Old Zhang's house stood at the eastern edge of Dust Creek Village, slightly apart from the others as if holding itself aloof from the collective poverty. It wasn't larger or finer—the same mud-brick walls, the same thatched roof—but it was neater. The fence was intact. The small vegetable plot by the door showed signs of careful tending, even in winter.
Lin Yan followed his father through the gate, the stone from the wasteland a familiar weight in his pocket. The old farmer was in his yard, mending a wicker basket with strips of bamboo. He didn't look up as they approached, his fingers moving with the slow certainty of a man who had repaired everything he owned a hundred times over.
"Zhang Shun," Lin Tieshan said, stopping a respectful distance away.
The old man finished tying off a strip before setting the basket aside. "Tieshan. Third Son." His eyes flicked between them. "Come to thank me for the ginger?"
"We did that yesterday," Lin Tieshan said. "We come to talk business."
A slight lift of the eyebrows. "What business does a Lin have with a Zhang?"
"The kind that might feed both families."
Old Zhang studied them for a long moment, then gestured to two low stools by the door. "Sit. My old bones don't like standing."
They sat. The afternoon sun was weak but welcome, taking the edge off the winter chill. From inside the house came the sound of a woman humming—Old Zhang's wife, long bedridden with a wasting illness the village simply called "the slow fever."
"You saw the wasteland," Old Zhang said, not a question.
"We did," Lin Tieshan replied.
"And?"
"It's as poor as they say. But my son believes it can grow grass."
Old Zhang's gaze shifted to Lin Yan. "Belief doesn't fill a cow's belly."
"No," Lin Yan agreed. "But water does. And labor does." He leaned forward slightly. "Uncle Zhang, you have a field on the north slope. The one with the stone problem."
The old man's eyes narrowed. "What of it?"
"My father and brothers could clear those stones. In exchange for a loan."
Silence.
In the village, labor exchanges were common—a day's work for a day's work, a favor for a favor. But loans were different. Loans meant trust. Loans meant someone believed you could pay back.
"What loan?" Old Zhang asked carefully.
"Ten copper coins. For a one-year grazing permit on five mu of the wasteland."
"Ten coins." The old man snorted. "For what? To watch goats starve on bitter grass?"
"Not goats," Lin Yan said. "A calf."
Another silence, longer this time. Old Zhang picked up his basket again, his fingers tracing the broken weave. "You have a calf?"
"Not yet. But I will find one."
"And if you don't?"
"Then we've cleared your field for nothing. You lose nothing but the stones in your soil."
Old Zhang looked at Lin Tieshan. "You agree to this madness?"
Lin Tieshan's face was impassive. "My son believes it can be done. I believe in his eyes when he looks at the land. That's enough for now."
It was more endorsement than Lin Yan had expected. More than he'd hoped for.
The old farmer set the basket down again, this time with finality. "Ten coins is half my savings. My wife needs medicine sometimes. That costs coins too."
"We would pay interest," Lin Yan said quickly. "Not in coins—in labor. An extra week of work next autumn, after harvest. Or…" He hesitated, then committed. "Or a share of whatever the land produces. One-tenth of the value, for three years."
It was a steep offer. Dangerous. But it showed confidence. And in bargaining, confidence was currency.
Old Zhang studied him, and Lin Yan saw the calculations happening behind those weathered eyes. The risk. The potential. The memory of his dead ox and empty grazing land.
"The stones in my north field," Old Zhang said slowly. "They're not small. Some are knee-high. It would take four men a week to clear them properly."
"We have four men," Lin Tieshan said. "Myself, my three sons."
"Your third son just rose from a sickbed."
"I'm strong enough," Lin Yan said. "And I work smarter when I can't work harder."
A faint smile touched Old Zhang's lips. "Confident, aren't you?" He looked between them again, then nodded once, sharply. "Fine. But the terms are mine. You clear the stones—not just pick them up, but haul them to the field edge and stack them properly. You do it before spring planting season. For that, I lend you ten coins. You have until next winter to repay twelve."
Twelve coins. Twenty percent interest. Harsh, but fair for an unsecured loan between poor men.
"And," Old Zhang continued, "if by some miracle you get a calf and it lives, I get first refusal on its first offspring at a fair price. Not a gift. A fair price."
Lin Yan glanced at his father, who gave a slight nod.
"Agreed," Lin Yan said.
"Good." Old Zhang stood, his joints popping. "Wait here."
He disappeared into the house. Through the open door, Lin Yan caught a glimpse of a dark room, a pallet on the floor, the shape of a woman under blankets. The smell of illness and herbs hung in the air.
Old Zhang returned a moment later with a small cloth pouch. He untied it carefully and counted out ten worn copper coins into Lin Tieshan's outstretched palm. The coins were smooth from handling, their inscriptions faded.
"My wife's medicine money," Old Zhang said quietly. "Don't make me regret this."
"We won't," Lin Tieshan said, closing his hand around the coins.
As they turned to leave, Old Zhang spoke again. "Third Son."
Lin Yan looked back.
"The wasteland… there's a reason nothing grows there. It's not just the stones. The soil is sour. Even the weeds struggle."
"I know."
"Then what makes you think you can change it?"
Lin Yan touched the stone in his pocket. "Because I have to."
The old man held his gaze for a long moment, then waved a dismissive hand. "Go. Start with my field tomorrow. The stones won't move themselves."
They walked back through the village in silence, the coins a heavy secret in Lin Tieshan's hand. As they passed the central well, they saw a small group of villagers gathered—two women drawing water, a man repairing a cart wheel. Eyes followed them. Whispers trailed in their wake.
News had already spread. Of course it had.
