By the fourth morning of rotation, the river had not fallen further.
It had also not risen.
The surface moved with deceptive calm, thin and silver beneath the early light. If someone did not know how to look, they would have said nothing was wrong.
But the upper terraces were receiving water first now, and the lower fields waited their turn.
Waiting was never neutral.
Jun stood at the edge of his plot before sunrise, staring at the rows as if they might accuse him of betrayal.
Zheng Wen Te saw him from a distance.
He did not approach immediately.
He watched.
Jun knelt, pressing his palm into the soil, then rubbing it between his fingers. The motion was almost identical to what Zheng Wen Te had done the day before.
Learning, or doubting.
Maybe both.
Min arrived a few moments later, slower this time.
"They'll get water this afternoon," Min said, not unkindly.
Jun didn't look up. "You said that yesterday."
"And they did."
"Less than before."
"It's rotation."
Jun finally stood.
"You trust him too much."
Min stiffened. "This wasn't just him."
"It wasn't just you either," Jun shot back. "But you act like it came from Heaven."
Zheng Wen Te stepped forward then.
"Nothing here came from Heaven," he said evenly.
Both men turned.
Jun's expression hardened, but not with hatred. With fear.
"My father planted these," Jun said, gesturing to the field. "I inherited the lower terrace because he said it was safer. Closer to water. Now you're telling me distance is a disadvantage."
"I'm telling you the river is lower than usual," Zheng Wen Te replied.
"And if it rises tomorrow?"
"Then we readjust."
Jun laughed once, short and brittle. "You talk like everything bends to logic."
"No," Zheng Wen Te said. "I talk like panic bends things faster."
Min glanced between them.
"We can increase your intake slightly today," Min offered. "Not full. But more."
"And take from where?" Jun demanded.
Min hesitated.
There it was again.
Redistribution was never abstract.
It had faces.
Zheng Wen Te spoke before the silence thickened further.
"If we increase here," he said calmly, "we reduce from the middle terrace. Hao's plot."
Min inhaled sharply. "He agreed to rotation."
"Yes."
"And he supported your structure."
"Yes."
Jun folded his arms. "So now you protect him?"
Zheng Wen Te met his eyes.
"No."
Jun held the gaze for a long moment.
"You don't farm," Jun said finally. "You don't watch leaves curl and count days like they're debts."
"That's true," Zheng Wen Te replied.
Jun's anger faltered slightly at the lack of defensiveness.
"So why do you decide?"
"I don't decide alone."
"But you set the direction."
The words hung there.
Min shifted uneasily.
Zheng Wen Te considered his response carefully.
"I suggested prioritizing the vulnerable first," he said. "If that causes harm elsewhere, then we confront that harm directly."
Jun's jaw tightened.
"And if confronting it doesn't fix it?"
"Then we accept that survival is imperfect."
Jun stared at him.
"That's easy for you."
"Yes," Zheng Wen Te said.
The admission was quiet.
But it struck harder than denial would have.
Jun looked away first.
Min exhaled slowly.
"I'll speak to Hao," Min said. "Maybe we can shift half a day earlier."
Jun didn't thank him.
He simply nodded once and turned back to his field.
As Min walked beside Zheng Wen Te toward the channel gate, he muttered under his breath, "You didn't have to say that."
"Say what?"
"That it's easier for you."
"It is."
Min frowned. "You could've argued."
"That would have made him angrier."
"Maybe he deserves to be angry."
"Yes."
Min glanced at him sharply. "Then why not defend yourself?"
Zheng Wen Te adjusted the wooden brace near the channel.
"Because I am not the one counting yellow leaves."
Min fell silent.
By midday, the compromise was implemented.
The lower terraces received water slightly earlier than scheduled. The middle fields adjusted accordingly.
Hao did not protest.
But when Zheng Wen Te approached him later near the elm tree, the elder's expression carried something heavier than disagreement.
"You shifted the rotation," Hao said calmly.
"Yes."
"You didn't consult me first."
"No."
Hao nodded once.
"That was unwise."
"Yes."
The elder studied him.
"You're learning quickly."
Zheng Wen Te met his gaze. "So are you."
Hao's lips twitched faintly.
"For decades," Hao said, "we argued loudly. No one listened well. Now we argue less. But the arguments feel… sharper."
"Because they have direction," Zheng Wen Te replied.
"And direction implies leadership."
Zheng Wen Te didn't respond.
Hao continued, voice low.
"You refuse the word leader. I respect that. But function matters more than title."
The breeze rustled through the elm leaves above them.
"If I leave tomorrow," Zheng Wen Te said, "will you continue rotation?"
Hao didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
"And if conflict rises again?"
"We will manage it."
Zheng Wen Te studied him carefully.
"Without me?"
Hao's gaze was steady.
"We managed before you arrived. We will manage after."
There was no resentment in the statement.
Only truth.
Yet something in Zheng Wen Te's chest tightened.
That evening, clouds gathered along the horizon.
Not storm-dark.
But thick enough to dim the sunset.
Children played less loudly.
