Dawn came quietly.
Mist clung to the hamlet like a shroud, beading on broken fences and sagging rooftops. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, leaving the earth heavy and cold beneath Shōryū's feet. Smoke rose thinly from a handful of hearths—careful fires, fed with scraps rather than fuel meant to last.
He stood beneath the broken watchtower and watched the people wake.
No bells rang. No calls were made.
They came out anyway.
Farmers with stiff backs and hollow eyes. Women with sleeves rolled up before the day had even begun. Children who carried water without being asked, faces too serious for their age. The wounded lay where they had been placed the night before, wrapped in blankets, watched over by family or neighbors.
This was his domain.
Not land.
People.
Genma arrived with the light, carrying a wooden tablet and a stub of charcoal. Two elders followed, each with their own bundles of notes scratched onto bark or cloth. They bowed, briefly and without ceremony, then waited.
"Granaries first," Shōryū said.
They walked together.
There were only two structures that could still be called storage sheds. One leaned so badly it looked ready to collapse, its lower half darkened by standing water. The other smelled of damp grain and rot the moment the door was opened.
Genma did not soften his expression.
"Usable rice?" Shōryū asked.
Genma marked the tablet. "Enough for nine days if we cut portions. Less if the wounded worsen. Less if anyone else falls sick."
"And after that?"
Genma hesitated. "We start counting deaths."
Shōryū nodded once and closed the door himself.
They moved on.
Fish traps along the stream had been torn loose by flooding. The elders reported empty baskets and snapped lines. Livestock amounted to two goats—one old, one already coughing—and a handful of chickens that would not survive winter even if fed well.
The fields were worse.
Water pooled between the rows, drowning young shoots before they could take root. The drainage ditches had collapsed in several places, clogged with silt and debris. Tools lay scattered where people had abandoned them weeks ago—handles cracked, blades worn thin.
"How many can work?" Shōryū asked.
Genma consulted his marks. "Thirty-two adults fit for labor. Fewer if the wounded decline."
"And fighters?"
"Twenty-two who can still lift a yari."
Twenty-two.
Out of one hundred and forty-three.
The numbers were not cruel.
They were honest.
Behind his eyes, the system assembled the information without comment, fitting it into a shape he could already see.
Nine days.
He dismissed it.
By the time they returned to the watchtower, the mist had thinned. Villagers were already gathering again, drawn by necessity and dread in equal measure. The elders took their places on overturned crates and worn stools. The wounded lay nearby, listening without pretending otherwise.
Shōryū remained standing.
"We counted everything," he said. "There are no hidden stores. No forgotten barns. Nine days is the truth."
A murmur spread, then faded.
"If we do nothing," he continued, "someone dies on the tenth day. Maybe sooner."
No one argued.
"I will not send men to raid," Shōryū said. "We would lose people we cannot replace. And we would make enemies we cannot afford."
A few heads nodded. Others looked away.
"I will not starve the wounded," he went on. "If we ration harder without changing anything else, they die first. Then the rest of us follow."
A woman near the back pressed her lips together, eyes shining.
Shōryū let the silence stretch before delivering the decision.
"We rebuild," he said.
Voices rose immediately.
"How?"
"With what?"
"We'll weaken—"
He raised a hand, and the noise died down.
"We drain the fields," Shōryū said. "We reopen the ditches. We repair what tools we can and make the rest serviceable."
He turned slowly, meeting eyes as he spoke.
"For the next five days, everyone eats less. Equal rations. No exceptions."
An elder stood abruptly. "My lord, some will collapse—"
"So will the fields if we do nothing," Shōryū replied. "And then everyone collapses."
He did not raise his voice.
That was the difference.
"No one is exempt," he added. "Not me. Not Genma. Not the elders."
He paused.
"And if anyone hoards food, they will answer to me directly."
That settled deeper than any threat.
Behind his eyes, the system finally spoke.
"Decision registered."
"Approach selected: Infrastructure recovery."
"Short-term morale impact: Negative."
"Long-term stability projection: Positive."
A young man spoke up, voice tight but steady. "And if the fields don't recover in time?"
Shōryū did not lie.
"Then we will face that when it comes," he said. "With more days than we have now."
Silence followed.
Not agreement.
Acceptance.
Genma bowed deeply. "I'll organize the work teams."
"Do it," Shōryū said. "Start now. Rotate labor. No one works until they drop."
The villagers began to move. Slowly at first. Then with purpose. Tools were gathered. Ditches were marked. Children were sent to carry water and clear debris.
It was not hope that moved them.
It was direction.
As the work began, a soft chime sounded only in Shōryū's ear.
"Authority cohesion increased."
"Loyalty fluctuation: Mixed. Net positive."
He exhaled slowly.
At the edge of his vision, the sealed presence pulsed again—quiet, patient, heavy.
Gold rank.
Power he could call.
Power he had not earned.
He turned away from it and looked instead at the fields.
At the people bent over mud and water and broken tools.
This was the weight he had chosen.
And for the first time since he had opened his eyes in this world, Shōryū felt something settle into place.
Not confidence.
Responsibility.
Above the hamlet, the broken watchtower cast a long shadow as the sun climbed higher.
For the first time, it felt like a place that might endure.