The first sign was not obvious.
One of the lambs lagged behind.
Lin Yan noticed it at dusk when he led them back from the hills. The smallest one—white with a gray patch near its ear—stopped more often than usual, lowering its head as if the ground itself had grown heavier.
"Come," Lin Yan said softly, tugging the rope just a little.
The lamb followed, but its steps were slow.
Lin Erniu noticed too.
"That one's tired," he said. "Maybe it ate less today."
"Maybe," Lin Yan replied.
But his eyes stayed on the animal the entire way back.
That night, rain came again, harder than before. Wind rattled the loose planks of the shed, and water crept into the yard in thin, muddy streams. Lin Yan woke twice, listening to the sheep shuffle.
On the third time, he didn't go back to sleep.
At dawn, the lamb did not stand.
It lay curled near the corner of the shed, sides rising unevenly. Its ears drooped. When Lin Yan approached, it did not bleat—only shifted weakly.
Lin Yan knelt immediately.
Too quiet.
He pressed a hand gently against its side.
Hot.
Too hot.
His jaw tightened.
"Erniu," he called. "Bring water. Warm, not cold."
Erniu froze when he saw the lamb. "What's wrong?"
"Fever," Lin Yan said. "And likely bloat."
"Will it die?" Erniu asked bluntly.
Lin Yan did not answer immediately.
"I don't know," he said at last. "But if we panic, it will."
He closed his eyes briefly.
The system panel surfaced.
[Livestock Status: Sheep (Juvenile)]
[Condition: Digestive Distress | Early Infection Risk]
[Cause Probability: Wet forage intake | Cold exposure]
[Recommended Action: Isolate | Warmth | Reduced intake | Basic herbal intervention]
No miracle cure.
No glowing potion.
Just confirmation of what Lin Yan already suspected.
Rain-soaked grass. Sudden chill. A young animal with a weak constitution.
His own body, in another life, had died from something just as mundane.
"Move the others out," Lin Yan said. "This one stays."
Erniu hesitated. "What if the rest—"
"They're fine," Lin Yan replied. "Don't let fear spread."
That wasn't just about animals.
They moved the sick lamb into the inner shed, blocking drafts with old sacks and straw. Lin Yan rubbed its limbs gently, encouraging circulation, the way he'd learned from the system's passive knowledge.
His mother hovered nearby, hands clenched.
"Should we call the village vet?" she whispered.
Lin Yan shook his head. "He'll report it."
Her face paled. "Then what do we do?"
"We handle it," Lin Yan said. "Quietly."
Outside, Lin Shouzheng pretended to mend a tool, but his eyes kept drifting toward the shed.
This was the danger of hidden growth.
When things went wrong, there was no one to turn to.
By midday, the lamb's condition worsened.
It refused food entirely.
Its breathing grew shallow.
Lin Erniu slammed his fist against the wall. "We should have sold them earlier!"
Lin Yan looked at him sharply.
"No," he said. "We should have prepared better."
Erniu opened his mouth, then closed it.
That was the difference.
Blame versus responsibility.
Lin Yan sent Erniu to gather specific herbs from the hillside—bitterleaf, wild ginger root, and a small amount of dried wormwood.
Not cures.
Support.
When Erniu returned, scratched and muddy, Lin Yan boiled the mixture carefully, diluting it until the smell was mild rather than sharp.
He fed the lamb slowly, drop by drop.
Most of it dribbled out.
Some stayed.
Time crawled.
The village went about its business, unaware that one small animal's life was being fought over in a poor family's shed.
But silence has weight.
By evening, Wang Hu stopped by under the pretense of borrowing a hoe.
"You alright?" he asked quietly, eyes flicking toward the shed.
"Yes," Lin Yan said.
That was not a lie.
Not yet.
Wang Hu lingered. "People are talking again."
Lin Yan nodded. "They always do."
"About sheep," Wang Hu added.
Lin Yan met his gaze. "Let them."
Wang Hu studied him for a long moment.
"If you need help," he said slowly, "I know a man who—"
"No," Lin Yan interrupted gently. "Thank you."
Wang Hu left, worry etched deep between his brows.
That night, the lamb convulsed.
Just once.
But it was enough.
Lin Yan stayed awake the entire night, hand resting on its flank, counting breaths. When the lamb shuddered, he adjusted the straw. When it stilled, he waited.
Memories surfaced unbidden.
A hospital corridor.
Machines beeping steadily.
A nurse checking vitals without meeting his eyes.
He had been alone then too.
"I won't leave you," Lin Yan whispered.
Whether to the lamb—or to himself—he didn't know.
Just before dawn, the fever broke.
Not dramatically.
Not cleanly.
The lamb's breathing steadied. Its body cooled slightly beneath his hand. When Lin Yan offered water, it swallowed weakly.
He didn't smile.
Not yet.
Recovery was fragile.
By morning, Lin Yan looked like a ghost—eyes sunken, shoulders stiff.
His mother pressed a bowl of porridge into his hands.
"You eat," she said firmly.
He obeyed.
Outside, Lin Erniu paced.
"If it lives," he said, "I'll never complain again."
Lin Yan almost laughed.
Almost.
News still found its way in.
A neighbor's child fell ill, and the village vet was seen passing by.
Lin Yan stayed inside.
He did not want eyes near the shed.
The lamb stood briefly by noon, legs trembling like reeds in wind.
Lin Yan supported it gently.
"That's enough," he murmured. "Rest."
The system panel updated.
[Condition: Stabilizing]
[Mortality Risk: Reduced]
Only reduced.
Not gone.
That night, Zhao Mingyuan received a note from the clerk.
Unusual activity near Lin residence. Possible livestock concealment.
Zhao Mingyuan stared at the paper for a long time.
Then he burned it.
Not now, he thought.
Some battles were not worth fighting.
Three days passed.
The lamb survived.
Thin. Weak. Alive.
Lin Yan adjusted everything.
Grazing schedules shortened.
Rain days canceled.
Shelter reinforced.
He learned.
The system noted it quietly.
[Host Experience Increased]
[Animal Care Efficiency: +5%]
Lin Yan didn't care about numbers.
He cared about the lamb's steady chewing.
About his mother's relieved sighs.
About Lin Erniu's silent respect.
But survival came with a cost.
Rumors hardened.
"He's hiding animals."
"He nearly lost one."
"Why risk it?"
Suspicion grew roots.
One afternoon, a neighbor—Liu San—stopped Lin Yan openly.
"You should be careful," Liu San said, not unkindly. "People don't like secrets."
Lin Yan bowed. "Neither do I."
"Then why keep them?"
Lin Yan looked him in the eye.
"Because some things die if they're exposed too early."
Liu San said nothing.
But he remembered that answer.
That night, Lin Yan stood at the threshold of the shed.
The lamb slept peacefully.
The other two pressed close.
The hills waited.
So did the village.
Lin Yan understood something then.
Growth was not just about expansion.
It was about endurance under pressure.
And pressure had finally arrived.