Natsuo lies on his back in the futon, forearm draped over his eyes as if to block out the world. The echoes of yesterday's voices refuse to fade.
"You're still filth. You'll always be filth."
The words sting just as sharply as when they are first spoken.
He exhales, long and uneven, then throws off the covers. The morning air bites at his skin as he hurriedly dresses, not caring that his sash is crooked or his hair still unbound. He steps outside before the sun fully crests the horizon and moves toward the western forest, the earth damp with dew beneath his sandals.
By the time the first light breaks through the trees, he is already at work. The steady thunk of his axe rings out, cutting through the quiet. But his rhythm falters.
Laughter—faint, unreal—seeps into the back of his mind. Shadowed figures form at the edge of his vision, their faces vague yet familiar, their voices whispering insults that bleed together until all he hears is mockery.
His swings grow harder, faster—each one fueled by shame and anger—until the axe bites deep into the trunk and refuses to budge. He yanks once, twice, but the blade holds firm. His breath comes in ragged bursts as his strength gives out, and he simply stands there, hand still gripping the handle, shoulders slumped.
"Why am I so weak...?" he whispers. "Why can't I do anything right?"
He shuts his eyes tight, trying to hold back the tears. But before they fall, he feels it—a warmth against his hand. Soft at first, then certain. Fingers slip between his own, their touch both foreign and strangely familiar. A gentle yet sure pressure follows, and with a single pull, the axe comes free.
"Weak? Why do you call yourself weak?"
Natsuo's breath catches in his throat. His grip falters, and the axe slips from his fingers. Time seems to slow as it begins to clatter against the forest floor—but before it can, a pair of hands, warm and sure, closes around the handle.
"Perhaps..."
Natsuo swallows, heart hammering. He glances up and meets a single, piercing blue eye, the other hidden beneath a cascade of flowing white hair. "It is the axe that is dull," the voice says softly, each word deliberate, "from a lack of care." The figure's face is mostly concealed, the lower half obscured by the head of the axe, yet the intensity of her gaze holds him rooted to the spot, part awe, part fear.
A faint shift in her stance draws Natsuo's attention. The blue eye narrows ever so slightly, a tilt of her head that carries both curiosity and... something else he cannot name.
"I find it hard to believe that anyone who dares approach a wounded wolf is weak," her voice low, smooth, carrying the same subtle undercurrent as before. It's not mocking, yet it makes his skin prickle, makes him painfully aware of the heat pooling at his cheeks.
Without breaking eye contact, she steps closer, and Natsuo feels the air shift around him. Her hand reaches out, warm and firm, and takes his. In that single contact, an electric current seems to pulse through him. She guides his fingers around the axe handle and settles it firmly in his grasp.
"Follow me," she commands softly, and there is no question, no hesitation—only a subtle, irresistible insistence that leaves Natsuo's chest tightening and his feet moving almost of their own accord.
Utari pads along at her side, silent and watchful, while Natsuo's heart races, aware of the mystery and power standing just before him, and the undeniable pull that makes him step after her without a word.
Natsuo walks a few hesitant steps behind them, the axe clutched tight against his chest as though it might steady his racing heart. Utari moves with easy confidence beside her, but Natsuo's steps are uncertain, soft, his breath still uneven from the weight of moments he can't quite process.
"I–I apologize for our prior encounters," he manages, his voice thin in the stillness of the forest. "I... I have yet to properly introduce myself."
She doesn't turn, but he sees the faint tilt of her head, the subtle shift of her hair cascading like pale water with the motion.
"Is that so?" she answers, tone smooth, unreadable. "You did not improperly introduce yourself either. So why do you apologize?"
"S-sorry for my oversight," he blurts, immediately wincing at the irony of his own words.
A soft sound escapes her—half chuckle, half sigh—light but sharp enough to make the back of Natsuo's neck warm.
"You apologize quite often," she muses. "I should start counting. Perhaps make a game of it."
Natsuo's steps falter, heat crawling up his cheeks. "A–a game...?"
She finally glances back over her shoulder, that single brilliant blue eye settling on him with an almost playful gleam.
"Mm," she hums, turning forward again. "Though I fear I would win far too easily."
Before long, the trees part, revealing a narrow stream winding through the forest like a ribbon of glass. Mist clings low over the water, drifting lazily between moss-covered stones.
"We're here," she announces, stepping forward and crouching by the riverbed.
Natsuo approaches but instinctively keeps a respectful distance, unsure where to place himself in her presence. He grips the axe with both hands, holding it almost like a shield.
