Five days had passed since the planting of the primed seeds, and the Wasteland was changing.
It wasn't a dramatic transformation—there were no rolling fields of emerald green stretching to the horizon—but in the raised beds near the creek, a miracle was occurring. The ryegrass, nourished by the ash and the careful irrigation, had sprouted into thick, vibrant tufts. The blades were wide and dark green, standing tall against the encroaching weeds.
Chen Yuan knelt by the bed, running a hand over the grass. It felt cool, slightly rough, and exuded a fresh, watery scent.
**[Ryegrass Growth Stage: Vegetative. Nutritional Value: High. Protein Content: 18%. Digestibility: Excellent. System Optimization Status: Stable.]**
"It's ready," Chen Yuan murmured.
"Ready for what?" Xu Tie asked. He was sitting nearby, mending a tear in his jacket with a bone needle and rough thread. His stitches were large and ugly, but sturdy—field dressings for clothes.
"Ready to harvest," Chen Yuan said. "Or rather, ready to graze. But we can't let the goat trample it yet. The roots aren't deep enough. We need to cut it and carry it to her."
He pulled a sickle from his belt. The metal was pitted and dull, but it had been sharpened on a river stone that morning.
"Cut the grass?" Xu Tie looked up, raising an eyebrow. "We spent days planting it. Now we kill it?"
"We're not killing it. We're pruning. If we cut it above the growth node, it stimulates the roots to spread. It's called tillering. The more we cut, the thicker it grows."
Chen Yuan demonstrated, slicing a handful of grass near the base. The cut stems bled a faint milky sap.
"This..." Chen Yuan held up the bundle. "This is premium fodder. Better than the dry straw the villagers feed their oxen. Better than the thistles."
"And who will buy it?" Xu Tie asked. "The villagers feed their animals what they can gather for free. No one pays for grass."
"True," Chen Yuan admitted. "But the villagers also have sick animals. Underfed animals. Animals that don't produce enough milk or meat because they're surviving on garbage. If I can prove this grass puts weight on an animal or increases milk yield..."
He trailed off, a plan forming. He had no money to buy a new goat. He had no money to buy grain. But he had a product that cost him nothing but sweat.
"I need to go to the village," Chen Yuan said, standing up. "I need to talk to the Widow Zhang. And maybe Old Man Li."
"More deals?" Xu Tie sighed. "You and your deals. Fine. I'll cut the grass. How much?"
"Cut as much as you can carry in the woven bag. But leave three inches of stem."
"Three inches. Understood."
---
The walk to the Widow Zhang's house felt different this time. Chen Yuan carried a burlap sack slung over his shoulder, the smell of fresh ryegrass wafting from it. It was a distinct, sweet smell—the scent of nutrition.
He found the widow in her yard, hanging laundry. Her son, Little Bao, was sitting on the steps, looking slightly better but still pale and listless. He was chewing on a piece of dried millet cake, lackluster.
"Chen Yuan," the widow said, her voice flat. She was tired. The stress of the debt and her son's illness had carved deep lines around her mouth. "If you're here to ask for more time on the IOU, I can't give it. The doctor wants his payment."
"I'm not here to ask for time," Chen Yuan said. "I'm here to pay a visit. And to offer a trade."
He set the sack down on the ground. The widow eyed it suspiciously.
"What is that? Weeds?"
"This," Chen Yuan opened the sack, revealing the lush, green ryegrass, "is *Yang-cao*. (Raising Grass). I grew it myself on the Wasteland."
"Grass?" The widow laughed, a brittle sound. "You brought me grass? Do I look like a cow?"
"Your remaining goats," Chen Yuan pointed to the pen in the back. Two goats remained—a nanny and her kid from last year. They looked thin, their coats rough. "How much milk are they giving?"
The widow hesitated. "Hardly any. The nanny is dry. The pastures are poor this year."
"Will you try something?" Chen Yuan asked. "Feed this to her. Just a handful. See if she eats it."
The widow looked like she wanted to refuse, but the desperation in her eyes—a hope that maybe, just maybe, this strange boy knew something she didn't—made her nod.
She walked to the pen and tossed a bunch of the grass inside. The nanny goat sniffed it once. Twice. Then, she lunged forward, tearing into the grass with an eagerness she hadn't shown for weeks.
"She likes it," the widow breathed.
"It's sweet," Chen Yuan explained. "And rich. It has... properties that dry straw doesn't." He tapped into the System's knowledge, simplifying it for her. "It builds blood. Helps milk flow. If you feed her this for three days, her yield will increase."
"And you want to sell this to me?" The widow's face hardened again. "I have no money, Chen Yuan."
"I don't want money. Not yet." He met her gaze. "I want the extra milk. If she produces more than your son can drink, bring the surplus to the village square. I'll sell it for you. I take a small cut, you keep the rest. It helps you pay the doctor, and it proves my grass works."
