Toki awoke not to silence, nor to pain, but to the delicate warmth of a hand brushing against his face.
For a fleeting moment, he thought it was Utsuki again—her touch, calm and measured, the kind that drew him back from death more than once. But when his eyes opened, blinking against the morning sun, the world that entered his gaze was gentler, smaller.
A little girl was crouched beside him, her hair tangled, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. Her fingers, pale and trembling, lingered on his cheek as if testing whether the man before her was truly real.
Her eyes widened the instant he stirred.
"Sir Toki!" she gasped, her voice bubbling with relief. "You're awake! Lady Utsuki said I should watch over you until you wake up!"
Her excitement was so sincere that it took him a moment to respond. The sun struck his face with blinding brightness, and the crisp air bit at the exposed skin of his shoulders. Every muscle ached; his body was an orchestra of dull pain and heavy exhaustion.
He drew in a slow breath, sitting upright. The world shifted with him—the horizon tilting for a heartbeat as blood rushed to his head. His legs were still numb, his knees stiff and unwilling. Behind him loomed the massive iron plough, half-buried in the frozen soil, its black shape cutting a line through the morning mist like the corpse of a dragon refusing to die.
Reality returned in waves—the field, the frost, the faint voices of villagers stirring from their makeshift shelters.
He had survived the night.
The child tilted her head. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly.
Toki blinked at her, momentarily disarmed.
"No," he lied, forcing a weak smile. "Just… stiff."
The little girl gave an exaggerated sigh and then, to his confusion, turned toward the plough. She planted her tiny hands on its enormous frame and began to push with all her strength.
Toki watched in quiet astonishment. Her small boots slipped in the mud, her shoulders trembled, but she didn't stop. She grunted, face scrunched up with effort.
Something about it—her absurd determination—made Toki's lips twitch into a genuine smile.
"Hey," he said, his voice still hoarse. "Do you even know what that is?"
She froze, turning her wide brown eyes toward him.
"No," she admitted honestly. "But I saw that it's important to you! Mama and Papa said you're the one who's going to make a lot of food for everyone. So I wanted to help."
Toki couldn't help it—he laughed. A quiet, broken sound that still carried something alive in it. The innocence of her words pierced through the fog of fatigue like sunlight through clouds.
He reached out, motioning for her to come closer. "This," he said, resting a hand on the plough's cold iron, "is a plough. It's used to plant seeds. It tears open the earth so new life can grow."
She looked up at him, wide-eyed, as though he'd just spoken a spell.
"Seeds?" she echoed. "Like the ones that become wheat?"
"Yes," Toki said. "Wheat, corn, tomatoes… even potatoes. Tell me, little one—what's your favorite food?"
The girl hesitated, lowering her gaze. "We mostly eat bread at home," she said softly. "But it's hard sometimes… Mama says we have to soak it in water to chew it. Sometimes she makes baked potatoes, but not often. Papa says they're expensive, and… and that we must save the firewood so it lasts all winter."
Toki's chest tightened painfully.
He reached out and gently lifted her into his arms, feeling how light she was—too light. Her ribs pressed faintly against his chest through her thin coat. She smelled of straw, ash, and soap that had long since faded.
He held her close, partly to comfort her, partly to hide the sting in his eyes.
She noticed the bruise on his cheek and gasped. "Oh! You got hurt! You don't have to cry—I have something to make it better!"
Before he could answer, she fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a crumpled plaster. It was decorated with a crooked, hand-drawn heart. Carefully, she peeled off the paper and pressed it to his cheek, her little fingers cold against his skin.
"There," she declared proudly. "All better. Now you're good as new."
Toki chuckled softly. "Good as new, huh? You might be right."
He hugged her tighter to warm her frozen hands. "You see all this land?" he said, gesturing toward the endless stretch of dark soil and pale morning mist. "By spring, this will be full of wheat and corn, of tomatoes and potatoes as far as the eye can see."
The girl's eyes widened with awe. "Really? You promise?"
