The green did not spread like a flood. It crept. It was a slow, stubborn stain seeping into the grey fabric of Barren Vale. From the tiny, miraculous patches born of seed bombs, tough runners of the canyon grass extended, inch by patient inch, knitting a fragile web of life across the broken ground. Around the developed seeps and the more successful wecks, where moisture lingered, clover and hardy vetch took root, their leaves a brighter, lusher green against the silver-grey of the pioneer grass.
It was not pasture. Not yet. It was a promise written in chlorophyll, a whisper of what could be. But for the men who had broken their backs to make it happen, it was a cathedral.
Lin Yan stood at the center of what they now called "First Green Flat," a roughly two-mu area where the growth was thickest. The air here smelled different—less of dust and heat, more of damp earth and growing things. He could feel the change underfoot; the ground had a slight spring, a give that spoke of forming soil structure, of life returning.
The reclamation project entered a new phase. The brute-force labour of breaking crust and moving stone gave way to the more nuanced work of cultivation. Crews now spent mornings weeding (though 'weeds' were a luxury concept here, most things green were welcomed), pruning back the tough scrub to give the desirable grasses light, and carefully harvesting seed from the healthiest plants. Afternoons were still for earthworks—terracing the gentler slopes to catch soil runoff, digging infiltration ponds below the wecks to create permanent water reserves.
The human landscape had changed too. Of the original fifteen men, twelve remained. The three who had left had been replaced by four new hires from Willow Creek itself—younger men, sons of villagers who had watched the Lin family's rise and now saw a chance for steady, skilled work. They were quicker to learn, more invested. The crew was becoming a team, their shared calluses and sun-baked skin a badge of membership in this strange, hopeful war.
Back at the home ranch, the rhythm was one of prosperous stability. The three yearlings—Dawn, Summit, and Ember—were now strong, leggy creatures, their training advancing under Zhao He's exacting eye. They learned to carry a saddle pad, then a girth, then a full saddle. They learned to move in response to pressure on their sides from Lin Yan's legs, to turn from the lightest touch of a rein on their neck. They were not being broken; they were being educated.
The Blackcloud cattle, Shadow and her son Midnight, were the ranch's quiet pride. Midnight was growing into an impressive young bull, deep-chested and solid as a block of anthracite. His mother's rich milk was now a staple, and Wang Shi's experiments with cheese had produced a firm, tangy wheel she called "Shadow's Gift." It was too precious to sell, reserved for family celebrations and as a luxury gift for allies like Merchant Huang and Scholar Zhang.
One such wheel was presented to Magistrate Gao when he made his second visit to the Barren Vale project. He came not to the home ranch, but directly to the vale, his carriage lurching down the newly improved access track Lin Zhu had engineered.
The magistrate walked First Green Flat in silence, his officials trailing behind. He knelt, feeling the new grass, examining the terraces. He saw the order, the method, the tangible, if nascent, results. At the main camp, Lin Yan served him tea and a slice of the black cheese.
Gao ate slowly, his expression thoughtful. "The reports spoke of 'modest vegetative establishment.' This is more than modest. This is… a foundation." He set down his cup. "The prefect has taken interest. The 'Barren Vale Reclamation' is now cited in dispatches as an example of 'local initiative paired with imperial oversight for sustainable land development.'" His tone was dry, but there was a glint in his eye. His political capital was growing.
Then his gaze hardened slightly. "Success attracts attention, Master Lin. Not all of it benevolent. There are… interests in the prefecture. Larger landholders. Some see this valley not as a wasteland, but as unexploited territory. They question why a single family should have a ten-year lease on so much land, even poor land, for what they call 'experimental gardening.' They whisper that favouritism is at play."
It was a warning, cloaked in bureaucratic jargon. Their success was creating envy in higher, more dangerous circles.
"We are fulfilling every term of our agreement, Magistrate," Lin Yan replied, keeping his voice neutral. "The land is improving. County men are employed. Taxable value is being created from nothing. What more can the law require?"
"The law requires nothing more. Politics, however, has a hungrier stomach." Gao stood. "Double your pace. Make your green stain so large, so undeniable, that no whisper can obscure it. Be ready to demonstrate not just growth, but production. A field of grass is a theory. A herd fattened on that grass is a fact."
After he left, the warning sat heavily in the vale's dry air. They were racing against more than seasons; they were racing against the jealousy of powerful men.
It was Zhao He who brought the other, more immediate shadow. He returned from a extended scouting trip to the northern reaches of the Azure Hills, beyond even their high alpine pastures. His face was graver than usual.
"There are signs," he reported to Lin Yan that evening, away from the crew. "Old campfires, not ours. Horse dung from animals fed on poor forage. And this." He held out a crude arrowhead, knapped from a dark grey flint, not the local stone. "Northern make. From beyond the Wall, or from the tribes that haunt the border marches."
"Poachers?" Lin Yan asked, though he knew it was more.
"Poachers don't come this far for deer. And they don't use arrows like this anymore." Zhao He's voice dropped. "Deserters. Or scouts for raiders. The northern garrison has been tightening discipline. Some men slip away rather than face punishment. Or they are pushed out by tribals in a hard season. They come south, hungry, armed, and with nothing to lose. They would see horses like ours, cattle like ours… as heaven-sent plunder."
