Darkness clung to Tomora like a suffocating blanket.
When consciousness returned, it came slowly—first as pain, then as weight. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed through his skull, each jolt syncing with the uneven rhythm of wooden wheels grinding over stone. His eyelids fluttered, heavy as if glued shut, before finally peeling open.
Dim light spilled through narrow iron bars above him, cutting thin lines across the cramped interior of a wooden carriage. Dust floated lazily in the air, glowing faintly as it passed through the light. The smell hit him next—sweat, rusted metal, fear. Old fear. The kind that had soaked into wood and never left.
Tomora tried to move.
Metal scraped.
Cold bit into his wrists and ankles, biting deep into skin already raw. Thick chains wrapped around his limbs, bolted into the floor of the carriage. Around his neck sat a collar—heavy, unnatural. It hummed faintly, a dull vibration that made his teeth ache.
His chest tightened.
Power.
He reached for it instinctively.
Nothing answered.
The storm inside him—always loud, always restless—was gone. Not quiet. Gone. Like a scream cut off mid-breath.
Tomora sucked in a sharp breath, panic clawing its way up his throat.
"H-Hey…" His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a rasp. "Where… where are we?"
No one answered.
He turned his head slowly. The carriage was packed. Men, women, even children sat chained in rows along the walls, shoulders slumped, eyes hollow. Some stared at the floor. Others stared at nothing at all. Dull metal collars circled every neck, each glowing faintly with suppressive runes etched into their surface.
A prison on wheels.
Tomora's gaze landed on the man beside him. Broad-shouldered, scarred, his face hardened by years of survival. The man's eyes flicked toward Tomora for a brief moment—sharp, calculating—before sliding away again.
"Please," Tomora whispered, leaning slightly despite the chains. "Say something."
The man's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists.
Silence.
Suddenly—
"NO TALKING!"
The shout cracked like a whip.
The carriage lurched violently, throwing bodies against chains. Someone cried out as metal dug into flesh. Outside, rough laughter followed.
Tomora clenched his teeth, bracing himself as the wheels picked up speed.
Through the slats, he caught glimpses of the outside world. Dry roads. Cracked earth. Buildings that leaned like they were tired of standing. Armed men rode alongside the carriage, their armor mismatched and poorly maintained. Fake Black Iron insignias were stamped onto their breastplates—but they were sloppy, wrong. The real Black Iron moved with discipline.
These men moved with greed.
One of them glanced toward the carriage, eyes gleaming as if already counting coin.
Tomora's stomach twisted.
The carriage slowed.
A grinding halt.
The doors were thrown open with a violent slam, sunlight flooding the interior. The sudden brightness burned Tomora's eyes, forcing him to squint.
"Out," a bandit barked. "All of you."
Chains rattled as prisoners were dragged to their feet. When Tomora tried to stand, his legs wobbled beneath him. A boot slammed into his side, knocking the air from his lungs.
"MOVE."
He stumbled forward, boots scraping against the wooden floor, until he was shoved down onto hard dirt.
The world opened up around him.
A sprawling settlement stretched before them—rows of iron cages, raised platforms, auction stages stained dark with old blood. The air buzzed with noise: shouting merchants, clanking chains, desperate pleas quickly silenced.
A battered wooden sign hung crooked above the entrance.
THE MARKET
Tomora's heart sank.
Collared figures were lined up, inspected like livestock. Buyers pressed fingers into muscles, pried open mouths, checked eyes. Coin exchanged hands. People were dragged away screaming.
This wasn't transport.
This was the end of the road.
A woman nearby sobbed quietly, her shoulders shaking as a child clung to her leg. A bandit tore the child away. The scream that followed was thin, broken, and cut short.
Tomora's hands shook.
Patricia's face flashed in his mind—green hair glowing in sunlight, her smile teasing, her voice steady.
I'll help you, Tomora. No matter what.
His chest burned.
He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Somewhere deep inside, something stirred. A flicker. Weak. Smothered. The collar pulsed once, sharp and warning, sending pain shooting through his spine.
He gasped, collapsing to one knee.
"Don't even think about it," a bandit sneered, yanking him back up by the chain around his neck. "These collars crush power like bugs."
Tomora glared at him, eyes burning—not blue, not white, but dark with something raw and unbroken.
The bandit laughed nervously and shoved him toward a line of prisoners.
As Tomora was forced forward, he felt it again.
Not thunder.
Not yet.
Something deeper.
Waiting.
Above the chaos of the Market of Chains, dark clouds began to gather—slow, unnoticed.
And far beneath the collar's suppressive hum, a storm listened.