Lin Yan slept deeply.
It was not the heavy, dream-filled sleep he used to fall into after collapsing into bed past midnight in his previous life. This sleep was empty, almost blank, as if his exhausted body had decided to shut down everything unnecessary in order to conserve what little strength it had.
When he woke again, sunlight was filtering faintly through the oiled paper window.
His first instinct was to move.
And his body protested immediately.
A dull soreness spread through his limbs the moment he shifted, as if every muscle had been stretched thin and left to dry. His arms felt weak, his legs unsteady, and when he tried to sit up too quickly, a wave of dizziness washed over him.
Lin Yan stopped at once and lay still.
Too fast, he reminded himself calmly.
In his previous life, he had learned the hard way that pushing through exhaustion only led to collapse. This body was far worse off than his old one ever had been.
He waited until the dizziness faded before slowly propping himself up with one arm.
Outside, the house was already awake.
He could hear the muted clatter of pottery, the low crackle of a fire being coaxed to life, and the soft murmur of voices speaking in hushed tones—careful not to disturb him.
That alone told him how serious his condition had been.
The door creaked open slightly.
His mother peeked inside, her movements cautious. When she saw him sitting up, relief flickered across her face.
"Yan'er," she said softly. "You're awake."
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. His voice was still hoarse, but stronger than yesterday.
She stepped inside, carrying a small wooden bowl. "Drink some water first."
The water was warm, faintly tasting of clay, but it soothed his throat. He drank slowly, carefully.
"Don't rush," his mother reminded him, as if afraid he might vanish again if he moved too quickly.
After he finished, she hesitated, then asked, "Does it still hurt?"
"Not as much," Lin Yan said truthfully.
That, at least, was no lie.
She nodded, visibly relaxing. "Your father hasn't gone to the fields yet. He said he'd wait."
Lin Yan paused.
"In that case," he said after a moment, "I want to see the land."
His mother stiffened.
"The land?" she repeated. "Yan'er, you only just woke up. Your body—"
"I know," Lin Yan said gently. "I won't work. I just want to look."
She studied his face carefully.
Something about his expression made her hesitate. He wasn't stubborn or reckless. He looked… resolved.
After a long moment, she sighed. "I'll call your father."
Not long after, Lin Shouzheng entered the room.
He looked Lin Yan up and down with a frown. "You should be resting."
"I can rest after I see it," Lin Yan replied.
The man's brow furrowed. "See what?"
"Our land."
Silence followed.
Lin Shouzheng exchanged a glance with his wife.
"That land…" he began, then stopped. He let out a slow breath. "There's nothing to see."
"I still want to."
The words were quiet, but firm.
Lin Shouzheng studied his youngest son for a long time. Finally, he nodded.
"Fine," he said. "But we go slow."
---
They left the house together.
Lin Yan walked carefully, leaning lightly on his father's arm. Each step felt uncertain, as if the ground beneath him might give way at any moment. The village path was uneven, packed dirt worn smooth by years of feet and carts.
Morning had fully arrived.
Thin smoke rose from chimneys. A few villagers were already heading toward the fields, tools slung over their shoulders. When they saw Lin Yan walking outside, several slowed, surprise flickering across their faces.
"Isn't that the Lin family's youngest?"
"I heard he collapsed."
"He's walking already?"
Lin Yan ignored the whispers.
His attention was fixed on his surroundings.
The village was poor.
Not catastrophically ruined, but steadily declining. Fields near the settlement were patchy, crops thin and uneven. Weeds grew where grain should have been. Even the trees along the road looked stunted, their branches bare and brittle.
This was not a land that had been struck by a single disaster.
It was land that had been exhausted over many years.
They walked past several plots before stopping near the eastern slope.
"This is it," Lin Shouzheng said.
Lin Yan looked.
Half a mu.
It was smaller than he had imagined.
The land lay slightly lower than the surrounding fields, uneven and cracked. The soil was pale, almost gray, and hard enough that weeds struggled to take root. Even insects seemed scarce.
It looked… tired.
Lin Yan stepped forward slowly and crouched down.
He reached out and scooped up a handful of dirt.
Dry.
Powdery.
When he let it fall, it scattered instantly, refusing to clump together.
"This land's been overworked," Lin Shouzheng said quietly. "Before you were born, it could still grow millet. Then sorghum. Now… nothing."
Lin Yan nodded.
His fingers brushed the soil again.
As they did, the system panel appeared in his mind.
[Barren Land Detected]
Soil Fertility: Extremely Low
Usability: Poor
Below it, another line flickered.
[Beginner Item Available: Improved Soil (Beginner Grade)]
[Apply to selected land?]
Lin Yan's heart steadied.
"Yes," he thought.
There was no sound.
No light.
Nothing visible to the outside world.
But to Lin Yan, it felt as if something deep beneath the soil shifted—slowly, subtly, like dry earth finally absorbing moisture.
He picked up another handful.
The change was slight, but unmistakable.
The soil no longer scattered completely. It clung faintly to his fingers.
Lin Shouzheng noticed it too.
He frowned, knelt down, and tested the dirt himself.
"…That's strange," he muttered.
"What is?" Lin Yan asked.
"It's still bad soil," his father said slowly. "But it's not dead."
Lin Yan stood carefully.
"It can be used," he said.
Lin Shouzheng looked at him sharply. "Yan'er, don't lie to yourself."
"I'm not."
The older man searched his son's face, perhaps expecting to see desperation or delusion.
He saw neither.
After a long pause, Lin Shouzheng exhaled.
"If you insist," he said, "then this land is yours to manage."
Those words carried more weight than they seemed.
They returned home before noon.
Lin Yan was exhausted by the time they arrived, but it was the good kind of exhaustion—the kind that came from movement, not starvation.
After eating a small meal, Lin Yan rested.
When he woke again, the sun was already leaning westward.
His body felt weak, but not worse.
Recovery will take time, he thought.
That evening, he gathered the family.
They sat together in the main room—his parents, his elder brothers, and his youngest brother.
"I'll take responsibility for the half mu," Lin Yan said.
Lin Dahu frowned. "You?"
"Yes."
"You can barely lift a hoe."
"I don't need to," Lin Yan replied calmly. "Not yet."
Lin Erniu scratched his head. "Then what are you planning?"
"Vegetables first," Lin Yan said. "Fast-growing ones."
"And seeds?" his mother asked quietly.
"I'll find a way."
They looked at one another.
No one laughed.
No one agreed immediately either.
But no one opposed him.
That night, as Lin Yan lay on his bed, he opened the system panel again.
[Ranch Status]
Land: 0.5 mu (Recovering)
Livestock: None
Funds: 0
Below it, a new line appeared.
[Next Recommended Step: Introduce low-maintenance livestock]
Lin Yan closed the panel and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, he would begin.
Not with grand plans.
Not with miracles.
But with the smallest possible step forward.
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