A few days pass, and the construction site settles into a fragile rhythm.
From a distance, it almost looks organized.
At the edge of the clearing sits the overseers' station—a raised wooden platform shaded by an awning. Cushioned seats. A low table cluttered with scrolls, lacquered cups, and half-eaten snacks. Two armored samurai stand at either side like decorative statues, spears grounded, expressions bored. Behind the platform, a hunched note-taker kneels with ink-stained fingers, scribbling whenever he's told to.
The overseers themselves lounge like nobles at a garden party.
One reclines sideways, idly fanning himself while biting into a piece of fruit. The other rests his chin in his palm, watching the workers with distant amusement, occasionally barking an order more for show than purpose.
And below them—
Chaos in slow motion.
"T-that beam is m-misaligned," Natsuo says, his voice a soft, tentative thread against the roar of the site. He gestures toward a massive timber frame where a group of men are straining, their faces flushed with a dangerous, uneven effort. "If you shift the b-base two fingers to the left, the w-weight will—"
"We got it," one of the men snaps, cutting him off without so much as a glance. The rejection is sharp, meant to sting. "Like you know anything."
Natsuo flinches, his shoulders drawing inward, but he offers a practiced, submissive bow. "O-of course. I'm sorry."
He moves on, his boots crunching over the wood shavings and dry earth. Near the tree line, his eyes catch on a stack of timber positioned at a precarious angle. It is a disaster waiting for a catalyst; one wrong pull from the rigging and the entire load will thunder down the slope.
Natsuo doesn't hesitate. He turns and walks straight toward the overseers' platform.
"E-excuse me," he says, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly brushes his knees. "The t-timber near the e-eastern ridge is unstable. If it c-collapses, several workers could be i-injured. We should redirect m-manpower immediately."
One of the overseers barely acknowledges his existence. He idly pops a grape into his mouth, the skin bursting with a faint thwip. "Hm? Is that so?"
"Yes, s-sir."
The second overseer scoffs, leaning back into his cushions with an air of profound boredom. "You worry too much. Wood falls. Men move. That's construction."
"The i-incline makes collapse extremely l-likely," Natsuo presses, his hands fisted at his sides as he tries to maintain his composure. "I can show y-you the stress points—"
"And I can show you your place," the man snaps, finally fixing a cold, sharp gaze on him. "You speak when spoken to. Not before."
The armored samurai flanking the table remain as still. Behind them, the note-taker's brush never stops its rhythmic scratching against the scroll.
The first overseer sighs with dramatic fatigue. "If you're so concerned, go handle it yourself. Isn't that what you like to do? Play hero among the peasants?"
A ripple of quiet, cruel laughter spreads across the platform like a breeze through dry grass. Natsuo remains in his bow, his face hidden from their mockery.
"Y-Yes, sir," he murmurs.
He turns and leaves, heading straight for the ridge. His sleeves are rolled high, exposing arms already mapped with bruises and fresh scrapes. He wedges his aching body into the gap beside some struggling workers, his shoulder pressing against the rough, weeping bark of the timber.
"W-wait—if we brace it here, and relieve the p-pressure—"
It is grueling, awkward work. The wood groans, a deep, structural protest that vibrates through his bones. It is dangerous; a single slip of the foot and the slope will claim him. But he stays, heaving until his breath comes in ragged gasps, and the collapse never comes.
The day grinds on. When a supply line stalls because the wrong materials were delivered to the wrong station, the overseers are too busy debating the merits of their midday meal to notice. Natsuo simply reroutes it, hauling crates until the flow of the site resumes its pulse.
A pulley jams later that afternoon. The overseers bark insults from the shade, blaming the workers for their incompetence. Natsuo climbs the rigging. He works the mechanism, his fingers slick with grease and then with blood as the metal bites into his palms, until the tension line finally snaps back into place.
By midday, exhaustion has carved deep lines into his face, mapping a weariness that goes beyond the physical. Yet, the site is still standing.
And no one thanks him.
"Doesn't matter how hard he works," a villager mutters, stepping over a pile of sawdust as Natsuo passes. "He's still one of them."
