The habit of hunger did not disappear just because pork appeared on the table.
Even after the meal, Lin Yan noticed it—the way his eldest brother unconsciously scraped the bowl clean, the way his mother folded the cloth used to wrap the pork and tucked it away as if it were something precious.
No one said they were full.
They simply stopped eating.
Lin Yan washed his hands at the well and looked toward the pasture. The calf lay in the sun, legs folded beneath its body, chewing slowly. Its calmness had begun to feel contagious.
That afternoon, a distant sound reached the village.
Hooves.
Not many. Just one horse, walking, not rushing.
Heads lifted.
A small trading cart rolled along the dirt road, pulled by a chestnut horse with long legs and a steady gait. The trader sat loosely on the seat, reins slack, clearly trusting the animal.
Lin Yan watched without moving.
The horse's steps were even. Its breathing calm.
Good bone structure, he thought instinctively.
Old Chen appeared beside him. "That's a decent horse," the old man said. "Not fast, but it won't break down."
Lin Yan nodded. "Horses shorten distance."
Old Chen glanced at him. "You thinking ahead again?"
"Always," Lin Yan replied.
The cart passed. The horse's tail flicked lazily.
Lin Yan turned back to the pasture.
That was when the trouble started.
Two boys had slipped past the rope fence, chasing each other through the grass. Their feet crushed young shoots flat, laughter loud and careless.
Lin Yan's expression didn't change—but he walked forward.
"Stop," he said.
The boys froze.
"This isn't a playground," Lin Yan continued, voice calm. "Step out."
One of the boys hesitated. "It's just grass."
Lin Yan crouched and pressed his fingers into the soil where they'd stepped.
"Feel that," he said.
The boy reluctantly knelt and touched the ground.
It was soft—but fragile.
"If this breaks," Lin Yan said, "my cattle lose feed. If my cattle lose feed, my family loses food."
The boys went pale and scrambled out without another word.
But they weren't the real problem.
That evening, three villagers came together.
"You're fencing too much land," one said bluntly.
"Grass used to be shared," another added.
"You're acting like a landlord," the third muttered.
Lin Yan listened quietly.
Then he nodded. "You're right."
They blinked.
"Grass was shared," Lin Yan said. "When no one cared for it."
He turned and pointed toward the pasture.
"Now it's being raised. Just like livestock. Just like children."
Old Chen stepped forward. "That grass is feeding a calf without grain," he said. "I've seen it."
The villagers hesitated.
Lin Yan took a breath.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I'll announce the rules publicly. If anyone disagrees, speak then."
He didn't argue further.
That night, the system interface flickered briefly.
[Social Pressure Detected]
[Suggested Action: Clear Authority]
Lin Yan slept early.
The next morning, he placed three wooden boards at the village square.
People gathered—curious, wary.
Lin Yan stood quietly until the noise settled.
"These are not laws," he said. "They're ranch rules."
He pointed to the boards.
PASTURE RULES OF THE LIN RANCH
Grass is raised, not taken
Grazing follows rotation
No trampling young land
Livestock comes before profit
Disputes come to me
Silence followed.
Then Lin Yan added one more sentence.
"If the ranch fails, I bear the loss. If it succeeds, I will buy grass from you."
That changed everything.
Buying grass meant silver.
After the crowd dispersed, Old Chen chuckled. "You tied mouths shut with money."
"No," Lin Yan replied. "With responsibility."
That evening, the family ate leftover pork reheated with vegetables.
Still only a few slices.
Still careful.
But this time, they spoke more.
The youngest brother chewed slowly and said, "Third Brother… when we're richer, can we eat pork more often?"
Lin Yan thought of the pasture, the calf, the horse on the road.
"Yes," he said. "But not every day."
"Why?" the boy asked.
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "Because remembering hunger keeps people honest."
As dusk fell, Lin Yan walked the pasture one last time.
Grass swayed. The calf stood and stretched. Somewhere beyond the fields, a horse neighed faintly.
Land. Animals. People.
Order had to come before abundance.
Lin Yan adjusted the rope fence and spoke quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
"First grass. Then cattle."
"And one day," he added, eyes following the road,
"horses."