Cattle arrived without ceremony.
No banners.
No gossip sent ahead.
Just the sound.
A low, steady thud that traveled through the earth before it reached the ears.
Lin Yan felt it first beneath his feet as he stood near the southern slope, a faint vibration that made the grass tremble in thin ripples. He did not turn immediately. He waited until the rhythm settled into something familiar.
Hooves.
Heavy ones.
He turned then.
Two oxen crested the dirt road, broad-backed and slow, their hides a dull brown mottled with age and travel. They were not impressive animals—not tall, not young, not sleek—but they walked with patience, each step placed as if the ground had already agreed to carry them.
Behind them came the broker.
Not the dust-coated man from before.
Another.
This one older, beard streaked with white, eyes steady in a way that came from years of watching animals outlive people.
"Lin Yan," the man said, inclining his head. "I was told you wait for grass."
"I do," Lin Yan replied.
The man smiled faintly. "Then you won't waste these."
He handed over a rope.
Lin Yan took it.
That was the transaction.
The villagers gathered slowly.
Not crowding.
Watching from a respectful distance.
Cattle meant commitment.
Sheep could be sold quickly.
Chickens eaten in a day.
Cattle stayed.
They demanded.
They changed land.
They changed people.
Old Sun stood at the edge of the group, arms folded tight.
"Those aren't cheap," he muttered.
"No," someone replied. "But they're not young either."
"They'll eat."
"Yes."
"So will his sheep."
No one finished the thought.
Lin Yan led the oxen himself.
Not to the main pasture.
Not yet.
He brought them to the lower slope where the grass had thickened quietly, where roots held soil firm and moisture lingered longer than elsewhere.
Chen Kui followed, silent.
The oxen lowered their heads and tested the grass.
One chewed.
Paused.
Chewed again.
Then took another step.
Approval.
Lin Yan exhaled slowly.
The system panel flickered.
[New Livestock Acquired: Draft Oxen x2]
[Grass Load Status: Stable]
[Soil Compaction Risk: Moderate (Manageable)]
Lin Yan acknowledged it without emotion.
He had expected this.
That evening, the family gathered.
Not for celebration.
For adjustment.
His father sat longer at the table, eyes lingering on Lin Yan in a way that was new—not worried, not doubtful.
Assessing.
"You'll need more hands," his father said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
"And more feed."
"Yes."
"And shelter."
Lin Yan nodded.
"We'll build it slowly," his mother said, voice soft but firm. "Not like the neighbors who rush and regret."
Lin Yan looked at her, surprised.
She met his gaze steadily.
"I've seen men break themselves trying to be fast," she continued. "You don't do that."
"No," Lin Yan agreed. "I don't."
The next morning, work began.
Not new work.
Different work.
The sheep routes shifted again, grazing patterns adjusted to reduce overlap. Manure collection doubled. Chen Kui and two hired hands began clearing a section of brush near the lower slope, not for pasture, but for future shelter.
No one asked when more cattle would come.
Everyone assumed they would.
Zhang Qu heard by noon.
He stood in his shop, fingers tapping the counter as the news was relayed.
"Two oxen," the messenger said. "Old stock."
Zhang Qu's jaw tightened.
"Who sold them?"
"A broker from the west road."
Zhang Qu waved him off.
Two oxen were nothing.
And everything.
The broker stayed only a night.
Before leaving, he walked the pasture again with Lin Yan.
"You'll want cows next," he said.
"Yes."
"Not here."
"No."
"You'll need better grass."
"Yes."
The broker smiled. "You're patient."
"I'm deliberate."
"Same thing," the broker said, mounting his cart. "Just sounds better."
By the third day, the oxen had settled.
They moved slowly, deliberately, never rushing, never fighting the rope. They drank deeply. They lay down with the confidence of animals that expected to rise again.
Children watched from afar.
One boy asked, "Will they pull plows?"
"Maybe," his father said.
"Will they fight?"
"No," his mother replied. "They're not that kind."
But Lin Yan watched them closely.
Not for strength.
For temperament.
Xu Wen visited again.
He did not comment on the cattle at first.
Instead, he asked about grass yield.
About rotation.
About winter feed.
Lin Yan answered.
Only then did Xu Wen nod toward the oxen.
"Zhang Qu won't like this," he said.
"No," Lin Yan replied.
"He'll change tactics."
"Yes."
Xu Wen smiled faintly. "Good."
The first problem came quietly.
One ox refused to drink from the stream.
Lin Yan noticed immediately.
He approached slowly, speaking softly, hands open. He guided the animal to a shallow pool upstream, clearer, cooler.
The ox drank.
The problem solved itself.
But Lin Yan did not forget.
Cattle noticed details.
So must he.
That night, as the wind moved through the grass, Lin Yan stood alone near the pasture.
The oxen lay sleeping, their breathing deep and even.
The sheep clustered nearby, uneasy but adjusting.
The ground beneath his feet felt different.
Compressed.
Changed.
He closed his eyes.
This was the point of no return.
Sheep could fail and be replaced.
Cattle failures lingered.
Debt lingered.
Reputation lingered.
But so did success.
He opened his eyes.
The hills did not care.
They would accept weight or reject it.
It was his job to listen.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Lin Yan felt not just the promise of growth—but its gravity.
Heavy.
Real.
Alive.