From the safety of the platform, an overseer watches Natsuo wipe a fresh smear of blood from his palm onto his tunic. The man laughs quietly into his silk sleeve, his eyes crinkling with a polished, wicked amusement.
"Look at him," he murmurs to his companion. "Trying so hard to belong."
The note-taker finally glances up from his scroll, his expression uneasy, his brush hovering mid-stroke as he watches the scene below.
Down in the dirt, Natsuo bends his back once more to lift a fallen beam. He exists in a lonely vacuum—ignored by the men who command him and resented by the people he saves.
And still, he does not stop.
Banri notices it at first the way you notice a bruise forming—subtle, easy to miss, but wrong all the same.
He is hauling planks across the clearing when the laughter drifts down from the platform. It isn't the tired, fleeting kind that shared by men in the trenches of hard labor; it is the lazy kind. The kind that comes from silk cushions and a full stomach.
Banri's eyes lift just in time to see one of the overseers flick a grape into the air and catch it in his mouth.
And below them—Natsuo.
He is bent over a warped support beam, his hands trembling with the effort of trying to realign the heavy timber alone. The workers nearby hover in a circle of calculated indifference, pretending to be occupied with tangled ropes or phantom measurements, doing anything to avoid offering a hand.
Banri sets his planks down, the wood hitting the dirt with a dull thud as he prepares to move in.
Natsuo strains. The beam shifts a agonizing inch—then slips.
It slams into the dirt with a heavy crack that echoes through the clearing. A sharp, pained breath cuts from Natsuo's lungs as the wooden edge catches his shin on the way down. He stumbles back, his heels skidding in the grit, his body nearly giving way to the momentum.
One of the overseers leans forward, a wide, spiteful grin splitting his face.
"Oy, careful there, Advisor," he calls out, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Wouldn't want you hurting yourself doing real work."
A ripple of laughter sweeps across the platform. The samurai stand like unmoving iron, their stares fixed on the horizon, and the note-taker's brush continues its scratching, apathetic rhythm.
Natsuo bows. Even with his leg shaking visibly beneath him, he forces his spine to bend.
"I-I'm sorry," he murmurs to the dirt. "That was c-careless of me."
Banri's hands curl into hard, white-knuckled fists at his sides. The air feels thick, charged with a sudden, ugly heat.
"That's what happens when nobles play laborer," a worker nearby mutters, loud enough to carry.
"If he breaks a leg, maybe they'll finally send him back where he belongs," another snorts, kicking at a pile of shavings.
Natsuo straightens his back. His face is a ghostly pale, the skin pulled tight over his cheekbones, but he offers a small, tragic nod to the men who resent him.
"I'll—um—I'll adjust the a-angle and try again," he says, reaching once more for the heavy wood.
That is when Banri moves.
He crosses the clearing in long, furious strides, his sandals kicking up clouds of dust.
"HEY."
The word cracks through the noise of the site like a snapped board. Every head turns. The rhythmic thud of mallets falters; the grinding of the saw stops. Banri plants himself firmly beside Natsuo, one foot deliberately stepped on top of the fallen beam.
"You wanna say that again?" he snaps, his eyes locked on the worker who had just spoken.
The man stiffens, his bravado evaporating as he looks into Banri's face. "I—I was just—"
"And you." Banri whirls toward the platform, his finger leveled straight at the lounging overseer. "You think this is funny?! You've been sitting on your rear all day while he's been fixing your mistakes!"
The overseer blinks, stunned for a heartbeat by the audacity—then he laughs, a dry, rattling sound. "You speak out of turn, boy."
Banri takes a step forward, his chest heaving. Before he can close the distance, Natsuo's fingers catch his wrist, gripping his skin tight.
"B-Banri, please—d-don't—"
Banri looks back at him, his eyes blazing with a protective, helpless heat. "Why would you protect them?"
The platform erupts. The lazy atmosphere vanishes, replaced by a sharp tension.
"Watch your tone!"
"Samurai—!"
Steel shifts. One of the guards moves a single, practiced step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. The overseer rises slowly to his feet, the silk of his robes whispering as he straightens.
"You forget your place," the official says, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low hum.
