The trip to Qinghe Town felt shorter this time.
The weight of the wolf pelt—rolled tight and wrapped in canvas—seemed to lighten Chen Yuan's step. It wasn't just a dead animal skin; it was a trophy, a proof of conquest. The Wasteland had bitten back, and the Wasteland had won.
Master Zhao's shop was located in the bustling textile district, a paradox of a place that sold both fine silks and rugged work gear. When Chen Yuan walked in, the broker was arguing with a dyer about the shade of indigo.
"I told you, it needs to be darker! The magistrates like it dark!"
"Master Zhao," Chen Yuan interrupted, dropping the bundle on the counter with a heavy *thud*.
Zhao spun around, his face red with anger, ready to snap at the interruption. Then he saw the bundle. He saw the coarse canvas wrapping. He saw the glint in Chen Yuan's eye.
"You caught one?" Zhao's voice dropped to a whisper. He reached for the bundle.
"Not here," Chen Yuan said. "Too many eyes."
Zhao hesitated, then nodded. He signaled to his clerk. "Watch the counter."
He led Chen Yuan to a back room, filled with bolts of fabric and the smell of mothballs. Zhao locked the door and turned to the bundle.
He cut the twine and unrolled the pelt.
The grey fur spilled out, thick and luxurious, the guard hairs glistening even in the dim light. Zhao ran a hand over it, testing the density. He checked the skin side—clean, well-scraped, with only a single hole near the neck where Xu Tie's blade had struck.
"Superior grade," Zhao murmured, his eyes gleaming. "Winter coat. Thick. No mange. This is... this is officer quality."
"Three taels," Chen Yuan said. "You said three taels."
"The market fluctuates," Zhao tried, though his hands were still caressing the fur. "I can give you two and a half."
"You said three," Chen Yuan replied evenly. "And you also said you know a man. If you try to cheat me now, I take this pelt to the fur shop on East Street. I saw they buy pelts too."
Zhao's face twitched. He looked at the pelt, then at Chen Yuan. The broker sighed, realizing the boy wasn't the desperate farmer he had dealt with before.
"Fine. Three. But only because it's flawless." Zhao walked to a safe in the corner and counted out three heavy taels of silver.
Chen Yuan took the silver. It was cool and heavy. Real wealth.
"And," Chen Yuan said, pocketing the silver. "I need meat."
"Meat?" Zhao blinked, confused by the non-sequitur. "I'm a cloth merchant."
"You have connections. I want beef. Or pork. Cheap cuts. But fresh. I'm not talking about the stale scraps from the morning market."
Zhao frowned, then shrugged. "The slaughterhouse. I can give you a note. They owe me a favor. But why? Your family is still rationing grain, isn't it?"
"A rancher feeds his men," Chen Yuan said simply. "It's a tradition."
Zhao stared at him for a moment, then laughed. "You really are a strange one, Chen Yuan. Fine. I'll write the note. Go to the back gate of Old Ma's slaughterhouse. Ask for the 'skirt steak'. It's tough, but flavorful. They usually grind it for dogs."
"I'll take five catties."
---
By the time Chen Yuan returned to the Wasteland, the sun was setting, painting the snow in hues of violet and orange. He carried a sack of meat over his shoulder, and the weight of the silver in his pouch made him walk tall.
He found Xu Tie by the lean-to, repairing a harness. The soldier looked up, his eyes scanning Chen Yuan. He spotted the sack.
"Supplies?"
"Meat," Chen Yuan said, grinning. "And silver. Three taels."
Xu Tie let out a low whistle. "Good. That pays for the winter feed and then some."
"We're not saving all of it," Chen Yuan said. He walked to the fire pit in the center of the clearing—the one they used for burning brush. "Tonight, we eat like kings."
"Like kings?" Xu Tie raised an eyebrow. "We have rice and pickles."
"Not tonight."
Chen Yuan started a fire. He didn't use the dry, brittle twigs of the brush pile. He used the good wood—the heartwood from a dead oak they had felled days ago. It burned hot and clean, with very little smoke.
