The departure of a scholar was quieter than his arrival.
There were no crowds this time, no firecrackers. Just the grey light of early dawn and the heavy mist clinging to the fields.
Little Ming stood by the cart, his trunk loaded. He was dressed for travel—sturdy cloth shoes and a robe that could be washed.
"Write to us," Mother said, adjusting his collar for the fifth time. "And don't read by candlelight too late. It hurts the eyes."
"I won't, Mother."
Chen Yuan handed him a small pouch. "Silver for emergencies. And... I tucked a packet of pine nuts in there. For the late nights."
Ming smiled, taking the pouch. "I'll save them for when I pass the Provincial Exam."
He climbed into the cart. The driver cracked his whip, and the vehicle rumbled away, disappearing into the fog.
Chen Yuan watched until the sound of the wheels faded. The house felt empty without the scratching of Ming's brush against paper.
"Back to work," he said, turning to the family. "Dreams don't build themselves."
---
The construction of the Smokehouse was the priority.
In the heat of early summer, meat spoiled fast. The ranch was producing more than they could eat or sell fresh. They needed a way to preserve it—not just salt curing, but smoking, which added flavor and repelled flies.
Chen Yuan chose a spot on the windward side of the hill, near the edge of the forest. The breeze there was constant, which would carry the smoke away from the living quarters but keep the fire well-ventilated.
"Dig here," he told Zhang Dahu and his brothers. "Four feet down."
They dug a pit, lining it with stones from the river. This would be the firebox. Above it, they built a square structure of logs, chinked with clay to make it airtight.
"The key is the flue," Chen Yuan explained, placing a flat stone over the firebox opening, leaving a small gap. "We want a thin, blue smoke. Not a roaring fire. If the heat is too high, the meat cooks. We want it to dry and absorb the flavor."
He had bought a load of cedar shavings from a carpenter in town. Cedar was rare and expensive, but it imparted a sweetness to the meat that common fruit woods didn't.
"Is this for the army contract?" Dahu asked, stacking the logs.
"This is for *us*," Chen Yuan said. "The army gets the boots. We keep the best meat. We need to test the flavor. If we're going to sell 'Willow Creek Beef' to the gentry, it has to taste like nothing they've had before."
He walked to the pen. The time had come.
They selected an older steer—not Little Iron, of course, but a local bull they had bought cheap from a neighbor who was clearing his stock. The animal was tough, stringy by local standards.
Chen Yuan oversaw the slaughter. He didn't let the workers rush. Stress released hormones that toughened the meat.
"Quick cut. Drain the blood immediately. Don't let the animal panic."
He followed the System's blueprint for butchering. He didn't hack the carcass into pieces. He broke it down along the muscle groups, identifying the premium cuts—the ribeye, the tenderloin, the brisket.
"Look at this," he said, holding up a slab of brisket. Even on this old animal, the marbling—the fat deposited within the muscle—was visible, a result of the improved ryegrass feed.
He rubbed the meat with a mixture of salt, brown sugar, crushed Sichuan pepper, and a secret ingredient: crushed tea leaves.
"Hang it in the smokehouse. We leave it for three days."
---
While the meat smoked, the daily chores continued.
"Time for the drenching," Chen Yuan announced on the second day.
Drenching—administering oral medicine—was a messy, necessary part of ranching. The spring grass was lush, but it also brought out parasites.
The family gathered in the corral. Xu Tie and Chen Hu manned the head gate.
"One at a time," Chen Yuan said, mixing a slurry of pumpkin seeds, garlic, and a specific bitter herb the System identified as a natural vermifuge (dewormer). It wasn't as effective as modern chemicals, but it worked well enough.
They brought in the first goat. The animal bleated, struggling against the gate.
"Hold the head," Chen Yuan said. He inserted a bamboo tube into the side of the goat's mouth and poured the mixture down the throat.
*Cough. Sputter.*
"One down. Nineteen to go."
The children watched from the fence.
"Why do we have to make them drink the yucky stuff?" Little Bao asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Because worms eat the food the animals eat," Chen Yuan explained, wiping green slime off his hand. "If the worms eat the food, the animals get skinny. Skinny animals don't sell."
"Does Little Iron have worms?"
"Little Iron is special," Chen Yuan smiled. "But we'll check him too."
They processed the goats, then Hope the cow. Hope was docile, accepting the medicine with a resigned chew.
Then came Little Iron.
The calf was now the size of a small car. He was strong. When they tried to guide him into the chute, he planted his feet and refused to budge.
"He's stubborn," Dahu grunted, pushing against the calf's flank.
"He's dominant," Xu Tie corrected. "He doesn't like being pushed."
Chen Yuan walked up to the calf. He looked him in the eye.
"Walk," Chen Yuan commanded, tapping the calf's flank with a switch.
Little Iron snorted, staring at Chen Yuan. He sensed the challenge. But he also sensed the Alpha. He stepped forward, walking calmly into the chute.
"See?" Chen Yuan said. "Respect, not force."
