The argument began at the dinner table.
Not loudly. Not angrily.
Which made it more dangerous.
"We could use the silver," Lin Yan's second brother said carefully, chopsticks resting across his bowl. "Even one larger event. Controlled."
The eldest brother didn't disagree immediately. "More income means more fencing. More feed. Less risk later."
Their mother said nothing, but she listened closely. That, Lin Yan knew, meant she was weighing survival, not ambition.
Lin Yan finished chewing before speaking.
"Silver gained by bending rules weakens every rule afterward," he said. "And animals remember pressure faster than people do."
The room fell quiet.
The youngest brother looked between them, then lowered his head and kept eating.
That night, Lin Yan didn't sleep much.
At dawn, he carved.
Not wood—paper.
He sat at the rough table and brushed ink carefully, forming clean, deliberate characters. The system interface did not appear. This decision belonged to him alone.
By midmorning, Old Chen arrived and read over Lin Yan's shoulder.
"You're writing contracts," the old man said.
"Yes."
"For villagers?"
"For everyone."
The document was simple but firm.
LIN RANCH AGREEMENT (TRIAL)
– Grazing follows rotation set by ranch
– Damage is compensated in labor or feed
– No animals used for contests without approval
– No betting or entry fees
– Violations result in removal from pasture access
Old Chen nodded slowly. "Paper lasts longer than promises."
Before noon, Qian Luo returned.
This time, he did not come alone.
Two men followed him—local runners, not officials, but close enough to feel heavy. Qian Luo smiled as if nothing had happened.
"You've been busy," he said, noticing the papers.
"Busy preventing problems," Lin Yan replied.
Qian Luo clucked his tongue. "You're creating barriers."
"I'm creating clarity."
Qian Luo leaned in. "The county benefits from activity. You don't want misunderstandings."
Lin Yan handed him a paper.
"If the county wants involvement," Lin Yan said calmly, "they sign too."
The smile slipped.
"You're bold," Qian Luo said.
"No," Lin Yan replied. "I'm slow."
That seemed to confuse him more than anger would have.
Qian Luo straightened. "You'll regret missing opportunity."
Lin Yan met his gaze steadily. "Opportunity that demands compromise is debt, not profit."
Qian Luo left without another word.
But the pressure didn't.
That afternoon, a shout rose from the pig pen.
One piglet lay shaking, breath uneven.
Shen Yue arrived within moments, hair tied back, sleeves already rolled. She examined the animal quickly, jaw tightening.
"Not feed," she said. "Water source."
They traced it back.
A small ditch upstream had been fouled—accidental, careless, but dangerous. Someone had dumped waste after hearing of pig profits.
Lin Yan's expression hardened—not with anger, but resolve.
He called the villagers together before sunset.
"This," he said, pointing to the sick piglet, "is what happens when people chase gain without order."
No shouting followed.
Only lowered eyes.
He held up the contracts.
"These are not punishments," Lin Yan said. "They're protection."
One by one, people stepped forward.
Some signed quickly.
Some hesitated.
A few walked away.
Lin Yan noted every face.
That night, the piglet stabilized.
Shen Yue stayed until dark, hands smelling of herbs and clean water.
"You made the right call," she said quietly.
Lin Yan nodded. "Paper can't stop greed. But it slows it."
She looked at him for a long moment. "You're building something that will outlast you."
Lin Yan didn't answer.
Later, alone by the pasture, the system interface finally appeared.
[Formal Governance Established]
[Risk: External Resistance Increasing]
[Stability vs Expansion: Critical Balance]
Lin Yan closed it.
Grass swayed gently in the night breeze, untouched.
Paper had joined soil, rope, and habit.
And with it, a new line had been drawn—one that could not be crossed casually.