The first pale light of dawn spilled over the capital's edge, carrying the breath of an early winter. The air had that clean, sharp taste that comes only when autumn is dying—when the wind itself seems to whisper, finish what must be finished.
At the outskirts of Luminith, beyond the last stone houses and the crooked wooden fences, a mountain of steaming compost loomed over the frostbitten fields. Dozens of carts stood in a line that stretched down the hill—each one overflowing with what the people jokingly called "the new gold of the kingdom."
It was, quite literally, a mountain of dung.
Bernard was the first to break the silence. His voice carried the kind of grin that made men simultaneously laugh and groan.
"Tell me, Toki," he said, folding his arms, "do you think the nobles have made peace with the idea that half the capital will smell like a pig's backside for the next month?"
Toki, his expression utterly blank, didn't even turn toward him. "If they haven't," he said, "they can cover their noses. But the ground can't wait for their perfume preferences. We finish this before the first snow—or the soil will harden and reject the fertilizer."
Bernard gave a long whistle. "And here I thought I was dramatic."
Toki ignored him and raised his hand to the workers. "Start mixing. Every batch must be even—no dry clumps."
Farmers and soldiers alike began moving, their shovels sinking into the mound. Some wore rags tied over their noses; others simply grimaced and worked through the stench. A few tried to laugh it off, but the sound always ended in a cough. The wooden vats—enormous tubs crafted overnight—were being filled by the bucketful. The air buzzed with flies and determination.
Harold approached, sleeves rolled up, his usual calmness undisturbed even by the smell. "Toki," he asked, "why are we mixing the dung with soil? Wouldn't it be better used as it is?"
Toki crouched beside one of the vats, studying the mixture's texture with an alchemist's precision. "Not just soil," he said. "Add straw and a little water. The straw will keep warmth inside the mixture through the frost. The earth will make it milder so the roots don't burn when spring comes. Water keeps it soft enough for the ground to absorb."
Smith let out a gruff laugh behind them. His thick hands were covered in dirt already. "Well, boy," he said, "we've brought in all the straw and water you asked for. The others are already digging the wells and preparing the drainage tunnels in the old clay pits. But, ah…"
He tilted his head toward the vats. "Seems no one's volunteering to climb in there and stir it."
The sound of shuffling feet followed. Toki looked around—and every pair of eyes suddenly found something deeply fascinating on the ground.
Toki sighed through his nose. Of course.
"Well," he said quietly, "it's for the children in the end."
He began removing his uniform jacket. The crowd collectively gasped.
"Wait—Captain, you're not—" one of the peasants started, but it was too late.
Toki stripped down to his underclothes and went down the ladder. The smell hit him like a slap. When his feet sank into the mixture, the sensation was indescribable—warm, thick, and alive. He could feel the worms wriggling near his ankles. The sour stench of rot clawed at his throat, and for a moment, he thought he might vomit.
But he didn't stop.
He took the long wooden paddle and began to stir, slowly at first, then with deliberate rhythm, until the contents swirled into a homogenous mud.
If this is what it takes to keep them from starving, he thought, then so be it.
On the edge of the field, Bernard was watching with wide eyes, his lips twitching. "Is this really happening?"
Harold smirked faintly. "It appears so."
Smith folded his arms and grunted. "The lad's got more guts than sense."
Then came a familiar voice—one that carried a soft rhythm that made Toki's heart stutter for a second.
"Toki…?"
He froze and turned his head.
Utsuki was walking toward him, a hand over her mouth, the long folds of her coat fluttering behind her. Behind her, Ozvold trudged along, shoulders slouched, his usual grin caught somewhere between pity and horror.
The smell hit her halfway across the field. She stopped abruptly, her eyes watering. "Gods above," she muttered. "Toki, I heard about the famine, but I didn't think you'd resort to something this… primitive."
Bernard, standing nearby, burst into a grin. "Not the best time to flirt, my lady! But I'll say this—our captain has a certain earthy charm, doesn't he?"
His grin vanished when Elizabeth's voice rang out behind him—sharp, commanding.
"Instead of mocking him, why don't you get in there and help?"
Before Bernard could react, she shoved him forward. His foot slipped on the muddy grass, and with a spectacular splash, he fell face-first into the vat beside Toki.
The peasants burst out laughing.
Bernard emerged seconds later, coughing, his hair plastered to his forehead, his expression that of a man betrayed by every god he'd ever believed in. "It—It's in my mouth!" he screamed. "It's in my mouth!"
Toki, barely holding back his own laughter, grabbed him by the arm and hauled him up. "I'm honored by your company, dear friend," he said dryly. "Next time, though, remove your clothes first."
Bernard spat a glob of brown muck and glared. "You think this is funny?"
Toki tilted his head. "A little."
