The day Hiroshi Miyamoto received the letter began like any other, with cold light spreading slowly across the fields and frost clinging stubbornly to the fence rails. Hokkaido did not rush its mornings, and neither did the Miyamoto household. Smoke lifted in a thin, steady column from the hearth, rising straight until the air warmed enough to bend it, and the river beyond the trees moved with the quiet insistence of something that had endured many seasons without needing to announce itself.
Akelldema stood barefoot in the yard, the ground firm and cold beneath him, his breath measured and deliberate. The fields stretched outward in muted tones of brown and silver, late autumn having stripped away most pretense of warmth. He had been awake long before the first hint of light, not because he enjoyed the hour but because his father did. Discipline did not negotiate with comfort in the Miyamoto home, and so the morning belonged first to breath.
He drew air slowly through his nose, filling his chest until the cold seemed to settle deep within his ribs. He held it there, feeling the strain build without allowing it to become panic, then released it in a controlled stream. His arms moved through a pared-down sequence that emphasized balance rather than display, each motion clean and economical, feet adjusting subtly to the uneven ground. The earth was intentionally unlevel; his father believed that the body should not grow accustomed to forgiving surfaces.
Behind him, the door slid open with a soft, deliberate sound. Hiroshi stepped into the yard without ceremony, the weight of his presence more felt than heard. He watched in silence for several breaths before offering correction.
"You are favoring your left side again," he said evenly.
Akelldema adjusted his stance without turning to face him, shifting his weight until the pressure in his hips aligned properly. His father's instruction was never theatrical. It was precise and without embellishment, a habit shaped in years when clarity could determine whether a man lived through the hour.
When the sequence ended, Hiroshi handed him a small ceramic cup. Steam rose faintly from the dark liquid inside, carrying a scent that was neither inviting nor entirely unpleasant.
"Drink," his father instructed.
Akelldema accepted it without protest. The bitterness struck first, sharp and persistent, then gave way to a more subtle warmth that spread down his throat and into his stomach. He swallowed carefully, resisting the instinct to grimace, but did not succed.
He after swallowing the strange medicine, he was buckled over and coughing
"What the hell was that?" he asked.
"It will stregthen your blood," Hiroshi replied. "And your patience."
They stood together for a moment, father and son, looking out over the fields. The road beyond the property saw more traffic than it had in years past. A cart creaked along at a measured pace, its driver hunched forward as though the journey weighed on him more heavily than the load itself. Two men walked behind it, speaking in low tones that carried on the still air.
Hiroshi's gaze lingered.
"Watch the road today," he said. "Notice who passes and who does not."
Akelldema nodded, though the meaning behind the instruction felt larger than the words themselves.
After breakfast, Hiroshi departed to tend to a patient in the village, and Akelldema made his way toward the practice yard where boys his age continued the remnants of weapons training that tradition still demanded. The yard lay behind an aging storehouse near the village's edge, the earth packed hard by years of footwork and repetition. Wooden practice swords rested against the wall, their surfaces smoothed by many hands.
Miura Kuroda stood near the entrance, leaning against a post with a posture that suggested casual indifference but concealed sharp awareness. When he spotted Akelldema approaching, he straightened with a grin that hovered somewhere between mischief and loyalty.
"You are later than usual," Miura observed.
"I am precisely on time," Akelldema replied.
"Only if one counts time as you do, which I suspect few others would."
Their exchange drew a faint smile from one of the younger boys nearby, but it faded quickly as Saitō moved into the center of the yard. His uniform was immaculate, his movements crisp and deliberate. There was something practiced about the way he adjusted his stance, ensuring that every shift of his foot and angle of his blade would be observed.
Drill began without ceremony. The older instructor barked commands, and the rhythm of wood striking wood filled the yard in sharp echoes. Step, pivot, cut, recover. The sequence repeated until sweat gathered along brows despite the cool air.
During paired practice, Saitō positioned himself opposite a smaller boy whose grip betrayed uncertainty. Saitō corrected him loudly enough for others to hear, his tone edged with more than instruction.
"A sword is not meant for those who hide behind kitchens and sickrooms," Saitō declared, adjusting his own stance for emphasis. "It belongs to those who stand firm."
The words hung in the air. No one needed clarification as to whom they referenced.
Akelldema kept his expression neutral. He met Saitō's strike with steady resistance, redirecting it without aggression. His movements were not flamboyant, but they were efficient. He offered no reaction for Saitō to exploit.
After several rounds, the instructor called for a break. The boys set aside their wooden swords and drifted toward the grove beyond the village, grateful for the excuse to stretch their legs and shake off the stiffness of repetition.
The persimmon tree leaned over a shallow embankment where the ground sloped gently downward. Its trunk angled out from the upper edge of the incline, roots gripping soil that had compacted over years of rain and frost. At the top near the trunk the earth was firm and reliable, packed tight beneath a scattering of leaves. Lower along the slope, however, the soil thinned into a smoother layer of clay concealed beneath fallen foliage.
