Tomora woke to a quiet that didn't belong to him.
For a moment, he thought he was dead. The world felt too soft, too still. No chains biting into his wrists. No fire. No screaming. Just a low hum beneath his skin, like a storm that had already passed but refused to leave.
His eyelids lifted slowly.
White cloth wrapped his arms, chest, legs—bandages layered thick enough to make him feel like a stranger inside his own body. When he shifted, pain sparked along his nerves, not sharp, but electric, as if lightning had settled into his bones and was crawling lazily through them.
He sat up anyway.
The room was small and clean. Sunlight leaked through a wooden window, dust dancing in the air. A bowl of water sat beside the bed. Herbs hung from the ceiling, their scent faint but sharp.
Two days.
He didn't know how he knew, but his body did. The exhaustion felt old. Used. Spent.
Tomora swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. His knees wobbled, but they held. He wrapped his fingers around the doorframe, steadying himself, then stepped outside.
The village greeted him like nothing had happened.
Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Birds argued from rooftops. Somewhere, a pot clanged, followed by laughter. Children ran between houses, bare feet kicking up dust, their voices light and careless.
It felt wrong.
Like walking into a painting that hadn't finished drying.
Tomora took a step forward. Then another. Each footfall sounded louder than it should have, the crunch of dirt too clear in his ears.
Three kids broke away from the group and ran toward him.
They stopped just short of crashing into his legs, staring up with wide eyes. One tugged the hem of his shirt, fingers small and warm.
"Mister," the boy said, tilting his head. "Are you okay?"
Another kid nodded quickly. "You were sleeping forever. Mama said two days."
The third held out a fist. When it opened, there were a few wrapped candies inside, the paper crinkled and colorful.
"For you."
Tomora stared.
His mind searched for the trick. The threat. The reason this was happening.
There wasn't one.
He took the candy slowly, like it might vanish if he moved too fast. The paper crackled as he unwrapped it. He placed it in his mouth.
Sweetness flooded his tongue. Sharp and unfamiliar.
"…Thanks," he said.
The word felt clumsy. Like he'd never used it before.
His lips twitched—just barely—into something that might have been a smile. The kids grinned and ran off, laughter trailing behind them.
Tomora stood there long after they were gone.
Then he walked toward the square.
The change was subtle at first. A pause in conversation. A glance that lingered too long. A laugh that died halfway through.
Whispers followed him like shadows.
People didn't look at his face. They looked at his bandages. At his hands. At the space around him, as if expecting lightning to fall again.
A woman pulled her child closer when he passed. A man turned his shoulder, putting distance between them. Eyes slid away, then snapped back, cautious and calculating.
Tomora felt it settle over him.
Not hatred.
Fear.
He stopped near the well, the stone rim cracked from years of use. His reflection wavered in the water—bandaged, pale, eyes darker than before.
Fragments flashed behind his eyes.
Lightning tearing through flesh.
The earth leader's body breaking under a single blow.
Blood leaking from his own ears as the storm consumed him.
They had seen it.
All of it.
"He killed the Earth Awakened leader in one strike…"
The voice wasn't quiet enough.
Tomora's foot froze mid-step.
"No human can do that."
"He's dangerous…"
The words slid into him like ice.
His chest tightened, not from pain, but from understanding.
He turned his head slightly. The villagers didn't stop whispering. Some didn't even try to hide it.
Gratitude had burned out fast.
Fear lasted longer.
Tomora's face didn't change. His eyes stayed empty, calm in a way that wasn't peaceful at all.
So that's how it is.
The thought didn't hurt the way it should have. It didn't surprise him. It settled into place, heavy but familiar.
He'd been alone before.
This was just… confirmation.
He took a breath and kept walking.
People moved aside as he approached, creating space like water around a stone. No one touched him. No one spoke.
When he reached the edge of the street, he stopped and turned back.
"Don't worry," he said quietly.
The village went silent.
"I won't hurt your village."
He didn't wait for an answer.
His footsteps echoed as he walked away, each one measured, controlled. The road stretched ahead, leading back toward the forest—the place where monsters belonged.
"Tomora!"
Jer's voice cracked the air.
He didn't stop.
Tala grabbed his arm from behind, fingers digging into the bandages. Yora appeared beside him, flickering into view, eyes red.
"Don't just leave," Tala said, breathless. "You're not alone."
Tomora looked down at her hand.
Then gently pulled away.
Behind them, an old woman whispered, her voice thin but sharp enough to cut.
"Children like him only appear once every hundred years."
Murmurs spread.
"They're not human."
"They're disasters."
Tomora's back was to them now. Thunder rolled low in the distance, not loud—just enough to be heard.
He didn't look back.
The storm inside him stirred, patient and merciless.