The first horse arrived by accident.
Or rather, by consequence.
Lin Yan was reviewing feed records in the shade of the tool shed when Gu Han approached, steps measured, expression unreadable in that way that usually meant this isn't urgent, but it matters.
"There's a man at the eastern road," Gu Han said. "Leading a horse."
Lin Yan looked up. "Selling?"
"Not exactly."
That was enough to make Lin Yan stand.
The horse was thin.
Not starving—just worked. Its coat was dull from travel dust, ribs faintly visible beneath hide stretched too tight by distance and poor fodder. It stood patiently, head lowered, reins slack, as if conserving energy.
The man holding it looked worse.
Mid-thirties, sunburned, eyes rimmed red from wind and lack of sleep. His clothes were patched so many times the original fabric barely showed through.
"I heard you buy animals you don't need yet," the man said without preamble.
Lin Yan studied the horse.
It was a mare. Leg lines clean. Hooves chipped but not cracked. Eyes alert.
Not a plow horse.
Not a war horse.
A travel horse.
"What happened?" Lin Yan asked.
The man hesitated, then exhaled.
"I'm a courier," he said. "Was."
Lin Yan waited.
"My route was cut," the man continued. "Merchant collapsed. No pay. No return road. I can't feed her anymore."
He tightened his grip on the reins unconsciously.
"I won't sell her cheap," he added quickly. "But I won't lie either. She's tired."
Lin Yan crouched, ran his hand along the mare's neck. She flinched slightly, then relaxed when his touch stayed steady.
"How much?" Lin Yan asked.
The man named a price.
It was fair.
Too fair.
Lin Yan nodded.
"I'll buy her," he said. "And I'll feed you today."
The man's shoulders sagged—not in relief, but release.
The horse changed the pasture's mood immediately.
Sheep kept their distance. Cattle watched with quiet suspicion. The oxen ignored her completely.
The mare lifted her head, nostrils flaring, reading the land.
Gu Han observed closely.
"She's calm," he said.
"She's careful," Lin Yan corrected.
That was better.
The courier—former courier—was named Shen Mu.
He ate slowly, as if afraid the food would vanish if rushed.
"I'm not asking for work," Shen Mu said between mouthfuls. "Just… time."
Lin Yan nodded. "Time costs less than coin."
Shen Mu looked up, surprised.
"That's not how most men think."
"That's why most men rush," Lin Yan replied.
Gu Han watched the exchange thoughtfully.
The horse forced decisions.
Not big ones.
But unavoidable ones.
Shelter had to be adjusted. Feed accounted for. Movement patterns reconsidered.
Lin Yan did not rush to ride her.
He walked her first.
Every morning.
Slow loops around the pasture, letting her learn the slopes, the sounds, the animals. Letting the land learn her weight.
His younger brother followed, fascinated.
"She's beautiful," the boy said.
"She's useful," Lin Yan replied gently. "Beauty follows."
The village noticed.
Again.
"Lin Yan has a horse now."
"Just one."
"That's how it starts."
Speculation bubbled.
Lin Yan ignored it.
He had more immediate concerns.
Responsibility deepened.
Lin Qiang struggled with sheep rotation when rain softened the ground too much. He overcorrected, moving them too fast, thinning weight gain.
Lin Yan didn't scold.
He walked the route with him instead.
"You felt rushed," Lin Yan said.
Lin Qiang nodded. "I didn't want to ruin the grass."
"You won't," Lin Yan replied. "Unless you panic."
Lin Qiang exhaled slowly.
"I don't want to fail you."
Lin Yan stopped walking.
"You can fail," he said. "Just don't hide it."
That stayed with Lin Qiang.
Milk sales stabilized.
Then plateaued.
Lin Yan refused to push further.
"No expansion until storage improves," he said.
His mother nodded approvingly.
His father said nothing—but began reinforcing the cellar shelves without being asked.
Family responsibility was becoming instinctive.
The system panel appeared one evening.
[New Asset: Riding Horse (Untrained)]
[Potential Branch: Transportation & Herding (Locked)]
[Condition: Dedicated Handler Required]
Lin Yan closed it.
He already knew.
Shen Mu stayed.
Not officially.
He helped where he could—mending harness, cleaning hooves, repairing leather. He said little, but his hands moved with practiced confidence.
Gu Han tested him quietly.
Questions.
Small tasks.
Observation.
One night, Gu Han reported, "He doesn't lie."
"That's rare," Lin Yan replied.
"He doesn't plan either."
"That can be taught."
The mare gained weight slowly.
Her coat improved.
Her steps grew lighter.
One afternoon, Lin Yan mounted her for the first time.
Not to ride far.
Just to sit.
The height changed perspective.
The pasture looked different from above—patterns clearer, movement more obvious. He could see how sheep clustered, where grass thickened, where water lingered.
This wasn't power.
It was clarity.
He dismounted carefully.
The mare snorted softly, as if amused.
That night, Lin Yan gathered his brothers.
"We're not expanding fast," he said. "But we are expanding wide."
He assigned responsibilities more clearly.
Lin Qiang—sheep and rotation.
Second brother—storage and feed.
Younger brother—record keeping and observation.
No one argued.
Structure was no longer foreign.
Spring deepened.
The land responded.
Grass grew denser. Milk improved slightly. The mare's endurance increased. Even the oxen seemed steadier.
And with growth came expectation.
Zhao Sheng sent another message—polite, restrained—asking to visit again.
Lin Yan allowed it.
But on his terms.
On the hill at dusk, Lin Yan stood beside the mare, Gu Han a step behind.
"You're becoming visible," Gu Han said.
"Yes."
"That draws opportunity."
"And danger."
Gu Han nodded. "You're ready for both."
Lin Yan watched the land.
Not proudly.
Responsibly.
A horse meant roads.
Roads meant trade.
Trade meant attention.
Attention meant pressure.
But pressure was no longer new.
It was just another weight the ground would have to learn to carry.
And this time, Lin Yan was not alone