The village square no longer sounded like a battlefield.
Moments ago, screams had torn through the air, wood had splintered, and steel had sung as it cut flesh. Now, there was only the low crackle of dying fires and the uneasy hush that followed violence—thick, fragile, and unsure of itself.
Tomora lay at the center of it all.
His body was sprawled against the dirt, limbs limp, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The ground beneath him was scorched in thin, jagged patterns, blackened veins spreading outward like frozen lightning strikes etched into the earth.
People gathered slowly.
Not rushing.
Not cheering.
Not daring to speak too loudly, as if sound itself might shatter whatever fragile balance had been restored.
Bare feet shuffled against the soil. Torn sleeves were clutched close to trembling bodies. Children peeked from behind shattered doors, wide-eyed and silent.
A man with soot smeared across his face took a hesitant step forward. His gaze lingered on the scorched marks in the dirt, then on the boy lying unconscious at their center.
"A… a kid," he murmured, barely louder than a breath.
Another villager shook his head, still trying to process what he'd seen. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, opening and closing them as if grounding himself.
"He didn't move like a child," the man whispered. "That wasn't normal speed. That was—"
His voice faltered.
Lightning still seemed to hum in the air, faint and lingering, like the echo of thunder long after the storm had passed.
Someone swallowed hard.
"I've only ever heard stories," another villager said, eyes fixed on Tomora's still form. "Stage Two Elementals. They say their bodies blur when they move. That the air bends around them."
He shook his head slowly, disbelief weighing his words down.
"But those are legends. Stories to scare children into behaving."
A woman pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, eyes shining with something dangerously close to hope.
"And yet… the raiders are gone."
Her words were quiet, but they carried.
People began to look around.
The attackers lay scattered across the village outskirts—unmoving shapes crumpled in the dirt, weapons fallen uselessly from their hands. Some were unconscious, others groaning faintly, but none stood. None threatened.
The destruction had stopped.
At the center of the square, an elderly woman stepped forward.
Her back was bent with age, silver hair tied loosely behind her head. Each step she took was careful, measured, as if she were approaching something sacred rather than a collapsed boy covered in dust and sweat.
She knelt slowly beside Tomora.
Her wrinkled hand hovered above his face for a moment, hesitating, then gently brushed away the dirt clinging to his cheek. Her touch was feather-light, reverent.
"So young…" she murmured.
Tomora's lashes fluttered faintly, but his eyes remained closed. His brow was furrowed, jaw clenched even in unconsciousness, as if his body still hadn't accepted that the fight was over.
The woman studied him carefully.
Such thin arms.
Such a narrow frame.
Bruises already blooming along his skin, purple and red beneath the grime.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she withdrew her hand.
"Power like that," she whispered, almost to herself, "is never free."
The villagers shifted uneasily.
No one argued.
They had all seen it—the way Tomora's movements grew sharper, faster, almost desperate. How his eyes burned brighter with every strike, even as pain twisted his expression. Power forced out of a body that wasn't ready to hold it.
At the edge of the circle, Tala dropped to her knees.
She barely noticed the dirt soaking into her clothes.
Her hands shook as she reached for Tomora, stopping just short of touching him, afraid she might make things worse. Her chest rose and fell too fast, breath shallow and unsteady.
"Tomora…" she whispered.
Her voice cracked, the edge of command gone, replaced by something raw and exposed.
She leaned closer, searching his face for any sign—any twitch, any response.
Nothing.
The faint hum in the air made her skin prickle.
"Wake up," she said again, softer this time. "You can't— not now."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve, knuckles whitening.
The villagers watched her.
Some recognized her—her posture, her bearing, the way she carried herself even now. A Black Iron girl. One of them.
But she wasn't standing tall.
She wasn't issuing orders.
She was kneeling beside a fallen boy, fear written plainly across her face.
A young child tugged at his mother's sleeve, whispering something too quiet to hear. The woman hushed him gently, eyes never leaving Tomora.
Yellow light flickered faintly beneath his eyelids.
It was subtle—barely there—but unmistakable.
A collective breath seemed to be held.
The elderly woman leaned in again, watching closely.
"His power isn't done with him yet," she murmured.
Tala's head snapped up.
"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
The old woman met her gaze calmly.
"Some flames burn themselves out," she said. "Others keep smoldering, even after they've collapsed."
Her eyes returned to Tomora.
"This one… is still burning."
Tomora's fingers twitched.
Just once.
Tala sucked in a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"There," she whispered. "Did you see that?"
Another flicker of yellow danced beneath his lashes, brighter this time. His breathing hitched, chest rising more sharply, as if his body were struggling to pull itself back together.
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
Hope crept in—slow, cautious, fragile.
But fear followed closely behind it.
Because if a boy like this existed…
What else did the world still have hidden?
Tomora's brow tightened further, teeth grinding softly as if caught in some unseen struggle. Sweat beaded along his temples, trailing down into the dirt beneath his head.
Tala clenched her fists.
"You idiot," she muttered under her breath, though her voice trembled. "You pushed yourself too far."
Her gaze softened as she looked at him.
And for the first time since she'd known him, there was no command in her eyes. No superiority. No cruelty.
Only worry.
The camera of the world seemed to pull back.
From the circle of villagers.
From the scorched ground.
From the girl kneeling beside the boy who had saved them.
It lingered on Tomora's face.
On the faint glow pulsing beneath closed eyes.
On the quiet truth settling into the hearts of everyone watching:
Something extraordinary had awakened here.
And whatever came next—
The world would not remain the same.