The carved sheep's knuckle felt like a live coal in Lin Yan's hand. The crudely etched wolf's head leered up at him, a promise of violence written in bone. The silence in the yard after the rider's dust had settled was profound, broken only by the nervous shuffle of hooves from the stable and the distant, rhythmic thwack of Lin Zhu splitting wood for the forge—a sound of normalcy that now felt like a lie.
He didn't call a frantic council. He walked, alone, to the edge of First Green Flat in Barren Vale. Here, where life had been coaxed from stone, he needed to think. The wind whispered through the hardy grass, a sound of resilience. The demand, Tribute?, was not a question. It was a trap.
Paying was unthinkable. It would establish them as a soft target, a milk cow to be bled dry whenever the Wolf's Head gang grew hungry. It would also be a secret they could never keep; such things always leaked, shattering the reputation of strength they'd built with the village and the magistrate.
Refusing outright meant a night attack. Fire, slaughtered animals, possibly worse. They were prepared, but they were not an army. They could likely repel a first assault, but at what cost? A burned stable? A dead hired hand? The psychological victory would go to the bandits.
He needed a third way. The 'Crisis Management' knowledge he'd purchased churned in his mind, offering cold strategy. When faced with extortion by a non-ideological actor, the goal is to alter their cost-benefit analysis. Raise the perceived cost of aggression. Create uncertainty. Offer a face-saving off-ramp that is less valuable than the tribute but avoids a fight.
An idea began to form, audacious and dangerous.
He returned to the ranch and gathered only Zhao He, Lin Tie, and Lin Zhu. He laid out the bone and the scrap of parchment on the forge's anvil.
"We do not pay," Lin Yan stated, his voice leaving no room for debate. "But we do not just say no. We negotiate."
"Negotiate with wolves?" Lin Tie growled.
"We negotiate from a position of hidden strength," Lin Yan corrected. "We make them think attacking us is more trouble than it's worth, and that we might be more useful alive."
He detailed his plan. It had three parts: Display, Delay, and Deal.
Display: They would make their defensive preparations not just visible, but demonstrative. Over the next two days, under Zhao He's direction, they would conduct very obvious "drills." But not just patrolling. They would simulate repelling an attack on the stable, with men taking up pre-assigned positions on the new platforms, using weighted buckets to simulate pouring boiling water or oil (it would just be creek water), and practicing coordinated arrow shots (with blunt practice heads) at straw dummies placed at night-attack distances. The message: We are not farmers surprised in our beds. We are a garrison.
Delay: Lin Yan would send a reply. Not with a rider, but via the official county courier system, addressed to "The Elders of the Northern Pass" (a vague, respectful title for bandit chiefs). The letter, composed with Scholar Zhang's help to sound formal and slightly archaic, would acknowledge their "communication," express the Lin family's "respect for the difficult realities of the border marches," and propose a meeting in seven days' time at a neutral, open location—the stone bridge on the county road, three miles from Willow Creek, at high noon. The purpose: "To discuss matters of mutual understanding and the avoidance of unfortunate conflict." The courier system would ensure the magistrate's office knew of the threat and their response, adding another layer of official scrutiny. The seven-day delay gave them time to prepare and let the bandits' own uncertainty fester.
Deal: At the meeting, Lin Yan would not offer silver. He would offer something of lesser value to them, but of plausible use to bandits: information. He would come prepared with a "map" (largely fictional) of seasonal county militia patrol routes gleaned from public knowledge and Zhao He's experience, and an offer of a one-time gift of supplies—dried meat, hardtack, basic medical herbs. It was a bribe, but a cheap one, framed as a "gesture of goodwill between neighbours in a hard land." The goal was to make them go away, thinking they'd won a concession without the Lin family losing anything vital or setting a precedent of payment.
"It is a gamble," Zhao He said after a long silence, his flinty eyes assessing Lin Yan as if seeing him anew. "If they see through the bluff, they will attack before the meeting."
"Then we must bluff perfectly," Lin Yan replied. "And we must be ready if they call it."
The next forty-eight hours were a masterclass in psychological warfare. The drills were conducted with a seriousness that bled into genuine preparedness. The village men, now understanding the stark reality of the threat, drilled with fierce concentration. The sight of nine men moving in coordinated teams, the thunk of practice arrows hitting straw dummies shaped like men, the silhouettes on the watchtowers—it was a performance for an audience they couldn't see but felt watching from the treeline.
Lin Yan's letter was sent via the courier, a move that felt both bold and deeply uncomfortable, like laying their private fear on a public desk.
Then, they waited. The ranch moved through its routines—feeding, training, mending—but every sound at night was a potential attack. Sleep was caught in shifts. Lin Yan found himself staring at the four new foals, Tempest nuzzling her mother, Anvil standing sturdily beside Sumac. This was what he was gambling for.
On the fifth day, the reply came. Not by courier, but by the same method as before. A single rider, the same scarred man, approached at dusk. He didn't stop. He hurled a small object wrapped in leather over the gate and wheeled his horse, galloping back into the gathering dark.
