Tomora hit the grass face-first like a sack of grain dropped from a wagon.
Not gently.
Not dramatically.
Just thud—full-body surrender.
His limbs twitched once, then again, like they were debating whether continuing to function was worth it. His breathing came out in broken, animalistic sounds—half wheeze, half death rattle—something you'd expect from a wounded boar, not a teenage boy.
The morning air was cold. Dew soaked into his clothes. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped cheerfully, completely unaware that a man was dying three feet away.
A pair of boots stepped over his head.
"Good job, Tomora," the hooded figure said pleasantly. "You lasted… what? Two hours?"
Tomora's face pressed deeper into the grass.
"It was… seven…" he croaked. "…Seven hours… and you kicked me… every time I blinked…"
The hooded figure hummed, as if considering this. "Yeah," he said. "But you still sucked."
Tomora's soul briefly left his body, took one look around, and decided it wasn't safe to return.
"Anyway," the hooded figure continued, clapping his hands once. "Today's real training starts now."
If Tomora had any strength left, he would've screamed.
Instead, his fingers twitched weakly, digging into the dirt like he was trying to crawl into the earth and let history forget him.
---
The log waited for him like a personal insult.
It lay near the edge of the clearing—thick, heavy, ancient wood, stripped of bark but still massive. The kind of log peasants would need three oxen to move. The kind used to reinforce castle gates or crush invading armies.
The hooded figure pointed at it.
"Drag that into the river."
Tomora lifted his head slowly.
"…What?"
"Drag," the man repeated. "Into the river."
"WHY?" Tomora shouted, voice cracking. "WHY WOULD ANYONE DO THAT?"
The hooded figure shrugged. "Because I said so."
Tomora staggered to his feet, walked to the log, and wrapped his arms around it. He heaved.
His spine made a noise no spine should ever make.
A sharp, cracking pop echoed through his body.
Tomora froze.
"…I think my bones just filed for divorce," he whispered.
"Good," the hooded figure said. "Do it three times."
Something primal took over.
Tomora screamed at the sky like a berserker possessed, veins popping, legs shaking as he dragged the log inch by inch. Dirt tore up beneath it. His feet slipped. His vision blurred.
By the time the log splashed into the river, Tomora followed it—collapsing onto his knees, arms dangling uselessly at his sides.
He laughed weakly.
"…I did it," he said. "I'm done. I'm finished. I'm going to lie here until I turn into a fossil."
"Cool," the hooded figure said. "Now stand in the water."
Tomora groaned but obeyed, wading into the cold river until it reached his knees.
"For once," he muttered, "something normal—"
"—while I throw rocks at your head."
Tomora turned slowly.
"…Excuse me?"
The hooded figure bent down, picked up a fist-sized stone, and weighed it in his hand.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll only aim for your face."
The stone vanished.
Tomora barely ducked as it tore past his ear and slammed into the river with the force of a siege weapon.
"ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!" Tomora screamed, slipping on wet stones.
"Yes," the hooded figure replied calmly. "Now stop talking and dodge."
Rocks flew.
One after another.
Tomora flailed, screamed, slipped, recovered, screamed again. Water splashed everywhere as stones whizzed past his head, shoulders, legs—close enough to feel the wind of them.
He learned fast.
Too fast.
His body moved before his thoughts caught up. He twisted, ducked, jumped, cursed, screamed prayers he didn't even believe in.
By the time the rocks stopped, Tomora crawled out of the river like a drowned rat and collapsed onto the bank.
"…Please," he whispered to the sky. "Please let it be over."
The hooded figure crouched beside him.
"Tomora."
"…Yeah?"
"I have one last exercise."
"No," Tomora said immediately. "No please. I'm begging. Whatever it is, NO—"
The hooded figure held up a cloth.
A blindfold.
Soaked.
Tomora sniffed.
His eyes widened.
"…Why is it spicy."
The hooded figure smiled beneath the hood. "Pepper juice."
"WHY IS IT SPICY?!" Tomora shrieked. "WHAT DOES THIS EVEN DO?!"
"It builds character."
Tomora wept openly as he tied it around his eyes. Fire exploded behind his eyelids.
"Good," the hooded figure said. "Now sprint through the forest and don't trip."
A kick landed square between Tomora's shoulder blades.
He took off running, screaming like a man possessed, blind, burning-eyed, arms flailing as branches slapped his face and roots tried to kill him.
Behind him, the hooded figure sat on a rock, poured tea from a small kettle, and took a sip.
"He'll survive," he murmured. "Probably."
The sun climbed higher.
Somewhere in the forest, Tomora screamed again.
And again.
And again.