The soldiers' inspection left the village rattled long after the uniforms were gone. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, but no one lingered outside their homes. Doors were shut tight, shutters drawn, conversations hushed. Even the chickens in the coops seemed quieter, as if the weight of boots on the soil had pressed silence into the earth itself.
Yoshiki stood at the edge of the square, arms stiff at his sides. He watched the soldiers retreat toward the camp, their rifles catching the last of the fading sunlight. Every step they took felt like a chain tightening around the village's throat.
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. They come whenever they want. Line us up like animals. Stare at us, count us, like we're nothing but numbers on a page.
His chest burned again—that same restless fire that had stirred ever since Yuzuriha brought back the stolen reports. He pressed a hand against it, as if he could smother the heat. It didn't fade.
Across the square, Daichi bent his broad shoulders under the weight of a grain sack. He moved steadily, one sack after another, his expression calm even as tension gripped the village around him. While others had scurried away at the first sign of dismissal, Daichi remained—working, patient, silent.
Yoshiki drew a breath. If anyone… it has to be him.
He strode across the square, boots crunching against gravel. Daichi glanced up as Yoshiki approached, a faint grin flickering across his sweat-slick face.
"Need a hand?" Yoshiki asked, forcing his voice into casual steadiness.
Daichi raised a brow, amused. "Since when does Yoshiki Takahiro volunteer for heavy lifting?"
"Since now," Yoshiki muttered, grabbing the other end of the sack before Daichi could protest. Together they hauled it toward the barn, shoulders straining, steps syncing.
Inside, the barn was dim, lit only by shafts of orange light slanting through gaps in the wood. Dust hung in the air, stirred by their movements. They dropped the sack onto the pile with a dull thud.
Daichi leaned back against the wall, wiping sweat with the back of his arm. "Alright. What's really going on?"
Yoshiki blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You don't just walk up and help without a reason," Daichi said flatly. His tone wasn't accusing, but steady, probing. "I've known you since we were kids. You're restless. More than usual."
Yoshiki looked away, jaw tight. Daichi's directness cut straight through him. That was why he had chosen him. That was also what made this so dangerous.
"…You saw it too," Yoshiki said at last, his voice low, the barn walls swallowing the sound. "The way they look at us. The way they line us up. Count every step, every breath."
Daichi's eyes narrowed slightly. "Of course I saw. Everyone did. But most people don't speak of it. Not unless they want trouble."
Yoshiki stepped closer, fire pressing harder against his ribs. "And if we stay quiet? What then? You think they'll just leave? That they'll pack up their machines and sail away?"
Daichi's silence was telling.
Yoshiki's voice dropped further, heavy with the weight of the truth Yuzuriha had uncovered. "They're not here to 'protect' us. They don't see us as villagers. They see us as… experiments."
The word tasted bitter in his mouth. It felt like spitting poison.
Daichi's eyes flicked sharply to him. For a long moment, the barn filled only with the creak of wood in the wind. "That's a bold claim," Daichi said finally. His tone was careful now. "Where did you hear that?"
Yoshiki froze. He could almost hear Yuzuriha's warning in his head: Don't reveal too much. Not yet. But the fire inside him demanded he say more.
"I don't have proof," he admitted, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "But I know it.
Everything about the way they act, the way they watch us… it's not protection. It's control. And it won't stop until they've taken everything from us."
Daichi studied him in silence. His eyes, dark and steady, seemed to weigh Yoshiki's words like stones in his palm. The air between them grew thick, as if the barn itself held its breath.
Finally, Daichi exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "You always drag me into trouble, you know that?"
Yoshiki blinked, caught off guard. "What—?"
"When we were kids," Daichi continued, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, "you were the one climbing cliffs, chasing storms, picking fights you couldn't win. And I was the fool following after to pull you out."
Yoshiki's eyes narrowed. "…And now?"
The smirk faded, replaced by something harder. Daichi extended a hand, callused and rough. "Now, if you're serious about this—about standing against them—then you won't be climbing alone."
For a heartbeat, Yoshiki just stared. The fire in his chest flared, brighter, hotter, filling him with something that felt dangerously close to hope. Slowly, he reached out and clasped Daichi's hand.
Their grip was firm. Binding.
"…Then you're with me," Yoshiki said, his voice low but certain.
Daichi nodded once. "Always."
The barn seemed to grow quieter around them, the world narrowing to that single moment. For the first time since the soldiers arrived, Yoshiki felt the future shift—not in the hands of the government, but in their own.
The first thread of rebellion had been tied.