Elias woke to the faint cluck of chickens and the low murmur of voices outside the hut. Sunlight slanted through the rice-paper screen, casting warm patterns on the tatami mats. His futon was thin, a far cry from his old mattress, but it beat the grove's cold ground. He stretched, muscles protesting from yesterday's fight—the parries and thrusts had left a dull ache in his shoulders. The bandits' blood still flecked his sword; he'd clean it soon.
The air smelled of woodsmoke and steaming rice—breakfast preparations. Kiyomi's father, Hiroshi, was already up, his silhouette visible through the screen as he tended a small fire. Elias sat up, folding the futon neatly as he'd observed. Customs mattered here; sloppiness bred suspicion.
Kiyomi entered with a tray: miso soup in a clay bowl, steamed rice, pickled radish. Her saffron yukata was fresh, swapped for a clean one—practical, given the daily labor. She set it down with a shy smile, her jade eyes meeting his briefly before darting away. "Ohayō gozaimasu, Elias-san. Tabete kudasai." Good morning, Elias. Please eat.
Elias nodded, his Japanese smoother after mental drills. "Ohayō. Arigatō, Kiyomi." Good morning. Thank you.
She blushed, twirling a curl of her ebony hair—a tic he'd noticed when flustered. "Anata no kotoba… mada hen desu ne. Demo, wakaru yo." Your words… still strange. But, understand.
He smiled faintly. "Renshū shite imasu." Practicing.
Her laugh was soft, melodic—like wind chimes. "Ii ne. Kyō, oshiete ageru. Kotoba o motto." Good. Today, teach you. Words more.
Elias ate slowly, savoring the umami of the miso—fermented soybeans, subtle dashi broth. The rice was sticky, warm; radish crisp and tangy. Simple, but sustaining. As he ate, Hiroshi entered, wiping sweat from his brow. The older man was sturdy, callused hands speaking of years in the fields.
"…yoku neta ka? Kyō wa hatake da. Tasukete kure." Sleep well? Today fields. Help please.
Elias understood most— "neta" (slept), "hatake" (fields), "tasukete" (help). He nodded: "Hai. Ikimasu." Yes. Go.
Hiroshi grunted approval. "Yoku yatta na, kinō. Ano dorobō… tsuyoi ken da." Well done yesterday. Those thieves… strong sword.
"Arigatō." Thank you.
Kiyomi interjected gently: "Otōsan, Elias-san wa mada kotoba ga muzukashii. Yukkuri hanashite." Dad, Elias still words difficult. Speak slowly.
Hiroshi chuckled, a rough sound. "Wakatta. Demo, hayaku oboero. Sensō ga chikaku naru." Understood. But, learn quick. War close.
Elias's ear caught "sensō" (war), "chikaku" (close). He leaned in: "Sensō? Oda desu ka?" War? Oda?
Hiroshi's eyes narrowed, surprised. "Sō da. Oda no Nobunaga ga Imagawa o tatakau to iu. Mura wa abunai." Yes. Oda Nobunaga fight Imagawa say. Village dangerous.
Elias parsed it: Nobunaga versus Imagawa—pre-Okehazama buzz. He nodded solemnly, hiding his foresight. "Wakatta. Mamorimasu." Understood. Protect.
Kiyomi's face softened with worry. "Sensō wa kowai… ano otoko-tachi, motto kuru ka na." War scary… those men, more come maybe.
Her demure tone tugged at him—genuine care blooming beyond calculation. Elias felt a quiet protectiveness stir. "Daijōbu. Tasukemasu." Okay. Help.
After breakfast, they headed to the paddies. The air was muggy, thick with pollen and the earthy scent of flooded fields. Mud sucked at Elias's boots—jeans cuffed up, shirt sleeves rolled. Hiroshi handed him a hoe: "Kore de… tsuchi o tagayasu." This… till soil.
Elias mimicked the motion, blade slicing into the muck with rhythmic thuds. His arms burned after minutes, but he pushed on. Villagers watched warily at first, whispers floating: "…gaijin no otoko… ano ken tsuyoi ne…" Foreign man… that sword strong.
A neighbor farmer approached Hiroshi: "Ano hito, doko kara? Kotoba ga okashii yo." That person, where from? Words funny.
Hiroshi shrugged: "Yama no mukō kara. Musume o tasuketa. Yoi hito da." Beyond mountains. Saved daughter. Good person.
The farmer nodded skeptically: "Sō ka. Demo, ano me… oni mitai." So. But, those eyes… like demon.
Elias caught it— "oni" (demon). His gray eyes, unusual here, sparked the aura rumors. He focused on work, eavesdropping to immerse.
Midday break: villagers shared tea under a tree. Kiyomi sat beside him, offering a cup. "Tsukareta? Sukoshi yasunde." Tired? Rest little.
"Arigatō." He sipped the bitter matcha, steam scalding his lips. "Oishii." Delicious.
She giggled. "Motto oshiete ageru. Kono ki wa… sakura desu." Teach more. This tree… cherry.
"Sakura." He repeated, accent improving. "Kirei desu." Beautiful.
Her cheeks flushed. "Hai… anata mo… ano, tsuyoi." Yes… you too… um, strong.
The flirtation was subtle, but Elias felt warmth beyond strategy. Her nurturing kindness—preparing meals, tending worries—drew him in. He cared, more than planned.
Afternoon: more tilling. Elias suggested a small tweak—wider spacing for seedlings, hinting at rotation without revealing too much. "Kore de… motto ine ga sodatsu." This way… more rice grow.
Hiroshi tested it, grunting: "Sō ka? Yoku wakaru na, anta." So? You know well.
Villagers murmured approval. Immersion deepened—conversations flowed easier. A child, Taro, tugged his sleeve: "Oniisan, ken misete!" Big brother, show sword!
Elias demonstrated a basic guard—non-threatening. "Kore wa… mamoru tame." This… for protect.
Taro's eyes widened: "Sugoi!" Cool!
As dusk fell, whispers of war intensified. A traveler arrived, sharing news: "…Oda ga gunzei o atsumeru. Okehazama de tatakau rashii." Oda gathering troops. Fight at Okehazama seem.
Elias's pulse quickened—timeline aligning. He listened intently, vocabulary expanding: "gunzei" (troops), "atsumeru" (gather), "tatakau" (fight).
Back at the hut, dinner: grilled fish, vegetables. Kiyomi served, her touch lingering. "Kyō wa otsukaresama. Motto hanashimashō." Good work today. Talk more.
They sat by the fire. She taught customs: bowing hierarchies—"Chō ni wa fukaku, tomodachi ni wa sukoshi." Deep to elder, little to friend.
Elias practiced: "Hai, wakarimashita." Yes, understood.
Her laughter: "Jōzu ni natta ne!" Got better!
Affection grew—her demure resilience, quiet support. Elias admitted internally: *She's more than ally. I care—protect her.*
Night: futon again. Sensory barrage: cricket chirps, distant drums—war signals? Sleep came fitful, dreams of battles he knew.
Tomorrow: more drills, more bonds.