Today I woke up rather late, much to my father's annoyance and disappointment. Before I even had the chance to have a proper breakfast, he came and told me,
"Aexial, you know you should wake up before the sun is out on the open field."
As usual, he was by the door, all worked up, covered in dirt, a sickle in hand, sweat dripping from his forehead. He looked at me with squinted brows that seemed like two tick marks drawn on his forehead. Panting from running over to our home and leaving work behind, all just to tell me that I had woken up late.
"I know, I know. Wake up before the siren rings. I just didn't get much sleep last night," I told him, trying to find the right excuse for my lazy demeanor. I ended up biting my tongue when I realized I shouldn't have said that I couldn't sleep much.
He crossed his hands and looked at me with one brow raised. I knew right then that I was caught.
How stupid of me! Oh well, I guess I'd better get ready for his long lecture again.
"That's because you were at that old man Grison's residence again, weren't you?" As much as I hated to admit it, my father was 100% correct. I had been up all night listening to Old Man Grison's stories again.
"I don't get it, you and that old man with his made-up fairy tales."
"They're interesting stories," I murmured under my breath as I took a spoonful of the bland white rice I was having for breakfast.
"As interesting as they are to you, they won't get you anywhere. They just fill your head with unnecessary ideas. You need to focus on how to be a proper farmer instead," he berated me.
I slowly put the spoon back in the clay pot, already full even though I had only eaten three spoonfuls. I just wasn't in the mood anymore.
"Farming this, farming that—that's all you ever talk about."
"How else would you put food on the table if it's not for that?"
I stared at the rice on the table for a while and ended up thinking out loud.
"It's not that good anyway."
He came toward the table and slammed his palm down, almost dropping the bowl. I raised my hand, intending to catch it if it fell, but only for the rice to spill all over the table.
"Well, you deal with it. It's the best we can do. It's still food, isn't it?" he said, his voice full of anger. I looked up and saw him staring down at me with fuming eyes. "You are not to go listen to that old man anymore, am I clear?"
I gulped in silence and tightened my hands into fists. Was he really serious? If so, I wasn't going to give in to his demands. Quite frankly, even if I did, I wouldn't keep my promises. Even though he was my father, I just wouldn't give up that easily.
But luckily for me, before I could object, a hand came down on his shoulder, accompanied by an ominous presence behind him. We both knew exactly what it was, but dared not speak its name. Just like me, my father was sweating heavily, his eyes full of fear and terror.
"For someone who preaches about making good food, you sure do like to waste it, don't you?"
After she spoke, my father's eyes immediately darted toward the table, where the spilled rice lay. Right then, he realized his foolish mistake.
"D-dear?" he stammered, slowly turning to face my mom, who was smiling at him. But that smile carried no warmth, nor was it friendly, and we both sensed it.
"Don't 'dear' me. Clean that up!"
"U-uh I—I..."
"NOW!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Before my father could say anything further, my mom had already commanded him to clean up his mess. She expected him to do his best without objection; with objection came the worst consequences. My father understood this, so he immediately straightened up and fetched a cloth to clean up, along with the bowl of rice in hand.
Even though my mom saved me from Dad's annoying lecture, I didn't feel like I had won—because she was still there, smiling ominously. I slowly got up—or, more accurately, I tried to get up, my legs weak from the sheer terror of facing my mom's wrath.
"I heard you two," she said softly. Surprised, I turned toward her and saw worried eyes.
She walked over and used her hands to pick up some rice that had gotten on my clothes. I stood silently, not wanting to move and upset her further. When she was done, she held my cheeks softly and smiled wryly.
"You know how he is! He can say mean things sometimes, but I assure you, Aexial, he only means good for you."
"I-I know that," I said bitterly. "I just want him to understand me for once, that's all. After all, Old Man Grison's stories are the only interesting, entertaining thing I can get in this town."
"Only thing? What about running around in the field? You used to do that all day when you were just a small lad."
