Utsuki woke to sound before she woke to thought.
Voices. Wooden wheels sliding over frozen earth. The distant groan of ropes pulled too tight. The heavy breathing of men forcing life into dead ground.
Her eyelashes stuck together with cold dew.
She blinked.
She was outside—still outside—wrapped in a warm dark fabric that smelled like cold sweat, soil, moonlight, and a quiet stubborn will.
Toki's coat.
She sat up slowly, the morning frost biting through the back of her thin dress. Her joints complained, her breath puffing white in the air. She rubbed her arms and looked around.
The bonfire from last night was long dead, just a skeletal shape of charcoal and gray ash. The children's blankets were piled near one of the wagons, sleeping bodies curled together like small animals in winter.
Utsuki rubbed her forehead.
She must have fallen asleep while watching him.
She turned her eyes toward the fields—and froze.
There he was.
Toki was already at the plough.
The massive iron beast—thirty meters long—leaned like a dead dragon against the dark, fertilized soil. Straw still stuck from its sides like scar tissue. Chains were wrapped around the front, and Toki's shoulders bore the crossbar—his back bent slightly, his muscles corded like steel wire.
And the ground—oh gods—the ground was so wet, so heavy from yesterday's mixing that each step swallowed his ankles.
Several peasants pushed from behind. Their feet slid. Their knees trembled. The wheels sank and groaned.
And Toki…
Toki didn't groan.
He didn't even make a sound.
He leaned forward, the tendons in his arms stretched to breaking, his teeth gritted, his breath visible only in long slow streams.
He wasn't pulling the plough.
No—he was refusing to be crushed by it.
Utsuki rose to her feet, clutching the coat to her chest for one heartbeat—then draped it over her shoulders, pulling it tight around herself. Her boots crunched in the frost as she headed toward the fires.
Elizabeth, Melissa, and Yuki stood at a large wooden table serving hot barley porridge to workers who rotated shifts at the plough.
Elizabeth spotted her first.
"Good morning," she said gently. "You slept out here."
"Yes," Utsuki muttered, eyes distant. "Didn't mean to."
She swallowed hard.
"How long," she asked. "How long has he been doing that?"
Elizabeth paused mid-stir. Her eyes softened with something between respect and fear.
"He began before any of us woke," Elizabeth said quietly. "When I got up before dawn—the plough was already moving."
Melissa stepped forward, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Harold, Smith, and Bernard finished the drainage tunnels and the wells last night," she said. "Only the plowing remains. And planting. December is coming, Utsuki."
Her voice trembled.
"Toki is fighting time itself now. The weight on his shoulders is more than that iron."
Utsuki's throat tightened.
"The plough weighs several tons," she whispered. "He must be exhausted."
Yuki snorted, slamming a bowl down in front of a farmer.
"That idiot doesn't even want to eat," she said. "Wouldn't take food when I offered. Wouldn't even look at me. I swear— he's going to die under that thing like a dung beetle crushed under a boot."
Utsuki turned sharply.
"Yuki—"
"No!" Yuki snapped. "I mean it!"
Her voice cracked and she looked away, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist.
"He keeps acting like pain is the only solution."
The plough suddenly stopped.
The chains rattled once—then went still.
The peasants behind collapsed into the mud, panting, knees shaking, others rushing in to replace them for the next shift. But Toki…
Toki did not step away.
He stayed beneath the plough beam.
His knees slightly bent, shoulders locked, neck bowed. The beam pressed heavy on his back, the skin of his collarbones red and raw. His pants were nearly torn apart. His feet were sunk deep into manure-soaked clay.
He wasn't wearing a shirt.
A thick armor of dried mud served as his only garment.
Sweat ran in streams down his face—and yet he didn't shiver.
He didn't blink.
He simply waited—breathing heavily—eyes distant but present.
Accepting pain like it was an agreement written long ago.
Utsuki stared at him.
He had become a pillar.
A pillar holding up winter.
Only when the workers behind were ready again did he open his mouth.
"Again," he whispered.
It was barely a sound.
But everyone heard it.
The plough began to move.
Throughout the day Utsuki tried again and again to bring him food.
And each time Toki refused.
Sometimes he didn't even speak—he only shook his head, eyes locked forward on the soil, breath steady, sweat streaking lines of cleaner skin through the mud.
Hours passed.
The sun reached its peak.
The sun began to fall.
The world slowly turned orange.
And still—Toki did not stop.
Even when the others stopped. Even when the peasants pulled back to drink, to wipe their brows, to rest their backs—Toki continued.
He pulled alone.
The plough crawled forward—one inch, another inch, another—like an ancient beast dragged by a single mortal's will.
Night finally draped itself across the fields.
Workers gathered around the bonfire.
Soup boiled. Bread was split. Laughter rose in small tired bursts.