Banri bares his teeth, his jaw set. "No. I remember it just fine. It's you who forgot yours."
For one awful second, the air in the clearing feels like it's about to ignite. The workers hold their breath; the note-taker's brush finally goes still. Then, Natsuo steps fully in front of Banri, his small frame acting as a barrier.
He bows.
It is a deep, agonizingly submissive gesture—deeper than any he has offered before.
"I a-apologize," Natsuo says quietly. His voice is steady, a stark contrast to the tremors in his hands. "My friend s-spoke out of concern for the w-workers, not disrespect. If p-punishment is required... p-please direct it at me."
Banri's breath catches in his throat. He stares at the back of Natsuo's neck, the sight of his friend's humility hitting him hard.
The overseer stares down at the top of Natsuo's head, a slow, ugly smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "How noble," he murmurs. "Very well. Since you enjoy suffering so much... you'll personally oversee the southern framework tonight. Alone."
A deliberate pause hangs over the site. The southern framework is a poor caricature of a wall, an unstable omnishambles, especially after dark. A murmur ripples through the crowd. Banri lunges forward again, his temper snapping—
Natsuo extends an arm in front of Banri, obstructing his war path, his resolve iron-clad. "I a-accept," Natsuo says.
The overseer's smile widens into something truly cold. "Good."
The officials settle back into their cushions as if the world hasn't just tilted on its axis. The crowd slowly turns away, the spell of the confrontation broken. Work resumes—the hammers fall, the saws scream—but Banri doesn't move. He stands in the dirt, watching the man he tried to defend return to the fallen beam.
Banri stares at Natsuo in disbelief, his chest still heaving from the adrenaline that has nowhere to go. The silence between them is heavy, punctured only by the distant, indifferent sounds of the rest of the site returning to its labor.
"...Why do you keep doing this to yourself?" Banri's voice is a low, fractured whisper.
Natsuo doesn't look up immediately. He remains focused on the dirt, his fingers curling around the rough bark of the beam as if searching for a way to begin again. Finally, he forces a shaky, pale smile.
"Because... s-someone has to keep t-things from falling apart."
Banri looks down. His gaze tracks the darkening purple of the bruise blooming on Natsuo's shin, the way the blood from his palms has begun to dry into the cracks of his skin, and the stubborn, weary tilt of his bowed head.
The heat of his fury evaporates, leaving behind a cold, hollow realization that settles in his gut like lead. He isn't angry anymore, just worried, as he watches Natsuo—who is already bracing his shoulder against the timber to try once more—Banri grabs the other end.
"Well, that someone doesn't have to do everything by himself."
By the time the sun begins to slump toward the tree line, the worksite is a patchwork of exhaustion and dust. One by one, tools are set down. Workers stretch cramped fingers and aching backs. Low voices murmur about supper, about sore shoulders, about going home.
Natsuo stands by as the overseers finally descend from their shaded perch. The silk of their robes rustles, a sound of unearned luxury that cuts through the settling dust of the construction site.
One of them pauses, adjusting his sleeves with a slow, deliberate arrogance. He casts a lazy, disinterested glance at the half-finished structure, his eyes tracking the uneven lines of the beams.
"You," he says, the word flat and devoid of any recognition of Natsuo's name or title. "If that framework still isn't aligned to my liking, I'll make sure Ishida-dono hears about today's transgressions."
The second overseer chuckles softly, a dry sound that catches in the evening air.
Natsuo hesitates for only a second, his shadow stretching long and thin across the dirt. He bows, his spine curving into the familiar, submissive arc. "Y-yes, sir. I'll s-see to it."
The overseers don't wait to see him move. They turn on their heels, their heavy wooden clogs clacking against the earth as they march toward the waiting carriage. The armored samurai step aside with synchronized precision, allowing the doors to shut with a heavy, final thud that echoes against the trees.
The horses jerk forward, the harness bells jingling as the carriage pulls away.
Inside, cushioned by layers of silk and the fading glow of the dusk, one of the overseers scoffs. He pours himself a fresh cup of sake, the liquid sloshing gently with the motion of the wheels.
"Do you really think he'll stay and work?"
