Dogs arrived before danger did.
That was the point.
Lin Yan understood it the morning after the hills went quiet again—not peaceful, but watchful. The sheep grazed. The wind behaved. No footprints appeared where they shouldn't.
And yet, the absence of trouble felt temporary.
He stood at the village edge, eyes tracing the path toward the uplands, and thought of the laugh in the mist. Of the way sound carried differently at night. Of how a man could sleep through danger until it was already at his throat.
Noise, Lin Yan thought, was not the enemy.
Silence was.
He did not announce his intent to anyone.
Not to the village head.
Not to Wang Hu.
Not even to his family until the decision was already halfway made.
He went to the eastern hamlet, a place most people forgot existed because it had nothing to sell except stubbornness. The land there was poorer, the houses lower, and the people quieter.
Dogs lived there.
Not pets.
Tools.
Lin Yan found the man he was looking for by sound alone—a low whistle, sharp and precise, cutting through the chatter of barking.
Three dogs responded immediately, breaking from different corners of the yard and sitting at once.
The man didn't turn.
"You're late," he said.
"I didn't give a time," Lin Yan replied.
The man finally looked back.
He was lean, weathered, and scarred in the way of someone who had never been injured badly—but had been injured often. His eyes were clear. Evaluating.
"Name's He Shun," the man said. "You here to buy or to learn?"
"To ask," Lin Yan replied.
He Shun laughed softly. "That's worse."
They walked the yard together.
The dogs watched Lin Yan without approaching. Medium-sized, thick-coated, ears alert but not aggressive. Shepherd stock, crossbred through generations of utility rather than beauty.
"Not guard dogs," He Shun said. "Herd dogs."
"I need both," Lin Yan replied.
"Then you need two kinds," He Shun said. "And patience."
"I have patience," Lin Yan said. "I lack dogs."
He Shun stopped walking.
"You're the sheep man," he said.
"Yes."
"The one who chased off hill rats last week."
Lin Yan nodded.
He Shun studied him again.
"People with sheep die quietly if they choose wrong dogs," He Shun said. "You know that?"
"Yes."
"Good," He Shun said. "That means you might listen."
They talked for a long time.
About hills.
About predators.
About men pretending to be less dangerous than wolves.
In the end, He Shun selected two dogs.
One older. Scarred. Calm. Yellow-eyed.
One younger. Broad-chested. Curious. Black-furred with a white blaze on its chest.
"The old one's name is Stone," He Shun said. "He won't chase. He'll warn."
"And the other?" Lin Yan asked.
"Hasn't earned a name yet," He Shun replied. "He watches first."
"How much?" Lin Yan asked.
He Shun named a price that made Lin Yan wince—but not step back.
"I'll pay," Lin Yan said.
"No," He Shun replied. "You'll work."
They agreed on a month.
Training.
Observation.
No ownership yet.
That mattered more than coin.
The dogs arrived at dawn two days later.
Not with ceremony.
Just paws on dirt.
Stone moved like he owned the place immediately, nose low, circling the upland pen without sound. The younger dog stayed closer to Lin Yan, eyes flicking between him and everything else.
Chen Kui watched with interest.
"He doesn't look friendly," he said.
"He's not," Lin Yan replied. "He's useful."
Training did not begin with commands.
It began with routine.
The dogs learned the sheep's smell. Learned Lin Yan's voice. Learned Chen Kui's limp. Learned where the wind usually came from and where it lied.
At night, Stone did not sleep.
He listened.
The younger dog—eventually named Ash—copied him.
When Ash barked too early, Stone growled softly.
When Ash barked too late, Stone barked once—sharp, final.
They learned faster than people.
The village noticed.
Dogs were visible.
Audible.
They changed the shape of fear.
Children stopped wandering uphill.
Men paused longer before walking paths near the pen.
Not because the dogs were aggressive.
Because they were alert.
Zhao Mingyuan visited once, standing just outside the range of Stone's notice.
"You're fortifying," he observed.
"I'm settling," Lin Yan replied.
"That's worse," Zhao Mingyuan said dryly.
Lin Yan smiled. "Only if you plan to move me."
Zhao Mingyuan snorted. "I don't."
That was as close to approval as the man gave.
The first test came quietly.
Too quietly.
Ash lifted his head before Lin Yan noticed anything wrong. Stone stopped pacing and stared downslope.
No sound.
No movement.
Just… absence.
Lin Yan felt it then—the way the hills seemed to hold their breath.
He didn't reach for a weapon.
He reached for the torch.
Ash barked once.
Stone did not bark at all.
Stone growled.
That sound was low and final, vibrating in the chest rather than the air.
Movement followed.
A shape pulled back behind a rock.
Then another.
Not bandits.
Scouts.
Testing.
They left without sound.
Chen Kui exhaled slowly.
"They won't try again soon," he said.
"No," Lin Yan agreed. "They'll tell others not to."
That was better.
Ash earned his name that night.
Not for fire.
For what remained after.
He sat beside the sheep until dawn, eyes open, body still, refusing food or rest. When Lin Yan tried to send him away, he refused—quietly, stubbornly.
"He's chosen," Chen Kui said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "And so have I."
Work changed after that.
Not faster.
Stronger.
With dogs watching the perimeter, Lin Yan could think beyond tomorrow. Chen Kui could plan routes instead of reacting. Lin Erniu could breathe without listening for footsteps every time the wind shifted.
The system panel updated quietly.
[Defensive Asset Integrated: Herding Dogs x2]
[Threat Detection Range: Increased]
[Operational Stability: Improved]
Lin Yan closed it.
He didn't feel relief.
He felt continuity.
One evening, as they sat eating coarse bread and stew near the upland pen, Chen Kui spoke.
"You know," he said, "this isn't small anymore."
Lin Yan looked at the sheep, the dogs, the fire, the hills.
"No," he said. "It isn't."
"You going to tell them?" Chen Kui asked.
"Not yet."
"When?"
"When this place can stand without me," Lin Yan replied.
Chen Kui smiled faintly. "Then you'll never leave."
Lin Yan returned the smile.
"Exactly."
Below, the village lights flickered.
Above, the hills listened—and this time, something listened back.
Not with fear.
With teeth, patience, and loyalty.
And for the first time since coming to this world, Lin Yan allowed himself a dangerous thought:
This wasn't just survival anymore.
This was a foundation.