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As he walked along the path, Toru felt the prickling sting of gazes piercing into him.  

For someone as keenly attuned to such sensations as Toru, it was an irritation beyond measure. Still, he was well aware of his position as a newcomer and, more than that, as something of an oddity, out of place in this environment. He was in no position to complain.  

“…”  

A sigh escaped him unbidden.  

To the right, dilapidated houses. To the left, dilapidated houses. As far as the eye could see, a cluster of ramshackle buildings stretched out. Without the presence of people, they would look like nothing more than a ruin but an old, grimy structures lined up one after another. Cracks splitting the walls or peeling paint were the least of it. Some buildings leaned precariously, while others had collapsed ceilings patched with grease-soaked tarps to fend off rain and wind. By any measure, they were hazardous...but luxury was a privilege no one here could afford.  

Yet there was no air of decay in this place.  

It was neither refined nor elegant—but the raw, earthy vitality of life itself filled the streets, brimming with a gritty vigor.  

This area, in particular, was known for its black markets. Because of them, the streets were always bustling with people and capitalizing on the crowds, men and women set up makeshift stalls which hardly worthy of the name displaying junk that barely qualified as “merchandise,” alongside wild herbs or unidentifiable cuts of beast meat, all arranged on wooden crates. Amid the clamor, children clad in rags darted through the gaps between adults, their laughter ringing out, while pigs, kept to dispose of household refuse, snorted and squealed, charging down the same streets.  

The nation had fallen.  

The cities had burned.  

Friends and family had perished.  

But… even so, as long as people lived, they could not cease their striving. Unless they chose to cast themselves into the abyss of despair and end their lives, they would survive by sipping mud, gnawing on roots if need be. This was a place where such resilient souls had washed up. Its chaotic vitality was only natural.  

And that was precisely why someone like Toru stood out.  

A man always cloaked in melancholy, devoid of ambition, as if dragging the twilight’s air behind him wherever he went.  

“…”  

Toru was walking through the refugee district on the southern side of the provincial city of Del Solant.  

It was fortunate or perhaps dubious to call it that but the long years of war had left no shortage of abandoned houses and derelict buildings in every city. It was not uncommon for war refugees, drifting in from other countries or regions, to repair these and settle in.  

As for newcomers taking up residence in the city—naturally, the original inhabitants weren’t thrilled about it. But neither did they actively seek to drive them out. With the hard-won peace finally at hand, a sense of mutual aid, transcending social divides, was beginning to take root among the common folk.  

This was the chaotic aftermath of the war.  

Most nations were consumed with reorganizing their systems from lords to nobles to knights, leaving little attention for the lives of commoners. Thus the masses unable to rely on those above, banded together to secure their tomorrow. This unspoken understanding had naturally taken shape in cities everywhere.  

The derelict house where Toru and Akari lived was nestled in a corner of this refugee district.  

Driven from their homeland, the siblings had wandered for half a year before washing up in this spontaneously formed refugee quarter on the outskirts of Del Solant.  

Just the two of them, brother and sister, living together.  

Their parents and relatives were missing.  

Shortly after the war’s end, their entire clan had scattered and now, whether they were alive or dead was anyone’s guess. Still, when they’d fled their village, they’d managed to take a fair amount of household goods with them, and their kin were a tenacious lot. Likely, they were out there somewhere, surviving with the same rough, carefree resilience as the people of this refugee district.  

“Hey, Toru.”  

An old woman, seated on a bench by the roadside, weaving a wicker basket, noticed Toru and called out to him. He’d forgotten her name, but her face was familiar. She was someone he’d met a few times when they first settled in the refugee district, if he recalled correctly. Apparently, her penchant for meddling had elevated her to a local authority using her wealth of life experience to mediate marital spats, arrange odd jobs, and manage the neighborhood’s affairs.  

“It’s rare to see you out and about.”  

“Guess so.”  

Toru responded with a hint of reluctance.  

He could already predict what she’d say next.  

“You need to pull your weight too, so don’t leave all the work to Akari-chan.”  

“…”  

Mind your own business old hag. The retort rose to his throat, but Toru swallowed it.  

It was true he wasn’t working, and— though it wasn’t by choice that he was living off Akari’s efforts. Of course, Akari, for her part had an odd streak of naivety… which meant her earnings were far from substantial. Mixing with refugees made it even harder to land lucrative jobs. That was why they were scraping by, barely able to afford breakfast this morning.  

“Maybe… when I feel like it.”  

Toru gave a half-hearted wave and passed by the old woman.  

Toru was unemployed, and to be clear this wasn’t a temporary lull between jobs, nor was he training or preparing for a new trade. Strictly speaking, he was registered with the city’s labor guild, but only in name… He had yet to take on a single actual job. 

 In other words, he was utterly penniless, with no income—and, worse, he made no effort to change his circumstances. A perfect, irredeemable deadbeat.  

Given such a Toru, it wasn’t surprising though perhaps not entirely justified that his imouto would assault him with a hammer first thing in the morning. Plenty would nod and say it was “only natural.” For Toru, nearly killed in the process, it was hardly a laughing matter and definitely to not take that as a joke.  

“‘Work,’ huh…”  

He muttered the word with a sardonic edge, not directed at anyone in particular or perhaps at himself. Feeling the weight of the machete hanging at his waist, Toru crossed the refugee district and headed toward the south gate of Del Solant.