The fruit hung bright and heavy among thinning leaves, a defiant splash of orange against muted earth.
Saitō stepped forward at once, eyeing the highest fruit with satisfaction.
Miura crouched near the base of the tree under the pretense of tying his sandal. He pressed his fingers lightly into the soil at the upper edge and felt its firmness. He moved a short distance down the slope and brushed aside a layer of leaves, revealing the slick clay beneath. The incline was not dramatic, but it was sufficient.
When the others wandered deeper into the grove in idle conversation, Akelldema and Miura remained behind.
They worked without haste and without drama. Using hands and the flat of their sandals, they loosened a small channel of compacted earth along the slope's midsection, just enough to disturb the stability without making the alteration obvious. They did not hollow out the trunk's base, nor did they weaken the roots. They merely thinned the packed layer in a narrow strip and replaced the leaves carefully, restoring the surface to its former appearance. From above, nothing seemed changed.
The slope looked untouched because, to a careless eye, it nearly was.
When the break ended and the boys returned toward the yard, Miura lingered at the tree.
"You spoke of balance," he said lightly to Saitō. "Perhaps you would demonstrate again."
Saitō glanced toward the fruit overhead, then toward the younger boys who had gathered to watch.
"It is simple," he replied, brushing dirt from his sleeves as though preparing for inspection. "One must trust one's footing."
Akelldema folded his arms loosely across his chest. "Then take the highest one," he said evenly. "The brightest fruit should belong to the steadiest hand."
There was no mockery in his tone, only suggestion.
Saitō accepted the invitation without suspicion. He stepped onto the firm ground near the trunk and began his ascent, movements deliberate and self-assured. His sandals found reliable purchase against bark and root. Near the top, where the trunk branched, the earth remained solid and dry.
He reached upward for a particularly vivid persimmon that hung near the end of a thin branch. The branch bent under his weight, swaying slightly.
He shifted his balance, lowering his supporting foot to press more firmly along the slope just below the trunk.
The ground beneath that foot had been subtly altered.
His sandal pressed down. The thin layer of loosened soil gave way to the clay beneath, which offered little resistance. The slope did not collapse completely, it simply yielded enough to rob him of traction.
His foot slid.
He attempted to correct, arms widening instinctively. For a brief second he regained contact with the trunk, but his supporting leg continued to lose purchase as the disturbed earth shifted further. His balance failed in increments rather than all at once.
He descended awkwardly, sliding down the incline on his back as leaves and loosened soil traveled with him. Persimmons shook loose from the branches and followed in a bouncing cascade. By the time he reached the bottom of the embankment, he was coated in clay and leaf fragments, stunned more by indignity than pain.
Silence lingered for a heartbeat before laughter broke free from one of the younger boys and spread uncontrollably.
Miura stepped to the edge of the slope and regarded the scene with studied seriousness.
"It seems," he observed, "that the earth tests even strong blood."
Akelldema added, calm and measured, "Balance must account for more than height."
They descended carefully to assist him, offering hands and brushing leaves from his shoulders as though nothing unusual had occurred. The slope had always been unreliable after frost. The leaves had always concealed patches of slick clay. No one had seen anything deliberate, and nothing about the ground suggested obvious tampering.
Saitō rose stiffly and accepted their assistance without accusation. To claim sabotage would have required admitting that his footing had not been as certain as he believed.
When the group dispersed back toward the village, Miura walked beside Akelldema in companionable silence.
"You should not let him provoke you," Miura said quietly.
"I did not," Akelldema replied.
"You encouraged him."
Akelldema allowed the faintest shift of his expression. "Encouragement is not the same as interference."
Miura's eyes drifted toward the road, where two uniformed officials were passing through the village center with measured authority. "The mood has changed," he said. "My uncle says more names are being written."
Akelldema followed his gaze. "My father watches the road more carefully now."
"That is not nothing."
They parted at the crossroads as they often did, each turning toward his respective home.
By the time Akelldema reached the Miyamoto yard, the light had softened into evening gold. The plum tree rustled faintly as a breeze moved through its thinning leaves. Something in the air felt tighter than before, though nothing visible had shifted.
Inside, the hearth burned lower than usual. His mother folded cloth near the wall with steady hands. Hiroshi sat at the low table, a folded letter resting before him, the seal already broken and set aside.
Akelldema removed his sandals and bowed slightly as he entered.
"Wash," Hiroshi instructed.
Cold water grounded him as it ran over his hands. When he returned, his father's gaze met his fully.
"A messenger arrived while you were away," Hiroshi said.
The crest at the top of the letter was unmistakable.
The wind pressed gently against the house's outer walls, and the warmth of the hearth seemed insufficient against the tension that had settled into the room.
"The lord requests our presence," Hiroshi continued, voice even and controlled. "We depart at first light."
The ordinary rhythms of the day receded, replaced by the quiet understanding that whatever waited beyond the threshold would not resemble the life he had known that morning.