They checked his stool sample under the System's microscopic scan.
**[Parasite Load: 0%.]**
**[Status: Immune response high.]**
"He's clean," Chen Yuan said, releasing the calf. "His system is strong. The improved genetics are working."
Little Iron trotted out, kicking his heels, seemingly insulted by the indignity of the checkup.
---
Three days later, the smokehouse was opened.
The smell hit them first—rich, savory, woody. It clung to their clothes and made their stomachs growl.
Chen Yuan stepped inside. The air was cool and dry. Hanging from the rafters were dark, reddish-brown slabs of meat. A hard "pellicle" had formed on the outside, sealing in the moisture.
"Perfect," he breathed.
He took a knife and sliced a thin piece from the edge of the brisket.
The interior was a deep rose pink. The fat had turned translucent.
He tasted it.
The smoke hit first—cedar and earth. Then the salt and the tang of the pepper. Finally, the sweetness of the meat itself, concentrated by the drying process.
"It's... intense," Wang Shi said, tasting a piece. "Stronger than fresh meat."
"It's meant to be sliced thin," Chen Yuan said. "Eaten with congee or wine. It keeps for months."
He wrapped a portion of the brisket in oiled paper—the best cut, the "point end."
"Pack this," he ordered. "We're sending a gift."
---
The following afternoon, Chen Yuan rode Black Mountain into town.
He didn't go to the Magistrate's yamen—he couldn't just walk in. He went to the "Jade Pavilion," the most expensive restaurant in Qinghe.
The owner, a rotund man named Boss Qian, knew quality. And more importantly, he supplied the Magistrate's private banquets.
Chen Yuan walked in, carrying the wrapped package. He was dressed in his "Rancher" attire—boots, leather belt, a clean tunic. He looked like a successful merchant, not a peasant.
"I'm looking for Boss Qian," he told the waiter.
A moment later, the owner appeared. He looked Chen Yuan up and down, skeptical.
"Who are you?"
"I am Chen Yuan. From Willow Creek. I have a product you might be interested in."
"We have enough beef. The local stuff is tough. We only serve lamb and pork."
"This isn't local beef," Chen Yuan said. He placed the package on the counter. "This is 'Smoked Willow Creek Brisket'. Cured for three days in cedar smoke."
Boss Qian unwrapped the package. He sniffed.
His eyebrows rose. "Cedar? That's expensive wood."
"Taste it."
The owner took a slice. He chewed slowly. His eyes widened. He chewed faster, then swallowed.
"It's... tender. And the flavor..." He smacked his lips. "It's complex. Smoky, salty, sweet."
"I can supply this regularly," Chen Yuan said. "But there's a condition."
"Condition? You're selling to me, boy."
"I want this specific cut served at the Magistrate's table. And I want the Magistrate's son, Li Cheng, to know where it came from."
Boss Qian paused. He understood. This wasn't just a sales pitch; it was a political move.
"You're the one with the horses," Qian realized. "The one who threw the Young Master."
"I didn't throw him. The horse did. But I want to make amends. And I want to do business."
Qian laughed. "You have guts. Fine. I have a banquet for the Magistrate's family next week. If this meat holds up in a stir-fry or a cold platter... I'll put it on the menu. And I'll mention the name."
"Deal."
---
The verdict came three days later via a runner from the restaurant.
Boss Qian had served the brisket. Sliced thin, parboiled to remove excess salt, and then stir-fried with leeks and chili.
It had been a hit.
"The Magistrate praised the 'unique flavor'," the runner reported. "And Li Cheng... he asked for seconds. He said, 'This tastes like the wild'. Boss Qian told him it was from your ranch."
Chen Yuan let out a long breath.
"Good."
"There's more," the runner said, holding out a note. "From the Young Master."
Chen Yuan took the note. It was brief, written in a sharp, arrogant hand.
*The beef is acceptable. I will return next month to check on the saddle. Have it ready.*
*— L.C.*
Chen Yuan smiled. "Acceptable." In the language of the gentry, that was high praise.
He tucked the note into his pocket.
"He's hooked," Chen Yuan told Xu Tie.
"On the beef?"
"On the *idea* of the ranch. He thinks he's discovering us. Let him think that."
---
That evening, the family sat down to their own dinner.
The main dish was the "scraps" from the smoking process—the ends and bits that weren't pretty enough to sell.
Smoked beef and potato stew.
The meat was tough, requiring long boiling, but the flavor was deep and rich.
"It tastes like a feast," Hu said, mopping up the gravy with a bun.
"It tastes like survival," Chen Yuan corrected. "And profit."
He looked around the table. The ledger was balanced. The larder was full. The threats were being managed.
"Tomorrow," Chen Yuan said. "We start on the stable. I want real stalls. Iron bars. I'm tired of fixing fences after the horses lean on them."
"More digging?" Dahu groaned.
"More building," Chen Yuan grinned. "We're turning this mud pit into a stone fortress."
He raised his cup of tea.
"To the smoke. And the future."
"To the future!"