Snow fell for three days straight.
Not the gentle, decorative kind that made the world look clean and kind, but the heavy, grinding snow that pressed down on roofs, filled hoofprints until paths disappeared, and turned every errand into a calculation.
The village slowed.
Not in panic—people here knew winter—but in focus. Doors opened less. Fires burned longer. Words were saved.
Lin Yan rose before dawn each day, not because he needed to, but because winter rewarded those who moved first.
The cattle came before breakfast.
Not literally—but in priority.
Lin Yan checked them before anything else. He brushed snow from their backs, ran his hands along their flanks, felt the steady heat beneath thick hide. He checked hooves for ice, eyes for dullness, breath for rhythm.
Gu Han stood nearby, silent as ever.
"They're holding weight," Gu Han said.
"Yes."
"They trust the shelter."
"Yes."
Lin Yan straightened, exhaling slowly.
That trust mattered more than numbers.
Inside the house, warmth waited.
Not abundance—never that—but comfort shaped by habit.
His mother stirred porridge thicker than before. Still humble, still simple, but no longer desperate. Grain had been measured properly this year. There would be no hollow days.
His father repaired a tool handle near the fire, movements slow and precise.
The younger siblings ate quietly, cheeks fuller than last winter, eyes brighter.
Lin Yan watched them for a moment longer than necessary.
This—this—was why he didn't rush.
Zhang Qu made his last move that morning.
It came not with men, but with paper.
A formal complaint.
Submitted through proper channels.
It accused Lin Yan of disrupting market balance, hoarding breeding stock, and creating unfair price resistance.
The wording was elegant.
Dangerously so.
Qiu Ren sent for Lin Yan immediately.
The county office was colder than the pasture.
Stone floors held winter like a memory. Breath showed faintly in the air. Qiu Ren sat wrapped in layers, expression unreadable as he slid the document across the table.
Lin Yan read it slowly.
Once.
Twice.
Then he set it down.
"This is thorough," Lin Yan said.
"Yes," Qiu Ren replied. "That's what worries me."
Lin Yan looked up.
"You know who filed it."
"Yes."
"And you know why."
"Yes."
Qiu Ren studied him for a long moment.
"You could sell," he said. "End this."
"Yes."
"But you won't."
"No."
Qiu Ren leaned back, sighing.
"Then I need something from you."
Lin Yan waited.
"Transparency," Qiu Ren said. "Not performance. Proof."
Lin Yan nodded. "You'll have it."
What followed was not a battle.
It was an accounting.
Livestock numbers.
Feed ratios.
Grass rotation records.
Purchase logs.
Labor payments.
Gu Han brought everything.
Clean.
Ordered.
Boring.
The kind of boring that ended accusations.
By dusk, Qiu Ren closed the last ledger.
"There is no violation," he said.
"And the complaint?"
"I will reject it."
Lin Yan inclined his head. "Thank you."
Qiu Ren studied him carefully.
"You're changing how people farm," he said.
"I'm changing how people plan," Lin Yan replied.
Qiu Ren smiled faintly. "That's worse."
Zhang Qu received the rejection at sunset.
He read it once.
Then sat very still.
No anger.
No shouting.
Just the quiet understanding that the ground had shifted—and not under Lin Yan's feet.
Under his.
He folded the paper carefully and put it away.
This fight was over.
Winter deepened.
Snow piled high enough that children carved paths between houses like tunnels. Sheep stayed closer to shelter. The oxen moved little, conserving energy, chewing slowly.
Lin Yan adjusted rations by handfuls, not sacks.
Every decision had weight now.
Gu Han proved invaluable.
He organized night watches without making them feel like guards. He coordinated feed delivery so no one traveled alone. He quietly resolved two disputes before Lin Yan even heard of them.
"You don't sleep," Lin Yan said one night.
Gu Han shrugged. "I sleep when things are stable."
"And now?"
Gu Han looked toward the pasture, eyes reflecting firelight.
"Now I sleep."
One evening, Lin Yan did something rare.
He sat.
Not to plan.
Not to calculate.
Just to sit.
His mother handed him a bowl—thicker porridge, with bits of dried meat stirred in.
"Eat," she said. "You're thinner than the cattle."
Lin Yan smiled faintly and obeyed.
His father cleared his throat.
"When spring comes," he said, "you'll buy more cattle."
"Yes."
"And horses."
"Eventually."
His father nodded. "Good. I'd like to see that."
Lin Yan looked up, surprised.
His father met his gaze steadily.
"Not for money," the older man said. "For the road. For the way men move."
That mattered.
Snow fell again that night.
Soft this time.
Kind.
Lin Yan stood outside with Gu Han, breath fogging the air.
"The pressure's gone," Gu Han said.
"For now."
"No," Gu Han replied. "For good. He won't try again."
"Why?"
"Because you didn't beat him," Gu Han said. "You outlasted him."
Lin Yan nodded slowly.
The pasture lay quiet.
Fences held.
Animals slept.
People slept.
Winter had tested them—and found nothing loose.
Later, alone, Lin Yan opened the system panel.
Not to claim rewards.
Just to look.
[Current Status: Stable Growth Phase]
[New Branch Available: Large Livestock Development (Locked)]
[Condition: Grass Yield +30% (Regional)]
He closed it.
Spring would come.
Cattle would follow.
Horses after that.
But tonight, there was nothing to build.
Nothing to fight.
Only snow falling gently on land that had learned how to carry weight without breaking.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Lin Yan allowed himself a single, quiet thought—
We made it through winter.
Not rich.
Not powerful.
But whole.
And that was enough to build everything else.