As the sun goes down, Tatsumi is on his way to the old inn; his leather sack nearly full of olive fruit. It was enough for one day. The scent of fresh olives clung to him as he passed through the narrowing alleys, worn from a long day of work but with a sense of fulfillment.
"Vito-san, Gauri-san, you're back," he greeted as Vito and Gauri arrived at the inn by means of a transport wagon they had purchased from a local trader.
What they carried behind them was the foundation of their new venture: a large stone olive mill, fit snugly for a single room, a modest amount of empty bottles, and materials for assembling a manual pressing machine—including coiled fiber mats, wooden beams, and a cast-iron screw press.
"I trust that you have spread the word about our ventures, my boy?" Vito asked, stepping down from the wagon.
"Enough to keep them guessing," Tatsumi replied, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Good. Their anticipation works in our favor," Vito said with a calm smirk, the wheels of strategy turning behind his eyes.
As they began unloading the wagon into the inn's storage room, the calm was broken by a disturbance near the counter. Vito and Gauri turned to find Genco being harassed by two Imperial soldiers. The old man, thin and hunched, was doing his best to remain composed.
"Oi, come on, old man. You're saying you closed down shop without ever telling us? There's gotta be a fee for that, you know," one of the guards snickered, leaning in with a grin that reeked of malice.
"Like I told you, it's for the best. Now leave," Genco said, voice shaking but firm.
The second guard slammed his palm against the counter, causing Genco to flinch. "Hey, you don't get to talk to us like that."
Before they could escalate further, Vito stepped forward, his presence commanding.
"I believe you have a problem with my business partner? Then deal with me instead," he said coolly.
The guards turned, sizing him up. He didn't look like much to them—an aging man in a long black coat, his eyes calm but sharp.
"If you know what's good for you, stay out of our business," one growled.
Vito simply chuckled, the sound low and dismissive. "Too bad. It seems you two pea-brained idiots couldn't read the room."
There was a beat of silence, heavy with tension. Tatsumi subtly reached behind him, gripping the hilt of his sword. Gauri stepped forward too, jaw set.
Vito didn't need to raise his voice. His eyes alone told a story of violence and command. These weren't just farmers playing businessman. The soldiers began to shift uneasily, the bravado draining from their faces.
"Ho? What would that be, old timer?"
"This inn is under our protection," Vito said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "Now, unless you want to learn how quickly things can go bad for a man who forgets his place, I suggest you walk out. While you still can."
The two soldiers exchanged a look, then broke into mocking laughter, the sound echoing off the faded walls of the inn.
"Perhaps you're the one with the pea-sized brain here," one jeered. "We're the only ones allowed to protect the place like this. If you can't pay, then—"
"The deeds to this place belong to me now," Vito interrupted, his voice dropping just low enough to command silence. "So you'll have to deal with me. Or, if you want a more permanent solution..."
A long pause followed. The soldiers sneered but didn't interrupt.
"I'll have both of you disappear without anyone caring enough to ask questions," he finished, his gaze cold and unmoving.
The two finally saw it. The threat in Vito's eyes wasn't empty. It was deep, certain, and earned through years of hard lessons. A weight hung in the air, like a silent verdict awaiting execution.
Before either soldier could respond, Tatsumi stepped beside Vito and added, "If you know what's good for you, stay out of our business," his tone laced with mockery, throwing their earlier words back at them.
The soldiers hesitated, their swagger deflating. Grumbling curses under their breath and casting glances over their shoulders, they finally backed off and disappeared into the dawn.
Vito stood there for a moment longer, letting the silence settle, as if to ensure the threat lingered like smoke in the air. Then he turned to Genco.
"Are you alright, amico mio?"
Genco nodded slowly, his face pale but grateful. "Thank you, Vito. You didn't have to do that."
"Of course I did," Vito replied gently, placing a steadying hand on Genco's shoulder. "We're in this together. Your fight is mine now."
He helped the older man sit down behind the counter again, offering him a reassuring nod.
Tatsumi looked between the two, his expression thoughtful. This wasn't just bravado—it was power born of presence, not violence.
As the night deepened, the inn felt quieter. The earlier tension had faded, replaced by a calm determination. The new olive oil venture would begin soon, and the groundwork was being laid with every move.
Genco fetched the oil press components from the storage crates, his gait slow but sure, while Gauri organized the stone mill in the spare back room, his brows furrowed in focus as he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.
In the dim light, as shadows crept over the walls and lanterns flickered in the corners, the four of them set to work. Vito oversaw the setup, giving quiet, authoritative instructions that grounded their shared effort with steady leadership.
"Genco, check the press seals. They can't be leaking by the time we begin the first press," he said firmly, hands behind his back, eyes surveying every corner.
