-Wool for a trial run of weather-resistant cloaks for the courier service. And the kitchen master, after tasting an egg cooked in his own kitchen, agreed to a weekly delivery of five dozen for the "officers' mess," at double the standard market rate.
"They asked about the horses," Zhao He reported, his voice low. "Word of Commander Liang's visit has spread in certain circles. An aide to the Prefect's Master of Stables approached me. He asked if we would consider selling a pair of trained yearlings, outside the imperial contract. For the Prefect's personal guard."
It was an enormous opportunity—and a potential conflict. Selling to the Prefect could curry immense favour, but it could also be seen as diverting resources from their imperial obligation.
"What did you say?" Lin Yan asked.
"I said our stock was committed to fulfilling our imperial duty with excellence," Zhao He replied. "But that once that duty was met, we would be honoured to discuss the Prefect's needs. I suggested that the foals due next spring might be of interest."
It was a perfect answer—honouring their primary contract while planting a seed for the future.
The success of both markets—the local fair and the prefectural capital—was a powerful validation. They were building a brand that resonated at both ends of the spectrum: practical, community-oriented improvement at home, and exclusive, quality-focused luxury in the city.
Yet, as the warm days lengthened, the mountain's shadow that Borjigin had warned of began to lengthen as well. It did not come as a band of raiders, but as a trickle. A ragged family of four appeared on the road one evening—a man, a woman, two hollow-eyed children. They were from a northern valley, they said. Their village had been "visited" by hungry men who were more than bandits but less than an army. They had taken seed grain, the last of the livestock. They had fled with what they could carry.
Wang Shi, without consulting anyone, gave them food and let them sleep in the old, empty woodshed. The next morning, Lin Yan spoke to the man. He was a potter, his skills useless on the road. Lin Yan offered him and his family a place, not as charity, but as labour. The man could help with the endless pottery needs of the ranch—water jugs, feed bowls, drainage tiles for the new pastures. His wife could help in the kitchen and garden. The children could mind the geese they'd recently acquired to keep the grasshoppers down.
It was the first trickle of what Borjigin had called the "flood." The unrest in the north was pushing people south. The Lin Ranch, with its visible prosperity and strong walls, was a magnet for the desperate.
Lin Yan knew they could not take in everyone. But they could take in some. And in doing so, they would gain not just labour, but loyalty, and increase the number of souls invested in the ranch's survival. He established a simple rule: they would offer work for shelter and food to those with usable skills, for a trial period. It was a controlled, pragmatic form of growth.
As the potter's family settled in, another visitor arrived, this one expected. Apprentice Clerk He, now promoted to Junior Clerk He, came with a retinue from the Magistrate's office. They were conducting a "census and resource assessment" of outlying settlements, a direct response to the growing instability in the region.
He's demeanor was more confident, but he still looked at the Lin Ranch with a scholar's curiosity. He noted the new arrivals, the expanded herds, the bustling activity at the vale. His ledger filled with numbers.
"Your population grows," He observed.
"Our needs grow," Lin Yan replied smoothly. "And in troubled times, strong households can offer stability. We provide work, not just handouts. It strengthens the county's overall resilience, does it not?"
He nodded, scribbling. "An interesting perspective. The magistrate is keen on 'local resilience.' Your model may be worth… documenting."
Once again, Lin Yan was shaping the narrative. He was framing their growth not as hoarding, but as civic fortification.
That night, after the officials had left, Lin Yan stood on the watch platform they'd built after the Wolf's Head incident. To the south, the lights of Willow Creek were a cozy sprinkle. To the north, the mountains were a vast, dark wall under a blanket of stars. Somewhere in those dark folds, trouble simmered.
They had succeeded in the market, both humble and high. They were building community, layering loyalty upon their strength. But the mountain's shadow was real. The trickle of refugees, the magistrate's census—they were the leading edge of a storm.
The Lin Ranch was no longer an island dreaming of its own future. It was becoming a bastion in a shifting landscape. Their wealth, their knowledge, their walls—they were not just for themselves anymore. They were a resource, a refuge, and a responsibility. The green tide of spring had brought abundance. Now, they had to ensure that abundance could withstand the long, cold shadow falling from the north. The market was won. Now came the test of the mountain.