Adults watched the sky more than usual.
Lian approached him near the channel gate.
"You look tired," she observed.
"I am not."
"You are."
He almost smiled.
"You're arguing with farmers about water," she said. "That's exhausting."
"It's necessary."
"Is it?"
He turned to her.
"Yes."
She held his gaze.
"Even if it costs you?"
"It's not about cost."
"Everything is about cost," she said softly.
Thunder murmured faintly in the distance.
Not near enough to promise rain.
Just enough to tease hope.
Jun approached again as twilight deepened.
His expression was less sharp than before.
"My leaves aren't curling further," he said.
"That's good."
"They're not improving either."
"That takes time."
Jun hesitated.
"I spoke harshly."
Zheng Wen Te inclined his head slightly. "You were afraid."
Jun exhaled slowly.
"If the river drops more…"
"We reassess."
Jun studied him carefully.
"You don't look certain."
"I am not."
Jun nodded once.
"That's… strange."
"What is?"
"You don't pretend."
Zheng Wen Te didn't answer.
Jun shifted his weight.
"If this fails, people will blame you."
"I know."
"And if it succeeds, they'll credit you."
"Yes."
Jun's mouth curved faintly.
"That's unfair."
"Yes."
Jun let out a quiet breath that almost resembled a laugh.
"Maybe that's why you look tired."
He walked away before Zheng Wen Te could reply.
Night fell.
No rain came.
The clouds thinned and drifted eastward, leaving the sky clear and indifferent.
By morning, the river had dropped another fraction.
Barely noticeable.
But enough.
Min arrived running.
"It's lower," he said breathlessly. "Not much. But enough that upper intake will struggle even with rotation."
Hao followed close behind.
"We can't sustain full cycle now," the elder said. "We must reduce somewhere."
Silence stretched between the three men.
Reduction meant sacrifice.
Not adjustment.
Not compromise.
Loss.
Jun stood a short distance away, watching.
So did others.
Waiting.
Not shouting.
Not yet.
Just waiting.
Zheng Wen Te looked at the channel gate.
Looked at the terraces beyond.
Looked at the river.
If they protected upper fields again, lower would strain further.
If they shifted downward, upper seedlings might not survive full stress.
There was no configuration without damage.
Lian stepped forward quietly.
"What do we do?" she asked.
Not as accusation.
As question.
The air felt thinner.
Zheng Wen Te closed his eyes briefly.
He remembered standing in a plaza while Heaven asked him what he sought.
Nothing.
He had meant it.
But nothing did not mean inaction.
He opened his eyes.
"We prioritize food security," he said slowly.
Hao's brow furrowed. "Meaning?"
"The terraces that can produce harvest fastest with minimal water receive first allocation."
Min swallowed. "That's… middle fields."
"Yes."
Jun stiffened. "And lower?"
"Reduced."
"And upper?"
"Reduced further."
Silence dropped like weight.
Hao's voice was careful. "The upper terraces hold Lian's family plots."
Lian did not speak.
She only watched Zheng Wen Te.
Min's voice lowered.
"You're cutting both ends."
"Yes."
Jun's jaw tightened again.
"That protects total yield," Zheng Wen Te continued. "But it sacrifices margin."
Hao exhaled slowly.
"And if rain comes?"
"Then we restore balance."
Jun stared at him.
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then we endure smaller harvest together."
The word together landed differently this time.
Not warm.
Not comforting.
Heavy.
Min looked around at the gathering villagers.
"They're waiting," he murmured.
Zheng Wen Te stepped forward so his voice would carry.
"The river is lower," he said calmly. "We adjust to preserve total harvest. That means some fields will receive less."
Murmurs rippled outward.
Not shouting.
Not yet.
But the beginning of something sharper than fear.
Jun stepped forward.
"You ask us to accept loss quietly?"
"I ask you to share it."
A long silence followed.
Then Hao nodded slowly.
"It is rational."
Rational.
The word echoed hollowly.
Lian finally spoke.
"If our upper terrace fails," she said steadily, "we will still eat. Because others will produce."
Jun looked at her.
"You accept that?"
She met his gaze.
"Yes."
The air shifted slightly.
Not resolution.
But alignment.
Reluctant.
Strained.
Real.
Zheng Wen Te felt it again.
That tightening.
Advice had become direction.
Direction had become redistribution.
Redistribution had become sacrifice.
And sacrifice never forgot its origin.
As the villagers dispersed to adjust gates and channels once more, Jun lingered behind.
He did not look angry now.
He looked tired.
"If this works," he said quietly, "we survive smaller."
"Yes."
"And if it fails?"
"We survive differently."
Jun studied him for a long moment.
"You really don't want to lead."
"No."
"But you do."
Zheng Wen Te didn't respond.
Jun nodded once and walked away.
Above them, the sky remained clear.
The river flowed thinner.
And somewhere deep beneath the calm structure he had helped design, Zheng Wen Te felt the first true weight of staying.
Not because people trusted him.
But because they were beginning to align around him.
And alignment, once formed, rarely dissolved without leaving a mark.