"What we are looking for," she says as her fingers trail into the cold stream, "is a smooth stone."
She leans closer to the water, brushing aside pebbles and silt. As she does, her long, cascading hair falls forward—slipping over her shoulder, down the side of her face, and spilling toward the river. The white strands soak at the ends, darkening slightly where they touch the water.
Natsuo freezes.
Her hair... it's getting wet.
And—it's so long—
It's touching the ground—
Won't it get dirty?
His heart skips awkwardly, and he jerks his gaze away. Face warming at his own ridiculous thoughts he drops into a stiff crouch and begins rummaging frantically through the rocks.
"Ah—smooth stone, smooth stone—" he mutters under his breath, sifting through pebbles with more urgency than precision. He's not even sure what qualifies as "smooth" at this point; he's far more concerned with not staring at her.
He tosses aside one stone, then another, then grabs a third and rubs it with his thumb so vigorously it squeaks.
Utari watches him with a puzzled tilt of the head.
She glances over her shoulder at him, her single visible eye crinkling slightly in amusement. "You seem rather... motivated."
Natsuo nearly drops the stone. "N–No! I mean—yes! I mean—I'm just t-trying to— I'm f-following orders!"
She smiles, soft and warm, carrying just enough mischief to make his ears burn.
"Well," she says, her voice lilting with quiet amusement, "it sounds like you found a good one."
Before Natsuo can form a response, she rises and walks toward him with unhurried grace. He freezes as she lowers herself beside him, folding her legs neatly beneath her, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her presence through the cool forest air.
She turns her head, that brilliant blue eye settling on him with quiet expectation.
"Come now," she murmurs. "Sit."
Still trapped in his awkward crouch, Natsuo fumbles at the ties of his haori, panic fluttering in his chest.
"W–wait—just— please, sit on this," he stammers, shrugging out of the garment and spreading it neatly on the ground. "You... you shouldn't get dirty on my behalf."
She pauses, head angled slightly, a curtain of white hair sliding down her shoulder as she studies him. The moment stretches, thick with something he can't quite name.
Then—a soft, warm laugh escapes her.
Not loud.
Not mocking.
Just... genuine.
Her eye crinkles faintly at the corner as she settles onto the haori with refined ease, the ends of her hair rippling across the fabric like a pale river.
"I'll give you one point in our game," she says lightly, "for making me laugh."
Natsuo's breath catches. His heart seems to forget how to beat for half a second.
"A... a point?" he echoes, barely above a whisper.
She hums in confirmation, turning her attention to the stone in his trembling hands.
He lowers himself beside her, cheeks warm, desperately trying not to let his thoughts spill out onto his face.
"Hand me the axe," she directs, her tone calm but expectant.
Natsuo scrambles slightly but complies, placing the handle into her waiting hands. She settles the tool across her lap, the wooden shaft resting against the curve of her thigh, the metal head positioned neatly atop her knee.
"And the stone."
He offers it just as quickly, careful not to brush her fingers—though he feels the ghost of her warmth anyway.
"What you want to do," she begins, turning the stone between her fingers, "is rub it in a circular motion along the cutting edge... but at an angle."
She demonstrates, guiding the smooth stone in firm, precise circles along the blade. The sound is soft but distinct—shhk, shhk, shhk—a gentle scraping that seems to harmonize with the flow of the river beside them.
"And wet the stone periodically," she adds, dipping it into the stream and letting droplets trail down her wrist before returning it to the blade.
Her movements are fluid, almost hypnotic. Natsuo watches without meaning to, entranced by the way her hair spills forward again in a whisper of white, brushing against her arm.
"Here," she says finally, handing both the stone and the axe back to him. Her fingers graze his in the transfer, warm and sure. "Now you try."
Natsuo inhales shakily, adjusting his hold on the handle as he mirrors the angle she'd shown him. The weight of her gaze—steady, assessing—lingers on him, and it takes all his concentration to move the stone in a proper circle rather than let his nerves scatter him entirely.
"L-Like this?" he asks quietly, watching her from the corner of his eye.
For a moment, she doesn't answer. Then she shifts—smooth, quiet—and her hand slides over his.
Her palm is warm. Her fingers curl around his knuckles with a firmness that steals the breath from his lungs.
"Not quite," she murmurs.
She adjusts the tilt of his wrist, angling the stone with slow, deliberate care. Her touch isn't hesitant—she moves him with confidence, as though she's done this countless times, as though she knows exactly how much pressure to apply.
"Here," she continues, her voice close enough that he feels it stir the air near his ear. "Do you feel the difference?"
