The journey to Qinghe Town usually took half a day on foot. On Whirlwind, it took an hour.
The chestnut mare moved with a ground-eating stride that devoured the dirt road. She was still high-strung, her ears swiveling at every rustle in the bushes, her muscles coiled tight beneath Chen Yuan's thighs. But she didn't buck. She didn't rear. She channeled her nervous energy into speed.
Chen Yuan rode bareback, his legs burning from the effort of staying on. He had wrapped a thick wool blanket under a surcingle—a simple strap around her girth—to give him some grip, but it was nothing like a proper saddle.
*Note to self,* he thought as they crested a hill overlooking the town walls. *Next big purchase: a saddle tree. And leather. Lots of leather.*
The guards at the town gate were bored, sweating in their armor, waving through carts of refugees and merchants. They barely looked up until a shadow fell over them.
The Red Witch skidded to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust just inches from the guard post.
"Whoa," Chen Yuan said, sitting deep.
The guards jumped, hands flying to their weapons. Then they stared.
The horse was stunning. Her coat gleamed like polished copper in the morning sun, her mane wild and tangled, her eyes fierce. And on her back sat a young man in rough hemp clothes, wearing high, mud-stained leather boots.
"Name and business," the head guard stammered, trying to regain his composure.
"Chen Yuan, of Willow Creek," Chen Yuan said, his voice carrying over the noise of the market. "Here to see Quartermaster Zhao. On official business."
He didn't dismount. He didn't bow. He sat tall, looking down at the guards with the casual authority of a man who belonged on a horse.
"Pass," the guard waved him through, too intimidated by the sheer presence of the animal to demand a bribe.
As Chen Yuan rode through the crowded streets, the crowd parted. Pedestrians scrambled to get out of the way of the "demon horse." He saw fear in their eyes, but also envy.
In the Great Qian Dynasty, horses were power. A man on foot was a subject. A man on a horse was a master.
*This is what I needed,* Chen Yuan realized, feeling the shift in the atmosphere. *Not just speed. Respect.*
---
The Army Depot was a hive of frantic activity. Wagons were being loaded with grain sacks. Blacksmiths hammered incessantly, repairing armor. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and anxiety.
Chen Yuan rode up to the main administrative tent. He slid off Whirlwind's back, his legs stiff. He tied her to a post near the water trough, ignoring the nervous looks from the stable hands.
He walked inside.
Quartermaster Zhao was shouting at a clerk.
"What do you mean, the vinegar shipment is delayed? The soldiers need vinegar to clean their feet or they'll rot! Find me another supplier!"
"Quartermaster Zhao," Chen Yuan called out.
Zhao spun around, his face red. "What? Who? Oh. The boot maker."
He looked Chen Yuan up and down. He noted the boots.
"I see you're wearing your product. Good. I sold the pairs you gave me to the Lieutenants. They want more."
"I can give you more," Chen Yuan said. "But I need a guarantee."
"Guarantee? In a war zone? The only guarantee is death, boy."
"I had a visit from a procurement squad yesterday," Chen Yuan said calmly. "They wanted to take my breeding stock. My cow and her calf."
Zhao frowned. "That's standard procedure. We need meat."
"They are breeding stock," Chen Yuan insisted. "And they are the source of the leather for your boots. If the army eats my factory, the Lieutenants go barefoot."
Zhao paused. He was a logistical man. He understood the chain of supply.
"What do you want?"
"Official exemption status," Chen Yuan said. "A plaque. Or a signed order declaring my ranch a 'Military Strategic Resource'. That way, the scavengers stay away."
"And in exchange?"
"I will supply fifty pairs of boots a month," Chen Yuan said. "At cost. And..." He pulled a bundle from his satchel. "I will supply this."
He unrolled the bundle. Inside were three belts.
They were thick, heavy, and dyed a deep, rich brown using walnut hulls. The buckles were simple iron, but the leather was stamped with a subtle pattern of interlocking scales—dragons, but stylized so as not to offend the Imperial family.
"Officer belts," Chen Yuan said. "Sturdy enough to hang a sword from. Won't stretch or snap in the rain. I can make twenty a week."
Zhao picked up a belt. He pulled it hard, testing the stitching. It held firm. He wrapped it around his own waist, over his robe. It sat perfectly.
"Good craftsmanship," Zhao admitted. "Better than the standard issue canvas. The officers hate the canvas. It chafes."
"I can also make saddlebags," Chen Yuan added. "Waterproof. For carrying maps and rations."
Zhao's eyes gleamed. The army was always short on decent gear. If he could supply the officers with luxury items, his own position would become more secure.
"You drive a hard bargain, peasant," Zhao sighed. "Fine. I'll write the exemption. It's good for six months, renewable. And I'll pay for the belts at market price."
"Deal."
Zhao scribbled on a piece of paper, stamped it with the red seal of the Logistics Office, and handed it over.
"This placard goes on your gate. If any soldiers bother you, show them this. If they don't listen, tell them Zhao Wei will have their heads."
"Thank you, Quartermaster."
"One more thing," Zhao said, stopping him. "That horse outside. Is that the Red Witch?"