The other man laughs quietly, leaning back into the headrest. "Of course he will. You honestly think he'll ever grow a backbone?"
The carriage rattles over the uneven stones of the mountain road, leaving the site behind.
"Just don't forget the scribe's payment," the first adds, tapping his lacquered cup against the carriage wall for emphasis. "We still don't want any of this getting back to the magistrate. No matter how much of a weakling he is... he's still higher ranked than us."
The second overseer grimaces, the sour taste of the reminder ruining his momentary satisfaction.
"Ugh. Don't remind me."
They drink in the gathering dark, the sake cold and sharp. Outside, the carriage disappears down the winding road, swallowed by a cloud of rising dust and the flickering, fading light of paper lamps.
***
Back at the worksite, the clearing begins to empty. The last few voices call out, wishing Banri a goodnight before their footsteps fade into the distance. One by one, the workers leave until only one remains.
Natsuo stands alone beneath the unfinished frame. His sleeves are rolled high, his hands aching with a dull, throbbing heat, as the massive weight of the timber looms over him like a silent judge.
The sudden clatter of tools hitting the earth startles him. Banri drops his gear beside Natsuo's, his face set in a look of grim determination.
"What are y-you doing?" Natsuo asks softly, his eyes wide.
Banri wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, his breathing already heavy. "Staying."
"You d-don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." Banri grins, that familiar, stubborn spark returning to his eyes. "This is my fault, remember? I ran my mouth at the overseers. If anyone's getting punished, it should be me."
Natsuo's throat tightens, a lump forming that makes it hard to swallow. "B-Banri... th-thank you. Truly. But y-you can go home. I'll be a-all right."
Banri plants his feet, solid as the mountain itself. "Nope. Not happening."
They work together in the deepening dusk. The sound of wood rasping against wood and the rhythmic tightening of hemp rope fills the silence. They heave in unison, inching the beams into place as time blurs into a cycle of aching arms and quiet, shared breaths.
Then, a shadow falls over them, tall and imposing. Daiji's voice cuts through the air, flat and entirely unimpressed.
"You guys are idiots."
Banri brightens instantly, dropping his side of the rope. "Oh, Niisan! Are you here to—"
He doesn't get to finish. Daiji's arm snaps around Banri's neck in a rough, practiced headlock, crushing him against his side and dragging him backward across the dirt.
"—HEY, LET GO!" Banri flails, his sandals scraping uselessly against the ground. "Daiji! I can't leave him here by himself! I'm the reason he's getting punished!"
Natsuo spins around, his heart hammering against his ribs in a sudden panic. "D-Daiji, please—!"
Daiji doesn't even look at him. His focus remains fixed on the road ahead. "You really think those overseers would notice if he stayed or left?" he snaps. "They don't pay attention to anything around here. Not you, not him, not the work."
He tightens his grip, hauling a protesting Banri another few steps away from the frame.
"And if your precious friend is dumb enough to think this little display matters," Daiji adds, his voice cutting and cold, "that's on him."
Banri struggles harder, his face turning a frustrated shade of red. "You're—you're wrong! This isn't fair and you know it!"
Daiji snorts, a sound of pure mockery. "Life isn't fair, dumbass. Be happy you've got me to think for you," he mutters. He finally glances over his shoulder at Natsuo, his eyes sharp and unreadable in the moonlight. With one last brutal tug, he wrenches Banri free of the site and hauls him toward the village road, Banri's protests fading into the dark until they are nothing but echoes.
Natsuo stands frozen beneath the half-finished wall. The ropes creak softly in the rising wind, a lonely, rhythmic sound. He slowly lowers his hands, the silence of the clearing pressing in on him from all sides.
Then, he goes back to work.
The rope bites into his calloused palms, the rough fibers stinging his open cuts, but the pain is grounded—it is real. It is better than the hollow, cold ache that settles in his chest whenever he looks at the overseers' platform.
Just a few more inches, he tells himself, his boots slipping in the cooling mud as he puts his entire weight into the pull. A few more inches and the frame holds. If the frame holds, the roof goes up. If the roof goes up, the village stays.