And there, in the darkness behind them—Toki still moved.
Step.
Pull.
Step.
Pull.
The plough creaked behind him like a coffin being dragged to its grave.
The frost returned.
The air became sharp as knives.
And still—he did not put the weight down.
Utsuki's hands trembled around the bowl she held. She walked alone to the edge of the field and watched him—bare chest gleaming with sweat and moonlight, steam rising from his muscles.
"Toki," she whispered. Not loud enough for him to hear. Just enough for the night to feel it.
"You're killing yourself."
He didn't look her way—though she knew he sensed her presence.
His voice came, rough and low, as if from another world.
"If I rest now… tomorrow I won't be able to lift this damn thing again."
His knees shook.
He clenched his jaw.
"I can't afford to stop, Utsuki."
The plough moved another inch.
And Toki kept walking.
Melissa watched him with wide eyes.
"…does he even know anyone is watching him?" she whispered.
Elizabeth shook her head slightly.
Toki's eyes weren't here anymore.
They weren't on the field.
They weren't on the sky.
They weren't on the people around him.
His stare was locked into some private hell far behind reality — like a man who had found a wall and decided to go through it even if every muscle and bone would snap.
The rope slid half a centimeter down his shoulder.
He jerked his body forward again.
Elizabeth spoke, almost ashamed at how small she sounded:
"We're all trying so hard… and he makes us look like we're not even trying."
Utsuki didn't answer.
Because she was thinking the same thing.
But her version was darker.
Toki didn't just accept pain. He needed it.
This wasn't "hard work."
This was punishment he felt he deserved.
Toki wouldn't stop.
Not tonight.
Not tomorrow.
Not until the soil itself surrendered to him.
He stepped again — dirt splashed behind him in a heavy arc.
The farmers rotated again, fresh ones stepping in — but Toki didn't even look.
From the side of the field, a man whispered to another:
"Should… should we tell him to rest?"
The other farmer laughed nervously:
"You want to be the one who tells him to stop?"
Silence.
Even the fire crackled quieter
The routine had continued for days without pause. Toki no longer remembered when he had last slept, or when he had last eaten. Each day bled into the next, a monotonous cycle of exertion and silent determination. Utsuki's worry had grown with every passing hour, gnawing at her like a persistent shadow. Bernard, Ozvold, and Harold could only do so much—they traded shifts, trying in vain to lessen the burden—but no matter who took the reins, none could free Toki from beneath the plow.
Four days had passed since Toki and Utsuki had set out, and now Tora and Kandaki arrived, their faces etched with concern. The sight before them was almost unbearable. Toki's clothing hung in tatters, caked with mud, sweat, and the residue of his relentless labor. His body, strained beyond measure, moved mechanically as if driven by some force beyond his own will. Kandaki swallowed hard, feeling a mix of awe and helpless pity, while Tora's hands trembled, wanting to reach out but unsure how to help.
Still, Toki pressed onward. Each step seemed heavier than the last, as if the earth itself had become a viscous trap, chaining his legs with unseen bonds. The mud pulled at him like shackles, relentless in its weight. And then it began—the sharp, insistent pain that no man could ignore. His chest tightened, his breath grew ragged, and his heart stuttered in sudden, cruel bursts. His pupils trembled in their sockets; the world blurred into indistinct shapes. Then, as if the earth had finally claimed its due, his legs buckled beneath him. Toki collapsed, face-first, into the mud. The full weight of the plow descended upon him.
A chorus of panicked shouts erupted. The surrounding villagers, sensing catastrophe, rushed forward. Bernard, Ozvold, and Harold charged as one, lifting with all their strength, muscles straining under the impossible weight. Elizabeth, Melissa, and Yuki joined, their hands glowing faintly with healing magic, while Kandaki and Tora sank knee-deep into the mire, grasping desperately for leverage.
Utsuki's eyes blazed with a determination that burned brighter than the sun. She stepped forward, raising a hand as if to command the earth itself. The ground trembled violently under her touch, a jagged pillar of soil bursting upward to lift the plow, freeing Toki from its suffocating embrace. She crouched beside him, her hands trembling as she reached for his face, trying to gauge his state. But even as she touched him, Toki barely recognized her. His vision swam, breaths came in short, agonized gasps, and his body curled instinctively around his chest.
Healing magic surged from Utsuki's fingertips, flowing into him, but it was a delicate thread against the damage his body had suffered. Toki caught a glimpse of a fissure in his vision—a crack in reality, sharp and horrifying. Before he could process it, he vomited a mouthful of blood onto Utsuki, and a scream of terror rose from the crowd. Yuki, Melissa, and Elizabeth intensified their healing, glowing lights shimmering over his trembling form.
