Spring did not so much arrive as conquer. The last stubborn patches of snow in the northern hollows vanished overnight, surrendering to a tide of green so vivid it hurt the eyes. The Lin Ranch, once a study in monochrome survival, exploded into a cacophony of life and colour. The three foals—Dawn, Summit, and Ember—were no longer wobbly newborns but sturdy, mischievous creatures with springs for legs and an insatiable curiosity that turned every chore into a game. Their coats gleamed with health, their white markings brilliant against the lush new grass.
The ranch's rhythm accelerated to match the season. Mares and foals were turned out during the day in a specially prepared, gentle-sloped pasture. The cattle, including the now-yearling Legacy, were moved to the richer lowland meadows. The sheep were sheared, their wool a valuable new commodity. The garden was replanted, this time with a wider variety of vegetables and the hardy, fast-growing greens that had saved them after the hailstorm.
Prosperity, Lin Yan was learning, was not a destination but a new, more complex kind of work. The imperial contract, with its three foals now a living, breathing reality, brought not just satisfaction, but a sharper edge of scrutiny. Apprentice Clerk He's reports grew thicker, his observations more detailed. Undersecretary Wen sent a terse missive acknowledging the "satisfactory initial progress" and reminding them of the remaining seven animals due in eighteen months.
The weight of that number was both a pressure and a compass. Every decision was filtered through it: which pastures to rest, which mares to breed back, how much hay to contract with Merchant Huang versus keeping in reserve. The ranch was no longer a family subsistence plot; it was a small business with an imperial client.
The forge's song was constant now. Lin Zhu, with an apprentice's focus, was mastering the making of simple bits and stirrups. The carts they produced were in such demand that Kang, the village blacksmith, formally proposed a partnership: a combined workshop in Willow Creek, where Kang's strength and Zhu's precision could produce not just farm carts, but specialized wagons for the growing number of merchants who plied the mountain roads. It was another thread weaving them deeper into the region's economic fabric.
Yet, with every new strand of connection, the tapestry of their old life frayed in places. The most noticeable tear was with Old Chen's family. Chen Fu, the son, had not taken his father's reluctant peace to heart. Where Old Chen had withdrawn into a sullen, watchful neutrality, Chen Fu's envy curdled into something more active. He was seen drinking with drifters at the county town's rougher taverns. He made pointed comments at the village well about "upstarts" and "stolen valley luck."
The tension crystallized over water. The creek that fed the Lin pastures also watered Chen's lower fields. It had always been enough. But this spring, Chen Fu began expanding a barley plot, digging new irrigation ditches that significantly reduced the flow to the Lin's upstream intake.
Lin Dahu went to discuss it, man to man. He returned grim-faced. "He says his father's agreement with us was about land, not water. That water is need-based, and his 'need' is greater now. He says if we want more flow, we can dig our own storage pond. Or pay him for the 'shared community resource.'"
It was a naked shakedown, leveraging their increased dependence on consistent water for their larger herds and the delicate pregnant mares.
"We could go to the village head," Lin Zhu suggested, anger tightening his voice.
"Chen Fu has likely already spoken to him," Lin Yan said, thinking it through. "And 'community resource' arguments are hard to fight. A pond… a pond isn't a terrible idea. For drought years. But to be forced into it by him…" It stuck in his craw.
Zhao He, who had been listening while oiling a saddle, spoke up. "There is another source."
They all looked at him.
"The high meadow. The main spring that feeds the creek is up there. It bubbles out of the rock, clean and cold. The creek is just the runoff." He met Lin Yan's eyes. "We pipe it."
"Pipe?" Lin Dahu asked, baffled.
"Hollowed logs. Bamboo if we can find it thick enough. Seal the joints with pitch and clay. Run a line straight down the slope to our own storage pond, then from there to the pastures. It would be ours. From source to trough." Zhao He had seen such systems in the arid garrison outposts of the north.
It was an audacious, labour-intensive solution. But it was also a permanent, independent one. It would cut the chain of dependency Chen Fu was trying to use against them.
"Can it be done?" Lin Yan asked.
"It can. It will be a season's work for two men. But when it is done, no one can turn a valve on your life."
The decision was made. They would not fight Chen Fu on his terms. They would change the game. Lin Yan and Zhao He would scout the spring and map a route. Lin Zhu and Lin Tie would handle the ranch's heavy labour and begin sourcing materials.
The project became their secret rebellion. In the mornings, they would tend to the ranch. In the afternoons, Lin Yan and Zhao He would disappear into the hills with axes, saws, and measuring cords. They found the spring—a clear, icy pool welling from mossy stone in a hidden granite bowl. It was more than enough. They mapped a winding route down a natural gully that would hide most of the wooden pipeline.
The work was brutally physical. Felling straight, mature pines. Hollowing them with fire and adze. Fitting them together, tongue-and-groove. Sealing the joints with a sticky mixture of pine pitch and pounded clay. They built a small catch-basin at the spring and began laying the wooden line, section by laborious section.
