The thaw came not with a whisper, but with a squelch.
The pristine white blanket that had covered the West Mountains dissolved into a treacherous landscape of grey slush and exposed, rotting vegetation. The ground, previously frozen solid as iron, turned into a clinging, sucking mud that grabbed at boots and cart wheels with greedy tenacity.
"Pull! Heave!"
Dahu and Er-Leng were waist-deep in a muddy trench, struggling to free a cart wheel that had sunk into the mire on the lower path. The wooden spokes groaned under the strain.
Lin Chen stood on a dry patch of rock, supervising. He was wearing a pair of crude, knee-high boots he had fashioned from layers of treated rawhide and canvas—his first attempt at "Cowboy Boots." They were ugly, stitched with rough twine, but they kept his feet dry.
"Don't force it straight out," Lin Chen instructed, his voice calm amidst the struggle. "Rock it. Left, then right. Break the suction."
Dahu nodded, his face smeared with mud. "One, two... pull!"
With a wet *shlurp*, the wheel popped free. The two men tumbled backward into the muck, panting heavily.
"Good," Lin Chen said. "We need to lay logs here. A corduroy road. We can't have supplies getting stuck every time we go to the village."
The ranch was waking up. The animals, sensing the change in the air, were restless. The sheep bleated constantly, eager for fresh grass that hadn't quite sprouted yet. The yellow cow, Hope, spent her days pacing the paddock, her healed leg holding strong.
But the thaw brought more than just mud; it brought desperation.
A figure appeared on the ridge, sliding slightly on the wet stones. It was a servant from the Wang household, recognizable by the green livery, though today it was splattered with filth. He looked exhausted and panicked.
"Master Lin!" the servant gasped, stumbling to a halt. "My master... Master Wang Da sends urgent word."
Lin Chen crossed his arms. "Does he now? Last I heard, his men were trying to blacklist me."
"Please, Master Lin," the servant wiped his face, his tone pleading. "The herd... they are starving. The dampness ruined the hay Master Wang stored. The mold spread fast. Fifty sheep have died in three days. The military inspector is coming next week. If Master Wang cannot present the quota... he will be ruined."
Lin Chen looked at the man. He felt no schadenfreude, only a cold calculation. This was the reality of bad management. Wang Da had treated farming like accounting, ignoring the biology of the animals.
"What does he want from me?"
"Silage," the servant said quickly. "Or hay. Anything. He will pay double the winter price. Triple! Just save the remaining herd."
Lin Chen looked back at his own sheds. He had enough silage to last his animals until the spring grass truly took hold. He had surplus. But selling it to Wang Da?
It was tempting. Triple price would solve his money problems instantly.
But Lin Chen shook his head.
"No."
The servant blinked. "No? But... Master Wang offers triple!"
"His animals are sick, likely weakened by mold toxicity," Lin Chen said, his voice clinical. "If I feed them now, they might survive, but they won't thrive. And more importantly, I do not sell my winter stores to a man who tried to starve me. Tell Wang Da: I will not sell him my food. But..."
The servant looked hopeful. "But?"
"I will buy his sick animals," Lin Chen said.
"Buy them?"
"The ones that are still standing but too weak to work," Lin Chen clarified. "I will take them off his hands for two taels a head. He gets some money back, I get the livestock. He saves face with the inspector by saying he 'reorganized' his herd. Take it or leave it."
The servant hesitated. Two taels for a dying sheep was robbery. But it was better than a dead sheep worth nothing.
"I... I will tell him."
***
The negotiation took two days. In the end, Wang Da, cornered and desperate, sold Lin Chen fifteen sheep and two scrawny cows for thirty taels of silver. It was a significant chunk of Lin Chen's remaining funds, but it was a steal.
The new animals arrived on a drizzly afternoon. They were a pitiful sight—rib cages protruding, coats patchy, eyes dull. The villagers watched from a distance, shaking their heads.
"He's buying corpses now," they whispered. "The Scholar has lost his mind."
Lin Chen ignored them. He had the animals separated immediately into a quarantine pen.
"Strip the sheds," Lin Chen ordered. "Burn the old straw. Lime the floors. We need to kill any parasites."
He didn't see these animals as losses; he saw them as projects.
**[System Analysis: Incoming Herd.]
[Status: Malnourished, Respiratory Stress (Mild), Parasite Load (High).]
[Treatment: Silage + Herbal Steam + Nitrogen Supplement.]**
"Zhao Hu, prepare the steam tent," Lin Chen said. "Mu'er, mix the bran with extra sugar and the crushed 'strength pills' from the veterinary kit."
For the next three days, the ranch operated like a field hospital. Lin Chen barely slept. He moved among the animals, checking temperatures, cleaning hooves, and forcing nutrient-rich mash down the throats of the weakest sheep.
It was grueling, messy work. But slowly, the herd stabilized. The coughing stopped. The eyes cleared. They began to eat the sour silage with gusto, the high moisture content rehydrating their starved bodies.
***
With the new herd stabilized, Lin Chen faced a new problem: Space.
The sheds were overcrowded. And with the herd growing, he needed to start generating revenue to feed them all through the spring.
