The last scraps of food were gone, the fire reduced to a dull orange glow that barely pushed back the darkness. Tomora wiped his hands on his pants and leaned back, stretching his shoulders. His body ached in that deep, uncomfortable way that meant he'd been pushed past comfort and dragged somewhere new.
Across from him, the hooded figure rose to his feet and rolled his shoulders like someone preparing for a casual walk rather than whatever insanity he had planned next.
"Alright then," the man said lightly. "Let's start."
Tomora glanced around.
The forest had swallowed the light whole. The trees stood like black pillars, branches tangled overhead, moonlight broken into thin, useless slivers. Every sound felt louder—leaves shifting, distant insects, the quiet hum of the world at night.
"Wait—now?" Tomora said. "It's late."
The hooded figure tilted his head, as if genuinely confused by the concept of time.
"I know it's dark," he said. "What? You scared of the dark?"
Something twitched in Tomora's eye.
"Of course not, you idiot."
The man nodded, pleased, like a teacher checking off a list.
"Good," he said. "You have one job. Just one."
He stepped closer and tapped two fingers against Tomora's chest.
"Run."
Tomora blinked. "Run?"
"Don't let me touch you."
Tomora stared at him for a long second—then snorted.
"Why the hell would I run when I can beat you?"
The hooded figure laughed softly, the sound infuriatingly calm.
"I'm building your stamina, genius," he said. "Run."
Something in his tone made Tomora's stomach tighten. Still, pride shoved doubt aside. He turned, rolled his shoulders once, and took off.
The forest exploded into motion.
Branches whipped past his face. Roots clawed at his feet. The ground dipped and rose without warning, forcing him to adapt with every step. His lungs burned almost immediately, breath turning ragged as he pushed deeper into the dark.
Behind him—
Nothing.
No footsteps. No presence. No pressure.
Tomora risked a glance over his shoulder while sprinting downhill. Empty shadows stared back at him.
"Hah," he muttered, pushing harder. "Too slow."
Minutes blurred into hours.
The forest never ended. Every time Tomora thought he'd reached the edge, the trees simply rearranged themselves, paths twisting, slopes steepening. His legs screamed. Sweat soaked through his clothes. His chest felt tight, breath shallow and sharp.
Still, he ran.
Every time he slowed, a spike of unease jabbed at him—like unseen eyes pressing into his back. He'd spin, water ready to rise on instinct—then remember.
No element.
Just legs. Just will.
By the time the sky began to pale, his steps had turned clumsy. His boots scraped more than they lifted. His arms hung heavy, swinging uselessly at his sides.
He stumbled to a stop near a small clearing, bent over, hands on his knees, gasping.
Silence.
He lifted his head slowly.
No one.
A weak laugh slipped out of him. "Heh… guess I outran him…"
The thought tasted hollow, but he clung to it anyway. Straightening with effort, Tomora turned and began limping back toward camp, using the rising light as his guide.
When the trees finally opened up, he froze.
The camp sat exactly as he'd left it.
The fire pit was cold. The bedrolls were laid out neatly.
And on one of them—
The hooded figure lay sprawled comfortably on his back, hands folded behind his head, mouth slightly open.
Snoring.
Softly.
Tomora stared.
His eye twitched again. Harder this time.
He staggered forward, disbelief turning into fury with every step.
"YOU—" His voice cracked. "YOU WERE SLEEPING?!"
The hooded figure didn't stir.
"I RAN THE WHOLE NIGHT!"
Tomora grabbed the man's shoulder and shook him violently.
The world detonated.
A concussive force blasted outward, ripping the air apart. Tomora didn't even have time to scream before he was flung backward, body smashing through branches and trunks like a ragdoll. Trees snapped. Leaves and dirt exploded around him.
He hit the ground hard, skidding across the forest floor before finally coming to a stop in a cloud of dust.
Pain screamed through every nerve.
Tomora coughed, rolling onto his side as smoke curled faintly off his clothes.
"What the hell was that—?!" he wheezed.
A voice spoke calmly behind him.
"You fell for it, Tomora."
His blood went cold.
Tomora spun around, scrambling to his feet despite the pain.
The hooded figure stood a few steps away, perfectly composed. No scorch marks. No torn clothes. Not even dust on his boots.
The campsite behind him was empty.
"You—" Tomora snarled. "How—?!"
The man raised a finger. "Never trust what you see."
He stepped forward and tapped Tomora lightly on the forehead.
"And by the way," he added, "you lost."
Tomora froze.
"I touched you."
The realization hit harder than the blast.
All that running. All that effort. The relief. The anger.
Played.
Tomora's hands clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms.
"…You bastard."
The hooded figure laughed, low and easy, already turning away.
"Lesson one complete."
He walked back toward the camp as if nothing unusual had happened, leaving Tomora standing there—bruised, humiliated, and burning with a mix of rage and something else.
Understanding.
This wasn't about strength.
This was about awareness.
Tomora straightened slowly, jaw set.
Next time, he thought, watching the man's back, I won't fall for it.
The forest stirred quietly around them, as if amused.
And far beneath Tomora's frustration, something sharper began to form—focused, dangerous, awake.