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 gently to a group struggling with a frame. "If you shift the b-base two fingers to the left, the w-weight will—"
"We got it," one man cuts in sharply, not even looking at him. "Like you know anything."
Natsuo flinches—but bows. "O-Of course. I'm sorry."
He moves on.
Near the tree line, a load of timber is stacked improperly. One wrong pull could send it all crashing down the slope. Natsuo spots it instantly.
He walks straight to the platform.
"E-Excuse me," he says, bowing deeply. "The t-timber near the eastern ridge is unstable. If it c-collapses, several workers could be i-injured. We should redirect m-manpower immediately."
One overseer barely glances at him.
"Hm?" He pops a grape into his mouth. "Is that so?"
"Yes, s-sir."
The second overseer scoffs. "You worry too much. Wood falls. Men move. That's construction."
"The i-incline makes collapse extremely l-likely," Natsuo presses, trying to stay steady. "I can show y-you the stress—"
"And I can show you your place," the man snaps, finally turning his eyes on him. "You advise when spoken to. Not before."
The samurai don't move.
The note-taker doesn't look up.
The first overseer sighs dramatically. "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 laughter spreads across the platform.
Natsuo bows again, deeply. "Y-yes, sir."
He leaves.
Minutes later, he's back on the ridge, sleeves rolled, pushing his aching body into place beside startled workers.
"W-wait—if we brace it here, and relieve the pressure—"
It's hard.
It's awkward.
It's dangerous.
But the collapse never comes.
Later, a supply line stalls because the wrong materials were delivered to the wrong station.
The overseers are busy arguing about lunch.
Natsuo reroutes it.
A pulley jams.
The overseers blame the workers.
Natsuo fixes the tension line with bleeding hands.
By midday, exhaustion lines his face—but the site is still standing.
And no one thanks him.
A villager mutters as he passes, "Doesn't matter how hard he works. He's still one of them."
From the platform, an overseer watches Natsuo wipe blood from his palm and laughs quietly into his sleeve.
"Look at him," he murmurs. "Trying so hard to belong."
The note-taker finally glances up, uneasy.
Below them, Natsuo bends again to lift a fallen beam—ignored by those who command, resented by those he saves.
And still—
He doesn't stop.
Banri notices it at first the way you notice a bruise forming—subtle, easy to miss, but wrong all the same.
He's hauling planks across the clearing when he hears laughter from the platform. Not the tired, fleeting kind that drifts through hard labor—but the lazy kind. The kind that comes from comfort.
His eyes lift just in time to see one of the overseers flick a grape into his mouth.
And below them—
Natsuo.
Bent over a warped support beam, hands trembling as he tries to realign it alone. The workers nearby hover awkwardly, pretending to be busy with anything but helping him.
Banri sets his planks down, preparing to help.
Natsuo strains. The beam shifts an inch—then slips.
It slams into the dirt with a heavy crack.
A sharp breath cuts from Natsuo's lungs as the edge catches his shin. He stumbles back, nearly falling.
One of the overseers leans forward, grinning.
"Oy, careful there, Advisor. Wouldn't want you hurting yourself doing real work."
Laughter ripples across the platform.
The samurai don't react.
The note-taker keeps writing.
Natsuo bows—still bowing, even with his leg shaking.
"I-I'm sorry. That was c-careless of me."
Banri's hands curl into fists.
A worker nearby mutters, not quietly enough, "That's what happens when nobles play laborer."
Another snorts. "If he breaks a leg maybe they'll send him back where he belongs."
Natsuo straightens, face pale—but he still nods.
"I'll—um—I'll adjust the a-angle and try again."
That's when Banri moves.
He crosses the clearing in long, furious strides.
"HEY."
The word cracks through the noise like a snapped board.
Every head turns.
Banri plants himself beside Natsuo, one foot deliberately in front of the fallen beam.
"You wanna say that again?" he snaps, eyes locked on the worker who spoke.
The man stiffens. "I—I was just—"
"And you," Banri whirls on the platform, pointing 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, surprised—then laughs.
"You speak out of turn, boy."
Banri takes a step forward.
Natsuo grabs his sleeve.
"B-Banri, please—don't—"
Banri looks back at him, eyes blazing.
"Why would you protect them?"
The platform erupts.
"Watch your tone!"
"Samurai—!"
Steel shifts as one of the guards moves a step.
The overseer rises slowly to his feet.
"You forget your place."
Banri bares his teeth. "No. I remember it just fine. It's you who forgot yours."
For one awful second, it feels like it's all about to explode.
Then—
Natsuo steps fully in front of Banri.
He bows.
Deep.
Deeper than ever before.
"I a-apologize," he says quietly, voice steady despite everything. "My friend s-spoke out of concern for the w-workers, not disrespect. If punishment is r-required... p-please direct it at me."
Banri's breath catches.
The overseer stares down at Natsuo, then smirks.
