The forest didn't care who he was.
Sunlight slipped through the canopy in thin, broken lines, catching on drifting pollen and the slow sway of leaves overhead. The ground beneath Tomora's boots was soft with rot and rain, uneven with roots that twisted like veins beneath the soil. Somewhere nearby, water trickled faintly, answering the pull of his presence without being called.
Tomora rolled his shoulders, water already crawling along his hands, beading at his fingertips and dripping in slow, deliberate drops. His pulse thudded hard in his ears. Not fear. Excitement. Anger sharpened into something almost clean.
Across from him, the hooded figure stood with no urgency at all.
No glow. No pressure in the air. No sign of power gathering beneath skin or breath. Just a person standing loose and relaxed, weight balanced evenly, hands open at their sides like this was a mild inconvenience instead of a fight.
That calm irritated Tomora more than anything else.
"You wanna fight?" he said, teeth flashing in a grin that was all edge and bravado. "Fine. I'm not holding back."
He didn't wait for an answer.
His palms snapped forward, shoulders twisting with the motion. The water responded instantly, surging from his hands in violent, compressed jets. The air screamed as they tore through it. Leaves shredded. Bark exploded from a tree behind the figure as the attack carved through the space where they had been standing.
Had been.
The hooded figure wasn't there anymore.
Not gone — just elsewhere.
Tomora barely had time to register the shift before something slammed into his ribs.
The impact stole the breath from his lungs in a harsh, broken sound. Pain flared white-hot along his side as his feet left the ground. He skidded through dirt and roots, shoulder clipping a tree, water splashing uselessly from his hands as he rolled to a stop.
He coughed, sucking in air that didn't feel like it belonged to him anymore.
Before he could rise, a shadow fell over him.
Tomora reacted on instinct, water lashing out in snapping tendrils. They whipped toward the hooded figure, fast and sharp, aiming to bind and crush.
The figure stepped through them.
Not by overpowering the water. Not by resisting it.
By moving where it wasn't.
A hand clamped around Tomora's wrist, twisting. Pain shot up his arm as bone ground against bone. Tomora snarled and swung with his free hand, a blade of water forming mid-motion, but the figure ducked inside the arc and drove a knee into Tomora's stomach.
His body folded.
Spit and blood sprayed from his mouth as he doubled over. Before gravity could finish the job, the figure jumped.
A boot came down on Tomora's head.
The force drove him face-first into the ground. His lips split against packed earth. Teeth clacked painfully together. The taste of iron flooded his mouth as his face scraped through dirt and roots.
He kissed the ground hard.
The world rang. His ears filled with a high, shrill whine. He tried to push himself up, but blows rained down before he could gather himself — sharp, precise strikes that landed with terrifying accuracy. An elbow to his shoulder. A kick to his ribs. A sweep that sent his legs out from under him.
Every strike landed clean.
Every one hurt.
Tomora tried to call the water back, to let it shield him, reinforce him — but his focus fractured under the assault. The liquid spilled uselessly, splashing into mud instead of forming to his will.
He rolled onto his back, chest heaving, vision blurring at the edges. The sky above him swam between green and gold, leaves spinning slowly as pain pulsed through his body.
Footsteps approached.
Slow. Unhurried.
The hooded figure crouched beside him, close enough that Tomora could see the faint rise and fall of their breath. Still no sign of power. No strain. Not even sweat.
"How…" Tomora rasped, swallowing blood. "…how did you do that without using your power?"
The figure regarded him quietly.
"Power," they said at last, voice calm and almost bored, "means nothing if you can't control yourself."
Tomora's fingers dug into the dirt. His ribs screamed with every breath, but the fire in his chest refused to go out. He glared up at the shadowed face, eyes burning with stubborn fury.
"Shut up," he growled.
The hooded figure smiled — just slightly.
"You swing wide," they continued, standing. "You rely on force. You announce every move with anger. Anyone who stays calm can walk straight through that."
Tomora forced himself onto his knees. His arms trembled violently. Water crawled weakly back along his forearms, responding to his will like an exhausted animal.
"I'm not done," he said through clenched teeth.
The figure paused, turning back.
Good.
Tomora lunged.
This time he didn't throw water first. He charged in, closing the distance with everything he had left, rage pushing him forward through pain and exhaustion.
For a brief moment, the figure's posture shifted — surprise flickering like a crack in glass.
Then they moved.
The world snapped sideways.
A fist crashed into Tomora's jaw. Light exploded behind his eyes. He staggered, tried to stay upright, but another blow struck the side of his head. His vision tunneled. The forest spun.
A final strike landed square at the base of his skull.
Everything went dark.
Tomora's body collapsed into the dirt, water spilling from him and soaking into the earth like it had never belonged to him at all.
The hooded figure stood over him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall.
Then they turned towards Tomora and picked him up and carried him away.
Tomora didn't move.
The forest breathed on, indifferent.
And for the first time since his power awakened, he was completely, utterly unconscious.