When they were out of earshot, Lin Tieshan spoke quietly. "They think we're fools."
"Let them," Lin Yan said.
"Old Zhang's field… it's a week of hard labor. Maybe more. Time we don't have."
"Time we're buying," Lin Yan corrected. "With sweat instead of silver."
His father glanced at him, something unreadable in his expression. "You sound older."
"I feel older."
They reached their gate. Before they entered, Lin Tieshan stopped. "The coins. You'll go to the county office tomorrow for the permit?"
"If you'll come with me."
A nod. "Then tonight, we tell the family. All of it."
The evening meal was the last of the chicken broth, stretched thin with extra wild greens and a handful of beans. When they had finished eating, Lin Tieshan didn't move to clear his bowl. Instead, he placed the ten copper coins on the low table, one by one.
The firelight caught their worn surfaces, making them gleam like tiny, promise-filled moons.
Every eye in the room fixed on them.
"We have made a bargain with Old Zhang," Lin Tieshan said, his voice calm and measured. "In exchange for clearing the stones from his north field, he has loaned us these ten coins."
Lin Fu's eyes widened. "Ten coins? For stone clearing?"
"For a grazing permit," Lin Yan said. "For five mu of the wasteland."
The reaction was immediate.
Second Brother Lin Lu leaned forward, his practical mind already calculating. "A permit is ten coins. That leaves nothing for a calf. Or for seed. Or for anything."
"The calf comes later," Lin Yan said. "First, we make the land ready."
"With what?" Lin Fu asked, frustration edging his voice. "We clear stones for a week, we get permission to use worthless land, and then what? We look at it?"
Mother Lin, who had been silent, spoke quietly. "Let him finish."
Lin Yan took a breath. "The permit gives us legal right to use the land. To improve it. Once it's improved—even slightly—its value increases. With improved land as collateral, we can borrow more. Or find a partner. Or…"
He trailed off. The truth was, he didn't have all the answers. Not yet. The system hadn't given him a blueprint, only a direction.
"Or we waste a week of labor and end up deeper in debt," Lin Fu finished bitterly.
"Eldest Brother is right to be cautious," Lin Yan said, meeting his eyes. "It's a risk. But sitting here, waiting for the tax collector to take what little we have—that's not caution. That's surrender."
The words hung in the air. Harsh, but true.
Lin Wen, who had been watching quietly from his corner, spoke up. "In the Book of Changes, it is written: 'Progress, like a hamster, requires boldness in stillness and stillness in boldness.'" He looked at his brothers. "We have been still too long."
The unexpected support from the scholar-brother seemed to shift something in the room. Lin Hua and Lin Lan exchanged glances but said nothing. The daughters-in-law kept their eyes on their children.
It was Lin Lu who broke the stalemate. "How do we improve the land? Specifically."
Finally, a practical question.
"First, we terrace the stream bank to prevent erosion," Lin Yan said, grateful for the shift. "We use the stones we clear from Old Zhang's field—some for his stacking, some for our terracing. Then we gather wild grass seed from the south mountain slope. We mix it with legume seeds from the forest edge—plants that fix nitrogen in the soil. We sow them before the spring rains."
"That's more work," Lin Lu said. "Weeks of it."
"It is."
"And if the grass doesn't take?"
"Then we've still improved the land's structure. We've still built terraces that will hold moisture. We've still created something better than what was there."
Silence again, but this time it was thoughtful rather than resistant.
Mother Lin reached out and touched one of the coins. "Old Zhang gave these willingly?"
"With conditions," Lin Tieshan said. "Twenty percent interest. And first refusal on the calf's first offspring."
She nodded slowly. "Then we must not make a liar of his trust." She looked around the table, her gaze settling on each of her sons in turn. "We are a family. We decide together. But once decided, we work together. No half-measures. No complaining behind hands."
Her words were not a question, but they hung in the air waiting for answer.
Lin Fu was the first to speak. "I don't like it. But… I don't like starving either." He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "I'll clear stones."
Lin Lu nodded slowly. "The math is against us. But sometimes, math needs a push." He looked at Lin Yan. "I'll help. But you'd better be right about that grass."
"I will be."
The decision was made. Not with enthusiasm, but with the grim determination of people who had run out of better options.
That night, as the family prepared for sleep, Lin Yan stepped outside. The moon was higher now, bathing the village in silver light. To the west, the wasteland was a dark silhouette against the sky.
He pulled the stone from his pocket, turning it over in his hand. It was just a rock. A piece of someone else's forgotten labor.
But it was also proof. Proof that the land had been worked once. That life had been sustained there.
In his mind, the system updated:
[BARGAIN STRUCK: LABOR FOR CAPITAL EXCHANGE ESTABLISHED]
[SOCIAL CAPITAL WITH VILLAGER ZHANG SHUN: +5]
[FAMILY CONSENSUS ACHIEVED: MORALE STABILIZING]
[NEXT OBJECTIVE: OBTAIN GRAZING PERMIT FROM COUNTY OFFICE]
[TIME REMAINING FOR LIVESTOCK ACQUISITION: 27 DAYS]
[NOTES: VILLAGE GOSSIP NETWORK ACTIVATED - REPUTATION FLUX EXPECTED]
Twenty-seven days.
He had the loan. He had the family's reluctant agreement. Tomorrow, he would have the permit.
Then the real work would begin.
From inside the house, he heard Lin Wen's voice, soft but clear, reciting a passage from the classics: "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. The raising of a great herd begins with a single blade of grass."
It wasn't exactly the original text, but the sentiment was close enough.
Lin Yan smiled faintly and slipped the stone back into his pocket.
first step taken.