For a moment, the tension of famine, cold, and royal politics melted into laughter. Even the peasants, who had spent the last months worrying about whether their children would eat, were laughing. The absurdity of it all—knights, nobles, and farmers knee-deep in dung—was almost holy in its humanity.
Smith, arms crossed, shook his head with a crooked smile. "I've seen wars and plagues, ," he said. "But this—this takes the cake."
Hours passed. By noon, the air was thick with steam and laughter. The mixture was finally complete—rich, dark, and warm like living soil. The workers began carrying it out by cart, spreading it over the frost-bitten fields.
Toki stood near the vats, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. His breath made white clouds in the cold air. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply feel the world—the earth beneath his feet, the murmur of men and women who still believed in him, the rhythm of shovels and laughter.
Maybe this is what leadership is, he thought. Not commands. Just being willing to sink lower than anyone else, so they'll rise higher.
Then a familiar giggle reached him from behind.
"Well, well," said Yuki, balancing a basket of bread and soup on her hip. "I came to help feed the workers, but I wasn't expecting to find a mountain of manure with eyes. I must say, Captain, it suits you. Very… rustic."
Toki exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're like a vampire, Yuki. You feed on my misery."
She winked. "And you make it delicious."
Utsuki, trying not to laugh, stepped forward and extended her hands. "Enough teasing, Yuki." Her voice softened. "Toki, Bernard—come closer."
She murmured a short incantation, and a burst of shimmering water shot from her palms. The spray hit both men like a storm, washing away most of the filth. The cold made Toki gasp, but he smiled nonetheless.
"You're an angel, Utsuki," he said, teeth chattering. "If I didn't smell so bad, I'd hug you."
Utsuki smiled faintly. "Then let's just call it even. It's the least I can do—to ease your suffering a little."
Bernard groaned beside him, still dripping. "You missed a spot. My dignity."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "That was gone long before you fell in."
The laughter rose again, echoing over the frost fields. Even Ozvold, who had been silent the whole time, smiled faintly—a rare, genuine expression that made him look years younger.
When dusk came, the fields shimmered with a strange beauty. The once-dead soil looked alive again, breathing under the layer of dark compost. Fires were lit around the site, and the peasants brought what food they could—bread, soup, roasted chestnuts, and laughter.
Toki sat by one of the fires, his body sore but his heart oddly light. Across from him, Bernard argued with Elizabeth about who had swallowed more dirt. Yuki sang something completely inappropriate. Smith snored with his back against a cart. And Utsuki, quiet as always, sat beside Toki, hands resting in her lap.
"You did well today," she said softly.
Toki looked at the distant stars, then at the faint lights of the city. "We all did."
He hesitated, then added, "Sometimes I wonder if this is what the gods wanted us to learn. That even filth can feed life."
Utsuki turned her gaze toward him, a faint warmth in her eyes. "Or maybe," she said, "it's what you were meant to teach them."
The field had grown quiet except for the whisper of wind across the flattened furrows. The great iron plow loomed beside the workers like a slumbering beast — thirty meters long, its frame sunk deep into the mud, half-swallowed by the earth it was meant to tame. Steam rose from the bodies of the Uma birds, their once-snowy feathers now caked in dirt and exhaustion. They lay scattered near the field's edge, chests rising and falling in shallow rhythm.
Umma, let out a low, mournful cry before settling beside him. She folded her wings and pressed her head lightly against his shoulder. Toki reached up and stroked her neck gently.
"You did well," he murmured, his voice hoarse but warm. "You've worked harder than anyone today."
Umma closed her eyes, leaning into his hand. Around them, the children laughed somewhere by the bonfire, their silhouettes flickering in the distance — sparks rising, laughter cutting through the heavy silence. Toki watched them for a long moment. Then his gaze drifted back to the plow.
"Toki," Utsuki said quietly. "Something's bothering you."
He didn't answer immediately. His hand still rested on Umma's feathers, but his expression had grown distant, burdened. Finally, he sighed — a slow, weary exhale.
"The Umma birds did their part," he said. "They helped the villagers spread the fertilizer. But the rest… the hard part… still waits."
Utsuki tilted her head. "You mean the plow?"
Toki nodded grimly. "It has to be driven into the soil. Deep. Otherwise, all this work will be wasted. But the ground's too soft now. The birds can't walk it — they'll sink before they even move. And this…" He kicked lightly at the plow's wheel, which sank a little deeper into the muck. "This monster weighs several tons. It would take a dozen Umma s to move it."
He looked at her with a crooked smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Let's be honest. Only a dragon could pull this thing."
Utsuki folded her arms, her voice firm. "Then we'll help. All of us. You don't have to do it alone."
He shook his head slowly. "Even with everyone pushing, someone will need to lift the front. The weight's uneven — if no one supports it, the whole thing will tip. And if I leave that position, it'll crush the rest of you."