"Yes."
"You broke her?"
"She decided to cooperate."
Zhao chuckled. "You're a strange one, Chen Yuan. Keep the boots coming. And don't get killed."
---
The ride back felt lighter.
Chen Yuan had the placard tucked safely inside his jacket. He had the contract. He had the silver advance for the belts (Zhao had paid ten taels upfront for the first batch).
But as he left the town gates, the reality of the war hit him.
A long column of wounded soldiers was being marched *out* of the town, heading for the rear. They were bandaged, limping, some being carried on stretchers. The smell of blood and infection wafted over the road.
Chen Yuan pulled Whirlwind to the side, bowing his head in respect.
Among the wounded, he saw a man on a stretcher who looked familiar. A young soldier, his face pale, his leg wrapped in a bloody bandage.
It was the boy from the village. One of the conscripts who had bought his boots.
The boy opened his eyes. He saw Chen Yuan on the horse. He saw the boots.
He tried to salute, but his hand was too weak. He just smiled.
"Good... boots... sir," the boy whispered as the stretcher passed.
Chen Yuan felt a lump in his throat.
*He lived,* Chen Yuan thought. *He came back. But how many didn't?*
He watched the column pass. The glory of the "Red Witch" and the "Iron Calf" faded. This was the cost. The ranch wasn't just a business anymore. It was a lifeline. It provided the gear that kept these men alive.
He kicked Whirlwind into a trot.
*Faster. Work harder. Produce more.*
---
When he returned to the Wasteland, he found the family in the middle of a crisis.
Little Ming was standing in the courtyard, holding a broom like a weapon. Wang Shi was shouting.
A stranger was standing by the goat pen. He was dressed in the robes of a scholar, but his face was sharp and mean. Two servants stood behind him.
"What is going on?" Chen Yuan demanded, dismounting.
The stranger turned. "Ah, the famous Rancher. I am Steward Liu's personal scribe. I am here to inspect the water."
"Inspect?" Chen Yuan's eyes narrowed. "We won the water rights in court."
"The Magistrate's ruling allowed for *drainage*," the scribe said with a oily smile. "But the Steward has filed a petition claiming your new 'grass fields' are diverting *aquifers*. Groundwater. He claims his well in the upper village is running dry because of your deep-rooted grass."
"That's nonsense," Little Ming snapped. "Ryegrass roots don't go deep enough to affect the water table! It's a lie!"
"Are you a hydrologist, boy?" the scribe sneered. "The Steward has hired a geomancer from the city. He says the 'Dragon Vein' of the land has been severed by your digging. This is a spiritual offense, not just a civil one. Punishable by... land seizure."
*Spiritual offense.* The landlord was getting desperate. He was using superstition and "Feng Shui" to bypass the law.
Chen Yuan walked up to the man. He was still holding Whirlwind's lead rope. The mare snorted, blowing hot air onto the scribe's neck. The scribe flinched.
"Get out," Chen Yuan said.
"Excuse me?"
"You are trespassing on a Military Strategic Resource zone," Chen Yuan pulled out the placard from his jacket. He shoved it in the scribe's face. "See this? Quartermaster Zhao. Army Logistics. If you touch my land, you are sabotaging the war effort. That's treason. Execution."
The scribe's face went white. He looked at the placard, then at the fierce horse, then at the cold look in Chen Yuan's eyes.
"T-treason?"
"The army needs leather. I make boots. You stop me, soldiers freeze. The Emperor hates traitors." Chen Yuan stepped closer, looming over the man. "Tell Steward Liu that if he sends another wizard or lawyer to my gate, I will report him to the Magistrate for obstructing military procurement. And I will let this horse kick his teeth in."
The scribe swallowed hard. He realized he had picked a fight with someone who now had bigger backers than the local landlord.
"We... we were just leaving," the scribe stammered. He turned and scurried away, his servants running to keep up.
Chen Yuan watched them go.
"Ming," he said, turning to his brother.
"Yes?"
"Go to the well. Check the water level. I want empirical data. If he tries to sue us with magic, we will fight him with math."
"On it!"
Chen Yuan turned to Wang Shi.
"Mother, bring the leather. We have belts to make."
He looked at the Wasteland. The grass was green. The cow was safe. The horse was fed.
*They can throw lawyers, soldiers, and spirits at us,* he thought. *But we will just keep building.*
---
That night, after the family had gone to sleep, Chen Yuan walked the perimeter of the ranch.
He stopped at the pen where Little Iron was sleeping. The calf had grown noticeably in just a few days. His legs were thickening. He was already trying to nibble on the hay.
Chen Yuan climbed the fence and sat on the top rail.
He looked up at the stars. The same stars he had seen in his past life, but somehow brighter here.
*We have a foot in the door,* he thought. *We have the army contract. We have the placard.*
*Now, we need to scale up.*
He looked at the vast, dark expanse of the Wasteland. Most of it was still thorns and mud.
*Fifty acres,* he thought. *We need to clear it all. We need a real herd. A hundred head. Then we can supply meat for the whole province.*
He hopped down from the fence.
"One step at a time," he whispered to the sleeping calf. "But now... we start running."