The hills did not announce danger.
They never did.
They waited.
Lin Yan learned that lesson the night the wind changed.
It wasn't sudden. It wasn't violent. It was simply… wrong. The breeze that usually slid down the slopes toward the village reversed, crawling uphill instead, carrying with it a damp chill that sank through cloth and bone.
Lin Yan felt it while closing the gate.
He paused, hand still on the latch.
The dogs were quiet.
Too quiet.
Chen Kui was already standing.
"You feel it?" Chen Kui asked, voice low.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
No further explanation was needed.
They moved without hurry, but without delay.
The upland pen was a simple thing—stone piled knee-high, branches woven across gaps, enough to discourage wandering animals and slow predators. It had worked so far.
Tonight, it felt fragile.
The sheep clustered tighter than usual, their bodies pressed together, ears flicking constantly. One stamped the ground nervously.
Lin Yan crouched and pressed his palm to the earth.
Vibration.
Not heavy.
Not many.
But deliberate.
Chen Kui's hand hovered near the short spear he carried—not a weapon meant for fighting, but for presence. Noise. Distance.
"Wolves?" Lin Erniu whispered.
Chen Kui shook his head. "Too light. Too patient."
As if summoned by the word, a sound drifted across the slope.
A laugh.
Thin.
Mocking.
Human.
Lin Yan's jaw tightened.
Bandits were rare this close to settled land—but not unheard of. More often, they were men like these: half-starved drifters, failed porters, deserters from caravans that never came back.
They hunted opportunities.
And sheep, grazing quietly where no one bothered to count, were opportunity given form.
Three figures emerged from the mist.
Not armed heavily. Knives. Clubs. Confidence.
One raised a hand in mock greeting.
"Evening," he called. "Cold night to be out grazing."
Chen Kui stepped forward, placing himself half a body-length ahead of Lin Yan without being told.
"Turn around," he said calmly. "There's nothing for you here."
The man grinned. "Three sheep says otherwise."
Lin Yan's voice cut in, steady.
"Those sheep aren't worth dying for."
The man laughed again. "Didn't plan to."
That was the lie.
Lin Yan knew it the way you knew a storm would break—not from the sky, but from the air pressing down too hard.
"Erniu," Lin Yan said quietly, without turning, "count to ten. Then light the torch."
Erniu swallowed, nodded, and stepped back.
The men advanced.
Not rushing.
Testing.
Chen Kui shifted his stance, placing his bad leg downhill, good leg braced. His spear angled low—not threatening, just present.
"You don't want this," Chen Kui said.
"You don't want us," the man replied.
At five, Erniu's breathing grew ragged.
At seven, one of the men circled wide, testing the pen wall.
At nine—
Fire blossomed.
The torch flared, casting wild shadows across stone and mist. Smoke curled upward, sharp and stinging.
Lin Yan raised his voice.
"Village!" he shouted. "Bandits on the hill!"
The word carried.
It always did.
Even if no one came, the possibility mattered.
The men froze.
Chen Kui moved.
Not forward.
Sideways.
He slammed the butt of his spear into the stone, sparks jumping. The sound cracked like bone.
"This slope has eyes," he said. "And memory."
The leader cursed under his breath.
They hadn't expected resistance.
They hadn't expected noise.
They hadn't expected men who didn't panic.
"Not worth it," one muttered.
The leader spat.
"Another time," he said.
They melted back into the mist as quickly as they'd appeared.
No one spoke for a long moment.
The sheep slowly relaxed, tension bleeding away as if the ground itself exhaled.
Lin Yan's hands shook—not from fear, but release.
Chen Kui leaned heavily on his spear, breath steady but deep.
"You alright?" Lin Yan asked.
Chen Kui nodded. "Leg's angry. Not broken."
Erniu sat down hard, heart pounding.
"They were going to take them," he whispered.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied.
"And maybe worse," Chen Kui added.
Lin Yan closed his eyes briefly.
This was the cost of space.
They did not return to the village immediately.
Instead, Lin Yan made a decision that would ripple outward.
"We stay until dawn," he said.
Erniu stared. "What if they come back?"
"Then they'll find us ready," Lin Yan replied. "Running invites pursuit."
Chen Kui nodded. "He's right."
They kept the fire low, just enough to glow. Chen Kui took the first watch, refusing argument.
Lin Yan sat beside him.
"You didn't hesitate," Lin Yan said quietly.
Chen Kui snorted. "If I run, I die tired. If I stand, I die standing. Easy choice."
Lin Yan studied him.
"You could have left," he said.
"Could have," Chen Kui agreed. "Didn't."
That was enough.
Dawn came pale and cold.
No return.
But the damage was done—not to sheep or stone, but to illusion.
The hills were no longer safe simply because they were quiet.
When they returned to the village, they didn't hide the exhaustion.
They didn't hide the story.
They told it plainly.
Bandits.
Attempted theft.
Driven off.
The reaction surprised Lin Yan.
Fear, yes.
But also anger.
"These hills are ours," someone muttered.
"They think they can just take?"
Wang Hu slammed his hand against a post. "If they come again—"
Zhao Mingyuan arrived before the words could grow dangerous.
He listened.
Asked questions.
Looked at Chen Kui's leg.
Then he nodded.
"I'll send word to the patrol post," he said. "Not official. Just… alert."
Lin Yan bowed deeply.
This was the first time authority leaned toward him instead of away.
That afternoon, Chen Kui could barely walk.
Lin Yan insisted he rest.
"No grazing today," Lin Yan said. "We adjust."
Chen Kui looked at him. "You're changing things."
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "Because now we're visible to the wrong people."
He gathered his family and Chen Kui together.
"We can't rely on quiet alone anymore," he said. "We need structure."
He laid it out.
A rotating watch.
Signal fires—not big, just enough.
A second pen, farther up, harder to reach.
And eventually—
"Dogs," Erniu said.
"Yes," Lin Yan replied. "Dogs."
That word carried weight.
Protection.
Presence.
Commitment.
That night, Lin Yan updated the system panel for the first time in days.
[Threat Encounter Recorded]
[Host Response: Optimal]
[Security Awareness: +10%]
[Unlocked Advisory: Defensive Herding Practices]
He closed it.
He didn't feel victorious.
He felt… anchored.
Like a post driven deep enough that the wind had to work harder to move it.
Chen Kui recovered slowly.
But something else changed faster.
When villagers passed Lin Yan now, they didn't just look curious.
They nodded.
Some even asked questions.
"How many sheep?"
"Safe up there?"
"You hiring again?"
Lin Yan answered carefully.
Not yet.
Not fast.
But yes—eventually.
Because the hills had spoken.
And Lin Yan had answered without running.
That mattered.