Work began before the sun had fully cleared the hills.
Shōryū was already awake when the first tools were lifted. He stood near the fields, sleeves rolled, hands muddy alongside everyone else's. Not because it helped much—but because absence would have been noticed.
The ditches were worse than they had looked yesterday.
Collapsed earth had to be cut away by hand. Water pooled stubbornly, refusing to drain no matter how deep they dug. The soil was heavy, clinging to legs and tools alike, turning every step into effort.
People worked anyway.
Not quickly.
Not eagerly.
But steadily.
Rations were smaller that morning. Everyone felt it. A few tried to hide their weakness, chewing slowly, saving scraps for later. Others swallowed their portion in silence and went to work without complaint.
By midday, the first person collapsed.
It was a man named Saburō—middle-aged, broad-backed, someone who had once been able to work a field from dawn to dusk without stopping. Today, he made it less than an hour.
He went down quietly, knees folding, face pale as ash.
Work stopped.
Someone shouted for water. Another cursed under their breath. Two men dragged Saburō to the shade of a half-dead tree while his wife hovered nearby, hands shaking.
Shōryū knelt beside him.
Saburō's eyes fluttered open. "I'm… fine," he muttered, though his voice betrayed him.
"You're not," Shōryū said calmly. He pressed two fingers to the man's wrist, feeling the weak, uneven pulse. "You won't work today."
Saburō tried to push himself up. "If I don't—"
"You'll die," Shōryū said. "And then your family loses you and your labor."
That ended the argument.
Shōryū stood and looked over the gathered villagers.
"This will happen again," he said, voice carrying without force. "If you feel faint, you stop. No one hides it."
Some faces tightened at that. Others looked relieved.
Behind his eyes, the system observed.
"Labor efficiency declining under ration conditions.""Risk of cascading fatigue detected."
Shōryū already knew.
By afternoon, tempers began to fray.
A shovel broke. Two men argued over its replacement. A woman snapped at a child for spilling water. No one raised a fist—but the edges were sharp.
Then Genma found him.
"My lord," he said quietly. "We have a problem."
Shōryū followed him to one of the smaller huts near the edge of the hamlet. Inside, a boy—no more than twelve—stood rigid, eyes wide with fear. In his hands was a small cloth bundle.
Grain.
Not much. Enough for a day. Maybe two.
His mother knelt beside him, head bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the dirt.
"He took it from the storehouse," Genma said. "Someone saw him."
The boy's hands trembled.
Silence filled the hut.
This was it.
The first fracture.
Shōryū crouched to the boy's level. "Why?"
The answer came out in a rush. "My sister didn't wake up this morning. She wouldn't eat. I thought if I—if I brought more—"
His voice broke.
Shōryū closed his eyes for a brief moment.
Behind them, villagers gathered, drawn by instinct. They watched closely—not the boy, but him.
This decision would be remembered.
He stood.
"Listen," Shōryū said to the room. "All of you."
He took the bundle from the boy's hands and held it up.
"This grain was taken," he said. "If I ignore that, then everyone will do the same. And then there will be nothing left."
Murmurs stirred.
"But," he continued, "this child did not steal out of greed."
He turned back to the boy. "You will return the grain. You will work half-days for the next five days when you are able."
The boy nodded frantically.
"And your family," Shōryū said, looking at the mother, "will receive priority water and shade for the next three days. No extra food."
The woman froze. Then bowed deeply, tears falling freely.
Shōryū straightened.
"This is the law," he said. "We do not hoard. We do not take in secret. If you come to me openly, I will hear you."
His gaze swept the crowd.
"If you steal again," he added, voice firm, "the punishment will be harsher."
No one argued.
Some looked relieved.
Others looked uneasy.
Behind his eyes, the system spoke quietly.
"Judgment recorded.""Authority stabilized.""Loyalty variance: Minor negative. Long-term trust potential: Increased."
The work resumed.
Slower now.
But quieter.
As evening approached, Shōryū walked the fields again. Progress was visible—one ditch fully reopened, another nearly clear. It wasn't enough yet.
Not even close.
Genma joined him, watching the sun dip lower. "They're holding," he said. "Barely."
Shōryū nodded.
"They won't," Genma added carefully, "without help."
Shōryū said nothing.
At the edge of his awareness, something stirred—heavy, patient, unmistakable.
The sealed presence.
A solution waiting to be used.
The system did not prompt him.
It didn't need to.
Shōryū looked back at the hamlet—at the people moving slowly through exhaustion, at the children hauling water, at the fields that might yet live if given enough time.
Time they did not have.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly.
Genma looked at him. "My lord?"
Shōryū's eyes remained on the horizon.
"Tomorrow," he repeated, "we'll need more than our own hands."
That night, no fires were lit beyond what was necessary.
And in the silence, the weight of command settled fully onto his shoulders—heavy enough that even a dragon would hesitate before lifting it.