He thinks of the Bugyosho's study—the smell of expensive incense and the cold, scratching sound of a brush marking a 'Dissolve' status on a map. To the Magistrate, this land is a debt. To Natsuo, this land is the smell of Genjiro's tea, the sound of Banri's laugh and the memory of a woman's hand smoothing his hair before the world turned to rack and ruin.
They don't have to love me, he thinks, leaning his weight against the stubborn timber. They can hate the robes I wear. They can resent the way I speak. As long as they are still here to hate me tomorrow. The wind shivers through the framework, and for a moment, he feels the crushing isolation of his position. He is a bridge that both sides are trying to burn.
He looks at his hands—bleeding, trembling, stained with the same dirt as the men who just mocked him. He isn't playing a part, and he isn't looking for a "thank you." He is a man trying to hold back a flood with his bare hands, praying that no one notices the crack in the dam until it's too late.
***
The sun crests the ridge, casting long, sharp shadows through the clearing and illuminating the framework. It stands perfectly aligned, the joinery tight and the bracing secure—a silent testament to a night of grueling, solitary labor.
And slumped at its base, fast asleep against the timber, is Natsuo.
For a long moment, no one speaks. The early morning air is cold, and the sight of the finished work holds the gathering crowd in a tense, brittle silence.
Then the murmurs start.
"Look at that. Can't even let a man finish his own work without coming behind and 'fixing' it," one man spits, his voice low and jagged.
"Wants to make sure we know exactly how much better he is than us, doesn't he?" another adds.
None of the words carry admiration. There is no awe for the feat, only a mounting, suffocating bitterness.
To them, the finished wall is not a gift; it is a silent reprimand.
At the edge of the crowd, Daiji stands leaning against a stack of crates, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He doesn't join the bitter murmurs, yet he doesn't move to silence them, either. His dark eyes shift from the perfection of the finished wall to Natsuo's slumped, sleeping form, his expression an unreadable mask.
Banri arrives late, jogging up the path with hurried breath, his hair messy from frustration. He slows when he hears the low rumble of the crowd, confusion knitting his brow. He pushes through the wall of bodies, his eyes searching—and then he sees it.
He sees the wall. Then he sees Natsuo.
Banri's face drains of color, leaving him looking suddenly hollow. He pushes through the final line of villagers and drops to the ground beside his friend. To him, the wall isn't a miracle or a calculated insult—it is just more evidence that Natsuo doesn't know how to survive without breaking himself into pieces.
"Natsuo—! I was looking everywhere for you."
Banri shakes him gently, then harder, his hands hovering over the fresh scrapes on Natsuo's arms. "I can't believe you didn't go home last night—!"
Natsuo stirs with a faint, pained groan. His lashes flutter, his eyes unfocused and bloodshot as he tries to pull himself back from the depths of exhaustion.
"B-Banri...?"
He blinks up at him, confusion melting into shame almost immediately. "I'm s-sorry," he whispers hoarsely. "I d-didn't mean to cause you t-trouble."
Banri's jaw tightens. "This is my fault," he mutters. "I shouldn't have let Daiji drag me away last night. I should've stayed."
He offers an arm. "Come on. Up."
Natsuo takes the offered appendage with unsteady hands. As he shifts to rise, a weight he hadn't fully registered slips from his shoulders.
A blanket.
It slides softly to the dirt at his feet, the heavy fabric pooling in the dust. Natsuo freezes, his gaze fixed on the material. He bends, gathering it with hands that suddenly seem more careful than they were with the timber.
"Ah—thank you, Banri," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't realize you covered me."
Banri blinks, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion as he looks from the blanket to Natsuo. "I... didn't. I just got here, remember?"
Natsuo's breath catches in his throat. He looks closer at what he is holding. It is irregularly sewn, heavy, and made of an unfamiliar fabric lined with fur—entirely unlike the coarse, dyed hemp used by the villagers. As he draws it closer, the scent hits him: a faint wisp of wisteria.
The plums left on his windowsill.
The soft, ethereal voice.
An understanding settles slowly in his chest, a quiet warmth that has nothing to do with the morning sun.
"I see..." he murmurs, his thumb brushing the edge of the fur.