He pulled the meat from the sack. It was a rough cut—thin, muscular strips from the diaphragm of an old bull. The butcher had called it 'skirt', and indeed, it looked like a skirt. It was covered in a thin membrane.
"Help me slice it," Chen Yuan said, pulling out his knife.
He didn't cube it for a stew. He sliced it against the grain into thin, wide strips.
"No pot?" Xu Tie asked, confused.
"We don't need a pot. We need sticks."
Chen Yuan took two long, straight branches, whittled the ends clean, and skewered the meat. He rubbed the strips with a mixture of salt and a pinch of wild pepper he had bought from a passing peddler.
He handed one skewer to Xu Tie.
"Hold it over the fire. High. Don't let the flame touch it. Just the heat."
Xu Tie took the skewer, looking skeptical. "This is how the barbarians in the north cook. They roast meat over horse dung fires."
"It's called 'Barbecue'," Chen Yuan said, holding his own skewer over the dancing flames. "And it's the only way to eat good beef."
The fire crackled. The cold air swirled around them, but the heat on their faces was intense.
Slowly, the meat began to change. The grey muscle fibers turned pink, then brown. Fat sizzled and popped, sending up fragrant plumes of smoke. The smell was intoxicating—rich, savory, primal.
Chen Yuan's stomach growled loudly. In his past life, he had eaten at Michelin-starred restaurants. But in this life, months of boiled vegetables and watery porridge had reset his palate. This smell was the smell of life itself.
"Now," Chen Yuan said, pulling his skewer back. The meat was charred on the outside, pink on the inside. "Eat."
He took a bite.
It was tough. Chewy. It required jaw work. But the flavor... the smoky, salty, beefy flavor exploded in his mouth. It was hot and juicy.
Xu Tie watched him, then took a tentative bite. He chewed slowly. His eyes widened.
"It's... good." He took another, bigger bite. "No grease. Pure strength."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the crackling fire and the tearing of meat.
Then, feeling bold and warm, Chen Yuan began to hum.
It was a tune he remembered from a documentary about the American West. A lonely, drifting melody. He didn't remember the exact words, so he made them up, fitting the rhythm to the snapping fire.
*"The snow falls down on the weary plow,*
*The cattle low in the valley now.*
*The fire burns bright, the steel is true,*
*I'm a rancher, boys, through and through."*
His voice was rough, not trained for singing. But it carried a steady, rhythmic cadence. A working man's song.
Xu Tie stopped chewing. He looked at Chen Yuan.
"What is that song?"
"It's a song from... a faraway place," Chen Yuan said. "The land of cowboys. Men who ride horses and sleep under the stars. Men who drive herds across the plains for months, living only on coffee, beans, and beef."
"Cowboys," Xu Tie repeated the word. "You use that word often. Is that what we are?"
"We are," Chen Yuan said, waving his skewer at the dark Wasteland. "Look at us. A soldier, a farmer, a fire, and a herd. We face the cold, the wolves, and the debt. We work the land. That's what a cowboy does."
Xu Tie took a swig of water. He looked at the fire, then at the shelter where the animals slept.
"I like it," the soldier said. "It sounds better than 'peasant'."
He cleared his throat. "Teach me the words."
Chen Yuan smiled. He sang the simple verse again. Xu Tie, with his gravelly baritone, joined in. Their voices mixed in the cold night air—a strange, rough harmony that drifted up toward the stars.
*"I'm a rancher, boys, through and through..."*
---
The next morning was the Winter Solstice.
The Dongzhi Festival. The longest night of the year. In the Great Qian Dynasty, it was a day as important as the New Year. Families gathered. Ancestors were worshipped. And most importantly, dumplings were eaten.
"If you don't eat dumplings, your ears will freeze off," Grandmother recited the old proverb as she supervised the kitchen.
The Chen family kitchen was a war zone of flour and filling. Everyone was pressed into service.
Even Chen Yuan was there, his hands dusty with white flour, trying to pinch the edges of a dumpling skin together. His were ugly, bulbous things that looked like injured turtles, compared to Mother's delicate, crescent-shaped masterpieces.