I turned away shyly, hesitant to meet her eyes, embarrassed that she reminded me of when I used to run around the open fields, oblivious to the crops, my friends in tow, and angry farmers behind us. Those were fun days, though I still spent time in the field doing things other than farming. I wasn't that same little kid who caused unnecessary problems for other farmers, including my father.
"I only did that when I was small. I'm fifteen now. I've understood that running around like that only caused trouble for others."
She let out a small giggle and said, "Even so, if you don't do those things anymore, you're still the same little wild kid I've always known you were." She placed both hands on my face and slowly turned my head toward her. Her eyes, full of worry and care, made me smile back.
After all, it's a son's duty to show his mother his vulnerable side sometimes, since she probably saw it before anyone else could. So right then, I decided to let my guard down with her.
"You really like those stories, don't you?" she asked.
I nodded slowly, still smiling.
"They're wonderful," I confessed.
"Hehe, are they now? Well, I'm glad to hear that. I can see they make you happy, and you look forward to hearing them every time." I could only nod. Mothers really do see everything when it comes to their kids, don't they?
"Not many people have that pleasure these days, to look forward to something. I am happy to say that my son is not like that. I'm sure your father feels the same, but it's harder for him to say it. You're like him that way, both so stubborn to express yourself. That is why I'm here to tell you it's okay."
I reached for her hand and held it softly. To me, my mother hadn't aged like my father. She looked much younger and was as beautiful as always. People often mistook her for my older sister. My father would often puff up his chest when people commented on her beauty, only for his confidence to be spectacularly shattered when they asked how she ended up with him. It was both intriguing and hilarious.
My parents' personalities were so different: my mother, the kind, caring, soft-spoken one, and my father, the iron-willed, strict one. Yet they found each other and brought me into this world. Love finds its way, I guess, doesn't it?
My mother told me that my father had been wild and carefree like me when he was young. That was what caught her eye. But when his father died, he took responsibility for the farmland and changed. After I was born, he fully embraced his philosophy: to work hard and diligently for his family. My mother had no quarrels with that, because it meant putting food on the table and caring for his family. Even so, she'd tell me how she missed her younger, wild, carefree husband.
"You may not realize this, but the two of you have so much in common, although you have more of what he had. That is a goal: to be more than what you already are. As your mother, I only want you both to be yourselves," she said.
All in all, even though my father could be stubbornly strict, I was grateful. Grateful for a kind, caring mother, and a father who lived by his philosophy, doing what he believed was right for his family. I was grateful for both of them.
"I should go now," I told my mom, picking up my tools and securing my satchel around my waist. I turned to her and gave her the best smile I could.
"Thanks, Mom!"
"Go on now," she said, and I did.
"...."
"You shouldn't pamper him so much, you know," Samuel said to his wife as he watched her emerge from the front door after their son left. He had overheard the morning's events and felt a pinch of guilt for what he'd said to Aexial earlier.
"That's why you're here. As his father, your duty is to balance me out, isn't it?" Miria replied, taking the wet cloth from her husband and using it to clean the table.
"I won't be here forever, neither will you. That's why I want him to learn as fast as possible to live on his own," he said, his expression gloomy.
"Haven't you noticed? Aexial is already an excellent farmer. He knows his way around everything, and we all agree the rice he harvested last season was better than yours."
"Oi oi! I've never heard of that! Better than mine? Mind you, I grow plenty of good crops!"
"No, you don't. Also, you've never heard of it because..." Miria soaked the cloth in a bucket of water, then handed it back to her husband. "Because you didn't listen. So, for once, dear, listen to your son, okay? You'll learn so much about him when you do."
Samuel knew she was right. He thought of Aexial working in the field: he knew the proper methods, which crops to harvest and when, and how to do it correctly. He excelled, even if he didn't say so. Maybe he should acknowledge it. After all, a simple "job well done" wouldn't hurt.
Was he really too hard on his son? No. Even if he was, it was for his own good. Samuel had been the same way as a child, and his son would come to the same conclusion eventually.