Natsuo nods, though he's not sure he's processed anything beyond the warmth of her hand enveloping his. His breath catches as she guides his movement—small, controlled circles along the blade's edge.
"Good," she says softly, and he swears the word vibrates straight down his spine.
Her hair shifts with her motion, brushing lightly against his sleeve. The faint scent of forest and rain surrounds him, and for a moment, he forgets the ache in his chest, the insults from yesterday, the weight of everything he's been carrying.
With her hand over his, the axe feels lighter.
He feels... less alone.
She releases him slowly, her fingers trailing away in a gentle slide before withdrawing completely.
"Yes," she says, leaning back just slightly. "Just like that."
Utari huffs approvingly at his side, as if agreeing.
Natsuo resumes the motion on his own, though his hands tremble just enough that she notices.
She stops watching him after a while, apparently satisfied with his progress, and turns her attention back to the stream. Her fingers drift through the water, sifting through smooth stones with unhurried grace. She selects one, tests its weight in her palm, then flicks her wrist.
The stone glides across the surface—
skip... skip... skip—
before sinking beneath the ripples.
Natsuo hesitates, watching her profile—what little he can see of it—and gathering the courage to speak.
"May I ask you a question?" he murmurs.
She doesn't look at him yet; she's already searching for another stone. "You may."
His grip tightens around the axe handle. "W-why are you... h-helping me?"
She finds another rock—flat, perfect—and rolls it between her fingers as though considering her answer.
Instead of replying, she asks softly, "Why did you help Utari?"
Natsuo swallows. "W-well... he was trapped a-and hurt...t-this is different. I'm j-just an incompetent man who s-struggles to do anything right..." His voice breaks slightly. "Y-you shouldn't waste your p-precious time on me."
She pauses.
The stone rests motionless between her fingers, her stillness more striking than any movement. Slowly, she turns her head—not fully, just enough that the curtain of white hair shifts, allowing that brilliant blue eye to meet Natsuo's.
"Incompetent?" she repeats, as though tasting the word. "Is that what you believe yourself to be?"
Natsuo lowers his gaze to the dirt, unable to face the intensity in hers. "I-It's what e-everyone believes," he whispers. "And they're not w-wrong."
She studies him for a long moment, her expression hidden but her silence sharp.
"At Utari's weakest," she says finally, "you stepped forward when no one else was there. You showed courage, and compassion... traits far rarer than skill."
He shakes his head, fingers tightening around the axe. "T-that was just—instinct. Anyone would've—"
"No," she cuts in softly. "Not anyone."
The firmness in her voice makes his breath catch. She rises then, the stone slipping gently from her palm into the water with a soft plip. The ripple it creates mirrors the quiet shift in her tone.
"You think I waste time by helping you," she continues, stepping closer until he can feel the faint whisper of her presence beside him. "But time spent on someone who chooses kindness—even when it costs them—is never wasted."
Natsuo's throat tightens. His eyes burn. He forces them down, blinking hard, but she notices—he knows she notices.
Then, unexpectedly gentle, she adds, "And if you insist on calling yourself incompetent... then you are incompetent at only one thing."
"H–huh?" he stammers weakly.
"Seeing yourself clearly."
The words land softly, but they strike deeper than any insult he heard the day before. He grips the axe even tighter, breath unsteady, unsure how to respond—unsure how to hold a compliment that feels so impossible, so undeserved.
The forest rings with the quiet of her statement. Natsuo feels it sink into him—painful, warm, disorienting. For a moment, he can't breathe, can't think, can't look at her.
He places the axe on the ground next to him, suddenly—he bows.
A quick, stiff, almost panicked movement.
"I—I'm sorry," he blurts, voice thin. "And... thank you. Truly."
He clamps his mouth shut before he apologizes again.
"I... I s-should head back. To t-the work site. They'll... they'll need me."
He doesn't wait for her reply.
He turns on his heel and runs—feet pounding against the forest floor, breath tight in his chest, as if distance might help him make sense of the weight she's placed on his heart.
Behind him, Utari lifts his head in mild surprise.
She picks up the discarded axe and presses her thumb against the metals edge, blood begins to form at the intersection. She then shifts her gaze to Natsuo's retreating form, the faintest stir of her hair catching in the breeze, unreadable in her expression as the forest swallows him back up.
Natsuo walks toward the worksite with his thoughts heavy and tangled, each step pulling him further from the quiet of the forest and deeper into the noise of reality. The villagers are already assembled, tools in hand, receiving curt instructions from one of the overseers. The clatter of lumber, the scrape of saws, and the low murmurs of tired men fill the air.