Up here, away from the ranch's bustle, a different kind of bond solidified between Lin Yan and Zhao He. They spoke less, worked in a companionable silence broken only by the chop of axes and the scrape of tools. Zhao He shared more stories—not of war, but of the land. How to find water by watching birds at dawn, how to tell if a slope would hold a slide, how a certain moss meant clean water nearby.
One afternoon, as they paused to drink from the spring, Zhao He said, "Your father is a good man. He thinks in seasons, in harvests. You… you think in generations, in breeds. It is a different mind. It is what this place needs now." He looked at the half-laid pipe, snaking down the mountainside. "This is not just water. This is a vein. You are giving the land a new vein to feed your dream. A man who can do that is not a farmer. He is a… shaper."
It was the highest praise Lin Yan had ever received.
Down at the ranch, life swirled on. The pipeline project was a drain on manpower, but the family adapted. Lin Xiao took on more responsibility with the foals, his natural affinity with animals blossoming. Wang Shi and the girls managed the garden and the chickens with fierce efficiency. Merchant Huang visited, inspected the foals with a critical, pleased eye, and advanced them a portion of the future payment for the three, allowing them to hire two more labourers from a neighbouring village to help with the haying and fence repairs.
The new hired men, Lao Li and his son, were quiet, diligent workers. Their presence was another change—the Lin Ranch was now an employer. With them came a subtle shift in the family's dynamic. Lin Dahu was the patriarch, but Lin Yan was increasingly the foreman, the strategist.
A month into the pipeline project, Chen Fu made his move. Perhaps sensing their distraction, he tried to escalate. One of the new hired hands, Lao Li's son, reported seeing Chen Fu and two rough-looking strangers walking the boundary line between the Chen and Lin properties at dusk, pointing at their cattle.
The next night, the alarm snares on the north fence rang like discordant temple bells.
Lin Tie and Zhao He responded. They found no one at the fence, but one of the newer, more valuable heifers—a young daughter of Maple they'd named Hazel—was spooked, pacing at the far end of the pasture. And on the ground near the fence, just on the Lin side, was a scattered handful of wild, toxic jimsonweed leaves.
It was sinister. Not theft, not sabotage of property, but an attempt to poison an animal. If Hazel had eaten it…
Zhao He's face was like carved stone. "This is no longer envy. This is malice."
They held another council, this time including Lao Li, whose weathered face was grim. "Chen Fu drinks with bad men at the 'Blue Jar' in the county town," he said quietly. "Men who talk of easy silver from 'unbranded mountain horseflesh.'"
The threat was now clear, multi-pronged, and dangerous.
"We cannot just build higher fences," Lin Yan said, his voice cold. "We need to make the cost of touching us too high."
The next day, Lin Yan did two things. First, he sent a detailed, factual report via Apprentice Clerk He to Undersecretary Wen, describing the trespassing, the discovery of toxic plants inside their boundary, and expressing concern for the security of the "imperial priority observation site and its developing assets." He made no accusations, only stated facts and requested "guidance." It was a bureaucratic arrow shot into the prefectural quiver.
Second, he and Zhao He rode to Yellow Creek. They did not go to Merchant Huang. They went to the headquarters of the prefectural constabulary. There, Zhao He, using his remaining military credentials and a tone of blunt authority, reported the presence of known horse thieves and poisoners in the Willow Creek area, posing a direct threat to a registered imperial supplier. He provided descriptions of the two men Lao Li's son had seen.
The constable, a pragmatic man, took notes. An imperial supplier, even a small one, changed the calculus. Trouble for them was trouble for his peacekeeping record.
When they returned, they completed the pipeline's final connection. With a quiet groan of wood and a hiss of escaping air, the spring water rushed down the mountain, through the hollow logs, and poured in a clean, sparkling arc into the new stone-lined pond they had built at the ranch's high point. From there, it would gravity-feed to every trough.
They had their own water. Independent, clean, and undeniable.
Two days later, a squad of two constables visited Willow Creek. They asked questions at the village head's house, then at Old Chen's compound. They did not make an arrest, but their presence was a thunderclap. The message was clear: the Lin Ranch was under a different kind of protection now.
Chen Fu was not seen in the village for a week. When he reappeared, he looked diminished, avoiding everyone's eyes.
The poison attempt had failed. The water gambit had been rendered moot. The hidden pipeline was a monument to their self-reliance. The constables' visit was a shield of official consequence.
Standing by the new pond, watching the precious water flow, Lin Yan felt no triumph, only a sober clarity. Prosperity had a price. It attracted not just admiration, but predators. They had paid that price in vigilance, in brutal labour, and in learning to wield the tools of their new station—be they wooden pipes or bureaucratic protocols.
The three foals galloped past, kicking up clods of damp earth, their vitality a stark contrast to the grim human machinations. They were the reason for it all. The empire's contract, the family's future, the dream of a legacy rooted deep in this land. They had defended the wellspring. Now, they had to ensure the stream of life it fed continued to grow, no matter what shadows lurked at the edges of their green and flourishing fields.