This world was hard on those who gave little and easier on those who worked tirelessly. He knew the routine was exhausting: the same tasks every day, minimal reward, and little recognition. But there were more cons than pros, and that was exactly why one must try harder. Survival demanded it.
Miria, however, always thought differently. She saw through Samuel's thoughts and spoke her mind.
"He's just like you. Doesn't matter if I'm talking about the past you or the present you. Both of you are stubborn. You barely listen to each other, yet when you find an idea, you're hooked to it."
Samuel chuckled in defeat. His wife, so different from him, had seen everything clearly. She was right: Aexial was a lot like him.
His actions reminded him of the boy he used to be: carefree, wild, a troublemaker. Yet he knew Aexial was stubborn in his own way. He thought perhaps if they could reach common ground, the problem could be solved.
But what was the problem? Samuel knew it wasn't his son. Aexial was smart, hardworking, and strong for his age, despite his small frame. Samuel worried farming might be too demanding for him, but Aexial quickly proved him wrong.
He was different, unlike any other kid in town. People often spoke of it and warned Samuel that Aexial's curiosity could lead to trouble. The elders preached that curiosity about the world was dangerous, yet Aexial was more curious than ever. His flame burned brighter than it had in his younger days.
Was it the townspeople's warnings? Was it his father? No. Samuel knew the reason for his strictness was himself. He was being protective in his own fatherly way. But Aexial was growing up, soon to be an adult—and maybe that scared Samuel.
The boy who once sat on his shoulders to cross the field was all grown up now, and Samuel felt the weight of it. He had no choice but to accept it.
"He's a kind child, and he got that from you. He looks after his friends and family in his own way. It's something I'm very proud of. I do not want him to lose that innocence."
Miria took his hand and held it against her chest. A smile appeared on her face.
"It seems to me you know what to do now."
He nodded and picked up his sickle, walking toward the door. He waved at her before closing it.
"We'll be back before dinner."
As the door closed, Miria thought to herself,
"Such troublesome boys." Yet her smile never left her face.
The tunnels were as crowded as ever. Walking without getting jostled or scraped against the walls felt nearly impossible. The heat and humidity made sweat drip down my back, neck, and arms. It was unpleasant, but I was used to it. I pushed forward as fast as I could, eager to reach the farm, to breathe the fresh air and feel the sunlight—even if it was filtered through the "sun shield" ceiling.
I maneuvered through the crowd, slipping through gaps whenever I could. The field was still twenty minutes away, and it was almost seven o'clock. If I didn't get there soon, I knew father would give me an earful. That thought spurred me to pick up my pace.
The tunnels stretched throughout the city. At certain points, small open circular spaces allowed for homes to be built into the walls. My house was one of them, though elders enjoyed larger spaces with more amenities. It seemed unfair, but the elders had been gifted these homes by the gods, a privilege reserved for them.
I thought it was nonsense, but saying so aloud would earn a trip to the correction zone. That place was a nightmare: undisciplined individuals sent there suffered brutal punishments, sometimes resulting in permanent injury—or disappearance. Once released, they were marked with a serial number and often ostracized, making repeat offenses almost inevitable.
Lost in thought, I collided with something—or someone—and tumbled backward onto the hard floor. Pain shot through my body as I hit the ground. Looking up, I realized it was a guard.
He was dressed in a white drape with a thin sheet of armor, a pointed metallic helmet bearing the symbol of Subterria—two black parallel lines intersected by ten thin white lines, forming a crude map of the city's ten labyrinthine levels. On his shoulders were two pigeon-feather symbols: a sign that he was no ordinary guard. A lieutenant had one feather; he had two. That meant he was...
"CAPTAIN!" a nearby guard shouted, drawing attention to the commotion.
I groaned, realizing I'd become the day's entertainment once again.
The captain rubbed his bruised legs and winced, then glared at me with sharp, red-tinged eyes.
"Oi, brat! That hurt! If you don't watch where you're going, you'll hurt someone. Now pay up!" His lips curled into a wicked smile.