"How noble," he murmurs. "Very well. Since you enjoy suffering so much... you'll personally oversee the southern framework tonight. Alone."
A deliberate pause.
The crowd murmurs.
Banri lunges forward again—
Natsuo grips his wrist hard.
"I a-accept," Natsuo says.
The overseer's smile widens. "Good."
They sit back down as if nothing happened.
The crowd slowly turns away.
Work resumes.
But Banri doesn't move.
He stares at Natsuo in disbelief.
"...Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"
Natsuo forces a shaky smile.
"Because... s-someone has to keep t-things from falling apart."
Banri looks at the bruised shin.
The bleeding hands.
The bowed head.
And for the first time—
He doesn't look angry.
He looks scared.
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 is standing near the southern framework when the overseers descend from their platform.
One of them adjusts his robes, casting a lazy glance at the half-finished structure.
"You," he says, not even bothering to use Natsuo's name.
If that framework still isn't aligned to my liking I'll make sure Ishida-dono hears about today's transgressions."
The other overseer chuckles softly.
Natsuo hesitates only a second before bowing. "Y-Yes, sir. I'll s-see to it."
The overseers don't wait to see him move. They turn on their heels and ascend into the waiting carriage, the samurai stepping aside to allow the doors to shut with a heavy, final thud.
The horses jerk forward.
Inside the carriage, cushioned by silk and dusk's fading glow, one overseer scoffs as he pours himself another cup of wine.
"Do you really think he'll stay and work?"
The other laughs quietly. "Of course he will. You honestly think he'll ever grow a backbone?"
The carriage rattles over stones.
"Just don't forget the scribe's payment," the first adds, tapping his cup against the wall. "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.
"Ugh. Don't remind me."
They drink.
Outside, the carriage disappears down the road in a cloud of dust and fading lamplight.
Back at the worksite, the clearing empties.
One last voice calls out—someone wishing Banri goodnight. Footsteps fade. Lanterns wink out, one by one.
Until only one remains.
Natsuo stands alone beneath the unfinished frame, sleeves rolled, hands aching, the weight of the structure looming over him.
The village returns to silence.
And he keeps working.
Banri drops his tools beside Natsuo's.
"What are y-you doing?" Natsuo asks softly, startled.
Banri wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. "Staying."
"You d-don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." Banri grins, stubborn as ever. "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. "B-Banri... th-thank you. Truly. But y-you can go home. I'll be a-all right."
Banri plants his feet. "Nope. Not happening."
They work together in the deepening dusk—wood rasping, rope tightening, beams inching into place. Time blurs in aching arms and quiet breaths.
Then a shadow falls over them.
Daiji's voice cuts in flat and unimpressed.
"You guys are idiots."
Banri brightens instantly. "Oh, Daiji! Are you here to—"
Too late.
Daiji's arm snaps around Banri's neck in a rough headlock, crushing him against his side as he drags him backward across the dirt.
"—HEY, LET GO!" Banri flails. "Daiji! I can't leave him here by himself! I'm the reason he's getting punished!"
Natsuo spins around, panicked. "D-Daiji, please—!"
Daiji doesn't even look at him.
"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 just enough to haul Banri another step.
"And if your precious friend is dumb enough to think this little display matters," Daiji adds coldly, "that's on him."
Banri struggles harder. "You're— you're wrong! This isn't fair and you know it!"
Daiji snorts.
"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, eyes sharp, unreadable.
With one last brutal tug, he wrenches Banri free of the site and hauls him off toward the village road, Banri's protests fading into the dark.
Natsuo stands frozen beneath the half-finished beam.
The ropes creak softly in the wind.
He lowers his hands.
And goes back to work.
The rope bites into his calloused palms, but the sting is grounded—real. It's better than the hollow ache in his chest that comes whenever he looks at the overseers.
Just a few more inches, he tells himself, his sandals slipping in the cooling mud. 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 next morning the villagers arrive at the worksite to an unsettling sight.
One of the outer walls—unfinished just yesterday—now stands fully completed, beams fitted tightly, supports reinforced with careful precision.
And slumped at its base, fast asleep against the timber, is Natsuo.
For a long moment, no one speaks.
Then the murmurs start.
"Look at that. Can't even let a man finish his own work without coming behind and 'fixing' it."
"Wants to make sure we know exactly how much better he is than us, doesn't he?"
None of the words carry admiration.
Only bitterness.
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 silence them, either. His dark eyes moves from the finished wall to Natsuo's slumped, sleeping form.
Banri arrives late, jogging up the path with hurried breath. He slows when he hears the crowd, confusion knitting his brow.
He sees the wall.
Then Natsuo.
Banri's face drains of color.
He pushes through the gathering and drops to the ground beside him.
To him, the wall wasn't a miracle or an insult—it was just more evidence that Natsuo doesn't know how to survive without breaking himself.
"Natsuo—! I was looking everywhere for you."
Banri shakes him gently, then harder. "I can't believe you didn't go home last night—!"
