The morning air in Harasawa was never fresh.
As soon as Kazuki stepped out of his house, all he inhaled was the scent of dry dust mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of rusted iron. The sky was a pale, sickly gray—looking like an old cloth that had been washed a hundred times too many until it lost all its color. The wind blew softly, but it brought no relief; it only carried thin grains of sand that clung to the skin like persistent insects. Even the sun seemed reluctant to shine brightly upon this place, as if it were ashamed to look at the desolation below.
Kazuki exhaled a long, heavy sigh. His body still felt weighed down by the exhaustion of a thousand chores, but the goats in the pen were already bleating restlessly. Their cries were hollow, echoing the emptiness of the land. He gripped the rough rope of a wooden bucket, his palms calloused and dry, and stepped toward the village well.
The well was a deep, dark hole that only served to remind the villagers of what they had lost. It was only half-filled with murky water. Kazuki knew the ritual well: he had to pull the bucket slowly, trying his best not to stir the mud at the bottom. If he failed, the water would be thick with silt, causing stomach pains for anyone—human or animal—who dared to drink it.
As he pulled, a few precious drops splashed onto the parched earth. They vanished instantly, absorbed by the thirsty soil without leaving a trace. In Harasawa, water was a dwindling miracle, and every drop lost felt like a small tragedy.
"Morning, Kazuki!"
A girl's voice broke the heavy silence. Kazuki turned to see a girl with shoulder-length black hair running toward him, carrying a woven rattan basket. It was Aoi Minase—his neighbor since childhood and one of the few people who could still produce a genuine smile in this dying place.
"At the well again? If you keep this up, the water will be gone before noon," Aoi said, setting her basket down with a soft thud.
Kazuki offered a thin, weary smile. "If I don't take it now, those goats won't survive the midday heat. And if they die..."
"...you'll be the next one starving," Aoi finished for him, raising an eyebrow in a playful but knowing way.
They shared a brief, hollow laugh. It was a momentary escape, a tiny spark of light in their bitter reality. They walked together toward the livestock pens. As Kazuki poured the water into the palungan, Aoi reached into her basket and pulled out several stalks of dried grass.
Kazuki stared at the grass. He knew where it came from—purchased from traveling merchants who charged prices that were nearly criminal. "You spent your last coins on that?"
"They need to eat too, Kazuki," Aoi replied softly. She looked at him, her eyes suddenly sparkling with a different kind of intensity. "Have you ever thought about it? Leaving this place to become a sorcerer?"
Kazuki stopped pouring, the water splashing against the wood. "A sorcerer?"
"I heard the traveling traders talking," Aoi nodded eagerly. "They said the Magic Academies in the capital are looking for recruits. If you pass the tests, the pay is enough to feed this whole village for a year. Maybe... maybe that's the answer for us."
Kazuki looked at Aoi, his face full of doubt. The idea was like a seed planted in a desert—hard to grow, yet refusing to die. Before he could answer, a cloud of dust kicked up on the horizon. A black horse sped through the village's main road, its rider clad in a dark cloak bearing a crescent moon symbol.
Aoi tensed, her hand grabbing Kazuki's sleeve. "Kazuki... is that—"
"A Revolutionary," Kazuki whispered. They stood in silence, watching the figure disappear into the haze. In Harasawa, the arrival of outsiders was a gamble. Sometimes they brought trade; more often, they brought the shadow of a war that the villagers were too tired to fight.
The evening brought a chilling cold that seeped through the cracks of Kazuki's shack. He sat by a small charcoal fire, staring into the flickering embers. Aoi's words from the morning haunted him. A sorcerer. A savior.
Suddenly, a violent, hacking cough erupted from the inner room. It was a sound Kazuki feared more than the drought. He rushed inside to find his grandfather struggling for breath. The old man's skin was the color of ash, mapped with the dark, bruised veins of the Black Lung plague.
"Grandpa! Stay still, I'll get you some water," Kazuki said, his voice trembling with a panic he couldn't hide.
