Tomora limped back into camp like a man returning from war—if the war had been against a mountain, a river, gravity, and one deeply unhinged mentor.
The blindfold hung loose around his neck, stained dark from sweat and pepper juice. His eyes were bloodshot, blinking rapidly as if they were still on fire. Every breath scraped his lungs raw, coming out in ragged bursts. His clothes clung to him, soaked through, crusted with dirt, leaves, and the unmistakable scent of regret.
He made it three steps past the fire before his legs gave up the lie.
Tomora collapsed under a tree, back hitting the trunk, sliding down until he was nothing more than a heap of aching limbs. His chest heaved. His hands trembled. Somewhere inside him, a voice suggested—very reasonably—that quitting life might be an option.
Across the clearing, the hooded figure sat on a flat stone, legs crossed, kettle balanced neatly over a small flame. He lifted a cup, blew on it, and took a slow sip.
"Well," he said mildly, as if commenting on the weather. "You didn't break any bones."
Tomora dragged one burning eye open and glared.
"That's… because… I'm too angry… to die," he rasped.
The hooded figure tilted his head, amused. "That's progress."
Tomora let out a laugh that turned into a cough that turned into him nearly throwing up. He spat into the dirt, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then pushed himself upright despite every muscle screaming in protest.
"I'm not done," he said.
His voice shook—not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from something sharp and stubborn. His fingers dug into the soil as he forced himself to stand. His legs wobbled. He swayed once.
Then steadied.
The hooded figure watched without comment, tea steaming gently in his hand.
---
The day blurred into motion.
Tomora dropped to the ground and began push-ups—not because he was told to, but because his body demanded it. His arms trembled violently, but they held. Sweat dripped from his chin, splashing into the dirt beneath him. He counted under his breath, jaw clenched, teeth grinding together like they might shatter.
No kick came.
That alone nearly threw him off.
He finished the set, collapsed onto his back, stared at the sky for half a heartbeat—then rolled over and got back up.
Later, he dragged logs again. Smaller this time. Faster. His grip burned, palms raw, but his feet found rhythm. He leaned into the pull instead of fighting it, hips low, back straight. The log scraped over the ground with a steady sound, no longer a scream of resistance but a grudging slide.
Rocks came next.
Not the murderous hailstorm from before—just single throws, spaced out. Tomora's eyes tracked them. His body reacted before his thoughts finished forming. A step left. A dip of the shoulder. A sharp exhale.
Stone missed skin by inches.
He laughed once—short, breathless, surprised.
Sprints followed. No blindfold. No pepper. Just speed and breath and the pounding of his heart in his ears. He ran until his vision tunneled, until his legs felt like they were filled with molten lead, then ran again.
When he finally stopped, he bent over, hands on knees, focusing on his breathing like the hooded figure had shown him—slow in through the nose, controlled out through the mouth.
The world stopped spinning.
Across the clearing, the hooded figure stood with his arms crossed, posture relaxed. He said nothing. Didn't correct him. Didn't mock him.
That somehow felt heavier than being yelled at.
---
Later, when the sun sat high and warm, the hooded figure flicked a pebble toward Tomora's chest.
"Dodge this."
The pebble flew fast—faster than it had any right to.
Tomora didn't panic.
His body shifted. A half-step, a turn of the shoulder, a subtle tilt of his head.
The pebble whistled past, close enough to stir his hair.
It struck a tree behind him with a soft thock.
The hooded figure blinked.
Once.
"Huh," he said.
Tomora straightened, wiping sweat from his brow, chest rising and falling steadily now. A crooked grin tugged at his mouth.
"Took long enough," he said, voice rough but confident.
The hooded figure studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached up and pulled his hood back just enough for light to catch his eyes.
They were sharp. Focused. Human.
Not cruel. Not kind. Just… aware.
"You're not running on raw power anymore," he said. "You're thinking."
Tomora's grin faded. He sat up straighter, shoulders squared despite the ache screaming through them.
"I'm gonna beat the government," he said. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just certain. "And not just with power."
The hooded figure nodded once.
"Good," he replied. "Tomorrow, we step it up."
Tomora groaned and fell backward into the grass.
"Of course we do," he muttered.
Above him, the hooded figure's laughter drifted softly through the trees.