The hills changed a man's sense of distance.
What looked close from the village took half a morning to reach. Paths forked and vanished. Wind carried sound away instead of toward it. Up there, a person learned quickly whether they could rely on strength alone—or whether they needed others.
Lin Yan felt it in his legs before he admitted it in his mind.
The sheep had settled into upland grazing better than expected. The grass was rough, but plentiful. The air was cooler, the ground drier. Fewer insects. Fewer eyes.
But distance was distance.
Walking up and down every day, carrying water, checking fences, watching for wolves that hadn't yet returned but eventually would—it was too much for one household to shoulder forever.
On the fourth morning in a row, Lin Yan returned home after dusk, shoulders aching, soles numb, and found his mother waiting with a bowl of hot water.
"You can't keep this pace," she said quietly.
Lin Yan lowered himself onto the threshold and nodded.
"I know," he replied.
That was the first time he said it out loud.
The next day, he went looking—not for labor, but for a person.
He didn't go to the strongest men.
He didn't go to the hungriest.
He went to the ones no one else was using.
At the edge of the village, near a half-collapsed shed, lived a man called Chen Kui.
Most people called him Kui the Lame.
His right leg dragged slightly when he walked—not enough to keep him from working, but enough to make others hesitate. He had once hauled goods for a merchant caravan until a cart wheel snapped on a mountain road and crushed his leg. The merchant paid compensation once.
Then never came back.
Since then, Chen Kui did odd jobs. Fence repairs. Night watches. Hill foraging.
Nothing steady.
Lin Yan found him mending a cracked basket with slow, precise fingers.
"You still take work in the hills?" Lin Yan asked.
Chen Kui didn't look up. "Depends who's asking."
"I have sheep up there," Lin Yan said.
That earned him a glance.
"So you're the one," Chen Kui said.
"Yes."
"And you're not hiding them anymore."
"No."
Chen Kui tested the basket rim, satisfied, then set it aside.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"To hire you," Lin Yan replied.
Chen Kui laughed once, dry and short. "You don't look rich."
"I'm not," Lin Yan said. "That's why I'm careful."
Chen Kui studied him more closely now—not his clothes, but his posture, his eyes.
"For what work?" he asked.
"Watching," Lin Yan said. "Walking. Thinking."
Chen Kui raised an eyebrow. "You paying me to think?"
"I'm paying you not to run," Lin Yan replied.
That made Chen Kui pause.
"How much?" he asked.
"Five copper a month," Lin Yan said. "Food included. Wool bonus later."
Chen Kui snorted. "That's low."
"Yes," Lin Yan agreed. "And honest."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Chen Kui nodded.
"I'll try it," he said. "One month."
"One month," Lin Yan agreed.
They shook hands.
No witnesses.
No announcement.
But something shifted.
The first week was quiet.
Chen Kui moved slowly but steadily, learning the paths Lin Yan used, noticing things Lin Yan had missed. Where the ground dipped. Where water pooled after rain. Where stones shifted underfoot.
He asked few questions.
But when he did, they mattered.
"Why tie the sheep here at night instead of lower?" he asked once.
"Wind keeps insects away," Lin Yan replied.
"And sound," Chen Kui added. "Predators hear less clearly."
Lin Yan smiled. "Exactly."
They worked well together.
Lin Erniu noticed too.
"He sees things," Erniu said one evening. "Before they happen."
"That's experience," Lin Yan replied. "Bought dearly."
The village noticed the change.
Not the sheep.
The pattern.
Lin Yan was no longer seen walking alone at dawn. Sometimes it was Chen Kui. Sometimes both. Sometimes neither.
Uncertainty returned.
But softer this time.
Wang Hu approached Lin Yan one afternoon.
"You hired help," he said.
"Yes."
"Careful," Wang Hu warned. "People don't like organization."
Lin Yan nodded. "That's why I'm keeping it small."
Wang Hu studied him. "You're not stopping, are you?"
"No," Lin Yan said simply.
Wang Hu sighed. "Just don't outrun us."
"I won't," Lin Yan replied. "I'm building uphill, not ahead."
The first real return came quietly.
Not from meat.
Not from lambs.
From wool.
Chen Kui suggested shearing a second time—not full, just enough to reduce heat and collect usable fiber. Lin Yan hesitated, then agreed.
They worked carefully.
The fleece was rough, but clean.
Enough for trade.
Lin Yan wrapped it and took it himself to the edge of the market town—not the main stalls, but the workshops.
A woman who spun thread weighed it in her hands.
"Coarse," she said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
"But strong," she added. "I'll take it."
She paid him twelve copper.
Not much.
But when Lin Yan returned home and counted the coins on the table, the room felt different.
This wasn't charity.
This wasn't risk.
This was output.
His father stared at the coins for a long time.
"This is from sheep?" Lin Shouzheng asked.
"Yes."
"No trouble?"
"No."
Lin Shouzheng nodded slowly.
"Then keep going," he said.
That was approval.
That night, Lin Yan shared a small portion of mutton with Chen Kui.
"Payment," Lin Yan said.
Chen Kui shook his head. "Not yet. Earned trust first."
Lin Yan looked at him. "That takes longer."
Chen Kui smiled faintly. "Exactly."
They sat in silence, watching the fire die down.
Above them, the hills loomed dark and steady.
Below them, the village lights flickered.
Lin Yan understood something then.
A single person could survive quietly.
But to endure, he needed others who walked uphill willingly.
Chen Kui was the first.
Not the strongest.
Not the loudest.
But the one who stayed.
And that made all the difference.