The first hand that crossed the line did not steal.
It only lifted a corner of cloth.
Lin Yan noticed immediately.
The sack covering the inner shed entrance had been moved—not much, just enough for someone curious to peek inside. The knot was looser than he remembered tying it. The straw beneath had been disturbed.
Someone had looked.
He stood still for a long moment, listening to the morning sounds of the village. A rooster crowed. A child cried. Somewhere, a pot lid clanged.
Normal.
Too normal.
Lin Erniu came up behind him, saw his expression, and followed his gaze.
"Someone checked," Erniu muttered.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "And they wanted to see if we were hiding something worth talking about."
"Should we move them?" Erniu asked immediately. "Back to the hills?"
Lin Yan shook his head.
"No. Moving now confirms fear."
He retied the knot carefully, tighter this time.
"From today," he said quietly, "we stop pretending nothing's here."
Erniu stiffened. "You mean—"
"I mean we stop hiding," Lin Yan said, "but we don't start explaining."
That distinction mattered.
By midday, the rumor had teeth.
It traveled fast, hopping from yard to yard, changing shape with each retelling.
"Three sheep."
"No, four."
"One died."
"No, Lin Yan saved it."
"They're fattening them secretly."
"They'll bring officials down on us all."
By afternoon, Liu San showed up again—this time with two others lingering nearby.
"You've got sheep," Liu San said bluntly.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
The word landed like a stone.
No denial. No fluster.
Just truth.
One of the men sucked in a breath. "Then why didn't you tell the village?"
Lin Yan looked at him calmly. "Because the hills aren't village land."
"That's not the point," the man snapped. "If officials come—"
"They won't," Lin Yan said. "Not for three sheep."
"And if they do?" Liu San pressed.
Lin Yan's voice stayed even. "Then they come for me."
The men exchanged glances.
That wasn't the answer they wanted.
They wanted reassurance. Shared risk. Dilution of blame.
Lin Yan offered none.
Liu San sighed. "You should've spoken."
Lin Yan nodded. "You should've asked."
The men left, unsettled.
That was the moment the village divided—not loudly, not formally, but internally.
Some saw courage.
Some saw danger.
That evening, Zhao Mingyuan sent for Lin Yan.
Not through a runner.
Through his son.
"Father asks you to come by," the boy said awkwardly.
Lin Yan nodded and followed.
The village head poured tea himself.
That alone was a signal.
"You have sheep," Zhao Mingyuan said.
"Yes."
"Three."
"Yes."
"They graze the hills."
"Yes."
Zhao Mingyuan studied him for a long time.
"You understand," he said slowly, "that if this grows, it will draw attention."
"I do," Lin Yan replied.
"And yet you continue."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Lin Yan did not answer immediately.
Because this was the question beneath all others.
"Because," he said finally, "vegetables grow where eyes already look. Animals move where eyes don't bother to follow."
Zhao Mingyuan's lips twitched.
"That's a dangerous way to think."
"It's a careful one," Lin Yan replied.
Silence stretched.
At last, Zhao Mingyuan leaned back.
"I won't stop you," he said. "For now."
Lin Yan bowed deeply.
"But," Zhao Mingyuan continued, "if trouble comes, you stand alone."
Lin Yan straightened. "That's all I ask."
As he left, Zhao Mingyuan watched him go, unease and respect tangled together.
The interference came two days later.
Lin Yan was at the well when he heard raised voices near his house.
He didn't run.
He walked.
By the time he arrived, a small crowd had formed. Not angry—yet—but tense.
A woman stood near the shed, arms crossed.
"You can't keep animals here," she said loudly. "The smell will spread."
"They don't smell," Lin Yan replied calmly.
"That's not the point."
"What is the point?" Lin Yan asked.
She hesitated.
"That if you profit," another man cut in, "you should contribute."
Lin Yan nodded slowly.
"There it is," he said.
The crowd murmured.
"Contribute what?" Lin Yan asked.
"To the village," the man said quickly. "Grain. Labor. Something."
Lin Yan looked around.
Faces he recognized. Faces he'd helped repair roofs for. Faces he'd shared water with during drought.
None hostile.
Just testing.
"Fine," Lin Yan said.
The word startled them.
"I'll contribute," he continued. "But not because I'm hiding. And not because you're afraid."
He stepped forward.
"I'll contribute because I live here."
Silence.
"How?" Liu San asked.
"Wool," Lin Yan replied.
Confusion rippled.
"They'll be shorn before winter," Lin Yan said. "I'll give the first fleece to the village storehouse."
That changed things.
Wool was tangible.
Useful.
Neutral.
The woman's shoulders eased. "All of it?"
"Yes," Lin Yan said. "The first shearing."
The crowd dispersed slowly.
Not satisfied.
But no longer pressing.
Lin Erniu let out a long breath. "You just gave away money."
Lin Yan shook his head. "I bought time."
The sheep were shorn early.
Not cleanly.
Not expertly.
But carefully.
The fleece was coarse, uneven, and warm.
Lin Yan bundled it neatly and delivered it to the village storehouse himself.
Zhao Mingyuan accepted it without comment.
That night, Lin Yan weighed what remained.
Not wool.
Opportunity.
Because what people didn't realize—
Wool wasn't the profit.
The profit was what followed.
A week later, a trader passed through.
He wasn't there for wool.
He was there for hides.
But when he saw the fleece hanging to dry, his eyes lingered.
"Whose sheep?" he asked casually.
Lin Yan stepped forward. "Mine."
The trader raised a brow. "You sell?"
"Not this batch," Lin Yan said. "But I will."
"How many?"
"Soon," Lin Yan replied.
The trader smiled. "When you're ready, ask for Chen of the West Road."
He left.
Lin Yan memorized the name.
That night, the system panel updated quietly.
[Market Connection: Unofficial Established]
[Trade Path: Wool / Lamb (Future)]
[Risk Level: Controlled]
Lin Yan sat alone for a long time.
Lines had been drawn.
Not in anger.
Not in fear.
But in dirt, quietly marked, easy to miss—until crossed.
Lin Erniu approached later, sitting beside him.
"You didn't shout," Erniu said. "I thought you would."
Lin Yan smiled faintly. "Shouting draws lines in blood. I prefer dirt."
Erniu nodded slowly.
"I'll follow you," he said.
Lin Yan didn't respond immediately.
Then he placed a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Then we walk carefully," he said.
In the distance, sheep bleated softly.
The village slept uneasy.
And Lin Yan understood something clearly for the first time:
He was no longer invisible.
But he was no longer cornered either.
He had space.
And space, in this world, was worth more than coin.