The wheels of the carriage squealed to a halt just outside the village entrance to Yamato Village.
The air was thick with the smell of dry earth and ashes. The unpaved streets stretched off into silence. No guards, no children, no voices—just shut windows and barred doors.
As he walked, he felt the weight of eyes behind curtains and cracks. Villagers, peering from safety, their glances sharp with suspicion. They weren't just cautious.
They were afraid.
Afraid of him.
Izumi's expression never changed.
Then—
A whisper of wind, the faintest shuffle of gravel. Steel kissed his throat.
He stopped mid-step, not flinching.
A girl stood next to him, no older than him, a sword pointed at an angle to his throat. Long black hair cascaded down freely with the wind. Ocean-blue eyes shone—not with terror, but with measured control. Her sword was poised.
"What's your business here, sinner?" she said sternly, low and even in tone.
Izumi didn't glance at the sword. He looked into her eyes.
"Old Man Isamu sent me," he replied, tone as flat as ever.
There was a long moment. Her expression didn't alter—but her hand relaxed, and the sword drew back. She sheathed it with a quiet sigh, as though his answer was not a relief, but a disappointment.
Izumi stood a bit taller.
"And you are?" he asked.
She sheathed her sword in one smooth motion.
"Miharu," she said. "Miharu Kobayashi. Strongest in this village." Her gaze lingered a beat longer. "But call me by last name… sinner."
Izumi didn't react. But his brain did.
Strongest in the village? With that posture, I could drop her before she'd bat an eye. Her sword's too light, her footwork too clumsy. She's got more holes than a straw fence. Compared to any ten-year-old from the capital she'd be an ant at best.
Miharu turned and walked past him. "He's no threat," she said over her shoulder. "Not yet."
Midnight crept in.
The wind outside murmured softly through the trees. Inside the small wooden house, the air was warm with firelight and the scent of miso broth. Izumi sat at the low table, sipping from a wooden bowl of soup—simple, earthy, comforting.
Opposite him, a woman with threads of silver in her dark hair filled his bowl again. She smiled warmly.
"Sorry about Miharu," she said. "She's been… edgy. Ever since she was marked with a Virtue."
Izumi didn't show anything on the surface. But something shifted in his motionless eyes.
Virtue?
She's the one Isamu told me to guard?
He put the bowl down quietly.
"What Virtue?" he asked, voice still flat, but the words now cutting.
"Diligence," the woman answered, her eyes softening. "Though to her, it is more of a burden than a blessing."
Izumi's hand froze. His breath stilled.
Diligence.
It was really her…
Because she was chosen, I was marked with Sloth. My fate was handed to her—my future, stolen by a girl who can barely wield a sword.
He said nothing.
Merely stared at the flickering fire in the corner, the dim light reflecting itself in his dark purple eyes. The room was still, save for the wind softly brushing against the walls.