It was a blistering hot day, the kind of heat that clung to the skin and made tempers short. Yesterday had already been chaos in the Golden Flask. Somewhere between the laughter, the spilled ale, and the shouting, Vintaro had gotten so drunk he stood on a chair and proclaimed:

“Drink your fill, all of you! I’ll pay for it!”

The tavern roared with delight—mugs slammed on tables, wine sloshed, and the drinking never stopped until the barrels ran low.

But when the bill came, Vintaro’s pockets were as empty as the last keg. Poor Daichi, who had been dragged into the madness, found himself paying for every last drop.

 On the way home, Vintaro staggered in shame beside him, sobered not by reason but by the weight of guilt.

Daichi, tired yet strangely calm, said at last:

“You owe me for every coin you cost me. And since you don’t have the gold… you’ll work it off. I’ve got a job for you.”

 The job was far from the main city, tucked away in a quiet village on the outer skirts of the empire.

Vintaro remembered Daichi’s words clearly: “It’s the easiest job. Easy money. All you need to do is deliver this letter to the village head.”

 And that was it. No long list of conditions, no hidden clauses. Just carry a sealed letter and hand it over.

Still, as Vintaro walked deeper into the wilderness, doubts crept into his mind. If it was so simple, why didn’t Daichi send one of his juniors from the police instead? He’s the head—he’s got plenty of people who he can trust.

But then another thought softened him: Maybe Daichi really does care about me. Maybe this is his way of trusting me with something important.

That little spark of warmth made his chest feel lighter, almost proud.

The forest was peaceful, untouched by the noise and stench of the city. No footsteps but his own echoed on the narrow path. The air was clean, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, the kind of stillness that made every sound feel louder than it should. 

Vintaro pressed on, step after step, carrying nothing but a light bag and the sealed letter that seemed far heavier than its size. 

After few days on the road, Vintaro finally reached the village—the place where he was supposed to deliver the letter. 

But something was wrong. 

The houses stood silent, doors hanging loose. No smoke from chimneys, no children’s laughter, no barking dogs. Just emptiness. 

Vintaro frowned, walking slowly through the deserted lanes, trying to piece together what might have happened. Raiders? Plague? Monsters? The silence gnawed at him, heavier than the long journey itself.

At last, exhausted and unsettled, he sat down in the middle of the square. His thoughts slipped out of him, half in jest, half in madness from loneliness. He cupped his hands and sang out:

“Baa baa blacksheep, have you any wool?”

He expected nothing but his own echo.

Instead, a raspy voice answered behind him:

“Yes sir, yes sir… three bags full.”

Vintaro froze. His face flushed hot with embarrassment. Slowly, he turned. 

An old man, perhaps in his sixties, stood a few paces away. His hair was long and silver, his clothes ragged but his eyes sharp with a strange glint.

Vintaro leapt to his feet, pointing a trembling finger at the old man. 

“A g-ghost!” he shouted, his voice cracking. In a panic, he began mumbling half-remembered Buddhist mantras, waving his hands as though to banish the figure.

“You evil spirit—get away from me!”

The old man blinked at him, unimpressed. Then, with a weary sigh, he said,

“Young man, don’t hurt my feelings. I am no evil spirit.”

He leaned a little on his walking stick, frowning as if genuinely offended.

“Though,” he added with a wry smile, “I will become an angry spirit if you keep calling me evil.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, his playful tone gone.

“Who are you, boy? And why have you come here?”

Vintaro straightened, trying not to stammer. He reached into his light bag and pulled out the sealed letter Daichi had entrusted him with.

“Are you the village chief?” Vintaro asked.

“Yes,” the old man replied. “I am.”

“Then this is for you,” Vintaro said, offering the sealed letter. “May I know your name, chief?”

The old man took the letter with surprising care. “Jirobei,” he answered.

Then, to Vintaro’s shock, Jirobei raised his voice and shouted, “It’s safe! Everyone, come out!”

One by one, people began to emerge from the shadows—out of shuttered homes, behind broken carts, and even from beneath loose wooden floorboards. A handful carried old spears or rusted blades, while others clutched children close, women shielding infants against their shoulders. Their eyes were wary, filled with fear and doubt.

Vintaro looked around at them, unsettled. Why were they hiding? What had driven them into such fear?

Jirobei broke the seal and unfolded the letter. His lips moved as he read aloud:

“The Shauryan Empire has heard your grievance. And as His Majesty is merciful and generous, we have sent you aid.”

When the final words left his lips, silence fell over the square. The villagers stared at Vintaro—some with disbelief, some with faint hope, and some with barely hidden anger.

Vintaro blinked at the words echoing in his head.

Aid? Where is the aid?

He turned, scanning the empty lanes, the broken homes, the ragged villagers. “Have they already arrived before me?” he asked aloud, but no one answered. His mind raced. No… I saw no one on the road here. No soldiers, no guards, no carts. Nothing. 

And then the truth crashed over him.

I… I am the aid.

His stomach dropped. Daichi’s words rang back in his ears—easy money, just deliver a letter. His fists clenched, teeth grinding together. Damn Daichi… so this was his way of getting back at me for that tavern mess. He didn’t send me on an errand—he dumped me into this nightmare.

His face twisted with anger as he muttered curses under his breath.

The villagers, seeing his expression darken, drew back in fear. Mothers clutched their children closer; little ones began to cry, their wails rising in the tense silence. Even the armed men tightened their grips on their rusted weapons, uncertain whether this “aid” was friend or foe.