I knew it was my fault—he was right. I hadn't been paying attention. But there was no way I was giving him money. These guards were vicious and corrupt, preying on the weak. Besides, I was broke, only having two silver coins from father—not nearly enough for his extortion.
"Apologize, sir. I should've watched where I was going, but I see no reason to pay you," I said, bowing deeply.
The crowd murmured.
"Did you hear that?"
"He has guts, eh? Not bad, kid."
"But that'll be his undoing. Look it's captain Jack—he's pissed."
I stood my ground as Jack glared down at me, inches from my face, his anger palpable. The stench of his morning breath filled my nostrils. Quietly, I whispered, "Potato."
"Huh? What was that, punk?" he snarled, leaning closer.
"You had potato," I said, voice barely audible. "And it's not the pleasant kind."
Jack's eyes flickered with confusion and rage. Before I could react further, he swung a knuckle punch into my stomach. Pain exploded through me, and I spat a drop of blood, the strike almost knocking the air out of my lungs.
He wasn't just angry—he was humiliated. And he wanted me to feel it.
"You still think a scrawny kid can mess with me?" he hissed, veins bulging on his forehead.
I clenched my fists and managed a smug grin, despite the pain. "Do you really think bullying me over a bruise in front of all these people makes you right?"
Jack's scowl deepened, and he grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking me off the ground. Pain shot through my skull as I dangled helplessly, my stomach tightening with every second. I gritted my teeth, trying to focus, trying not to let him see me falter.
"Potato!" I hissed again, just loud enough for him to hear.
He blinked, caught off guard. In that instant, two men appeared between us, blocking Jack from coming any closer.
A wave of relief hit me—I recognized them immediately. Guardian angels? Not quite. Just men my father knew, likely drawn by the commotion.
"Mr. Reyes, Mr. Inuzami," I managed to gasp, pain still radiating through my body.
Jack's rage faltered as the two men stepped forward, their presence enough to halt him. I crouched, rubbing my stomach, trying to regain my composure while the crowd whispered and shifted around us.
The fight had ended as quickly as it began, my father's friends dragging me back before Jack could land another blow. My face burned, not from his fists, but from humiliation. I was ready to shout back, to fight again, when the crowd suddenly went still.
That's when he appeared.
Kito.
He moved through the people like the air itself bent to make room for him. Lean frame, long hair tied back neatly, a scar above his eye that made him look more dangerous than dignified. His sharp brown eyes swept over the scene as though he already understood everything, as though he owned it. The council robe he wore seemed to radiate authority, but it wasn't the robe that made people lower their gaze—it was him.
Beside him was a mountain of a man, his guard captain, though I didn't know his name yet. He stood silently, broad shoulders and stern eyes watching, as if the whole world was on trial.
Kito's voice cut through the square like a blade.
"Jack. You're hereby stripped of your position. You've brought nothing but disgrace. Leave, now."
The words dropped like stones in a well. The crowd gasped, then went dead quiet. Jack opened his mouth, fury trembling on his lips, but Kito's glare locked him in place.
"Stay a moment longer," he added softly, "and I'll have the guards carry you out like the trash you've chosen to be."
Jack's pride bled out of him. He shoved through the crowd and vanished, his anger useless here.
And then came the whispers.
"He stood up for the boy."
"Finally, justice is done."
"A true elder… he protects us."
Some even clapped softly, nodding at each other, as if they had just witnessed something noble.
But not me.
No. I saw it differently.
Kito didn't do that for justice. He didn't care about right or wrong. He did it for himself—for the way it made the people look at him. Strong. Decisive. On their side. But in his eyes, I caught it—the flicker of something cold, something self-serving. He wasn't protecting us. He was protecting his power.
Then his gaze landed on me. Just for a second. I felt it like a hand gripping my throat, steady, measuring, calculating.
He said nothing. Just turned, his robe trailing across the cobblestones. But as he walked away, I heard him murmur to Yuri, low enough that most wouldn't catch it.
"Find out about that boy."
"Yes, Councilor," Yuri replied, his voice heavy as stone.
A shiver crawled up my spine.