The old man smiled weakly, his hand reaching out to grip Kazuki's arm with surprising strength. "Come here, Kazuki. Listen to me."
"I'm here, Grandpa. Just rest, please."
"I'm sorry, my boy," the old man rasped. "I wanted to leave you a farm, a legacy... but I leave you only dust. The cattle are gone. The money is spent. I am too weak to protect you anymore."
"Don't say that!" Tears began to blur Kazuki's vision. "I'll work harder. I'll find a merchant with medicine—"
"No," his grandfather interrupted, his gaze suddenly sharp and clear. "Go to the kingdom. Leave Harasawa. If you stay here, you will wither away just like I am. You have a fire in you, Kazuki. Don't let the dust put it out."
With a trembling breath, the old man pointed toward a small wooden cupboard in the corner. "Inside... take it."
Kazuki opened the cupboard and found a bundle wrapped in old cloth. He unwrapped it to reveal a thick, ancient book. Its cover was made of a material he didn't recognize, embossed with a silver moon symbol that seemed to shimmer even in the dim light.
"This belonged to a friend of mine," the grandfather whispered. "He vanished decades ago, but he left this with me. He said it was a source of protection, a bridge to something greater. I could never unlock its secrets... perhaps because I had no magic. But you... you might be different."
Kazuki gripped the book, feeling a strange, faint hum beneath his fingertips. "Grandpa, I..."
"If you ever find him, return it," the old man said, his voice growing fainter. "But until then, let it be your shield. Promise me, Kazuki. Promise me you will survive."
"I promise, Grandpa. I will change the fate of this village. I will find a way to make the world green again! I promise!"
Kazuki bowed his head, clutching his grandfather's hand. He waited for a response, a squeeze of the hand, or even another cough. But there was only silence. The wind outside howled, but inside, the world had gone still. That night, Kazuki Tenma learned the true weight of a promise.
The funeral was held under a sky that remained stubbornly gray. Most of the village turned out—Aoi, Uncle Akira, and the elders. They buried him in the parched earth beside the house he had built with his own hands.
"He was a pillar of Harasawa," Uncle Akira said, placing a hand on Kazuki's shoulder. "Even when his lungs were failing, he was the one who taught us how to find water in the dry season. He was a good man."
As the villagers dispersed, Aoi stayed behind. She watched Kazuki as he stared at the fresh mound of earth. "Are you really going?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Kazuki looked at the horizon, where the distant, shimmering towers of the Amateru Kingdom were said to touch the clouds. "I have to. For him. For us."
Aoi reached into her pocket and handed him a small, dried flower—the only piece of color in the village. "Then take this. So you don't forget what Harasawa looks like when it's not covered in dust."
The next morning, Kazuki stood at the border of the village. He carried a small rucksack with some dried meat, a canteen of murky water, and the mysterious book wrapped in cloth. Uncle Akira and a few others stood there to see him off.
"Don't let those city nobles look down on you, boy!" Akira shouted, trying to sound cheerful despite the sadness in his eyes. "You're a son of Harasawa. You're tougher than any of them!"
Kazuki nodded, giving one last look at the cluster of gray shacks he called home. He saw Aoi waving from the distance, her figure growing smaller as he turned his back on his childhood.
As he walked, the path became more treacherous. The barren lands were not empty; they were filled with the remnants of the 'Underworld Incident.' Skeletal trees stood like jagged claws reaching for the sky, and the air grew colder as he left the shelter of the village hills.
Every step was a struggle against the wind and the encroaching fatigue, but whenever Kazuki felt like stopping, he felt the weight of the book in his pack. It was a heavy reminder of a dying man's wish and a boy's desperate hope. He wasn't just walking toward a kingdom; he was walking toward a revolution of his own making.
The road ahead was long, and the dust was thick, but for the first time in seventeen years, Kazuki Tenma was not looking at the ground. He was looking at the stars.