"Pinch harder," Wang Shi critiqued, slapping his hand away to adjust his folding. "You're letting the soup leak out. Do you want us to eat flour paste?"
"I'm a rancher, not a chef," Chen Yuan grumbled.
"You're a man with two hands. Fold."
The atmosphere was lighter than it had been in years. The shadow of the debt was still there, but it was pushed back by the three taels of silver in the chest and the smell of pork and cabbage filling.
Little Ming was sitting in the corner, reading his scroll, but he kept stealing glances at the dough.
"Little Ming! Put the book down!" Grandmother barked. "Come make the dough balls. Scholars need to know how to cook too!"
"I'm reading about the 'Mandate of Heaven'," Ming protested weakly.
"Heaven can wait. The water is boiling."
The family laughed—a genuine, warm sound.
Chen Yuan looked around the table. Father was stirring the boiling pot, sweat beading on his forehead. Chen Hu was sneaking bits of raw pork when no one was looking. Mei and Lan were gossiping about the neighbor's new shoes.
This was the life he had worked for. Not just the herd, not just the silver. This moment of peace.
"Brother," Little Ming whispered, bumping Chen Yuan's shoulder as they worked side by side. "I heard you singing last night. At the ranch."
"You did?"
"I was walking back from the well. I heard you and Cousin Xu." The boy smiled. "It sounded... brave. Like a general's song."
"It's a worker's song," Chen Yuan corrected, finally managing to make a dumpling that didn't look like a tragedy. "It's about not giving up."
"I like it."
The dumplings were finished. They were dropped into the boiling water, swirling like white fish.
When they finally sat down to eat, dipping the hot, juicy dumplings in vinegar and chili oil, Chen Yuan felt the warmth spread through his chest.
He raised his cup of warm rice wine.
"To the family," he said.
"To the family," they echoed.
"And to the ranch," Chen Hu added with a grin.
"To the ranch," Wang Shi said, rolling her eyes, but she was smiling.
---
Two days after the festival, the cold snap broke.
It didn't get warm, exactly, but the biting wind softened. The sun gained a little strength.
Chen Yuan was at the ranch, checking the cow.
Hope had finished her first cycle of the silage feed.
**[System Analysis: Subject 'Hope' (Yellow Cow).]**
**[Status: Recovery Complete.]**
**[Parasite Load: Negligible.]**
**[Body Condition Score: 3.5 (Improved from 1.5).]**
**[Note: Subject is entering estrus. Optimal breeding window approaching in 3 days.]**
Chen Yuan stared at the System panel. *Estrus.*
She was ready. She was healthy enough to breed.
This was the moment. To upgrade the herd, he needed a sire. But he didn't have a bull. And renting a good bull cost money—money he wanted to save.
*System, is there a way to... artificially... no, I don't have the tools.*
He needed a bull. A good one.
But he couldn't afford a prize bull.
He looked at the cow. She was healthy now. Strong. She could travel.
"Xu Tie," Chen Yuan called out.
"Yeah?"
"How far is the government stud farm?"
"The one for the army horses?" Xu Tie leaned on his shovel. "About thirty li north. Why?"
"Not horses. Cattle. I heard they have a breeding bull there for the local magistrate's stock. They rent it out to farmers."
"They do," Xu Tie confirmed. "But it costs five hundred coins. And you have to bring the cow to them. And the bull is... temperamental. It's a massive beast. Nearly killed a man last year."
"Massive is good," Chen Yuan said, thinking of the Angus traits he wanted to introduce. "Temperamental is fine, as long as he does the job."
"We have to walk her there?"
"It's three days walk. We leave tomorrow."
"Walk a cow for three days in the snow?" Xu Tie looked at him like he was crazy. "To spend five hundred coins on a... date?"
"It's not a date," Chen Yuan laughed. "It's an investment. I'm going to make that cow pregnant with the best calf this county has ever seen."
He looked north, toward the government road.
"Get the rope, Cousin. We're going courting."