A few days pass, and the construction site settles into a fragile rhythm.
From a distance, it almost looks organized.
At the western 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 peeling 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 slowly.
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 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.
"No tools provided."
The crowd murmurs.
Banri lunges forward again—
Natsuo grips his wrist hard.
"I 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 still 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 rank 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 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... 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 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.
"He really thinks we can't do anything right... going over our work like that."
"So desperate to prove himself he works all night?"
None of the words carry admiration.
Only bitterness.
Banri arrives late, jogging up the path with hurried breath. He slows when he hears the crowd, confusion knitting his brow.
Then he sees the wall.
Then Natsuo.
Banri's face drains of color.
He pushes through the gathering and drops to the ground beside him. "Natsuo—! I was looking everywhere for you."
He 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.
The plums at his window.
The soft voice on the roof.
The quiet watch in the dark.
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 see the wall.
Their eyes widen.
Then—
Their expressions change.
The first overseer laughs. "Ah. Yes. I did suggest he reinforce that section."
The second nods smugly. "Naturally. An accomplishment guided by us."
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. "Something important has 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 waiting 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."
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 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.
"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 beneath the station canopy, pale and exhausted.
"He's still here."
That gets a reaction.
A man scoffs. "You mean he's in charge now?"
Another mutters, "Since when do we take orders from the magistrate's lapdog?"
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, what makes him any better?"
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 but 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."
A few villagers shift uncomfortably.
One grumbles, "Tch... annoying, but he's not wrong."
Another shrugs. "Hate it or not, the work's been steady."
Not everyone agrees.
Off to the side, Hiroto clicks his tongue loudly and looks away.
"Tch."
The sound is quiet—but it carries.
And Natsuo, from his seat, hears it anyway.
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 from behind.
Natsuo barely has time to gasp before he's slammed back-first against a wooden wall. Breath explodes from his lungs. The blanket slips from his grasp and falls at his feet.
Hiroto stands over him.
Up close, his expression is worse than anger.
It's disgust.
"Don't think today meant anything," Hiroto says lowly. "They only listened because of Banri."
Natsuo's hands tremble as he tries to push himself upright.
"Nothing has changed," Hiroto continues. "You're still filth. You'll always be filth." His lip curls. "The only difference is that I can't seem to wash my hands of you."
He shoves Natsuo hard.
Natsuo stumbles, hits the ground on his shoulder, breath knocked loose again.
The kick comes next—sharp against his ribs.
Hiroto doesn't look back as he walks away.
Dust drifts where Natsuo lies.
The sounds of the village go on as if nothing happened.
Slowly—shakily—Natsuo reaches out and pulls the fallen blanket back to his chest.
And curls inward around it.
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 know if you'll grow," he murmurs quietly, more to himself than to the earth. "But... I hope 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.