Sunlight filtered through the forest canopy in broken shards, painting the ground in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. The air was warm, thick with the scent of moss and damp earth, yet beneath it hummed something sharper—an invisible tension that made the leaves tremble.
At the center of a wide clearing stood Tomora.
He was thirteen now. Taller. Leaner. His shoulders no longer slouched with uncertainty, and his stance carried weight—balanced, grounded, deliberate. Faint arcs of blue-white electricity crawled over his arms like restless veins of light, disappearing and reappearing beneath his skin.
His eyes glowed.
Not brightly. Not wildly.
But steadily—like a storm being held back by sheer will.
Tomora exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. The breath steamed in the air despite the warmth.
"Come on…" he muttered. "Feel it."
He raised his hands.
The forest answered.
A violent crack tore through the clearing as lightning burst from his fingertips, splintering outward in jagged lines. The bolt slammed into a nearby tree, bark exploding outward as if struck by a cannon. Another followed—then another—each strike louder than the last.
CRACK!
CRASH!
Trees groaned as trunks split and collapsed, shaking the ground. Birds scattered from the canopy in panicked flurries of wings. Smoke curled upward, carrying the sharp scent of burned wood.
Tomora staggered back a step, chest heaving. Sweat dripped down his temple, mixing with faint sparks that snapped and vanished against his skin. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the strain of holding back even more power.
Behind him, footsteps crunched softly against fallen leaves.
Patricia stood at the edge of the clearing.
Her green hair caught the sunlight, vibrant as fresh spring leaves, flowing loosely down her back. Strands lifted gently in the charged air, swaying as if responding to Tomora's power. Her expression was calm, eyes sharp and focused, glowing faintly with a deep verdant light.
She lifted her hands.
The ground stirred.
Roots burst free from the soil, thick and twisting, weaving through cracked earth like living veins. Vines slithered up shattered trunks, wrapping broken bark, stitching splintered wood together. Leaves unfurled where none had been moments before, emerald and alive.
The fallen trees shuddered—then rose.
Bark sealed. Branches straightened. Fresh foliage bloomed, drinking in the sunlight as if the destruction had never happened.
The forest breathed again.
Tomora watched, wide-eyed, as the devastation he'd caused was undone piece by piece. The smell of smoke faded, replaced by fresh sap and earth.
He let his arms drop, electricity retreating back into his chest.
A crooked grin tugged at his lips.
"You always clean up my mess," he said. "Like magic."
Patricia snorted softly, lowering her hands. The glow in her eyes faded, though her hair still shimmered vividly in the light.
"Someone has to," she replied. "I'd rather not wake up one day and find you burned half the forest down before lunch."
Tomora laughed—a real laugh, sharp and bright. It echoed through the trees, startling a squirrel perched nearby.
They stood in silence for a moment, the wind brushing past them, leaves whispering secrets overhead.
Then Tomora's smile faded.
He stared at his hands.
The faint tremor hadn't stopped.
"Sometimes…" His voice dropped. "Sometimes it feels like it's getting harder to stop."
Patricia turned to face him fully.
"What do you mean?"
He swallowed. The electricity flickered briefly around his fingers, reacting to his unease.
"It's like the storm's getting louder," he said. "Like it's pushing back. Every year, it wants more room."
He clenched his fist. Sparks snapped between his knuckles.
"I'm scared that one day I won't be able to pull it back."
Patricia studied him carefully. Not as a teacher. Not as a guardian.
But as someone who understood what it meant to live with power that could destroy everything if mishandled.
She stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. The warmth of her palm grounded him instantly, the sparks dying away.
"Power doesn't make monsters," she said quietly. "Fear does. And you're not afraid of hurting others—you're afraid of becoming something you can't control."
Tomora looked up at her.
Her green hair framed her face, wild and untamed, just like the forest she commanded. There were faint scars along her arms—old, healed, earned.
"How do you know I won't lose myself?" he asked.
Patricia smiled—not softly, but confidently.
"Because you question it," she said. "Because you stop. Because you care."
She tapped his chest lightly.
"That's the difference."
A gust of wind swept through the clearing, rustling leaves and bending grass. The forest seemed to listen.
Tomora closed his eyes.
For a moment, everything went quiet.
Then—deep within—he felt it.
Not the chaos. Not the rage.
The rhythm.
A steady pulse, like a heartbeat synced with thunder far away.
His breathing slowed. His shoulders relaxed.
When he opened his eyes, the glow was still there—but controlled. Focused.
"I think…" he said, voice steadier now, "I'm starting to understand it."
Patricia stepped back, folding her arms with a satisfied nod.
"Good," she said. "Because the world out there won't be as forgiving as this forest."
Tomora glanced past the trees, toward the unseen horizon beyond the mansion and the shadows waiting there.
"I know."
Lightning flashed faintly between his fingers—contained, obedient.
Above them, clouds drifted lazily across the sky.
A storm growing.
And a boy growing stronger with it.