A thought pierced through the chaos: A fissure… just like when I've pushed my abilities to their limits before… Am I… dying now? Death had visited him many times, yet this was different. This was the exhaustion of every fiber in his body reaching its limit. His body was no longer his own. Pain tore through him like a storm, uncontrollable, merciless. And then, as if the world had finally given up, darkness descended.
Toki awoke in the Palace of Mirrors. The air was thick with dark mist, heavy with the metallic scent of moonlit obsidian. The pool of polished obsidian at his feet reflected a fractured, grotesque image of himself. His skin bore the marks of battle and fatigue, his body emaciated, and yet he recognized the eyes staring back from the reflection—they were his, but hollow, haunted.
A voice emerged from the shadows without ceremony. "It's been some time, little knight. You don't look well at all. You've taken more than you could chew."
Sephira's presence was both intoxicating and terrifying. She sank gracefully to the floor beside him, her aura weaving warmth and danger together like threads of fire and silk. "Almost, you've triggered your authority… and yet here you are, still clinging to life. Careful with your body—what is a palace without its king?"
Toki's lips barely formed a whisper, more to himself than to her: "What if… I set a checkpoint each time I reach my limit, dying each time, and returning refreshed? Could I come back… anew?"
Sephira's smile was a blade. "That won't work. Eventually, your focus will falter, and you'll be trapped in a death loop. You are resilient, yes… four centuries of life, and yet your mind is still immature. You cannot do everything alone. A kingdom with a king but no people is meaningless. You try to protect them all, and yet you harm them by taking the lessons of suffering from their hands. You will endure pain endlessly while they remain stagnant."
Toki's throat tightened. "It's not your way to lecture me. Do you… feel pity for me?"
"I have my own plans and ambitions," Sephira said softly, "and one day, I will need you. It is an equitable exchange—we have used each other from the start. Why not prepare for a future where a new god walks among us?"
Toki's jaw clenched. "Still with the riddles. I've no patience left."
Sephira rose, her presence flickering like flame. "Then wake, for your lady waits. You must not keep her waiting." And with that, she dissolved into the shadows, leaving him alone with the echoes of her words.
The mist that had enveloped him began to dissipate. Slowly, his wounds began to knit, flesh knitting over the blackened muscle, the faint warmth of healing suffusing his limbs. When he opened his eyes, he saw the night sky above, familiar and grounding. His head rested on Utsuki's lap, and for a fleeting moment, he could just breathe.
Utsuki's voice broke the silence. "You've made a habit of sleeping on my lap." A faint smile traced her lips, though her dress was still stained with dried blood.
Toki forced a soft apology. "I'm sorry… for worrying you."
Her fingers brushed through his mud-caked hair as she responded, "It is dangerous for you to rise now." She lifted a bowl of steaming soup, blowing gently to cool it, before pressing the spoon to his lips.
Toki hesitated. "What are you doing?"
"If you refuse to eat, I will feed you. If necessary, I will care for you as a mother would. You need strength, and I will not let you weaken."
Slowly, he ate. Each mouthful felt like a small victory, a tiny reclamation of life. Around them, the world remained tense, yet for this moment, there was quiet. Toki lay with his head upon her lap, staring at the stars, thoughts spiraling inward.
I was too arrogant… too stubborn… I took on a burden too great for myself. I gave everyone false hope, only to shatter it…
Utsuki's hand pressed lightly to his hair. "Their hope would have only died if you had died. None are disappointed in you, Toki. All are worried, all have rushed to save you."
His lips pressed into a thin line. "I won't leave the field until I finish. No matter the cost." He expected a rebuke, a sharp remark—but instead, a soft smile formed on Utsuki's face.
"I know. And I will not leave your side, either. We will give everything we can. You have always been there for us; now it is our turn. But first… you must recover. We do not have much time, yet we always find a way when we work together."
Toki tilted his head, appreciating her strength. "You are remarkable."
"The pillar of earth would have collapsed without the others lifting the plow," she said gently, reminding him that even the strongest need support.
"I am not a good commander. Instead of walking you trought gardens, I plunged you into mud and worry."
"We chose this," she replied, "to endure hardship together rather than rule from comfort. Around us, we plant a garden of hope for the future. I am happy to be here, among suffering and effort, with you and the others."
A quiet warmth spread through Toki's chest. "I cannot fathom why fate allowed me the joy of knowing you."
"You were yourself," she said, softly stroking his hair, "and that has always been enough. Now… rest. Let the night cradle you."
Utsuki's voice began to hum, a melody gentle and soothing, curling around him like moonlight. Toki, exhausted beyond measure, let the song carry him into sleep. Utsuki adjusted, making herself more comfortable against the plow, her presence a steady reassurance.
Rest well, brave knight, she whispered, the faintest smile lingering on her lips. And in the quiet embrace of the night, surrounded by those who had risked everything for him, Toki finally surrendered to sleep, his body finally yielding to the reprieve it so desperately needed.