Inside the leather was another bone, this one from a rabbit, and a piece of charcoal-scorched wood with a single character scratched into it: 橋.
Bridge.
They had agreed to the meeting.
The next two days were a fever dream of preparation. Lin Yan and Zhao He pored over the bridge site. It was a good choice—open on all sides, no place for an ambush if both parties kept their distance. Lin Yan would go with only Zhao He as his escort. Lin Tie and three of the steadiest hired hands would be hidden in a copse of woods 300 paces away, armed with bows and under strict orders: only intervene if Lin Yan or Zhao He were directly attacked.
The morning of the seventh day dawned cold and grey. Lin Yan dressed in his best, but practical, clothes—sturdy boots, a warm tunic, a cloak. He carried no visible weapon. Zhao He wore his old, faded cavalry tunic under his cloak, his bow unstrung but across his back, a long knife at his belt. His mere presence was a statement.
They rode to the bridge, Mist and Granite stepping high and alert. The stone arch spanned a shallow, rocky stream. They dismounted on their side, tying the horses to a scrub tree.
At precisely noon, five riders emerged from the trees on the far side. They were a hard-bitten lot, their gear mismatched, their faces guarded. Three hung back. Two rode forward to the center of the bridge and dismounted. One was the scarred messenger. The other was taller, leaner, with a look of cunning intelligence in his eyes. This was the leader.
Lin Yan and Zhao He walked forward to meet them in the center of the bridge, the stream gurgling below. The air was taut.
"You are the rancher," the leader stated, his voice raspy. He looked Lin Yan up and down, then his gaze lingered on Zhao He, recognizing the bearing of a fellow professional killer. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I am Lin Yan. This is Zhao He. You are?"
"Call me Grey," the leader said, a thin smile on his lips. "You have interesting drills. And interesting friends in the magistrate's office." He'd noted the courier.
"We wish only to work our land in peace," Lin Yan said, keeping his voice level. "We understand the world is not always peaceful. We propose a… understanding. Not tribute. A gift between men who respect clear borders." He nodded to Zhao He, who carefully placed a cloth bundle on the stone parapet between them. He unfolded it. Inside was a rolled parchment (the fictional patrol map), two large sacks of their best smoked meat and journey bread, and a small pouch of Wang Shi's most potent wound-cleansing herbs.
Grey didn't touch it. He stared at the bundle, then at Lin Yan. "This is your 'tribute'? Scraps and scribbles?"
"It is a gesture," Lin Yan said. "The map may save you trouble. The food and medicine are useful. In return, the Lin Ranch is left alone. Our animals, our people, our borders. We are not rich in silver. We are rich in what we grow. And we are prepared to defend it, at a cost that would make any silver you might take not worth the blood." He met Grey's gaze, allowing no fear to show. "This way, you gain something for nothing. We keep our peace. A sensible transaction."
Grey was silent, his eyes flicking to Zhao He's still posture, to the quality of their horses tied behind them, then back to Lin Yan's impassive face. He was calculating. The display of readiness, the official courier, the offer of a cheap but practical bribe—it was a confusing mix of defiance and conciliation. Attacking them suddenly seemed less like plucking a ripe fruit and more like stepping on a hidden thorn trap.
After a long minute, Grey spat over the side of the bridge. He picked up the pouch of herbs and sniffed it, then tossed it to his scarred lieutenant. He took the map, glanced at it with a scoff, but tucked it into his tunic. He left the food.
"Your 'gesture' is accepted," he said, his tone dismissive but final. "The Wolf's Head has no quarrel with a prepared household. See that your gates remain strong, Lin Yan. And your couriers busy." It was a warning, but also a retreat. He turned, remounted, and with a last, unreadable look at Zhao He, led his men back into the trees.
Lin Yan didn't move until the sound of their hooves had faded completely. His knees felt weak. He let out a long, shuddering breath.
Zhao He bent and picked up the untouched food sacks. "He took the map to save face with his men. The herbs because they're truly valuable to them. He left the food to show he's not needy." He gave a grim, approving nod. "It worked. For now."
They rode home in silence, the tension uncoiling slowly. When they arrived, the family rushed out. Lin Yan simply said, "It's done."
The relief was palpable. But Lin Yan felt no triumph, only a bone-deep weariness and a new, cold understanding. They had faced down wolves with a combination of bluff, bureaucracy, and a poultice. It was a victory, but a fragile one. The brand on the gatepost was still there, a scar.
That night, he added a new line to the ranch's ledger, not in the asset column, but in a new one he titled 'Security.'
Expenditure: One fictional map, one pouch of medicinal herbs.
Return: Temporary peace. Lesson learned: Prosperity must be guarded with both spear and cunning.
Status: Vigilance ongoing.
He looked out the window at the dark bulk of the stable, where the mares and their precious foals slept. The trial at the bridge was over. But the trial of existing in a world that coveted what you built was never-ending. The Lin Ranch had passed today's test. Tomorrow would bring another. They were no longer just builders. They were guardians. And they had just learned how costly, and how creative, that guardianship could be.