Life announced itself without ceremony.
Lin Yan was halfway through checking the western slope when Stone stopped walking.
Not stiff.
Not alarmed.
Just… attentive.
Ash circled once, then trotted downslope toward a cluster of boulders where the sheep had been resting since dawn. He did not bark. He did not growl. He sat.
Lin Yan felt it then—something different in the air. Not danger.
Urgency.
He broke into a jog, Chen Kui following with longer strides despite the drag in his leg.
They reached the hollow and saw it immediately.
One of the ewes lay on her side, breath shallow and fast. Her flanks trembled. The rest of the flock had pulled back instinctively, forming a loose ring.
"She's early," Chen Kui said.
"Not early," Lin Yan replied, kneeling beside her. "Just… weak."
The ewe's eyes rolled toward him, clouded with fear and pain.
Lin Yan exhaled slowly.
This was it.
Not profit.
Not planning.
Not systems or fences or dogs.
This was the moment everything rested on.
He washed his hands with the water Chen Kui poured, then checked carefully, just as the system knowledge guided—not as commands, but as remembered practice.
"She's dry," Chen Kui said. "Too little feed last winter."
"I know," Lin Yan replied.
The ewe cried out softly.
Lin Yan adjusted her position, speaking in a low, steady voice. Not words meant to be understood—tone meant to be trusted.
"Easy," he murmured. "You're doing fine."
Ash watched from less than a step away, head tilted, ears forward.
Stone lay down behind the flock, blocking the wind.
Minutes stretched.
Then longer.
The ewe strained again, harder this time, and Lin Yan felt movement beneath his hands.
"There," he said. "That's good."
The lamb came slowly.
Too slowly.
Lin Yan adjusted, careful not to panic, guiding with gentleness learned not from instinct, but from deliberate patience.
When the lamb finally slipped free, it did not cry.
It lay still, slick with birth, chest barely moving.
Chen Kui's jaw tightened.
Lin Yan did not hesitate.
He cleared the mouth. Stimulated breathing. Rubbed warmth into the small body with practiced urgency.
"Come on," he muttered.
Ash whined once, softly.
Then—
A weak, wet sound.
The lamb coughed.
Then bleated.
Not loudly.
But enough.
Lin Yan laughed—once, sharp and surprised—and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
The ewe stirred, reaching toward the sound.
Life continued.
They stayed until the lamb stood.
Until it found milk.
Until the ewe relaxed enough to breathe normally.
Only then did Lin Yan sit back on his heels, hands trembling faintly now that the urgency had passed.
"One," Chen Kui said quietly.
Lin Yan nodded.
"One," he repeated.
The system panel flickered into view.
[New Livestock Born: Sheep x1]
[Condition: Weak but Stable]
[Bond Formation: Positive]
Lin Yan closed it without reading further.
He didn't need numbers right now.
He needed memory.
Word traveled faster than sheep.
By afternoon, two boys from the lower fields had climbed halfway up the slope just to stare. By dusk, Wang Hu sent his eldest son with a bundle of dried millet and an excuse about "extra grain."
Lin Yan accepted the millet.
He did not explain.
He did not boast.
But the village felt it.
Something had been born that would not be undone.
Three days later, officials arrived.
Not with banners.
With dust.
Two mounted patrolmen, leather worn smooth by years of use, accompanied by a clerk with ink-stained fingers and tired eyes. They stopped at the foot of the hill and waited.
Stone barked once.
Lin Yan came down to meet them.
"I'm Lin Yan," he said.
"I know," the clerk replied, glancing at his records. "You're the sheep."
"That's accurate," Lin Yan said.
The patrolman snorted.
The clerk did not smile.
"You've expanded grazing beyond village allotment," he said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
"Without permit."
"Yes."
Silence.
The patrolman shifted, hand resting loosely near his spear.
The clerk studied Lin Yan carefully.
"Any trouble?" he asked.
"No," Lin Yan replied. "And none to report."
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "That's unusual."
"I'm careful," Lin Yan said.
The clerk nodded slowly.
"Villagers complain less when they feel safe," he said. "You've… reduced incidents."
"That's good," Lin Yan replied.
"It is," the clerk agreed. "Which is why I'm here."
He gestured upslope.
"You'll register the herd," he said. "Pay light grazing tax. In exchange, patrols won't bother you unless you ask."
Lin Yan didn't answer immediately.
"How light?" he asked.
The clerk named a number.
It was fair.
Lin Yan nodded.
"I accept," he said.
The clerk blinked, surprised by the lack of negotiation.
"You're not worried?" he asked.
"I'd worry more without a name on record," Lin Yan replied.
The clerk smiled faintly.
"Smart," he said. "That kind of thinking doesn't stay small."
He handed over a stamped slip.
"Welcome to visibility," he added.
The patrolmen mounted up.
Dust returned.
But something else stayed behind.
That night, Lin Yan told his family.
His mother listened quietly, hands folded.
His father nodded once.
"This is how it starts," Lin Shouzheng said. "Not loud. Just… written."
Lin Erniu grinned. "Does that mean we're important now?"
"No," Lin Yan replied. "It means we're responsible."
That sobered him.
The lamb survived the week.
Then another ewe showed signs.
Then another.
Lin Yan adjusted feed carefully, redistributing grain, supplementing with wild forage Chen Kui gathered.
No miracles.
Just margins.
Ash learned to circle the lambs gently, pushing curious sheep back when they stepped too close. Stone positioned himself between the flock and the slope at night, a silent boundary.
One evening, as the sun bled red across the hills, Chen Kui spoke.
"You know what this means," he said.
Lin Yan nodded. "Yes."
"People will ask," Chen Kui continued. "Not about sheep."
"About protection," Lin Yan said.
"And breeding," Chen Kui added.
"And land," Lin Yan finished.
Chen Kui smiled grimly. "You're becoming useful."
Lin Yan returned the smile.
"That's the plan."
Later that night, alone near the pen, Lin Yan watched the lamb sleep, tucked close to its mother.
He thought of his old life—of deadlines, of exhaustion, of dying unseen at a desk.
Here, life announced itself with blood and breath and sound.
Here, survival was not abstract.
He touched the fence lightly.
"This is just the beginning," he murmured.
The hills did not answer.
But they remembered.
And somewhere beyond them, the world had begun to notice a man who built slowly—and did not break.