The morning sun rose slowly over the endless fields.
Hastur and Ban, half-awake and still sore from the day before, were suddenly jolted upright by a familiar roar.
— "Wake up, you two!" bellowed Doran. "Up and moving, now!"
Both boys scrambled to their feet.
Hastur rubbed his eyes and said politely,
— "Please, sir, call me Hastur."
Doran froze for a second, then smirked — and, without hesitation, knocked both their heads together with a loud clack!
— "If you've got time to talk, you've got time to work!" he barked. "Now, go to the fields and bring me back some potatoes! Ban, show the new kid around while you're at it. And remember…"
He paused, his expression suddenly darker.
— "Four hundred sixty-nine point five."
— "Yes, sir!" the boys replied in unison, still rubbing their bruised skulls.
---
Armed with baskets and a couple of shovels, the two boys made their way to the vast, misty fields that stretched far beyond sight.
The silence between them lingered until Hastur finally broke it.
— "You keep mentioning that number — 469.5. What does it mean?"
Ban stopped digging and looked at him with a strange expression — half amusement, half fear.
— "Ah, so you don't know, huh?" he said quietly. "Then listen carefully."
He leaned closer.
— "People say it's the master's lucky number. He was born on the 4th day of the 6th month, in the 9.5th year of the village's founding. His father left him exactly 469.5 kilohectares of land. He even sleeps for 469.5 minutes each night."
Ban paused, his tone dropping lower.
— "But that's just what people say."
The wind shifted, rustling the leaves.
He continued, almost whispering.
— "The truth is… no one dares to question that number. It's carved into the very bones of this land. Every worker who steps into these fields must follow the rhythm of 469.5 — their steps, their breathing, even the way they plant the seeds. Those who forget… vanish."
Hastur's hand froze on his shovel.
— "Van—vanish? What do you mean?"
Ban looked away, unease flashing in his eyes.
— "No one knows where they go. Maybe beneath the soil, maybe somewhere worse. Some say the master made a pact long ago — a curse disguised as a ritual. As long as we obey the number… the soil stays fertile. The crops grow. But if anyone breaks the cycle…"
He looked down at the earth beneath them.
— "…then the fields remember."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the rhythmic creak of the windmill in the distance.
---
By sunset, both boys had finished their work.
They carefully counted their steps back — exactly 469.5 — before returning to the house.
For some reason, neither dared to take one step more.