The two threats—the political and the predatory—converged in Lin Yan's mind. They were building something valuable in a remote place. They were painting a target on their own backs.
They needed to show strength. Not just agricultural strength, but communal, martial strength. The idea came to him during the next village gathering at Willow Creek's ancestral hall. The village head was discussing the upcoming autumn festival, usually a subdued affair of prayers and a meager shared meal.
Lin Yan stood. "This year, we have more to give thanks for. Our valley is greener. Our herds are stronger. Let us celebrate not just survival, but prosperity. Let us have a gathering. A… ranch gathering."
He laid out a plan. They would hold it on the border between the home ranch and the start of the vale. There would be games of skill—axe-throwing, archery, a race for the village children. There would be food contributed by all, a shared feast. And the highlight, he proposed, would be a demonstration: a riding display by Zhao He and the yearlings, and something new.
"We will have a contest of strength with our bulls," Lin Yan announced. "Not a fight to the death. A test of will. A man against the bull's power, to see who can stay on the longest." He described it not as a barbaric spectacle, but as a practical test of courage and skill, a celebration of the raw power of the animals they depended on. He called it "Riding the Iron Ox."
The idea sparked excited murmurs. It was something new, something bold. It felt connected to the land and their labours. The village head, seeing a chance to unite the village and please the increasingly influential Lin family, agreed.
Preparation became a village-wide endeavor. Women planned the feast. Men built a simple riding arena with stout rails. Zhao He and Lin Yan trained for the demonstration, not just the riding, but the bull-riding concept. They used a wooden barrel suspended by ropes, simulating the unpredictable, plunging motion. Lin Tie, with his immense strength, proved surprisingly adept, able to cling to the rocking barrel longer than anyone.
The festival day dawned bright and clear. It seemed the entire population of Willow Creek and nearby hamlets turned out. The Lin ranch compound was decked with woven grass ornaments and colourful cloth streamers. The air smelled of roasting meat (a goat donated by a neighbour, a few of their own chickens), baking flatbreads, and the sweet, earthy scent of Wang Shi's yam cakes.
The games were rowdy and joyful. The archery contest was won by Zhao He, his final shot splitting the previous arrow on the target, a display of terrifying skill that drew gasps then cheers. The children's race was won by a grinning, mud-streaked Lin Xiao.
Then came the demonstrations. Zhao He put Dawn, the smoky grey filly, through a beautiful, responsive routine in the arena. She moved as if reading his mind, pivoting, backing up, side-passing. The crowd watched in rapt silence, then erupted in applause. These were not just beasts of burden; they were partners.
Finally, the main event. The arena was cleared. Founder, their original bull, was led in. He was in his prime now, a mountain of muscle and pride, his chestnut coat brushed to a shine. He wore a special, wide leather girth with a handhold braided into it.
The rules were explained: stay on for eight breaths. No spurs, no violence. Just grip and will.
Lin Tie was the first to try. He climbed onto the bull's broad back, seized the handhold, and nodded. The gate was opened. Founder, feeling the weight and the unfamiliar restraint, exploded into motion. He bucked, sun-fished, spun. Lin Tie, his face a mask of concentration, clung on like a burr, his body moving in a desperate, powerful rhythm with the bull's fury. At the count of seven, a final, twisting leap unseated him. He landed in the soft dirt, rolling clear to thunderous applause. He had set a high bar.
Two other village men tried, lasting only a breath or two before being launched into the dust, to the crowd's good-natured laughter.
Then Zhao He stepped forward. He didn't look at the bull; he looked at Lin Yan, a question in his eyes. Lin Yan nodded. This was about more than a contest.
Zhao He mounted. His style was different—not a battle of brute strength, but of balance and eerie calm. When Founder bucked, Zhao He seemed to flow with the motion, his center of gravity low and still. He didn't fight the bull; he rode the storm. For eight breaths, then ten, then twelve. Founder, confused and then perhaps grudgingly accepting, began to settle. At a count of fifteen, Zhao He dismounted smoothly, patting the bull's sweat-darkened shoulder.
The silence was profound, then broke into a roar of approval. It was more than skill; it was a kind of magic.
The feast that followed was the most abundant anyone could remember. As twilight fell and fires were lit, a fiddle appeared, then a drum. Music swelled—traditional folk tunes, but played with a lively, pounding rhythm that felt suited to the day. Someone started a line dance, simple steps that others joined.
Lin Yan, watching his family and neighbours laugh and dance under the stars, the silhouette of the green-stained vale rising behind them, felt a deep sense of rightness. They had shown their strength—their agricultural skill, their animal mastery, their unity. They had given the village a new story, a new tradition.
Later, as the fires burned low, Zhao He came to stand beside him, looking north toward the dark hills. "The festival was good. It binds people to us. But the men who watch from those hills… they are not bound by feasts or tradition. They saw the horses. They saw the cattle. They saw a community fat and happy. They will see it as weakness, not strength."
Lin Yan followed his gaze. The joyous lights of the festival seemed small against the vast, dark bulk of the mountains. "Then we must make sure our strength is not just for show," he said quietly. "The political wolves and the deserters from the hills… they are two faces of the same challenge. We have built something worth taking. Now, we have to learn to guard it."
The green stain in the vale was a victory. But it had deepened the shadows around them. The Lin Ranch was no longer just a farm; it was a beacon. And beacons, in the dark, drew all kinds of eyes.