Toki's lips curved upward. "I promise," he said solemnly, touching the hilt of his sword where it rested beside him. "On my blade."
The girl's smile could have outshone the sun. She threw her arms around his neck, laughing, and in that moment, something inside him that had been cold for years thawed just a little.
Before long, more children came running—barefoot, giggling, their laughter carrying over the frostbitten fields.
"Hey! He's awake!" one of them shouted. "Lady Utsuki said breakfast's ready!"
Toki set the girl down gently. She grabbed his hand, tugging insistently toward the camp. He followed, his steps slow but steady. The moment they reached the long wooden tables, the air filled with chatter.
A dozen small faces turned toward him, eyes wide with curiosity. They spotted the plaster on his cheek and immediately began whispering to one another. Then one boy darted forward with a mischievous grin.
"Sir Toki! Can we give you one too?"
Before he could answer, a storm of small hands surrounded him. Children produced all manner of bandages—colored paper, bits of cloth, old medical wraps—and began sticking them to his arms, his chest, even his hair. Some had clumsy drawings: suns, flowers, crooked stars, and hearts.
Toki stood still, bewildered at first, then laughing quietly as the absurdity of it all grew.
"Easy now," he said, as one particularly determined child climbed onto his shoulder to reach his forehead. "You'll run out of bandages."
"No, we won't!" another child insisted. "You're our hero—you need lots of healing!"
Utsuki and Elizabeth stood by the cooking fire, trying—and failing—to hold in their laughter. Elizabeth covered her mouth with her apron, tears forming in her eyes.
Bernard, Ozvold, Harold, and Smith stood a short distance away, watching the scene with bemused smiles. Even Ozvold couldn't quite suppress the curve of amusement on his lips.
Yuki crossed her arms, smirking. "Well, look at that," she said dryly. "All wrapped up like a mummy. Now all you need is a sarcophagus, and we can bury you in glory."
Toki gave her a mock glare, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
Then Tora and Kandaki approached, each holding a small strip of bandage of their own. Without a word, they pressed them onto his shoulders. "One from your apprentices," Tora said with a grin.
Kandaki added, quieter, "For good luck."
Toki looked around—the laughing children, the smiling adults, the steam rising from pots of porridge and soup, the faint warmth returning to the frozen land—and for a moment, he forgot the pain in his body, the heaviness of the plough, the endless nights of exhaustion.
Without realizing it, a smile broke across his face so warm it seemed it could melt the very frost clinging to the earth.
He belonged here. For the first time in too long, he felt it.
After the meal, the camp began to stir with renewed energy. Men and women stood, tightening gloves, wrapping scarves, readying the plough lines. The frost still bit at their heels, but something had changed in the air—a quiet determination, an unspoken unity.
Toki rose slowly, shaking off the last traces of drowsiness. His muscles protested, but he ignored them. He turned toward the field, toward the iron beast that waited.
Each step he took sank slightly into the softening ground. The plough loomed ahead like a dark altar.
When he reached it, he stopped. For a long while, he simply stared. His reflection shimmered faintly in the frost on its surface—a man wrapped in childish bandages and bright colors, looking almost ridiculous. Yet somehow, the image didn't mock him. It humbled him.
Behind him, he heard movement—boots in the mud, soft laughter, the rustle of clothing.
He turned slightly, and what he saw made his breath catch.
Everyone was there.
Every worker, every villager, every child.
They had followed him.
Utsuki stood nearest, her hair tied back, her expression calm but bright. Elizabeth held a basket of bread. Smith's arms were crossed, his coat lined with frost. Bernard's eyes glimmered with pride. Even Ozvold and Harold, covered in mud and bruises, stood tall behind him.
Their faces were tired, worn, yet each bore the same fire—the determination to see this through.
Toki swallowed, throat tight. He placed a hand on the plough's beam and looked down at the mud-streaked ground.
"Why are you all here?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
Utsuki stepped forward. "Because this isn't your burden alone," she said softly. "We began this together, Toki. We'll finish it together."