"On it," Genco replied, wiping his hands on a rag. He cleaned and arranged the various pressing tools—woven mats, wooden frames, metal plates—each one essential to the task ahead. His hands moved with the familiarity of a man who had once worked honestly, now returning to it after years of shadowed living.
"The mats are still a little damp," he noted. "We'll have to make sure they don't rot from within. A good pressing requires a clean base."
"Agreed," Vito nodded. "We're not just making oil. We're setting a standard."
Tatsumi, still unsure about the process but eager to learn, helped carry and place the olive sacks they had gathered earlier. His movements were slow but deliberate, the weight of his grief and duty still heavy on his shoulders. But he moved. Sweat lined his brow, and dirt clung to his sleeves from the grove.
"Where should I place this one, Vito-san?" Tatsumi asked, holding a full sack of olives, straining slightly under the load.
"Next to the press, ragazzo. We'll crush them in batches. No need to rush," Vito replied, nodding with approval.
"They're heavier than they look," Tatsumi muttered, setting the sack down with a small grunt.
"That means they're ripe. Good. Heavy fruit, rich oil," Genco said, nodding from across the room.
Gauri, ever the quiet strength, fastened the stone wheel into place, making sure it sat firm and centered. His hands, still raw from past battles, found a strange comfort in manual labor. There was something honest about it—tangible and grounded, unlike the chaos he'd known.
"Funny," Gauri muttered, adjusting the press's wooden handle. "All my life I've broken things. Now I'm building something. Feels... different."
"That's how it begins," Vito said with a slight smile, folding his arms. "You break to survive, then build to live."
"And hopefully not break anything important while we're at it," Genco chuckled from the counter, arranging a row of empty bottles with practiced care.
"Let's just make sure we don't build another reason for the Empire to come knocking," he added more seriously, his voice dropping with gravity.
"Too late for that," Vito replied dryly. "Sooner or later, they'll gonna smell the change. We just have to make sure we're stronger than their fear."
Tatsumi looked between them, the press now nearly assembled, its presence sturdy and symbolic. He knelt by the olive sacks, untying one slightly to inspect the dark green fruit.
"Do you think this will really work?" he asked, voice lower. "The oil, the business... us? Together like this?"
Gauri stood up straight, wiping grease from his fingers onto a cloth. He looked at Tatsumi, then at the press. "It has to. Otherwise, all we've done is run from what we lost. And I'm done running."
"So am I," Tatsumi replied softly, almost to himself.
Vito walked over, placing a hand on Tatsumi's shoulder. "It will. Because we're putting in more than olives. We're pressing out the past, one drop at a time. And maybe, just maybe, we'll make something pure from it. Something worth keeping."
The pieces of their new life were falling into place—not without resistance, not without enemies, but firmly enough to hold against the storm they knew was coming. And for now, within those old, creaking walls, the rhythm of work offered them the closest thing to peace they had known in a long while.
The morning after they had painstakingly set up the oil-producing equipment, the air in the inn carried a lingering scent of crushed olives and sweat. Despite their limited resources, they had successfully pressed a modest yield: twenty bottles of thick, golden-green olive oil.
Vito considered it a moderate success, especially since the entire effort was shouldered by only four men—himself, Gauri, Tatsumi, and old Genco. Each stage, from grinding the olives in the stone mill to carefully pressing and bottling, had been labor-intensive and time-consuming.
"Twenty bottles," Vito muttered, examining the filled glass containers lined up on the table. "Not bad, considering we're working like monks in a monastery—no shifts, no rest, just elbow grease."
He knew they were pushing the limits of what four people could handle. The process was steady, but slow, and the lack of additional hands meant they couldn't sustain a production cycle long enough to meet growing demand or build up reserves. The equipment worked as expected, but its full potential would remain untapped until they could find more workers to keep it running throughout the day and into the night.
Tatsumi, meanwhile, mulled over these same thoughts as he packed his satchel. The strain was beginning to show in their bodies—sore muscles, blistered hands, and weary expressions—but he also saw how much pride Vito took in even the smallest success. That pride was starting to grow in him too.
"Twenty bottles is better than none," Tatsumi reminded himself as he slung the satchel over his shoulder and stepped out into the morning light.
This time, he wasn't heading out for olive fruit. Vito had asked him to scout for something different—items to support the next part of their venture. Whether it was supplies to maintain the press or ingredients for the kitchen, Tatsumi knew today's haul would contribute to something beyond oil. Perhaps something sweeter.
The streets of the Capital buzzed to life around him, merchants shouting, carts clattering, and the smell of fresh bread and spices drifting in the air.
