The first rumor did not start with words.
It started with absence.
Old Sun, who cut firewood on the western slope every five days without fail, noticed it first. One morning, when he climbed his usual path, he found the grass shorter than before—cropped unevenly, not trampled, not cut.
Eaten.
He frowned, squatting down and brushing his fingers across the ground. Goat marks, maybe. Or sheep.
But whose?
No one in the village owned sheep anymore. Too much trouble. Too slow to profit. Too easy to tax once the flock grew.
Old Sun spat into the dirt and muttered to himself.
Strange.
He didn't mention it that day.
But he noticed again the next time.
And the time after that.
By the fourth visit, the grass pattern had shifted again—same area, different slope.
Something was grazing up there.
Something careful.
Lin Erniu did not hear the rumor.
He felt it.
It was the way people looked at him when he passed with a shoulder pole. A second longer than necessary. A pause before greeting. A faint narrowing of the eyes.
Not hostility.
Curiosity.
That was worse.
He returned home that evening more restless than usual.
"You think someone noticed?" he asked quietly while repairing a basket.
Lin Yan didn't look up from sorting dried beans.
"Yes."
Erniu stiffened. "Then why keep going?"
"Because noticing isn't knowing," Lin Yan replied. "And knowing isn't proof."
Erniu exhaled. "You're too calm."
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "That's because panic is loud."
The lambs bleated softly from behind the house, their voices barely audible beyond the mud wall.
That sound—small and alive—settled Erniu's heart more than any reassurance.
The village head heard about it next.
Not directly.
His wife mentioned it while kneading dough.
"Someone's grazing animals in the hills," she said casually. "Old Sun says it's sheep."
Zhao Mingyuan didn't respond at first.
She continued, "People are guessing who it is."
"Guessing?" he repeated.
"Yes. Some say outsiders. Some say someone's hiding them."
Zhao Mingyuan washed his hands slowly.
"Let them guess," he said.
But that night, he added another note.
Unregistered grazing. Low impact. Monitor only.
He paused, brush hovering.
Then wrote a second line.
If Lin family involved, still premature.
He leaned back.
Not yet.
The clerk returned three days later.
This time, he didn't come straight to the Lin house.
He wandered.
He stopped at the well, pretending to rest. He asked a farmer about yield estimates. He watched children play.
And he listened.
"The hills?" a woman said. "I heard something too."
"Sheep, they say."
"Who would keep sheep these days?"
"Foolish, if you ask me."
The clerk smiled faintly.
Foolish people made mistakes.
Mistakes filled ledgers.
By the time he reached the Lin house, the sun was already dipping.
Lin Yan greeted him politely.
"You again," the clerk said. "Busy household."
"We eat every day," Lin Yan replied.
The clerk's eyes flicked toward the back wall.
"What's back there?"
"A shed," Lin Yan said. "Old wood."
The clerk nodded. "You're not grazing animals in the hills, are you?"
Lin Yan met his gaze evenly.
"No."
The clerk watched his face carefully.
There was no hesitation. No tightening. No fear.
Just truth.
Because at that exact moment, there were no animals in the hills.
They were still behind the house.
Timing mattered.
The clerk grunted. "See that it stays so."
When he left, Lin Yan's mother sat down heavily.
"I don't like this," she whispered.
Lin Yan knelt in front of her.
"I know," he said. "But it won't always feel like this."
"When?"
"When it stops being dangerous," he replied.
She looked at him—really looked—and nodded.
That night, rain fell lightly.
The hills darkened, mist clinging low.
Lin Yan waited.
Only when the village was asleep did he move.
He led the sheep out one by one, slow and calm, feet careful on wet earth. Lin Erniu followed, heart pounding, every sound magnified.
They reached the slope.
The grass shimmered faintly with dew.
The sheep grazed quietly, heads down, unaware of risk or rules.
Lin Yan stood watch.
This was not rebellion.
This was survival practiced carefully.
When they returned before dawn, Erniu's hands were shaking—not from fear, but exhilaration.
"I get it now," he said softly.
"Get what?" Lin Yan asked.
"Why you don't rush," Erniu replied. "Why you don't brag."
Lin Yan smiled. "Because this only works if we outlast attention."
From another angle, Wang Hu watched.
He had followed once—curiosity winning over caution.
He saw the sheep.
Three of them.
Small.
Pathetic, really.
And yet…
He turned back without a word.
The next day, when someone joked loudly at the well about "mystery sheep," Wang Hu cut in sharply.
"Even if there are sheep," he said, "so what? Hills don't belong to anyone."
The laughter faded.
That mattered more than anyone realized.
The system panel updated quietly.
[Village Awareness: Rising]
[Recommended Action: Stabilize Perception]
Lin Yan closed it.
Stabilize meant one thing.
Normalcy.
So the next few days, he did nothing unusual.
No hill trips.
No extra trades.
No visible progress.
He repaired fences.
Helped his father with tools.
Let the sheep rest behind the house.
Some villagers relaxed.
Some grew impatient.
Rumors need fuel.
He denied them oxygen.
Perspective shifted.
In the neighboring house, a woman counted her grain jars and frowned.
"The Lin family eats better now," she murmured.
Her husband shrugged. "They grow vegetables."
"Vegetables don't fill bowls like that."
Suspicion, thin and sour, crept in.
But suspicion alone was not enough.
Not yet.
Lin Yan noticed his mother humming again.
Softly.
An old tune.
She hadn't done that in years.
That night, they shared a small piece of mutton—barely enough to flavor the soup.
No one spoke while eating.
The taste lingered.
Warm.
Real.
For the first time since his arrival in this world, Lin Yan felt something loosen inside his chest.
Not triumph.
Belonging.
In the hills, grass regrew.
In the village, eyes watched.
In the ledgers, nothing changed.
And that was exactly how Lin Yan wanted it.
Because real foundations were laid quietly.
And when they finally showed above ground—
They were hard to tear out.