Morning comes quietly.
Not with thunder. Not with fire.
Just the sound of water moving over stone.
Tomora sits on the riverbank with his knees drawn up, watching the current slide past like it has somewhere important to be. The air is cool, damp with mist. Grass brushes his boots. Somewhere behind him, Tala's breathing is steady, Jer's arm draped over her own pack, Yora curled like a sleeping cat near the fire's ashes.
They don't wake.
He made sure of that.
Tomora stands and walks away without looking back.
---
The forest swallows him quickly.
Tree trunks rise like pillars, close enough that the sky becomes a thin ribbon above his head. Fallen leaves crunch under his boots. Every sound feels louder when he's alone—his steps, his breath, the pulse in his ears that refuses to slow.
He stops when he reaches a clearing barely touched by sunlight.
A place where no one can see him fail.
Tomora lifts his hand.
The motion is familiar. Automatic. Something his body remembers even if the world doesn't answer anymore.
He closes his eyes.
Inhales.
His chest tightens the way it always used to—right before the lightning came.
"T…Thunder Release…"
The words leave his mouth like a prayer.
Nothing happens.
No heat. No hum beneath his skin.
Not even that faint static itch that used to crawl along his fingers when the power was low.
Tomora opens his eyes slowly, staring at his palm as if it has betrayed him.
He clenches his fist.
"Again," he mutters.
This time he forces it. Pushes. Pulls. Drags the command up from somewhere deep inside his ribs.
"Thunder Release!"
The forest answers with birds lifting from the branches.
That's it.
His fingers start to shake.
Tomora's jaw tightens until his teeth ache. He tries again, breath ragged now, shoulders tensing as if his body expects pain.
"Come on…"
His voice drops. "Don't do this."
Silence.
It's worse than before. Worse than fear. Worse than pain.
It feels like being ignored.
Tomora's hand curls into a fist and he swings it into the nearest tree. Bark cracks. His knuckles split. Blood beads and runs down his skin.
He doesn't feel it.
"I'm useless like this…"
The words escape him before he can stop them. They sound small in the open space, swallowed by leaves and dirt.
He steps back, breath hitching.
One more time.
This time he screams.
"THUNDER!!"
The sound tears out of him, raw and broken.
The forest doesn't flinch.
No flash. No roar. No answer.
Tomora drops to his knees.
His hands sink into the soil as his shoulders shake—not with sobs, not yet, but with something close. Something tight and angry that doesn't know where to go.
His fingers move on their own, drifting up to the scar near his eye. He presses it, hard, like he's trying to wake something up under his skin.
Nothing stirs.
No pulse. No spark.
Just flesh.
Tomora laughs once, short and empty, then slams his fist into the ground.
Dirt sprays.
---
The world shifts.
Not around him—but behind him.
High above, balanced on a thick branch that shouldn't support a human weight, a figure watches.
Cloaked. Still. Perfectly at ease.
Silver eyes glint beneath the hood, reflecting the broken boy below like a mirror catching lightning that no longer exists.
The figure doesn't breathe loudly. Doesn't move when the wind brushes past. Doesn't blink when Tomora collapses to his knees again.
They've been there longer than he knows.
"So," the figure murmurs, voice barely louder than a thought, "the irregular finally bleeds like everyone else."
Their gaze lingers on Tomora's trembling hands. On the scar. On the empty air where lightning once danced.
"A gift that sleeps," they continue, amused. "Or one that's been sealed."
The figure tilts their head.
"Either way…"
They smile beneath the hood.
"Fascinating."
---
Tomora doesn't know any of this.
He wipes his face with the back of his sleeve and stands slowly, shoulders slumped. The forest feels heavier now, like it's watching him too.
He turns back toward camp.
Each step feels slower than the last.
---
Jer notices first.
She sits up as Tomora approaches the riverbank, eyes sharp even half-asleep. Her gaze flicks to his bleeding knuckles.
"What happened?" she asks.
Tomora shrugs. "Tree didn't like me."
She snorts softly but doesn't push. Tala rises next, stretching, then freezes when she sees his expression.
"You okay?" she asks quietly.
Tomora nods.
It's a lie. But it's one he's used to telling.
Yora rubs her eyes and looks between them. "Did you have a bad dream?"
Tomora hesitates.
"…Something like that."
They pack in silence.
The road ahead is narrow, winding through forest and stone. No village smoke in the distance. No destination waiting.
Just movement.
They walk.
---
Hours pass.
The sun climbs. Shadows shorten. The forest thins.
Tomora walks at the front, eyes forward, thoughts loud.
Every sound makes him tense. Every rustle feels like a test he can't pass anymore.
When Jer stumbles on loose gravel, he reaches out instinctively—then stops, realizing he doesn't have the speed anymore. She steadies herself without him.
He hates the way that feels.
They stop to rest near an old stone marker half-buried in moss.
Tomora steps away again, staring at the carved symbols he doesn't recognize.
Behind the trees, the cloaked figure shifts for the first time.
They land without sound, boots touching earth like it's an old friend.
Closer now.
Watching.
Waiting.
"This one still walks forward," they murmur. "Even hollow."
The silver eyes narrow.
"That makes him dangerous."
A branch snaps.
Tomora turns sharply.
"Did you hear that?" Tala asks.
He scans the trees. Nothing moves. No presence. No threat he can feel.
"…Probably nothing," he says.
But the forest feels wrong.
Like it's holding its breath.
From the shadows, the watcher steps back, melting into the woods as if they were never there at all.
"Soon," they whisper.
The wind carries the word.
Tomora shivers.
And somewhere deep inside him—beneath scars, beneath silence—something stirs.
Not lightning.
Not yet.
But awareness.
The path ahead darkens.
And the hunt, at last, truly begins.