The widow stared at him. "You want to sell milk for me?"
"I want to build a market," Chen Yuan said. "I'm a rancher, Auntie. I don't just raise animals. I raise value. Let me help you."
A long silence passed. From the steps, Little Bao coughed.
"If you are tricking me..." the widow warned.
"I am not. Take the sack. It's free. A sample. If it works, come find me."
He turned and walked away, leaving the bewildered widow staring at the sack of "magic" grass.
---
His next stop was the village square. It was mid-morning, and the square was bustling. Farmers traded vegetables, women gossiped by the well, and children chased chickens.
Chen Yuan found Old Man Li sitting under the banyan tree, smoking a long pipe. Old Man Li was the village's semi-retired ox doctor—a man who knew a thing or two about animals, though his methods were a mix of experience and superstition.
"Old Man Li," Chen Yuan greeted him, bowing.
"Chen Yuan," the old man wheezed, blowing a ring of smoke. "Heard you're turning the swamp into a pasture. Also heard you're a cousin to a fugitive soldier." He cackled. "You keep interesting company, boy."
"My cousin is a good man," Chen Yuan said evenly. "And the swamp is coming along. I have a question about the spring plowing."
"Plowing? It's months away."
"I know. But I've been looking at the oxen. They're lean." He pointed to a large ox tied to a post nearby, owned by a wealthy neighbor. The animal's ribs were faintly visible. "After winter, they have no reserves. When plowing starts, they collapse halfway through the field."
"Aye," Old Man Li nodded, his face grim. "It happens every year. The spring grass is too slow. We feed them bean cakes, but it's expensive. Most families can't afford it. So the ox works on an empty stomach and drops dead. A tragedy for the owner."
"What if there was a way to fatten them up *before* plowing? Cheaply?"
Old Man Li narrowed his eyes. "You have a magic bean?"
"No. I have grass." Chen Yuan pulled a small bundle of ryegrass from his pocket. "A special grass. It grows fast, even in the cold. It gives energy."
He held the grass out to the ox. The animal stretched its neck, sniffing, then took the grass greedily, chewing loudly.
"It eats it," Old Man Li observed, surprised. "It doesn't usually eat strange weeds."
"It's not a weed. It's feed." Chen Yuan leaned in, lowering his voice. "Old Man Li, if I can guarantee a supply of this grass come early spring... would the village pay for it? To save their oxen?"
Old Man Li looked at the boy, really looked at him, for the first time. He saw the dirt under his fingernails, the determination in his eyes, and the intelligence that didn't fit his station.
"If you can grow it in quantity in early spring," the old man said slowly, "when nothing else is growing... the village would fight for it. Oxen are life, boy. Saving an ox is worth silver."
"That's what I thought," Chen Yuan said, a smile touching his lips. "Thank you, Old Man Li."
He left the old man pondering and headed toward the edge of the square. He had planted a seed in the market, just as he had planted seeds in the mud. It would take time to sprout.
---
As he passed by the entrance to the village, a sleek, black carriage rolled in. It was pulled by two healthy horses—a rare sight in Willow Creek. The wheels were iron-rimmed, and the body was lacquered with a design of clouds and mountains.
The villagers scattered, bowing their heads. Carriages meant officials or wealthy merchants—people who could crush a peasant with a word.
Chen Yuan stepped aside, but he didn't bow low. He watched the carriage with curiosity.
The carriage stopped near the village notice board. The door opened, and a man stepped out. He wore fine silk robes of dark blue, and his hair was oiled and pulled back into a perfect topknot. He held a folding fan, though it was not hot enough to need it.
It was Steward Liu.
*He doesn't live here,* Chen Yuan thought. *He's visiting.*
Steward Liu looked around the square, his nose wrinkling at the smell of manure and unwashed bodies. His eyes swept over the villagers, dismissing them, until they landed on the carriage's wheel.
A clump of mud was stuck to the rim.
"Insolent roads," Steward Liu muttered. He kicked the mud away with a silk shoe, then looked at the nearest villager. It happened to be Chen Yuan.
"You there. Boy."
Chen Yuan straightened. "Steward Liu."
"Go fetch the Village Chief. Tell him the Liu family representative is here to inspect the land for the mulberry expansion. And bring me some tea. Clean tea. Not the ditch water you people drink."
Chen Yuan stood still for a moment. The arrogance was suffocating. But he couldn't afford to make an enemy—not yet.
"The Chief is at his home, Steward. I will send a runner." Chen Yuan turned to a nearby boy. "Little Hu! Go tell the Chief! Quickly!"
The boy scampered off.
"And the tea?" Steward Liu tapped his fan against his palm.
"I am not a servant, Steward," Chen Yuan said calmly. "I am a farmer. And I have work to do."