A few workers notice him first—his uneven breathing, his missing haori, the dirt on his knees. Then others turn, whispers rippling through the crowd as they take in his slumped shoulders disheveled look.
"Natsuo!"
The sudden, bright voice snaps him from his haze. Banri jogs toward him, nearly stumbling over a stack of lumber in his rush.
"There you are!" he says breathlessly, eyes wide with relief. "I was looking all over for you."
Natsuo blinks, startled by the warmth in Banri's tone. "B-Banri?"
"I couldn't find you again, you had me worried."
His expression softens, worry creeping in.
"Everything okay?"
Natsuo opens his mouth—then hesitates.
The recent harsh words ring in his ears.
You're filth.
No one respects you.
It wont wash away the blood.
He lowers his gaze, unable to meet Banri's earnest eyes.
"I... I'm fine," he murmurs, forcing a weak smile. "S-Sorry for worrying y-you."
Banri eyes him for a long moment, obviously unconvinced, and nudges him lightly with his elbow.
"You sure? 'Cause you look like your kite got stuck in a tree."
A faint laugh escapes Natsuo despite himself.
But Banri doesn't drop it. His voice softens even further.
"If something happened... you can tell me, you know?"
Natsuo looks away, shoulders stiff, but Banri refuses to let the mood sink. He circles around him once, dramatically squinting as if inspecting him for injuries.
"Well," Banri says, tapping his chin, "Maybe you really did loose a kite" He leans closer, eyes widening in mock shock.
"What? N-No!" Natsuo sputters.
"Mhm," Banri hums, crossing his arms. "Sounds like something a guilty man would say."
Natsuo shakes his head quickly, flustered. "I-I wasn't—"
Banri cuts him off. "Ok then what happened to your haori? Don't tell me that's what you used for the kite."
Natsuo's face goes crimson. "I-It's not like that— it's— I was—"
"You know," he says with a crooked smile while gently crossing his arms , "if you keep showing up like this—missing clothes, looking like you battled a boar—I'm gonna start thinking you're living a secret double life."
The absurdity of it draws a shaky laugh from Natsuo—soft, embarrassed, but real.
Banri beams at the sound. "There it is. Thought I lost you for a minute."
"Whatever happened," Banri says quietly, "I'm just glad you're back."
Before he can blend into the edge of the group, the two overseers spot him. They exchange a brief look—irritation mixed with disdain—then stride toward him with purpose.
"There you are," one snaps. "Where have you been?"
"Where's your top-knot and your haori for that matter!?" the other adds sharply, eyes narrowing. "Have you no sense of propriety? You look like you rolled out of a ditch."
Natsuo flinches but says nothing, gaze fixed on the ground.
The second advisor steps closer, lowering his voice but sharpening his tone.
"You're supposed to be of different stock. Stop debasing yourself by looking like them. Now lets go."
The advisors give him one last dismissive glare before turning on their heels and marching back toward the center of the site, barking orders.
Natsuo's grip tightens involuntarily.
"I'll catch b-back up with you in a moment" Natsuo says softly.
Banri blinks. "Huh? of course!."
Banri's places a comforting had on Natsuo's shoulder before jogging back toward the workers.
Natsuo approaches the advisors' table, where a pair of lacquered stools and a tray of refreshments mark the small oasis of authority among the chaos.
He bows deeply.
"I-I am sorry for earlier," he says quietly. "W-what have I missed?".
The advisor thrusts the papers into Natsuo's hands with a sharp flick, barely looking at him.
"You should be taking this far more seriously," he snaps. "What if Ishida-dono were to hear about your slacking off?"
Natsuo's heart sinks instantly. "I... apologize. I will b-be more—"
The second advisor cuts him off, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a low, poisonous murmur.
"Oh, spare me." He looks Natsuo up and down—noticeably without his haori, hair slightly disheveled, dirt still faintly on his sleeves. "You want to prove you're serious?"
Natsuo straightens instinctively. "Yes. W-Whatever I-I can do—"
A smile—not kind, not amused, but condescending—spreads across the overseers face.
"Good," he says lightly, as though giving a casual instruction. "Then kneel."
Natsuo blinks. "W...What?"
"Kneel," the advisor repeats, louder this time. A few villagers turn their heads. "If you're going to act like a peasant laborer, you may as well be useful."
He gestures toward his lacquered stool.
"Footstool."
Natsuo's breath catches. His fingers tremble around the stack of papers.
Some of the nearby villagers exchange glances—some smug, a few chuckle in amusement. No one speaks.
