They reached the hamlet before nightfall.
That alone felt like a victory.
The rain thinned to a cold drizzle as Takeda Shōryū led the survivors down from the tree line. Ahead, a handful of low wooden buildings clung to the slope, dark and weather-beaten, as if trying not to be noticed by the world.
This was his domain.
Takeda land in name only—an edge hamlet the main house never visited, a place that existed on records and nowhere else.
The watchtower stood at the center, barely more than a skeleton. Its upper platform had collapsed inward, roof long gone, timbers gray with rot. The palisade leaned unevenly, patched with scavenged planks where it still stood at all.
No banner flew.
No guards announced their return.
The men behind him slowed. Some adjusted their yari on sore shoulders. Others kept their eyes down, ashamed to come back like this.
Most of them had been farmers yesterday. The war had only borrowed them.
A woman noticed them first.
She froze, a bucket slipping from her hands and spilling into the mud.
"They're back," she whispered.
The word carried.
Doors creaked open. Faces appeared—thin, wary, hollow-eyed. Children clutched doorframes. An old man leaned on a staff, squinting as if afraid his eyes were lying to him.
Not relief.
Calculation.
How many hadn't returned this time?
Shōryū felt the weight settle onto his shoulders.
A man stepped forward from near the watchtower. Broad-shouldered, hair streaked with gray, armor old but carefully maintained.
"Lord Shōryū," he said, bowing shallowly. "You returned."
Not victorious.
Just returned.
"Genma," Shōryū said. The name surfaced naturally. One of the few retainers who had neither left nor died. "Report."
Genma hesitated, then spoke.
"Seven dead. Four badly wounded. We used the last clean bandages while you were gone."
A ripple passed through the villagers.
Seven was not a number here.
Seven was a family line ended.
A field left untended.
A winter death waiting patiently.
Shōryū nodded once.
"Food?"
Genma's jaw tightened.
"Nine days. If rationed hard. Less if the wounded worsen."
Nine days.
At the edge of Shōryū's vision, something pulsed faintly—gold-ranked summoning authorization, sealed and waiting.
He ignored it.
For now.
Shōryū stepped forward, letting the villagers see his face clearly. The blood on his armor. The exhaustion he did not hide.
"I know what you're thinking," he said. "You think this land was given to me because no one wanted it."
A murmur spread.
"You're right."
Silence followed.
"I was sent here because I am disposable," he continued calmly. "Just like this place."
The words settled heavily.
"But I came back," he said. "And so did they."
He gestured behind him.
"I didn't chase glory. I didn't throw lives away. I brought back who I could."
A woman lowered her head. A child loosened their grip on a doorframe.
Shōryū turned to Genma.
"Bring the heads of households. Elders. Anyone the hamlet listens to."
Genma blinked. "Tonight?"
"Yes."
"There's barely food," Genma said carefully. "And the wounded—"
"They'll listen too," Shōryū replied. "This concerns them most."
Genma bowed deeper. "As you command."
As the villagers dispersed, Shōryū walked through the hamlet.
Empty storage sheds.
Fields half-flooded and poorly drained.
Tools repaired too many times to count.
This place hadn't failed because it was weak.
It had failed because it was forgotten.
A soft chime sounded in his ear.
"Mission generated: Tier IV — Critical. Domain starvation risk detected."
He did not answer.
At dusk, the elders gathered beneath the leaning watchtower. There were only five of them. That alone spoke volumes.
They sat on crates and worn stools. The wounded lay nearby, listening in silence.
Shōryū stood.
"We have nine days of food," he said. "That's the truth."
Murmurs followed.
"Before winter, someone will starve," he continued. "Possibly many."
No one interrupted him.
"I won't pretend there's a painless solution," Shōryū said. "So I'll tell you the truth—and then I will decide."
Some flinched.
"Option one," he said. "We ration harder. Some will weaken. The wounded may die. But we might last longer.
A few elders nodded grimly.
"Option two. We send men out—to trade, or raid. We may gain food. We may lose people."
A wounded man coughed wetly into his blanket.
No one looked at him.
But everyone heard it.
"Option three," Shōryū said. "We rebuild. Drain the fields. Repair what's broken. Short-term hunger. Long-term survival."
Silence stretched.
An old woman finally spoke. "And which will you choose, my lord?"
"Not tonight," Shōryū said. "In the dark, people offer fear and guesses. At dawn, I want numbers."
He straightened.
"If you starve," he said quietly, "you will starve under my decision."
Behind his eyes, the system responded.
"Wisdom check successful. Authority cohesion increasing."
Night settled over the hamlet.
Shōryū stood alone beneath the broken watchtower, looking out over a domain that barely existed.
Nine days.
One hundred and forty-three lives.
And somewhere beyond his reach—
A gold-ranked retainer waited.
He did not summon.
Not yet.
Tomorrow, he would choose who ate.
And who did not.