He doesn't toss it aside or drape it back over his shoulders. Instead, he folds the blanket with deliberate, reverent care, smoothing out the wrinkles before setting it atop a nearby crate, safely tucked away from the mud and the prying, bitter eyes of the village.
The rumble of wheels announces the overseers' arrival just as the sun begins to bite. They step from the carriage with leisurely stretches, sharing a private joke that punctuates the morning air. They head straight for their shaded station, settling into their cushioned seats, reaching for refreshments—never once casting a glance toward the southern framework that stands perfectly aligned behind them.
Natsuo straightens his weary spine and approaches, his shadow falling short against the dais as he bows. "G-Good morning. If I may ask—w-what will be today's focus?"
One overseer waves a hand lazily, dismissing the question before it fully lands. "Finish what wasn't done yesterday."
The other smirks, leaning back and cradling a lacquered cup. "Unless you'd like to check the plans and enlighten us, Advisor."
Natsuo hesitates, then carefully unrolls the heavy parchment. His eyes scan the ink, his lips parting as he reads through the technical requirements. "The eastern s-support braces are s-still incomplete, the d-drainage trench on the north side h-hasn't been dug, and—"
"Enough," one snaps, his posture shifting from lazy to sharp. He leans forward, his eyes narrowing. "Why are there so many open-ended projects?"
"I—I, w-well—"
The second overseer cuts him off, his voice dripping with a polished, venal harshness. "So you failed to make sure any of it was finished. What exactly is your job here, Natsuo-sama?"
The title burns with mockery, a verbal lash that makes the workers nearby snicker into their sleeves.
"Go," the first says with a dismissive flick of his fingers. "See that those things are done."
Natsuo bows deeply, his forehead nearly touching the dirt. "Yes, s-sir."
For the next hour, he is a ghost in constant motion. He moves nonstop, redirecting apathetic workers, fetching heavy tools, and rechecking measurements with eyes that struggle to stay in focus. He corrects the angles of the braces, his fingers fumbling with the twine. His steps grow heavy, his breathing ragged.
When his knees finally buckle, Banri is there, catching him by the shoulders before he can hit the hard-packed earth.
"That's it," Banri snaps, his voice cracking with a protective fury. "You're sitting. Now."
He half-drags Natsuo toward the overseers' station, ignoring the startled looks of the guards, and lowers him gently onto the edge of the wooden platform.
One of the overseers squints at them, his cup frozen halfway to his lips. "What's this about?"
Banri doesn't bow. He doesn't soften his voice or hide the fire in his eyes.
"He worked through the night," Banri says, his jaw clamped tight. "He finished the wall by himself. And now he's doing the rest of your work, too."
The overseers finally turn. They look past Banri, their eyes landing on the southern framework. For once, the mask of boredom slips. Their eyes widen, tracing the impossible progress—the perfectly notched joints and the heavy beams raised by a single pair of hands.
Then—the air in the station shifts.
The first overseer's surprise doesn't turn into admiration; it turns into a exploitive kind of satisfaction. He lets out a slow, oily laugh, fanning himself with renewed vigor.
"Ah. Yes," he says, his voice smoothing over the truth like silk over a blade. "I did suggest he reinforce that section yesterday. I'm glad to see he followed my instructions so... literally."
The second nods, catching the thread instantly. He leans back, looking at the wall as if he had cut the wood himself. "Naturally. An accomplishment guided by our hand. It's good to know our 'Counsel' is finally showing some return."
Banri stares at them in disbelief.
The overseer turns back to Natsuo. "You may remain seated there today. You've proven quite... capable of handling matters." He then turns back to his partner with a cunning look on his face.
"I just remembered, something important had arisen back at the capital and we are needed in attendance." The other overseer smirks.
"Ah, you are correct," the first overseer says, his voice a smooth, terrifyingly pleasant lilt. "The thought almost slipped my mind."
They rise from their cushions in unison, the movement fluid and mocking. They are already done with him.
Natsuo watches them, a cold realization sinking into the pit of his stomach. He is being punished by praise.
They turn toward the waiting carriage, brushing crumbs from their silk sleeves as though the entire matter is settled. Banri steps forward before he can stop himself, his face flushed with outrage.
