The sun dipped low as Yuki and Yoru followed Mayor Genzō into the village. Though they’d offered to help, not everyone looked pleased.

  Whispers chased them like shadows.

  “That boy doesn’t look like a fighter.”

  “What can someone that pale do with a sword?”

  “We asked for warriors, not children and strays.”

  Yuki heard it all but said nothing. His fingers twitched at his side, brushing the hilt of the rusted sword he’d picked up earlier. He didn’t blame them. Not really.

  The villagers were scared.

  So was he.

  They spent the first afternoon helping reinforce the village defenses. Yoru worked alongside the hunters, her feline reflexes proving useful in tracking and climbing. Yuki, though, was handed a shovel.

  “Dig trenches. That’s something you can manage,” a stern-faced man said, shoving the tool into his hands.

  Yuki nodded without complaint.

  He dug until blisters formed on his palms.

  Then he kept digging.

  The next day, he helped carry water from the well to the healer’s hut. Then firewood. Then bundles of herbs. Always quiet. Always polite. He tried to offer smiles, but few were returned.

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  Some kids pointed at his white hair. A few older boys muttered about how “he probably dyed it to look cool.”

  At one point, while setting up defensive stakes along the perimeter, a loose log rolled toward a group of children playing nearby. Yuki leapt, pushing a small boy out of the way just in time.

  The boy stared up at him, eyes wide with shock.

  But the boy’s mother ran over and pulled him back. “Stay away from him,” she said sharply. “You don’t know where he’s from.”

  Yuki’s hands clenched. He looked down at the scrape on his arm and said nothing.

  Yoru watched from a rooftop nearby, her ears twitching, her expression unreadable

  That night, Yuki trained in secret again—same clearing, same sword. His hands ached from both digging and swinging, but he kept moving.

  “I get it,” he whispered to the trees. “They don’t trust me. I haven’t earned it yet.”

  He swung again. And again.

  Yoru watched in silence, unseen, a strange pain settling in her chest.

  "You’re stronger than they see, Yuki... but you shouldn’t have to bleed to prove it.”

  The next morning, while Yuki gathered more herbs outside the village walls, two boys from the militia passed by.

  “Still pretending to be useful?” one said with a smirk.

  The other laughed. “Careful, he might hit you with a bucket.”

  Yuki didn’t respond. He just carried the herbs back to the healer, nodding politely.

  The old woman looked at the bundle, then at his hands—blistered, bruised, fingers wrapped in cloth.

  “…You brought the right ones,” she said, voice gruff. “Good eyes.”

  Yuki blinked. “I—thank you.”

  She turned away quickly. “Don’t get cocky. You’re still just a kid.”

  But a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as he left.