Smith added, voice gruff but warm, "You've carried this weight long enough, boy. It's time we carry it with you."
Bernard placed a hand on Toki's shoulder, firm. "A king without a kingdom is nothing. But a man with people who believe in him—" he smiled faintly "—that's the start of something greater."
Toki looked from one face to another, unable to speak. The world around him seemed to still. The wind whispered faintly through the dry grass, carrying the scent of smoke and earth.
Then Utsuki's hand brushed his, grounding him. "It's time," she said simply.
Toki drew a deep breath, feeling the old strength flicker inside him once more—not the harsh fire of pride, but the steady flame of purpose.
He bent down beneath the plough's beam. The cold iron pressed against his shoulders, familiar and heavy. He could feel every heartbeat echoing through the metal. But this time, he wasn't alone.
To his right, Utsuki lowered herself beside him, gripping the beam with bare hands. To his left, Smith did the same, the old man's muscles taut beneath his worn coat. Behind them, others followed—Bernard, Harold, Ozvold, Elizabeth, Yuki,Mellisa, the farmers, even his men and the children clinging to the ropes.
The entire city had come.
Toki looked up once more, his breath visible in the morning chill.
"Then let's finish what we started," he said quietly.
A murmur spread through the group—a chorus of assent, of courage.
He braced his feet in the mud.
"Together," he whispered.
And with a single motion, they pushed.
The earth groaned beneath them, the plough wheels creaking, iron grinding against frozen soil. For a heartbeat, it resisted. Then, slowly—inch by inch—it moved.
Cheers erupted behind him.
The sound of effort became the sound of life. Children laughed. The villagers shouted encouragement. Even the crows that had perched on the distant fences took flight, startled by the roar of voices that rose across the fields.
The plough carved its path through the winter ground. Each furrow was a promise written in mud—a future of harvest, of bread that wouldn't need soaking in water, of potatoes baked in real warmth.
Toki's vision blurred, but this time it wasn't exhaustion. It was pride.
He could feel the trembling of every hand beside his, hear the ragged breaths, the grunts of effort—but also the laughter. The hope.
This was not a king commanding subjects.
This was a man among equals.
A family rebuilding the world together.
And as the sun climbed higher, spilling gold over the frost-bitten fields, Toki realized something profound:
For the first time, the kingdom he dreamed of was not a place—it was the people walking beside him.
The air was heavy with frost and resolve.
For hours, the only sounds were the rough creak of wood, the strained breathing of men and women, and the rhythmic crunch of boots pressing into the half-frozen soil. The sun, a pale disc behind drifting clouds, did little to warm their aching limbs. But no one stopped.
They had pushed for so long that time itself seemed to blur—morning becoming afternoon, and afternoon slipping into something endless. The ground was hard, stubborn, almost mocking their efforts. And yet, each soul there—soldier, farmer, child—refused to surrender. Because Toki had not.
Toki's hands were raw. His palms bled where the rope and iron handles of the plough had rubbed through the skin. The muscles in his shoulders screamed, his breath came ragged, but he did not dare to falter. The weight behind him was more than metal and earth—it was the future of the city, the promise of spring, the fragile hope in the eyes of those who now worked beside him.
Every time his body told him to stop, he saw that same little girl from earlier—her tiny hands pressing against the cold wood, her face bright with determination far too pure for a world like this. She had no strength to move the plough, but her effort burned like a torch in the dark.
She shouldn't have to push anything, Toki thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. Not her. Not any of them. This was my burden… my atonement.
The wheels of the plough groaned, cutting a deep furrow into the earth, when suddenly—
CRACK.
The front blade slammed into something solid. The whole structure jerked, throwing dust into the air. The people gasped and stumbled back as the plough refused to move an inch farther.
"What—what happened?" one of the men shouted, his voice laced with panic.
Toki knelt, brushing away the soil. Beneath it, he felt cold stone.
"It's a rock!" yelled another. "A damned boulder, right in the middle of the field!"