"We need to sell," Lin Chen announced on the fourth evening. They were sitting in the hut, the air humid from the constant boiling of herbal water. "But the village market is too small, and Wang Da has blocked the town butchers."
"Then we go to the Prefecture," Zhao Hu said, sharpening his knife. "The big city."
"We don't have a cart that can make the journey with enough meat," Lin Chen said. "But we have the jerky. And we have the hides."
He looked at the pile of "Peak Brand" jerky hanging from the rafters. It was tough, dark, and smelled of wood smoke and spices.
"Tomorrow is market day in the county seat," Lin Chen said. "I'm going. Not to sell to butchers, but to the taverns. Workers, soldiers, travelers—they need food that doesn't spoil. I will sell the jerky directly."
"You?" Zhao Hu raised an eyebrow. "You will stand on the street and shout?"
"I will conduct business," Lin Chen corrected. "I'm taking Dahu. We will look like peasants, but we will sell like merchants."
***
The next morning, Lin Chen and Dahu loaded two large sacks of jerky onto Old Grey. The donkey protested the weight but moved when Dahu offered a carrot.
The walk to the county seat took three hours. As they neared the city gates, the road became crowded. Farmers pushed carts, merchants rode horses, and beggars lined the sides.
The city walls loomed high, gray and imposing. Guards checked everyone.
"Name and business," a guard barked, eyeing Lin Chen's muddy boots and bamboo hat.
"Lin Chen. Merchant. Selling cured meats."
"Tax is three copper coins."
Lin Chen paid without argument. He didn't want trouble.
Inside, the city was a riot of noise and smells. The streets were paved with stone, but the gutters ran with filth. Lin Chen navigated the crowds, looking for a specific place: *The Iron Mug*.
It was a tavern near the west gate, popular with mercenaries, guards, and laborers. It was rough, loud, and the perfect market for durable, cheap food.
He tied Old Grey outside and heaved the sack over his shoulder.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of cheap ale and sweat. A burly man behind the counter was wiping a tankard.
"We don't need firewood," the bartender grunted, seeing the sack.
"It's not wood," Lin Chen said, dropping the sack onto the counter with a heavy *thud*. "It's meat. Smoked meat. Keeps for months. No need for a cook. No waste."
The bartender paused. "What kind of meat?"
"Goat and Boar," Lin Chen said. He opened the sack. The scent of spices—rare and pungent—wafted out. "Spiced with mountain pepper and ginger. Good for the blood. Good for energy."
He took out a strip and bit into it, tearing a piece off with his teeth. He chewed loudly. "Tough, but tasty. Chew it while you walk. Chew it while you guard."
The bartender squinted. He reached out and took a piece. He bit into it. His jaw worked for a moment. Then, his eyebrows rose.
"Spicy," he muttered. He chewed more. "Salty. Good texture."
"One copper coin for a strip," Lin Chen said. "Or I sell you the whole sack—fifty catties—for four taels. You can sell it by the cup to your customers. It makes them thirsty. They buy more ale."
The bartender looked at the sack, then at the crowded room of thirsty men.
"Three taels," the bartender countered. "And I want to taste another piece."
Lin Chen tossed him a boar strip. "Three taels and fifty copper coins. And I return next week with more."
The bartender grunted, chewing the boar. "Fine. Four taels total. You have a deal, Farmer."
They shook hands.
It was a small transaction. Four taels. But as Lin Chen walked out of the tavern, the weight of the silver in his pocket felt heavier than the empty sack. It was the first money the ranch had earned from the outside world. Clean money. Money that didn't come from charity or selling off assets.
He stopped by a street vendor and bought two meat buns for Dahu, who was waiting outside with the donkey.
"Here," Lin Chen handed one to the big man. "Eat. We're going back."
"That's it? We sold it?"
"We sold it," Lin Chen smiled, taking a bite of his own bun. The savory juice filled his mouth. "And we have a new customer."
As they walked back towards the gate, Lin Chen's eyes caught a commotion near the livestock market.
A trader was shouting, waving a whip. "Demon beast! Unbreakable! Sold for meat only!"
In the pen behind him stood a massive, terrifying creature.
It was a bull, but unlike any local bull Lin Chen had seen. It was huge, its hide a mottled grey-white. But the most striking feature was the large, muscular hump rising behind its neck, sloping down into its shoulders.
**[System Alert: Rare Breed Detected.]**
**[Species: Bos indicus (Zebu/Brahman Cross).]
[Traits: Heat tolerance, Parasite resistance, High muscle mass.]
[Status: Feral, Aggressive, Underweight.]**
Lin Chen stopped dead in his tracks. It was the "hump-backed" beast Zhao Hu had mentioned. A Brahman cross.
The bull was pawing the ground, snorting steam. It had injured a man who lay groaning nearby. The trader looked furious.
"Five taels to whoever drags this monster to the slaughterhouse!" the trader yelled. "He's crazy! He won't let anyone near him!"
Lin Chen looked at the bull. The bull looked at him. There was intelligence in those dark eyes—wild, untamed intelligence.
"Zhao Hu," Lin Chen said softly. "Do you still have that rope?"
"Yeah..."
"Good," Lin Chen said, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I'm going to buy a bull."