The village was just beginning to stir beneath the fragile light of dawn. The sky, painted in gentle shades of lavender and gold, stretched endlessly above the scattered rooftops. Smoke curled lazily from a handful of chimneys, the faint scent of burning wood drifting softly on the cool morning breeze. A few roosters crowed somewhere in the distance, and the slow hum of waking life threaded through the quiet streets.
Tomora stepped out of the modest house beside Yora's, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. He wore his shirt again—the one that had been mysteriously lifted and carried away just the night before. The fabric felt oddly comforting against his skin, despite its faint dampness from the evening's chill. His muscles ached, remnants of yesterday's fight still tender, but his mind was restless, scanning the quiet village with wary eyes.
He stretched slowly, lifting his arms overhead, feeling the stiffness ebb away with each breath of crisp morning air. A flock of birds took flight, their wings beating softly against the sky. The sun's first rays touched the tops of the tallest trees, casting long, wavering shadows that flickered like ghosts along the forest floor.
From the edge of the dense woods, just beyond the boundary of the village's rough wooden fence, a figure emerged. Cloaked and hooded, the traveler moved with slow, deliberate steps, head bowed slightly beneath the heavy fabric of his dark garment. The man's boots pressed softly into the moist earth, stirring leaves and snapping twigs underfoot.
There was a strange stillness about him, a quiet tension that seemed almost unnatural in this peaceful dawn. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked between the village houses and the clearing ahead, reading everything with the cold detachment of a predator sizing up prey.
As the stranger approached the village road, his foot caught on a hidden root buried beneath a scattering of leaves. Time seemed to freeze for a heartbeat. He stumbled forward, falling face-first into the soft dirt with a muffled grunt.
Tomora's head snapped toward the sound. His eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, alert and cautious. Without hesitation, he reached down and grabbed the stranger by the arm, hauling him upright with steady hands.
"Watch where you're walking, old man," Tomora said flatly, voice low but edged with an unmistakable warning. His gaze lingered on the stranger's face, sharp and unreadable.
The man brushed dirt from his cloak, sleeves rolled back to reveal arms marked with scars — silent testaments to countless battles fought and survived. He met Tomora's gaze steadily, lips curling into a smile that didn't reach the cold, unreadable depths of his eyes.
"You're a good kid," the stranger said quietly, his voice roughened by years of wear and experience. "Not many would help a stranger these days."
Tomora's jaw tightened as he stared back, neither fully trusting nor entirely dismissing the man's words. He shrugged, the motion casual but guarded, avoiding direct eye contact. "You from around here?"
"No," the traveler replied smoothly, shaking his head, the heavy fabric slipping back to shadow his features. "Just passing through."
But his eyes lingered. The intensity in them sharpened, focusing like a blade on Tomora's face. They traced the faint scar that ran down the boy's left cheek — a jagged line that spoke of pain endured and battles fought. And beneath the skin, barely visible but unmistakably real, flickered a quiet crackle of electricity, the aura of power wrapped tightly around him like a second skin.
"You don't look like someone from a village," the man said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not around here, anyway."
Tomora's breath hitched just slightly. A flicker of tension rose within him, muscles tensing in instinctive defense. "No," he answered softly, voice steady but careful. "Just staying for a while."
The stranger's smile twisted, dark and unsettling now, a predator's expression slipping beneath the surface of false civility. "No reason," he said smoothly, but the chill in his tone betrayed the lie.
"I just want to know…" He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Tomora could hear. "What kind of boy can take down fifty men in twenty-three seconds?"
The question landed like a blow, sharp and heavy.
Tomora's eyes widened — just barely, enough to betray a flicker of surprise and caution. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, fingers trembling imperceptibly. His heart thundered in his chest, the familiar burn of adrenaline mixing with the low hum of his dormant power.
The stranger's hand shifted beneath his cloak, fingers tightening around something cold and deadly — the hilt of a blade hidden from view. The metal caught a stray shaft of sunlight, gleaming ominously.
"Maybe we'll talk again later, son," the man said, turning with deliberate calm, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow detaching itself from the forest.
His footsteps were soft but steady as he walked away, his humming drifting faintly on the breeze — a haunting melody masking the menace beneath.
Tomora's eyes burned with quiet fire as he watched the figure vanish among the trees, the crackle of electricity stirring restlessly beneath his skin. His jaw clenched hard, muscles taut with resolve.
The village around him had begun to awaken fully — children laughing in the distance, women calling to each other from wooden porches, the steady rhythm of everyday life continuing obliviously.
But Tomora's world had changed.
The shadow had passed through, and with it came a silent warning: the fight was far from over.
His voice dropped to a whisper as the last echoes of the stranger's steps faded away.
"This isn't over."
The sun climbed higher, spilling warm light across the fields and trees, but a storm was gathering deep within Tomora — a storm fueled by fear, fury, and the burning need to survive.