In his hand, he clutched a worn slip of parchment with Vito's looping script. The old man had handed it to him before sunrise with a simple instruction:
"Buy everything on this list. We're making something that reminds me of home."
Tatsumi squinted at the list again, rereading each line carefully:
Goat cheese, soft and fresh
Honey, thick
Dried berries
Grain flour
Beast fat, clean
Eggs, no cracks
Wine vinegar or the sharpest you can find
Something sweet and rare — fruit or bark
He glanced up at the clustered stalls ahead, took a breath, and stepped forward as the market roared to life around him. Merchants shouted, children darted between carts, and the smell of spices, roasting meat, and baked bread filled the air.
His first stop was the cheesemonger, a stout woman with arms like a smith and a voice that cut through the crowd like a whip. "You want the morning curd, boy? Or the aged wheels?" she barked as soon as he approached.
"The soft one," Tatsumi replied, shifting his sack. "For something sweet."
She raised an eyebrow, pausing as if to inspect him for a joke. "Ain't cheap, lad. Not many ask for it."
Still, she handed over a wrapped lump of pale, creamy goat cheese, its surface slightly glistening with moisture. Tatsumi paid in coin and gave a small nod of thanks.
At the honey merchant's stall, sunlight danced across rows of glass jars, each one gleaming in golden hues. Bees buzzed lazily near the table, drawn by the scent.
"What kind?" the vendor asked, brushing a bee from his collar with practiced ease.
"The thickest you have. For mixing," Tatsumi said, then added, "And dried berries too, if you've got any."
"Mountain berries. Tart and dark. Good for sweets. And this here—sun-bled honey from wild hives, thick as molasses," the vendor said proudly, wrapping both with care. "You making medicine? Or just something delicious?"
"Something... nostalgic," Tatsumi replied, unsure of how else to describe Vito's request.
From the butcher's corner he bought beast fat, pale and rendered, still smelling faintly of smoke and char. The butcher, a grizzled man with a bandaged hand, tossed in a sliver of marrow as a "bonus for a polite face."
A nearby baker sold him grain flour and a small pouch of cracked nuts, roasted and seasoned with something earthy. The scent brought him a memory of walking through mountain trails in his home village, though he didn't linger on it.
The vinegar was trickier. He browsed a long stretch of spice vendors and finally found a traveling trader draped in foreign fabrics, who offered a sharp, red fruit vinegar in a stoppered clay jug.
"One sniff and it'll wake your soul," the trader said, and Tatsumi found it hard to disagree. The sharpness hit him like lightning. He bought it immediately.
Just as he was about to turn back, something glinted in the corner of his vision. A narrow stall, half-hidden by faded cloth banners, stood nestled between two larger booths. Behind it sat a wizened old man with a crooked back and long white eyebrows. His stall was lined with jars of crystallized root bark, sugared citrus peels, and dark candied plums.
"Something rare, something sweet," Tatsumi murmured, recalling Vito's words once more. He studied the selection before choosing a piece of bark coated in sugar, its texture rough but glistening like frost in the morning sun.
The old vendor handed it over silently, giving Tatsumi a slow, knowing nod. Perhaps he too recognized the look of someone carrying more than just goods.
Tatsumi slipped it carefully into his satchel and took one last glance at the vibrant, chaotic marketplace when a familiar voice called out to him.
"Yo! Fancy meeting you here again, young man."
He turned his head and immediately felt dread upon seeing her again; it was the same voluptuous blonde woman who had swindled him the moment he first set foot in the capital. Her wide grin and confident stance hadn't changed.
"Geh, Lady Boobs," Tatsumi muttered under his breath, scowling. He had given her that nickname thanks to her eye-catching appearance, and not out of any admiration.
"That's rude. I have a name, you know," the woman huffed in exaggerated annoyance, flipping her hair.
"Name's Leone," she said more seriously, reaching out to shake his hand.
Tatsumi didn't even acknowledge the gesture. He brushed past her with deliberate disregard, leaving her hand hanging in the air. Leone blinked, surprised by the coldness.
"Hey wait… if it's about your money, I'm sorry, alright?" she called out, walking after him.
Still, he didn't turn or speak.
"Wait… listen…" Her voice lost some of its usual playfulness.
Tatsumi kept moving, jaw clenched, the weight of the past weeks pressing down hard.
"Will you please listen for a goddamn—"
She reached out to grab his shoulder.
Before she could, he spun, catching her wrist with surprising force and looked her dead in the eye.
"Will you shut the hell up!?" he said in a low, dangerous voice, steady but sharp with fury.
The venom in his tone made her blink. Leone, for all her bravado and strength, paused. This wasn't the same naive boy she had once tricked.
There was pain in those eyes. Pain she hadn't seen before.