Murmurs spread quickly. Some cursed. Others dropped to their knees, trying to chip at the obstacle with shovels and picks. But the more they struck, the clearer it became—it wasn't just a rock buried in the soil. It was a massive slab of stone, ancient and immovable.
Toki stood motionless for a moment, his shadow falling long across the furrow. The breath from his lips came out white, fading like ghosts. The weight of the plough pressed against his back like judgment itself.
If they could not move forward, the planting would fail. Everything they had worked for—all their effort, all their faith—would mean nothing.
" Maybe we should rest for a while," Utsuki called out, her voice trembling between concern and exhaustion. "The sun will set soon—"
But before she could finish, Toki raised a hand.
Everyone froze.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
"Get back," he said quietly.
Utsuki blinked. "What are you planning to do?"
He did not answer. He only met her eyes, and for a fleeting second, something flickered behind his weary expression—an unyielding fire.
"Trust me," Toki said. "Just… trust me this once."
Utsuki hesitated. Then, silently, she gathered the villagers and stepped back, pulling the little girl into her arms.
The field fell into an unnatural stillness.
Toki leaned forward, both hands gripping the handles. The veins in his forearms stood out like cords of iron. His body trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper, a storm within his chest.
This is just training, he thought, his breath deep and slow. Like before… only this time, it's not the moon watching—it's them. My people.
His thoughts drifted between exhaustion and clarity.
If I stop now… all of this will have been for nothing. No one will remember the man who almost succeeded. They'll only remember the one who gave up.
He could hear the the little girl behind him. He pictured her small hands pressing against the plough earlier that morning.
She believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.
He closed his eyes.
One last push… for her. For them. For me.
Then he screamed.
It wasn't a sound of pain, but of pure defiance—a cry that tore through the frozen valley and made the very earth shudder. The muscles across his back rippled like drawn steel. The ground beneath his boots cracked, sending up a halo of frost and dust.
Toki drove his right foot deep into the soil, using it as a pillar. Every tendon in his body locked into place, every heartbeat pounding like thunder in his ears. He threw his entire soul forward.
For an instant, the world seemed to explode.
A sharp boom—the air itself ruptured, followed by a gust of wind so violent that dust lifted from the ground like a brown veil. The sonic burst sent the plough hurtling forward, ripping through the rock as though it were clay. The boulder split cleanly in two, the sound echoing across the valley like a war cry.
For several heartbeats, no one moved. The field lay silent except for the ringing in their ears.
Then Toki's voice broke the silence.
"Don't just stand there!" he shouted hoarsely. "Grab the plough before it gets away!"
The spell shattered.
Men and women ran forward, cheering, gripping the handles, pulling with renewed vigor. The plough rolled free of the stone's grip, cutting through the last stretch of earth with almost supernatural ease.
Hours passed again, but none of them noticed. They worked until the last furrow was drawn, until the final line of earth was turned. The sky grew darker, and the first stars blinked awake.
And then—it happened.
A single snowflake drifted down, soft and silent, landing on Toki's sleeve. Another followed. Then dozens.
Within moments, the air was filled with dancing flakes of white, swirling like feathers over the newly broken soil.
"The first snow," whispered Utsuki, her voice trembling. "Winter has begun…"
But Toki was laughing. Laughing like a boy who had seen the world reborn. He reached down, scooped a handful of dark earth, and flung it into the air.
"It's done!" he shouted. "We did it!"
The villagers cheered with him, their voices rising into the cold night. Toki turned to Utsuki, caught her by the waist, and spun her into the air. She laughed, startled and radiant, her hair catching snowflakes as she landed back in his arms.
"Put me down!" she said between giggles.
"Not until you admit you doubted me," Toki teased, his grin bright despite the dirt streaking his face.
"I never doubted you," she said softly. "Not for a single heartbeat."
He looked into her eyes and believed her.
Then, before he could respond, something grabbed his ankles.
He gasped—but it wasn't danger. The villagers were laughing, lifting him high above their heads, tossing him into the air again and again.
"TOKI! TOKI! TOKI!"
