Two years later
His hands worked the wet, heavy cloth, kneading the soapy water through the fibers. Today was his turn to help his mother with the laundry.
Yuka was off with her friends, and his father was, as always, toiling at the construction site. A promotion a few months back had finally allowed them some breathing room—more furniture, better food, a sense of security that hadn't been there before. Life was finally improving.
Hisagi already had plans. He intended to use his knowledge of modern industry to build a life of absolute comfort for them. He'd seen the deep, jagged callouses on his father's palms and the dark circles that never seemed to leave his mother's eyes. He wanted to erase them.
"Hisagi, can you help me hang the sheets?"
His mother's melodic voice pulled him from his thoughts. He complied, walking over to the long lines of twine to help her heave the damp fabric into the air.
"You know, Hisagi, I'm lucky to have a son like you," she said, her eyes softening. "You're always so happy to help. You never complain. You're hardworking."
His ears burned a dull red.
"You're smart—so creative, and so mature for your age. You're destined for great things, Hisagi. I know you're content with this life, but I want more for you." She paused, looking him directly in the eyes. "I want you to live."
He'd grown used to her saying this. He knew he should have more ambition, but after seventeen years of sterile hospital walls, this "contentment" was the most radical thing he had ever felt.
"Yes, Mom," he said, nodding. He knew better than to argue.
HHH
Later that afternoon, he strolled through the village, his mind racing with blueprints for books and revolutionary tools—the kind of passive income that would set them up for generations.
But as he walked, the atmosphere shifted. People huddled in the shade of thatched roofs, their voices dropped to frantic whispers.
"Did you hear about the village in Mizushima? Gone. Hectares of land obliterated in a single night."
"I heard they sent people from the great clans to deal with it."
"I hope they stop it. We already gave our tributes this month."
It was a harsh reality he'd been forced to accept: sorcerers in this era were the elite—both protectors and oppressors. Villages paid "tributes" to the clans like insurance against the monsters in the dark.
He reached Old Man Fujiwara's place soon after. Fujiwara Kento was the closest thing he had to a grandfather—grumpy and bitter, but wise. Years ago, the old man had pulled Yuka from the river, and they had been part of his life ever since.
Fujiwara wasn't poor, yet he never seemed to work. Based on his speech and the way he carried himself, Hisagi suspected he was an exiled member of the prestigious Fujiwara clan.
"Old man, I've come to slack off again," Hisagi called out, sliding the door open.
"Oh, it's you. Close the door behind you."
Hisagi sat across from him, expectant. The old man snorted but poured a cup of tea. His movements were slow but possessed a lingering elegance.
"Where's your sister?"
"Out with friends." Hisagi lifted the cup, inhaling the fragrant steam. "I must say, your brewing skills never fail."
"It comes with age, boy. One day, you'll reach my level," he said, chin tilted upward in mock arrogance.
They fell into their usual rhythm. Fujiwara was the only person who would actually answer Hisagi's "absurd" questions about the world.
"How are your parents?"
"Dad's working extra hours since the promotion. Mom's... well, she's Mom. Keeping the house together and stressing over us."
Fujiwara chuckled, then his expression sobered. "Well, as much as I enjoy the company, I have guests coming. They aren't keen on outsiders."
"I'll head out, then. Thanks for the tea." Hisagi knew what "guests" meant: sorcerers. He didn't want to be anywhere near them.
He walked back to their small wooden house. In the yard, his mother was sweeping, her silhouette framed by the white laundry billowing in the breeze.
"Wandered off to Fujiwara's again, I assume?"
"He said he doesn't mind. Though he's having guests over later."
"I really do need to thank him again," she said thoughtfully. The man had saved Yuka's life and then educated her son for free; the debt felt heavy.
Inside, Hisagi pulled his secret journal from behind a shelf. He wrote everything down—blueprints for machinery, accounts of his daily life, and simple notes of gratitude. It was his anchor.
As evening fell, his father returned, his back slightly slouched, patches of dirt clinging to his uniform. They ate dinner together, listening to his father complain about lazy coworkers and Yuka recount the latest village gossip.
It was thoroughly mundane. It was perfect.
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