Natsuo stirs with a faint groan. His lashes flutter. "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 t-trouble. I just... thought if I f-finished this, the magistrate w-wouldn't get involved... there'd be less for everyone to w-worry about..."
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 it with unsteady hands. As he rises, something slips from his shoulders.
A blanket.
It slides softly to the dirt at his feet.
Natsuo freezes.
He bends and gathers it carefully. "Ah—thank you, Banri. I didn't realize you covered me."
Banri blinks. "I... didn't."
Natsuo's breath catches.
It was dark, woven of a heavy, unfamiliar fabric and fur entirely unlike the coarse, dyed hemp used in the village, that smelled faintly of wisteria and cold mountain air.
The plums at his window.
The soft voice on the roof.
Understanding settles slowly in his chest.
"I see..." he murmurs.
He folds the blanket with deliberate care and sets it atop a nearby crate, safely out of the dirt.
Moments later, the rumble of wheels announces the overseers' arrival.
The carriage pulls in.
They step out with leisurely stretches, laughing among themselves. They head straight for their station with its seats and refreshments—never once glancing at the newly finished wall.
Natsuo straightens and approaches, bowing. "G-Good morning. If I may ask—w-what will be today's focus?"
One overseer waves lazily. "Finish what wasn't done yesterday."
The other smirks. "Unless you'd like to check the plans and enlighten us."
Natsuo hesitates, then carefully unrolls the parchment. He scans it, lips parting as he reads through. "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.
He leans forward, suddenly sharp. "Why are there so many open-ended projects?"
"I—I, w-well—"
The second overseer cuts him off. "So you failed to make sure any of it was finished. What exactly is your job here, Natsuo-sama?"
The word sama burns with mockery.
"Go," the first says with a flick of his hand. "See that those things are done."
Natsuo bows deeply. "Yes, s-sir."
For the next hour, he moves nonstop.
Redirecting workers.
Fetching tools.
Rechecking measurements.
Correcting angles.
His steps slow. His hands tremble.
When his knees finally buckle, Banri catches him before he hits the ground.
"That's it," Banri snaps. "You're sitting. Now."
He half-drags Natsuo to the overseers' station and lowers him gently onto the wooden platform.
One of the overseers squints at them. "What's this about?"
Banri doesn't bow. Doesn't soften his voice.
"He worked through the night," Banri says tightly. "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 predatory 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 oversight. 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 thought almost slipped my mind."
They rise.
Already done with him.
And for the first time—
Natsuo realizes he is being punished by praise.
They turn toward the situated carriage, brushing crumbs from their sleeves as though the matter is settled.
Banri steps forward before he can stop himself.
"What you're leaving!? You just got here—"
One overseer snaps his head back sharply.
"That is not a question for someone of your station to ask."
The other chuckles, slipping past him with an easy grin.
"Lets just say we're off to inform Ishida-dono about how exceptional Natsuo-sama's management has been."
They both laugh as they step into the carriage.
The sound is light. Careless.
It cuts deep.
The door shuts.
The carriage rolls away.
Banri's hand curls into a fist so tight his knuckles blanch. His whole body trembles with barely leashed fury.
Before he can take a single step forward—
Natsuo grips his arm.
"Banri," he says softly. "It's... it's okay."
Banri spins on him. "No. It's not."
Natsuo's grip tightens just enough to stop him. His voice is quiet, steady in a way it rarely ever is.
"Please. Don't."
The two of them hold there in silence for a long breath.
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..."
And as Banri turns back toward the workers—
The villagers are already watching.
Some with doubt.
Some with anger.
And a few, quietly... with worry.
The dust from the departing carriage hasn't even settled before Banri turns back to the site.
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. "But let's be honest—they never lifted a finger anyway. So don't panic just because they're gone."
A low rumble moves through the crowd.
Banri gestures toward Natsuo, still seated at the edge of the station, pale and exhausted.
"He's still here."
That gets a reaction.
A man scoffs. "You mean he's in charge now?"
Another mutters, "I'm not taking orders from the magistrate's pampered pup!"
Banri's jaw tightens. He doesn't yell—he doesn't have to.
"He's technically always been in charge," Banri says. "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.
"So what, he's a leech just like em' anyways."
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. By one person. Alone."
Silence tightens.
"I don't understand why you guys give him a hard time but," Banri continues, voice steady yet cutting. "you do have to admit the truth. This project survives because of him. So if you've got a problem, come to me. And if I can't handle it, I'll ask him."
Silence tightens, thick with the unsaid resentment of the crowd.
Then, a heavy thud echoes as Daiji drops a pile of lumber near the foundation. He doesn't look at Banri, and he certainly doesn't look at Natsuo. He looks at the finished frame with a expression of pure, weary frustration.
"Enough," Daiji growls, his voice low and jagged.
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. Go 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, mountain-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 low, 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 with a sickening thud, reaching 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 blanch, 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—no voices, no footsteps, 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.