The square went silent. The villagers froze. No one spoke back to a landlord's steward.
Steward Liu's eyes narrowed, his smile vanishing. "You are the one who leased the Wasteland. The goat herder."
"Yes."
"I heard about your little scheme. A ranch." Steward Liu laughed, a short, sharp bark. "Do you know why I let you lease that land, boy?"
"Because it was useless to you?"
"Because it is a buffer," Liu said, stepping closer. His voice dropped, dangerous and low. "The Liu family owns the land *around* the Wasteland. If your swamp doesn't produce, if you default on your taxes... the land reverts to the village. And the village owes us money. We will take that land as payment. And suddenly, our estate is larger, connected."
He patted Chen Yuan on the shoulder, as if dusting off a stain.
"You are just a placeholder, boy. A tenant holding the soil until we are ready to take it. Don't get attached."
Steward Liu turned and walked toward the Chief's house, his silk robes rustling.
Chen Yuan stood in the middle of the square, his hands clenched into fists. The anger was hot and sharp, but he forced it down.
*A placeholder.*
*No. I am the owner. And I will make that land worth more than your entire silk estate.*
---
When Chen Yuan returned to the Wasteland that evening, the sky was a bruised purple. He was angry, and he channeled that anger into work.
He found Xu Tie by the fire, roasting the cattail roots he had dug up earlier.
"The Widow Zhang," Chen Yuan said abruptly, throwing his tools down. "Did you see her?"
"She came by," Xu Tie said, calm as ever. "She brought back the empty sack. She said the goat milked twice as much this afternoon. She wants more grass tomorrow."
"Good," Chen Yuan said. "Give it to her. And start cutting the second bed."
"You look like you want to kill someone," Xu Tie observed, handing him a roasted root. It tasted like bitter potato.
"I met Steward Liu."
"Ah." Xu Tie nodded. "The landlord's dog."
"He wants our land. He thinks we're placeholders. He thinks we'll fail and hand it over to him."
"He is not wrong to think that," Xu Tie said pragmatically. "Most peasants do fail. The odds are against us."
"I don't care about the odds," Chen Yuan snapped. He sat down by the fire, staring into the flames. "I need to speed this up. We need more animals. We need a bull. We need... I don't know. Something big."
"We need money," Xu Tie said. "Which we don't have."
"I sold the idea of grass today," Chen Yuan said. "To the widow. To Old Man Li. If I can sell the actual product... the hay... the milk... we can pay the interest."
"There isn't enough time to grow hay before the deadline," Xu Tie pointed out.
"I know." Chen Yuan stared at the darkness beyond the firelight. "But maybe... there's another way."
He looked at the woven cattail mats he had finished. They were rough, ugly things. But they were waterproof.
"The town," Chen Yuan said. "The construction sites. The army camps. They need temporary shelter. Rain coats. Mats."
"You want to sell mats?"
"I want to sell *Shelter*," Chen Yuan said. "We have an endless supply of reeds. We have labor—us. I'm going to make rain cloaks. Woven rain cloaks. They're lighter than straw capes and waterproof."
He grabbed a handful of cattail leaves.
"Tomorrow, I teach you how to weave."
Xu Tie groaned. "I am a soldier. I kill men. I do not braid leaves."
"Tomorrow," Chen Yuan repeated, his eyes burning with intensity. "You braid leaves, or I tell the widow you insulted her goat."
Xu Tie stared at him, then let out a rare, genuine chuckle.
"You have a cruel streak, Cousin. Fine. But if anyone asks, I am making camouflage nets for the war."
---
That night, Chen Yuan couldn't sleep. He lay on the kang, listening to the soft breathing of Little Ming beside him.
His mind raced. The interest payment. The landlord's threat. Little Ming's books. The grass. The goat.
It was all connected. A web of survival. One strand breaks, and the whole thing falls.
He sat up quietly. He needed to check on something.
He went to the corner of the room where the family's "safe" was—a hollow brick in the wall, covered by a loose stone. Inside was the meager savings he had earned from selling the milk (a few coins he had hidden from Wang Shi). And the small shard of silver from the town.
He pulled out a piece of paper—a rough scrap he had found.
He began to write, using a piece of charcoal from the hearth.
**Plan:**
1. **Grass:** Harvest and sell to Widow Zhang (build reputation).
2. **Mats:** Weave 20 rain cloaks. Sell in town (profit margin: high).
3. **Debt:** Use profit to pay interest to Liu (survival).
4. **Long term:** Buy books for Ming (hope).
It looked simple on paper. In reality, it was a mountain.
But for the first time, he had a written plan. A map.
He folded the paper and tucked it into his shirt, over his heart.
*Step by step*, he thought. *Weave by weave. Coin by coin.*
He lay back down and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, they would weave.