Three days had passed.
Arai Masaki didn't ask how long he could stay.
He simply worked.
Without being told.
The morning mist curled over the thatched roofs of the village as Arai stepped out from the shed, his hoodie finally dry, now folded beside his bedding. He wore a simple cloth shirt, gifted—grudgingly—by one of the villagers. It didn't fit perfectly, but it was clean.
He had swept the barn, patched a broken fence, and fetched water from the well—without a word, without complaint.
And now, he stood silently beside the old field, sleeves rolled to his elbows, waiting for someone to speak.
An elderly man with a crooked back and hands like leather turned to him. "You ain't like the other drifters."
"I don't know what I'm like," Arai replied calmly.
The old man snorted. "Least you don't talk much. That's a start."
He handed Arai a hoe.
By midday, Arai's back ached, and his palms were blistered.
But the rhythm of tilling the earth… reminded him of his morning runs.
Steady.
Deliberate.
Real.
Sweat mixed with dirt. Sunlight stung his neck.
But he didn't stop.
Children watched from a distance. The same girl who had brought him bread still lingered behind trees, her eyes curious but wary.
An old woman approached with a clay jug.
"You'll break yourself at that pace."
Arai paused, took the jug, drank slowly.
"…Thank you."
She squinted at him.
"You're too polite for someone who fell out of the sky."
Arai almost smiled.
But only almost.
Later that evening, as he sat beside the shed, arms resting on his knees, the village woman—the one who had first confronted him—approached again.
Her name, he'd learned, was Merta.
"You work," she said simply.
Arai nodded.
"I don't have anything else."
"…Where are you from?"
He hesitated. The truth itched at the edge of his throat.
"…Far away."
She didn't press.
Instead, she sat beside him—just for a moment.
Then: "There's a man who needs help chopping wood. He lost his son in the last harvest. Could use someone strong."
Arai nodded once. "Tell me where."
That night, as the village settled under moonlight, Arai wrote in his notebook. It wasn't the same as the one from his world—but a child had brought him a spare slate and chalk.
He wrote:
"Day three. The air here is heavier. But the people are the same. Hurt, cautious… but still living.""No magic. No answers. But this body can still move. That's enough."
At the edge of the village, two young boys whispered to each other.
"Is he a knight?"
"No, dummy. He doesn't have armor."
"Then why does he train when no one's looking?"
From afar, they watched Arai—shirt off, alone in the dark—moving through slow, disciplined motions in the empty field.
Each movement sharp. Controlled. Repetitive.
Knees bent. Fists tight. Breathing even.
Like a man trying to remember something his body used to know.
He wasn't chasing power.
He was chasing discipline.
Because that was the only thing he could carry from the world he lost.
Note: Tell me your tought,is the length of the chapter quite good?or it need to be extended?
What is the minimum and average desired word length?or maybe Is the plot development or storyline too fast?Please tell me
//warm greetings from me //