The horse stayed the night.
Not in the pasture, but just outside it—tied beneath the old elm tree where the ground was firm and dry. Lin Yan insisted on that much. Grass was for feeding, not trampling. Even animals needed boundaries.
He woke before dawn out of habit and found the horse already awake, ears flicking toward the sounds of the village stirring. It stamped once, impatient but not anxious.
"You're used to work," Lin Yan murmured.
He didn't saddle it.
Instead, he brushed its coat slowly, letting the horse grow accustomed to his hands. Old Chen watched from a short distance, saying nothing.
"Most people rush the first ride," the old man said eventually.
"I'm not riding today," Lin Yan replied.
Old Chen snorted. "Smart."
The cart arrived shortly after—empty, wooden sides worn smooth by years of use. Lin Yan loaded it himself: baskets of eggs, a small sack of dried vegetables, two jars of rendered pork fat sealed carefully with cloth.
Nothing heavy.
Nothing urgent.
The carter who'd leased the horse climbed up and took the reins. "First trip's always the hardest," he said. "For people, not horses."
Lin Yan walked beside the cart as it rolled out of the village.
The calf watched from the fence. The piglets squealed in their pen, rooting through vegetable scraps his mother had saved from the night before.
Life continued even as the road pulled something away from it.
At the market, things moved smoothly.
The eggs sold first. Then the vegetables. Even the pork fat fetched a fair price—more than Lin Yan had expected.
"People don't buy much," the carter said, pocketing his share, "but they buy steadily."
Lin Yan nodded. "Steady is enough."
He paid the lease fee without bargaining and added a small bundle of fresh grass for the horse before they left town.
On the return trip, the carter glanced at him sideways. "You'll buy one eventually."
"Yes," Lin Yan said. "When it earns its keep."
Back in the village, the news arrived before he did.
"They went to town and came back in one day."
"No borrowing."
"No rushing."
By evening, three more villagers had come to look at the piglets.
Lin Yan didn't encourage them.
He showed them the pen instead.
Simple wood. Good drainage. A shaded corner.
"Clean pigs don't fall sick easily," he said. "Dirty pens make dirty meat."
One man frowned. "That's a lot of work."
"So is hunger," Lin Yan replied calmly.
The man didn't argue.
That night's meal was simple—grain, vegetables, a spoon of pork fat stirred in at the end. Enough to carry flavor. Not enough to tempt excess.
The eldest brother leaned back after eating. "Town feels closer now," he said.
"Distance shrinks when time is managed," Lin Yan replied.
Later, as the village settled into quiet, Lin Yan walked the pasture with Old Chen.
The grass had thickened noticeably. Where the calf had grazed earlier in the week, new shoots were already pushing through.
Old Chen stopped and planted his staff. "You know," he said slowly, "people are starting to listen."
Lin Yan looked toward the pig pen, where his mother was cleaning carefully, movements practiced now rather than rushed.
"They're starting to copy," Old Chen continued. "That's when trouble comes."
"I know," Lin Yan said.
He returned home and carved another small board—not for the village square, but for the Lin household wall.
EARN FIRST. EXPAND LATER.
The system interface appeared quietly, as it often did now—less intrusive, more like a ledger than a voice.
[Transport Efficiency: Improved]
[Meat Supply Stability: Rising]
[Next Condition: Labor Expansion]
Lin Yan closed it.
Labor meant people. People meant trust.
He sat by the fence, watching the horse being led away at dusk, its hooves fading into the road dust.
Not his yet.
But soon.
The youngest brother came to sit beside him, holding a bamboo slip covered in uneven characters.
"I finished today's lesson," the boy said proudly.
Lin Yan looked it over and nodded. "Good. Tomorrow, you'll write them again."
The boy groaned softly, then smiled. "Okay."
From the pig pen came soft grunts. From the pasture, the calf shifted and lay down again.
Different sounds. Different rhythms.
All moving forward.
Lin Yan leaned back, hands resting on the fence, and let the evening pass without planning the next step.
Some progress didn't need to be chased.
It just needed to be allowed to continue.