The autumn wind swept away fallen leaves. Harvest season had come again.
The breeze was crisp, the sky vast and high, and the fragrance of rice filled the fields.
"When you get old, your body gets worse with every passing year."
A bare-chested old man sat on a field ridge, an old straw hat on his head. His skin was dark and flushed, and he looked thin and wiry.
He rambled on as he poured tobacco from a small wooden jar into his pipe, then took out a sulfur-tipped splint and struck it against a flint a few times.
"With a good harvest this year, we ought to store up as much grain and money as we can. At my age, you never know when you might suddenly be unable to work anymore. Once that happens, how long you can live depends entirely on how much you've saved for your old age."
As the old man spoke, he kept striking the splint in his hand against the flint.
But it still would not light.
"Tsk."
The old man clicked his tongue softly.
"Here, sir."
A young man's voice rang out, and he reached toward the old man on the field ridge.
A gentle breeze passed, stirring his plain white sleeve.
"No use. It's probably gotten damp."
Despite saying so, the old man still handed the splint and flint over to the young man.
The young man took the splint from him and gently struck it against the flint.
The sulfur-coated wooden stick did not ignite from friction. Instead, the instant it struck the flint, an exceedingly slender flame rose discreetly from the young man's palm.
It was that slender flame that lit the little wooden stick in his hand.
"Oh."
The old man froze briefly at the sight, then gave