"What—you're leaving?!" Banri's voice cracks the quiet of the station. "You just got here—"
The first overseer snaps his head back sharply, his eyes like flint. "That is not a question for someone of your standing to ask."
The other chuckles, slipping past the guard with an easy grin. "Let us just say we are off to inform Ishida-dono about how exceptional Natsuo-sama's management has been."
They both laugh as they step into the carriage, a light, careless sound that cuts deeper than any lash. The door shuts and the carriage begins to roll away, the horses' hooves kicking up a screen of dust.
Banri's hand curls into a fist so tight his knuckles blanch. His whole body trembles with a barely leashed fury, his gaze fixed on the retreating wheels. Before he can take a single step forward, before the shout in his throat can break free—
Natsuo grips his arm.
"Banri," he says softly. "I-It's... it's o-okay."
Banri spins on him, his eyes wide and frantic. "No! It's not!"
Natsuo's grip tightens just enough to anchor him. His voice is quiet, steady in a way it rarely ever is, lacking its usual tremor. "Please. Don't."
The two of them stand there in the shadow of the platform, locked in silence for a long, aching breath. Around them, the village workers watch with cold, distant eyes.
Then Banri exhales hard and looks away. "Fine," he mutters. "I won't push it. Not today at least."
He kneels beside Natsuo, lowering his voice.
"You rest. I'll help however I can. Wherever you point me."
Natsuo's shoulders finally sag in relief. "Thank y-you..."
Banri turns towards the workers and they're already watching.
Some with doubt.
Some with anger.
And a few, quietly... with worry.
He steps up onto a half-stacked crate so his voice can carry.
"Alright, listen up!" he calls.
The workers slow. Some turn. Others pretend not to hear.
"The overseers left," Banri says plainly, his voice projecting over the clearing. "But let's be honest—they never lifted a finger anyway. So don't panic just because they're gone."
A low, skeptical rumble moves through the crowd like a coming storm. Banri doesn't flinch. He gestures toward Natsuo, who remains seated at the edge of the station, his frame small and drained of color against the massive wooden pillars.
"He's still here."
That gets a reaction. It's sharp and immediate.
"You mean he's in charge now?" a man scoffs from the back, wiping grease onto a stained rag.
"I'm not taking orders from the magistrate's pampered pup!" another mutters, and the sentiment ripples through the front line of laborers.
Banri's jaw tightens, his pulse visible in his neck. He doesn't yell—he doesn't have to. The sheer conviction in his stance holds them.
"He's technically always been in charge," Banri says, his voice cutting through the grumbles. "The only reason this place hasn't collapsed in on itself is because Natsuo's been running it behind the scenes while those idiots ate sweets and took naps."
More voices rise, overlapping in a chaotic wave of dissent.
"You talk like he's any better. He's one of them!"
"He's just here to watch us crawl!"
Banri looks out over the sea of resentful faces. Beside him, Natsuo looks up, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and a burgeoning, quiet resolve.
Banri points sharply at the half-finished structures.
"Look around you. The beams are straight. The foundations are solid. That wall back there? Built last night. Alone. You guys should really stop giving him a hard time," Banri continues, voice steady yet cutting. "and admit the truth. This project keeps goin' because of him. So if you've got a problem, come to me. And if I can't handle it, I'll ask him."
The workers grumble, still refusing to cave into the logic.
Then, a heavy thud echoes as Daiji drops a pile of lumber near the foundation.
"Enough," Daiji growls, his voice low and irritated.
He turns a cold, sharp gaze toward the villagers who are still muttering. "You want to stand here and cry about who's 'in charge'? Fine. Do it at home."
He walks over to the wall Natsuo finished during the night. He runs a calloused hand over the wood, his eyes narrowing as he inspects the precision of the joints. A flicker of something—not admiration, but a dark sort of annoyance—crosses his face.
"The wall is straight," Daiji says, spitting the words out like they taste bitter. "The foundations are set. I don't care whose 'lapdog' he is. I'm not losing a day's ration because of you lot."
He picks up his mallet and points it toward the northern trench. "Pick up your tools. Now."
It isn't a defense of Natsuo. It's an ultimatum.