Everyone else saw a man of justice that day.
I saw the truth.
And it was far, far worse.
Seems like you got yourself in trouble again, didn't you, Aexial?" Mr. Inuzami said, his voice calm but firm. His sharp eyes scanned the scene, sizing up both me and Jacob.
"Y-yes," I croaked, wincing as I rubbed my stomach, still aching from Jacob's blow.
Mr. Reyes chuckled lightly. "Quite a mess here, huh, Aexial?"
I stayed silent, wiping the blood from my lip. Around us, the crowd murmured, but none dared interfere further.
"Are you heading to the farm?" Mr. Reyes asked. I nodded.
"C'mon, I'm heading that way too," he said, motioning for me to walk alongside him.
"I'll tag along if you don't mind," Mr. Inuzami added. Both of them walked beside me, a protective presence that eased some of the tension. I knew Jacob wouldn't risk escalating this any further with them around.
As we moved through the bustling tunnels toward the open fields, my mind replayed the encounter. Elder Kito's influence loomed large in my thoughts. Did he know what would happen? Was the punishment meted out to Jacob a subtle warning? Or had he simply ensured justice in the only way he knew how—swift and absolute?
I kept my gaze forward, letting the two men flank me. The tension in my body slowly unwound as the tunnels opened to the sunlight above the fields. Warm rays bathed the crops, and a cool breeze swept across the expanse, refreshing my senses.
"This place..." I muttered softly, more to myself than anyone else, "it's... peaceful."
Mr. Inuzami nodded. "It is. But remember, Aexial, peace is earned, not given. Keep your wits about you."
I smiled faintly, despite the lingering ache in my ribs. "I will."
The open field stretched before me, sunlight glinting off the green of the crops and the fences that divided them. It was the source of life for everyone in the city, a place of toil, but also a place of freedom. For a moment, I let myself breathe in the serenity, feeling the weight of the morning's chaos lift.
"Take care of yourself today," Mr. Reyes said, giving me a reassuring nod. "You've had enough excitement for one morning."
I laughed softly, the sound mingling with the rustle of the crops. "Yeah, I think I've had my fill."
With that, the two men left me at the edge of the field, their presence fading as I stepped fully into the sun-drenched expanse. I ran my hands along the crops, feeling their life under my fingers, grounding myself in the simplicity of the work ahead.
It was going to be a long day, but for the first time since morning, I felt ready to face it.
The field stretched endlessly before me, rows of rice, wheat, and maize swaying gently in the morning breeze. The sunlight was warm but not oppressive, and I took a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs. After the chaos with Captain Jacob, this felt like a sanctuary.
As I stepped forward, I noticed Francis leaning against a fence post, his ginger curls catching the sunlight. Beside him, Armie was inspecting a row of young crops, her sharp brown eyes scanning for anything out of place. George was closer to the barn, balancing a small sack of tools on his shoulder with an easy grin.
"Hey, Aexial!" Francis called out, waving me over. "Careful with that blood-stained shirt, will you? You look like you went through a grinder this morning."
I chuckled, rubbing the back of my neck. "Yeah, I think Captain Jacob wanted to test how much pain a kid can take."
Armie shot me a pointed glare. "You were in no condition to be out here. Sit down somewhere. We'll handle your chores today."
"No, I—"
"No buts," Francis interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind.
George smirked. "She's right. But don't worry. You'll pay us back later... somehow." He winked, and I couldn't help but laugh despite the soreness in my stomach.
I lowered myself to a nearby patch of grass, finally allowing the adrenaline to fade. The three of them moved with practiced efficiency, checking irrigation channels, loosening soil, and arranging tools, all the while keeping an eye on me.
"You really have a knack for getting yourself into trouble, don't you?" Armie muttered, shaking her head.
"I—uh—maybe a little," I admitted sheepishly.
Francis grinned. "Little? That looked like a full-on disaster. Captain Jacob's going to remember that for a while, I bet."
