The land before Emilia burned in a wall of orange and gold, the fire roaring as it devoured the piled corpses of the barbarians. Heat shimmered across the field, bending the air. The bodies hissed and cracked as the flames consumed them, an end that's both cleansing and cruel.
Further up the hill, the four villagers who had fallen defending their home were already buried, their graves marked with rough wooden planks on the higher ground, where the wind could carry their spirits safely away.
The air is thick with the stench of blood and charred flesh. Emilia's stomach turned, but she didn't look away. She reached for Hikarimetsu, her fingers gripping the spirit's arm tightly as she stared at the fire before them.
"I should pray for them," she said quietly.
Hikarimetsu frowned, tilting her head. "Why?"
Emilia glanced up at her, her brow furrowing in disbelief. "They're your victims," she said. "Didn't my grandfather tell me that you should repent for your sins? Praying for them, as your master, is the least I can do. So their deaths won't be added to your burden of repentance."
For a moment, Hikarimetsu just blinked at her. Then her lips curved faintly, soft with surprise. "Oh… that actually makes sense," she murmured, nodding in agreement.
Emilia smiled faintly, though her eyes stayed fixed on the flames. She pressed her hands together, fingers trembling, and closed her eyes. The world seemed to fall silent around her. There are no priests, no temples, and no chants echoing through sacred halls, only the sound of the crackle of fire and the sigh of wind over the empty field.
She isn't in Japan anymore. There are no shrines here, no paper talismans fluttering in the breeze, and no incense smoke curling toward the heavens. But still, she prayed. "May you find peace," she whispered, voice breaking. "May your suffering end here."
The words trembled out of her like a confession. The prayer isn't for the barbarians, it's for Hikarimetsu. Ash drifted down from the sky, soft and weightless. The flakes landed on her hair, her face, and her shoulders, clinging to her skin like gray snow.
Hikarimetsu watched her silently. For the first time, the spirit felt something new stir within her chest, a warmth, gentle and steady, spreading through her chest like sunlight on a cold day. Her chest glowed faintly with a soft golden hue, light pulsing beneath her skin.
She can feel her power growing, more powerful than the one when she takes all the blood that spilled over the field of war. Because it isn't power taken by force, not the thrill of battle or the intoxication of blood, this power is something pure.
"Oh…" she breathed, eyes wide. "So this is what it feels like."
Emilia bowed deeply, her knees sinking into the dirt, the earth still damp from yesterday's rain. Around them, the fire began to settle, flames shrinking into glowing embers. Smoke rose into the pale morning sky like a thousand gray ribbons, drifting upward as though carrying the souls of the dead to someplace gentler.
Hikarimetsu looked at her, and for the first time since she had taken human form, there was no warrior's pride in her gaze, only admiration. Something shifted inside her, something she couldn't name.
The master she once thought fragile now stood among ashes and ruin, her hands dirty, her heart unbent. A woman who prayed for her sins, who treated her not as a weapon but as a person.
By the late afternoon, the field began to take shape. The fire had died down completely, leaving a wide stretch of blackened earth streaked with gray ash. The air still carried a bitter tang of smoke, but underneath it, the scent of damp soil began to rise, earth ready to be reborn.
The villagers worked alongside Emilia, moving by direction to help her prepare for the land. Those strong enough to lift began to gather the half-burned bones that hadn't turned to dust. They piled them into baskets, saying they would grind them later to feed the livestock, for even death had its uses. Nothing in this world is ever wasted.
Emilia knelt in the dirt, sleeves rolled up, sweat tracing her temple. "We need to loosen the top layer," she said, showing them how to break apart the hardened surface with sticks and spades. "The roots won't grow if the soil can't breathe."
She knew exactly what she was doing. Farming isn't something new to Emilia, it's something that had been carved into her bones since childhood. Her grandmother had been the one to teach her the structure of soil and seed and the patience of tending life.
"Food doesn't just come from the market," her grandmother used to say, handing her a trowel that was far too big for her tiny hands. "It comes from here." She'd tap the earth, then Emilia's chest. "From what you give and what you care for."
Those words echoed in Emilia's mind now as she worked the soil with ease. Every motion felt familiar, the turning, the breaking apart of clumps, and the way her fingers tested the moisture just by feel. Her grandmother had taught her how to grow tomatoes so sweet they burst with juice, how to tell when the herbs had drawn enough sun, and how to mix compost until it smelled of life instead of rot.
That was the real reason she had become a chef. Cooking had been an extension of that lesson, taking what she grew, what she nurtured, and transforming it into something that gave joy and strength. Quality isn't about expensive ingredients; it's about respect for the soil, for the plant, for the meat that was grown with care, and for the hands that tended it.
Hikarimetsu watched her, fascinated. When the villagers had finished spreading the ashes evenly, Emilia sprinkled crushed charcoal across the surface, explaining that it would balance the soil and help it retain moisture. Then she mixed in compost made from old leaves and scraps, blending it all together until the dull gray turned into a deep, fertile brown.
"See this?" Emilia said, crouching down and scooping a handful of soil into her palm. She let it crumble slowly through her fingers, the dark earth spilling like fine powder. "Soft, dark, full of air. This is life."
The villagers gathered around her, watching closely. Many of them had farmed before, or at least they thought they had. To them, planting was simple: dig a hole, drop a seed, water it, and hope it grows. But Emilia's way is different. It takes a lot of steps. Purposeful. She treated the ground as if it were something sacred.
One of the younger men tilted his head. "It's just dirt, Pathbreaker. Why are you touching it like that?"
Emilia smiled faintly. "Because this isn't just dirt," she said, spreading the soil in her hands. "It's the bed where life begins. If it's too hard, the roots can't breathe. If it's too wet, they'll drown. But if it's soft and full of air like this—" She tossed it lightly, watching it fall in loose clumps. "—then the roots can stretch and drink and grow strong."
The villagers murmured among themselves, eyes widening as if she had revealed a secret of the gods. Emilia didn't stop there. She showed them how to check for the right texture, how the soil should clump lightly but break apart when pressed.
She mixed in ash and crushed leaves from the burned field, explaining how those would feed the new plants with nutrients. "Even death can help life grow," she said softly, and that truth hung in the air like a quiet blessing.
The older women leaned closer, curiosity lighting their worn faces. "So we must make the ground soft before we plant?" one asked.
Emilia nodded. "Yes. Turn it, loosen it, let it breathe. Think of it as waking it up after a long sleep."
They followed her instructions eagerly, breaking apart the clods with wooden tools and their bare hands. The soil began to change beneath their effort, becoming richer, lighter, and alive. For the first time, they began to understand what real farming meant.
As the sun dipped low behind the hills, Emilia straightened, brushing dirt from her palms. The villagers stood in silence for a moment, gazing at the field transformed. It's no longer just land, it turned into something new. This land will support sustainable life in the future.