"Toki…" Utsuki's voice trembled. "Why must you always bear the heaviest burden? Why does it always have to be you?"
His answer came softly, but the conviction in his tone made her chest tighten.
"Because I'm the one who took the responsibility."
He looked again toward the fire. The children were still running around it, playing tag in the dim light, their laughter echoing across the field like bells. Some of the adults were watching them, tired but smiling faintly. The air smelled of smoke and soil, and for a brief moment, the world felt almost peaceful.
"Look at them," Toki said, almost to himself. "They're exhausted. Covered in mud. But they still laugh… they still hope. I can't take that from them. I'd rather die in the mud than see them lose that light."
He closed his eyes briefly. "Hope is everything they have. But I want to give them more than that. I want them to dream — to truly laugh, to feel safe. I know what it's like to be hungry, to be cold and alone. I know what it's like to lose faith. I'll never let them see that kind of despair."
He clenched his fists, his voice deepening. "I may not have a dragon, but I have their hope. And it's stronger than anything I've ever carried. I'll wade through the filth — through the pain — if it lets them believe for even one more second."
Utsuki's eyes softened. She knelt beside him, brushing the dirt from his sleeve, her hand trembling slightly. "You're a fool," she said quietly. "A stubborn fool."
"Maybe," he replied with a small smile. "But fools like me are all this world has left."
The fire crackled behind them, its glow reflecting in their eyes. For a long moment, neither spoke. The night wind carried the smell of wet earth and ash, wrapping around them like an old memory.
"Toki," she said finally, her voice almost a whisper. "You don't see it, do you? The way they look at you. To them, you're more than a leader. You're… home."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No. I'm just a man trying to pull a plow through hell."
"Then let me walk beside you in that hell," she replied. And before he could protest, she placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart. "You don't have to bear everything alone."
Toki hesitated. Then, with a tired sigh, he sank down beside her, mud squelching beneath his boots. She reached out, guiding his head gently onto her lap.
"Utsuki, I—" he began, embarrassed. "I'm covered in filth. You'll ruin your dress."
"Maybe," she said softly. "But even if you're covered in mud, underneath all that is gold. Accept this as a reward for your hard work."
He froze, staring up at her face — her silver hair outlined by the flickering firelight, her expression calm, almost radiant. The warmth of her lap, the steady rhythm of her breathing — for the first time in weeks, his body relaxed.
"Do you remember the night we met?" she asked quietly, looking toward the stars. "You asked if you can sleep on my lap. We watched the sky together and talked about life."
"I remember," he said. "It was one of the few nights I didn't feel like a stranger in this world."
She smiled faintly. "Nothing's changed, then. It's still just as beautiful."
She lifted her hand, letting mana flow from her fingertips. Tiny orbs of light bloomed from her palm — soft, glowing motes that floated upward like fireflies. The children gasped, chasing them through the field, their laughter rising once again.
Toki's eyes followed the lights. "Yes," he said quietly. "Just like that night."
Utsuki's gaze softened. "I wonder," she whispered. "If my mother would be proud of where I've come."
"I'm sure she would," Toki replied without hesitation.
She looked down at him. "Do you think the Star Weaver she used to tell me about is watching us now?"
He smiled faintly, turning his gaze toward the stars. "Maybe. Maybe he s spinning threads of fate even now."
Utsuki chuckled, twisting the ring on her finger. "It's just a story, but… maybe there's a seed of truth in it. And even if there isn't — you've done things no god could ignore."
"The moon of the goddess Moonlight shines beautifully tonight," she added softly.
A quiet laugh escaped Toki. A thought echoed in his mind — playful, teasing. I doubt you'd like Sephira.
Then, as if summoned by the thought, a familiar voice brushed against his mind, silken and amused.
You're sitting quite comfortably, little knight. I recall offering you my lap to.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, ignoring the voice. "Life's changed a lot recently," he murmured aloud. "But I don't regret any of it — not the wounds, not the words, not the path that brought us here."
Utsuki brushed his hair from his forehead. "I don't know what the future holds," she said. "But I think… we'll be fine. Somehow."
Toki's lips curved into a tired smile. "You sound like a queen when you say things like that."
They both laughed — quiet, genuine laughter that carried across the muddy field, mingling with the crackle of fire and the soft chatter of the children. For that brief moment, the weight of their world seemed far away.
Toki stared at the fire for a long time. The flames danced like tiny spirits, their shapes fleeting and fragile. "I used to think hope was something that needed protecting," he said. "But maybe it's the other way around. Maybe… hope protects us."
Utsuki smiled.
He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her lap and the music of laughter wash over him. His breathing slowed. The firelight flickered across his face, tracing the scars like rivers of gold.
Somewhere above, the moonlight broke through the clouds — pale and serene. And in that glow, it almost seemed that the goddess herself was watching, smiling faintly at the man who bore the weight of hope.