The advisor raises a brow, impatient.
"Well? You said you wanted to show your dedication."
The humiliation pulses hot in Natsuo's chest. His throat tightens. But the mention of Ishida-dono still echoes in his skull, cold and sharp.
If the magistrate hears he's incompetent...
If he's removed...
The village will suffer because of him—
Slowly, quietly, Natsuo kneels.
The advisor plants one boot on Natsuo's shoulder as though settling onto a cushion, adjusting himself without a hint of hesitation. "There," he says casually to his colleague. "Much better. See? He can be taught."
Natsuo stays perfectly still, eyes down, jaw clenched so hard it aches.
Banri, from a distance, freezes mid-step as he notices what's happening—shock and anger contorting his face.
Banri's eyes go wide as he sees Natsuo kneeling, the overseer's boot planted casually on his back. The shock on his face twists into something fierce. He takes two steps forward—before a strong hand clamps down on his shoulder.
"What do you think you're about to do?" Daiji asks, voice low, grip unyielding.
Banri jerks against the hold. "I don't know, Daiji—punch that guy in the face," he snaps, dripping sarcasm.
Daiji barks out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah. That sounds exactly like something your peanut-sized brain would come up with."
Banri jerks his shoulder free. "That's my friend! I'm not just gonna stand here and watch!"
Daiji rolls his eyes so hard it's almost theatrical. "Oh, here we go. Noble Banri, defender of lost causes."
"Shut up."
"So, you punch an overseer. Then what?" Daiji continues, stepping in front of him. "The magistrate sends hells fire our way and for what? Him?" He jerks his chin toward Natsuo. "Please. He'll survive. He always does. Like a stubborn weed."
Banri's face twists in anger. "He doesn't deserve this!"
Daiji scoffs, leaning in with cold amusement. "You're right, he deserves worse. And I can think of fifty reasons why this is long overdue."
"Don't talk about him like that!"
Daiji lifts a brow. "Why not? Look around you."
The villagers stand in clusters, watching with varying degrees of amusement, discomfort, and cruel delight.
"Heh. Look at him—kneeling like the dog he is," one man snickers.
An older man mutters to her friend, not bothering to lower her voice, "Can't even stand up for himself. Some man he is."
"He should stay down," a younger worker adds with a nasty grin.
Banri's fists clench so tight his knuckles crack. "You hear them? You're really okay with this?"
Daiji shrugs. "Why wouldn't I be? It's Natsuo. You act like this is a tragedy."
Banri stares at him, horrified. "We grew up with him!"
"So what," Daiji says flatly. "And neither of us needs you making things worse by throwing a tantrum."
Banri steps forward, but Daiji slides in front of him again, blocking him with his body.
"Move."
"No."
"Daiji—!"
Daiji's voice drops to a cold, needling whisper.
"You want to help him? Then stop drawing attention to him. He's already a joke—don't make him into a spectacle."
Banri falters for a moment—not because he agrees, but because he knows Daiji won't budge. Ever.
"You're heartless," he breathes.
Daiji shrugs. "I'm realistic."
Banri trembles, helpless, fury bottled in his chest as Natsuo stays kneeling, silent and alone, while the villagers' cruel amusement crackles around them.
As the villagers laugh and mutter, and Banri seethes helplessly beneath Daiji's grip, the forest at the edge of the clearing grows strangely still.
Birdsong fades.
The wind quiets.
Even the rustle of leaves seems to hold its breath.
And though not a single worker notices—not even Banri—
something watches.
Just beyond the tree line, where sunlight fractures through branches, a sliver of white moves like a whisper. Not a full silhouette. Not a figure. Only the faintest suggestion—
a sway,
a shift,
a silk-smooth ripple of hair caught by a wandering breeze.
Almost a trick of the light
...except the light doesn't move like that.
A pale strand glints and disappears again, camouflaged among drifting pollen, hovering just out of focus. The air hums with the kind of silence that suggests attention—sharp, unblinking.
She is there.
Utari too, a low shape nearly invisible against the underbrush, ears pinned flat as he watches the scene with quiet hostility. A low, almost inaudible growl rumbles through his chest.
The figure raises a hand—slender, spectral in the dimness—and Utari falls silent, though the tension in his body remains.
Her single visible eye tracks Natsuo as he kneels beneath the advisor's boot.
Her eye narrows, the faintest pulse of recognition flickering there.
No sound.
No intervention.
Just observation.
A whisper of wind stirs.
The white strand vanishes fully behind the trees.
No one notices her departure.
Except perhaps...
the forest.