Their voices carried over the field like a hymn of gratitude. Toki laughed helplessly, arms spread wide as the snow fell around him. For the first time in what felt like years, he wasn't carrying anyone's weight—he was weightless himself.
"Enough!" called a deep, regal voice.
The crowd fell silent, parting like a wave.
From the edge of the field walked King Mathias, his cloak sweeping across the fresh snow, his crown dusted with frost. His expression was calm, proud, and—most surprising of all—warm.
"I knew you would not disappoint me, Captain Toki," the King said, his tone both commanding and kind. "You have done what even my knights could not."
He removed his heavy mantle and draped it across Toki's shoulders. The crimson fabric shimmered in the moonlight.
"Once again," the King continued, "you have defied fate. The kingdom owes you a debt greater than gold. You carry the heart of a true king."
Toki, still breathless, shook his head. "Your Majesty, please—don't say that. I only—"
But Mathias interrupted him. The King bent down, scooped a handful of soil, and smeared two lines of earth beneath his own eyes—a sign of respect once given to farmers who fed the realm.
Toki's breath caught. "No, Your Majesty, stop! That's not—"
"It is not humiliation," Mathias said, smiling. "It is honor. Today, I learned that the crown means little if it cannot kneel before its people."
The King clapped a strong hand on Toki's shoulder. "You've taught me that."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then, to everyone's astonishment, Mathias scooped another handful of snow, packed it tight—and hurled it straight at Toki's face.
The snowball hit with a soft thump.
Toki blinked, stunned.
The King smirked. "It's time we clean ourselves, don't you think?"
Laughter erupted instantly. Children squealed, soldiers dropped their tools, and before anyone could stop it, snowballs began flying in every direction. Utsuki ducked behind a barrel, firing back with deadly precision. Bernard and Ozvold joined the fray, their normally stern faces glowing with laughter. Even Smith, usually reserved, couldn't resist lobbing a perfect throw at Harold's back.
The field that had once echoed with groans of struggle was now alive with joy and laughter.
For a moment, no one remembered the hunger, the cold, or the weight of their burdens. They were simply people—laughing, shouting, alive.
Toki stood in the center of it all, smiling through the snow melting on his cheeks. He could barely keep his eyes open from exhaustion, but he didn't care. The world felt light again.
As the night deepened and the snow piled softly across the furrows, the fires from the camp began to glow. The plough—silent and majestic—rested at the edge of the field, its blade glinting faintly beneath the moonlight.
Toki approached it, brushing his fingers along the cold metal.
His breath was shallow, his body trembling from fatigue. But inside, something finally eased.
This is what I wanted, he thought. Not glory. Not forgiveness. Just… proof that we could still grow something beautiful from the dirt.
Behind him, Utsuki approached quietly. "You should rest," she said gently. "You'll collapse again if you keep standing here."
He smiled faintly. "If I fall now, let it be on this ground. It's earned it."
She shook her head, placing a hand on his arm. "You've earned rest too, Toki."
He turned to her, eyes soft. "I promised that girl, you know—the little one. I told her there'd be wheat, corn, tomatoes, and potatoes as far as the eye could see. I swore it on my sword."
Utsuki nodded, her eyes glistening. "Then we'll make it happen. Together."
He looked out over the snow-covered fields. The furrows stretched endlessly, already vanishing beneath the white, yet he could almost see it—the green to come, the future born from their hands.
The King's voice called from behind them, "Come, everyone! Warm yourselves! Tonight we feast!"
Toki exhaled a shaky laugh. "A feast," he murmured. "I think I've forgotten what that even feels like."
Utsuki smiled. "Then it's time to remember."
They walked back toward the camp, the snow crunching softly beneath their boots. The fires flickered brighter as they drew near, laughter echoing through the air.
Behind them, the field rested—its scars hidden beneath the snow, its promise buried deep in the frozen soil.
And though Toki's steps faltered, his spirit did not.
For the first time in years, the world seemed to whisper back to him.
Spring will come.
And when it did, he knew—the land would bloom not just with crops, but with hope.With love.Their love.