A few villagers shift uncomfortably. Hiroto clicks his tongue, but even he doesn't argue with Daiji.
The rest of the day passes without incident.
Small problems—Banri handles with loud confidence and restless energy. Bigger decisions—load distribution, spacing measurements, shoring the weakened joints—filter naturally back to Natsuo. And when his breath steadies and the ache in his limbs dulls enough, he rises from his seat and returns to the work with quiet determination.
No one cheers.
But no one fights it either.
By late afternoon, the frame stands taller than it did that morning. The light catches on fresh wood. Sweat-soaked workers stretch sore backs and roll tired shoulders.
It ends... on a high note.
Even if a few refuse to admit it.
Tools are set down. Buckets emptied. The crowd thins as people drift back toward the village in loose clusters.
Banri catches up beside Natsuo at the edge of the site. "You good walking home?" he asks, trying to sound casual.
Natsuo nods, hugging the folded blanket to his chest. "Y-yes. Thank you... for e-everything today."
Banri grins. "Anytime, boss." Then, softer, "Get some real rest, yeah?"
Natsuo smiles faintly, bows, and turns toward home.
***
The village is painted gold with dying sunlight when it happens.
A hand seizes his collar, wrenching him backward.
Natsuo barely has time to gasp before his spine slams into the rough wooden siding of a storehouse. The world blurs into a haze of gold dust and pain.
The blanket—the weight of that cool, flower-scented fur—slips from his fingers and falls into the dirt at his feet.
"Don't think today meant anything," Hiroto says, his voice a cutting through the air like a jagged blade. "They only listened because of Banri and Daiji. You? You're just the shadow they walk over."
Natsuo's hands tremble, his fingers clawing at the wood behind him to stay upright. "I—I only w-want the work to—"
"Nothing has changed," Hiroto cuts him off, stepping closer until Natsuo can smell the stale sweat and salt on him. "You're still filth. You'll always be filth." His lip curls in a sneer of pure, visceral disgust. "The only difference is that I can't seem to wash my hands of you."
He shoves Natsuo. Hard.
Natsuo stumbles, but as he falls, his eyes don't stay on Hiroto—they go to the dirt. He twists his body mid-air, ignoring the way his shoulder hits the ground and reaches out a frantic hand to scoop the blanket toward his chest before it can be trampled.
A kick comes next—a sharp, heavy crack against his ribs.
Natsuo wheezes, the air driven from his lungs in a silent scream, but he doesn't let go. He curls his spine around the bundle, tucking his chin down, shielding the soft blanket beneath his own bruised body like it's the only thing in the village worth saving.
Hiroto doesn't look back as he walks away, his heavy sandals fading into the distance.
Dust drifts in the fading light. The sounds of the village—the clatter of supper dishes, the distant laughter of children—go on as if the world hasn't just fractured in this narrow alley.
Slowly, shakily, Natsuo uncurls. He doesn't check his own ribs first. He runs a trembling, blood-stained palm over the blanket, brushing away the grit and the dust with a desperate, rhythmic intensity.
"I'm s-sorry," he whispers into the fabric, his voice breaking. "I'm s-sorry."
He pulls it back to his chest, clutching it so tight his knuckles turn white, and for a long moment, he doesn't move at all.
Natsuo makes it home long after the sun has slipped behind the hills.
The door slides shut behind him with a hollow, familiar sound. Inside, the house is dim and still, only the faint creak of cooling wood.
He sets the blanket carefully on his futon.
Then he turns and steps into the narrow stretch of earth behind his home.
The air is cool now. Crickets sing where the heat of the day once lingered. The small patch of soil near the wall is undisturbed—except for the tiny mound where the seed was buried.
Natsuo kneels.
For a long moment, he just stares at it.
Then he takes the ladle from beside the basin, dips it into the remaining water, and lets a thin stream pour gently over the soil.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"I don't k-know if y-you'll grow," he murmurs quietly, more to himself than to the earth. "But... I hope y-you do."
The soil darkens as it drinks.
He stays there on his knees far longer than necessary. The chill seeps through his clothes. His ribs ache where the kick landed and his hands tremble as the day finally catches up with him.