I winced at the thought but couldn't help smiling at their banter. It was nice to be surrounded by people who cared enough to step in, yet still didn't let me off too easy.
"Alright," George said, setting down the tools. "Let's get to work. Aexial, you can start with the irrigation channels once you're up to it. We'll help you ease back in."
I nodded, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. Despite the morning's events, this was my world—my farm, my friends, and the work I loved. The pain in my ribs reminded me of my limits, but the sunlight, the wind, and the presence of my friends gave me the courage to push forward.
As we worked together, I couldn't help but glance at the sky above the ceiling of the dome. It was so different from the stories Old Man Grison told—no moving sun, no drifting clouds, yet somehow just as fascinating. Maybe, one day, I'd find the truth. For now, though, the field and my friends were enough.
"...."
Samuel was in the market. Before he left for the farm, he decided to buy some new farming equipment for his son, since the ones he had were already starting to show their age. The market, as usual, was crowded, hot, and humid. But he didn't give it much thought, even as he continuously tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead. It was a hassle walking through the crowd toward the blacksmith's shop, yet he pushed on, and when he finally reached it, he stopped and panted heavily, trying to control his breathing from the exhaustion.
"Ah, Samuel. What brings you here?" a man spoke. From the shop, he emerged, covered in grease and wearing a torn apron along with dark goggles.
"Turio, I came to get some new equipment for my son," Samuel answered, trying to regain his composure.
Turio was around his 40s, yet he looked older, like he was beyond his 50s. This was because of the wrinkles on his face. He also had a small curly mustache. The only thing that was different about Turio were his bulging muscles. His arms were the size of his legs and looked like they could crush a human skull easily, like cracking an egg. He had a bunch of scars too and was covered in sweat. This all had to do with the job he had, which was smithing.
He was famous to the point where people called him the best smith in Harvio—and they were not wrong. The items made by him were always top-notch and better than what the other smiths produced. Even with the quality of the products he produced, he didn't sell them at a high rate, which was the best-selling point about Turio's workshop. For the same price from another smith, one could come to Turio and buy the same item with better quality, including sharpness, hardness, and longevity. To put it simply, Turio's business was booming.
Samuel, who knew all of this, had become a regular customer of Turio's, like many others. Yet for some strange reason, Turio was quite fond of Samuel, and the feeling was mutual. After work hours, they would meet up for a drink—behind Miria's back, of course—because if she knew, then the hammer of justice would come down on Samuel, and just the thought of it was scary to him. Turio knew Samuel quite well and was aware of his problems too, since once Samuel was drunk, he'd complain continuously about how his son behaved and how he wanted him to be a good farmer.
Today, though, they were meeting not as friends but as business partners.
"Hm, true, that would make sense since it's been a while that I gave him those farming tools."
"Yeah, I thought it was about time I got him a new one."
"Come in. I'll go grab some that I just finished working on."
And so, they did. Samuel followed Turio inside the shop and took a seat on the folding chair Turio had for him.
"You two got into a fight again, didn't you?"
"More or less," Samuel said with a gloomy expression.
Turio simply nodded, indicating that he had understood the whole scenario. Then he went on and took out a bunch of sickles and knives and carried them to Samuel.
"Although not as thick-headed as you were when young, he's got a keen sense for being different, don't you think?"
"Hehe, you sound like my wife now," Samuel said with a wry smile. "Also, I wasn't that much of an idiot, if that's what you're implying."
"Haha, who knows?"
So then they continued talking about their lives as they went through the tools, searching for the perfect one they could give Aexial. Right when Samuel was about to pick the one that caught his eye, someone came running and called out to them.
"TURIO, HAVE YOU SEEN SA-.... THERE YOU ARE!" shouted the kid, one of Turio's workers, who was older than Aexial.
"Gren, what is it?" Turio asked. "Did you need something from Samuel?"
As Gren tried to catch his breath, he turned toward Samuel and gave him a look that told Samuel something was definitely wrong.
Samuel was right. As he listened more and more to Gren's explanation, his fatherly instincts were telling him to get up and search for his son.
.....