People never came all at once.
They came one by one, with excuses first and needs second.
The first was Old Sun, who owned three sheep and one goat and pretended they were eight when pride required it. He arrived at the foot of the hill just after dawn, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes avoiding the dogs.
Stone noticed him before Lin Yan did.
The old dog didn't bark.
He stood.
That alone stopped Old Sun ten steps short of the fence.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," Old Sun called out, voice thin. "Just… to talk."
Lin Yan came down the slope slowly.
"Talk," he said.
Old Sun glanced up at the hills, then back at Lin Yan. "Your dogs," he said. "They hear things."
"They do," Lin Yan replied.
"And your men—" Old Sun corrected himself quickly. "Your helper. He walks nights."
"Yes."
Old Sun swallowed. "Mine don't."
Lin Yan waited.
"I lost a lamb two nights ago," Old Sun said. "No sound. Just… gone."
Silence stretched.
"You want to move them here," Lin Yan said.
Old Sun nodded, relief flashing across his face now that the words were out.
"For a while," he added quickly. "Just until the trouble passes."
Lin Yan did not answer immediately.
He looked at the hill. At the pens. At the dogs. At the paths Chen Kui had marked.
"How many?" he asked.
"Three sheep. One goat," Old Sun said. "I'll feed them myself."
"And pay," Lin Yan added.
Old Sun hesitated. "I don't have much."
"I don't take much," Lin Yan replied. "But I don't take nothing."
Old Sun nodded quickly. "Of course."
They shook hands.
No witnesses.
No announcement.
But that night, Stone repositioned himself slightly farther downslope.
Ash adjusted too.
The second came two days later.
Then another.
By the end of the week, Lin Yan had turned away more people than he accepted.
Not because he wanted exclusivity.
Because he wanted control.
He accepted only animals he could see himself managing. Only owners willing to follow rules. Only people who understood that protection was not magic—it was discipline.
Chen Kui watched it happen with quiet interest.
"You're choosing," he said one evening.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
"Carefully."
"I have to," Lin Yan said. "If I don't, they'll choose for me."
Rules were spoken, not written.
Feed schedules.
No night wandering.
No surprise visitors.
No exceptions "just this once."
In exchange, Lin Yan offered three things:
Dogs.
Presence.
Responsibility.
The village noticed the pattern.
The hills grew quieter.
Not empty.
Organized.
The pressure arrived in a different form.
A man named Liu Ban, cousin to the village head through marriage, came with a smile too wide and hands too clean.
"I hear you're offering protection," he said.
"I'm offering space," Lin Yan replied.
"For a price."
"For work," Lin Yan corrected.
Liu Ban laughed. "You're sharp."
"I'm tired," Lin Yan replied.
That wiped the smile away.
"I have twelve sheep," Liu Ban said. "And connections."
Lin Yan met his gaze evenly. "I don't need connections. I need compliance."
Silence.
"You'll regret turning me away," Liu Ban said.
"Possibly," Lin Yan agreed. "But not tonight."
Liu Ban left angry.
Stone barked once as he went.
That mattered.
The system panel updated quietly that night.
[External Livestock Integrated: Sheep x8 | Goat x1]
[Operational Load: Increased]
[Risk Level: Moderate]
Lin Yan closed it.
He already felt the weight.
It wasn't all tension.
There were evenings—rare but precious—when the work slowed enough for warmth to settle in.
One such evening, Lin Yan roasted mutton near the upland pen. Not much. Just enough. Chen Kui cut thin slices, careful not to waste fat.
Ash lay nearby, chewing on a bone with grave focus.
Stone watched the dark.
Old Sun approached hesitantly with a small jug of millet wine.
"I thought… maybe," he said.
Lin Yan accepted it.
They drank quietly.
"This place feels safer," Old Sun said finally.
"It should," Lin Yan replied. "You're part of it now."
Old Sun nodded, eyes shining faintly.
The trouble came anyway.
It always did.
Not with noise.
With testing.
One night, Ash barked twice—sharp, quick.
Stone moved forward without sound.
Lin Yan grabbed his torch and knife.
Chen Kui was already moving.
They found footprints near the eastern ridge. Not heavy. Careful. Someone checking distances.
"They're measuring," Chen Kui said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "Not attacking."
"Yet."
Lin Yan nodded. "Good. That means we're worth measuring."
They erased the tracks carefully.
No chase.
No blood.
Just message.
The next morning, Zhao Mingyuan visited again.
"You're busy," he observed, counting sheep with his eyes.
"Yes."
"You charging them?"
"Yes."
Zhao Mingyuan snorted. "You've become a gate."
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "Gates can be closed."
"They can also be forced," Zhao Mingyuan warned.
"Then they break," Lin Yan replied. "And everyone notices."
Zhao Mingyuan studied him for a long moment.
"You're building something inconvenient," he said.
"That's usually what lasts," Lin Yan replied.
By the end of the month, Lin Yan sat with his father at the low table, counting coins.
Not many.
But steady.
"This is different," Lin Shouzheng said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
"It's not farming anymore."
"No," Lin Yan agreed. "It's stewardship."
His father nodded slowly.
"That's heavier."
"Yes."
"But it feeds more mouths," Lin Shouzheng added.
Lin Yan smiled.
That night, as the wind moved through the hills and the sheep slept in tight clusters, Lin Yan stood beside the fence.
People trusted him now.
Not because he promised.
But because he stayed.
He thought of the future—not in leaps, but in layers.
Shelters.
Breeding lines.
Dogs born to the hills.
Men trained to walk without noise.
This wasn't ambition.
It was accumulation.
And somewhere beyond the hills, forces were beginning to notice the shape of something forming.
Lin Yan rested a hand on the fence.
"Slow," he murmured. "We go slow."
The hills listened.
And did not disagree.