The sun hovered low as they reached the edge of the village.
Smoke curled upward from dozens of fires, thin threads of gray twisting into the orange sky. Banners hung between wooden poles, their symbols painted in bold reds and golds, snapping in the wind like restless spirits. Warriors moved everywhere—sharpening blades, laughing loudly, arguing, training. The sound of metal against metal rang out in uneven rhythm.
This wasn't a peaceful place.
It was alive.
Patricia walked ahead without slowing, boots crunching against gravel, shoulders squared. This land bent around her presence as if it recognized her. Warriors nodded as she passed. Some grinned. Others placed a fist over their chest in respect.
Tomora noticed.
He hated that he noticed.
He followed several steps behind, arms crossed tightly over his chest, head angled down. His fingers twitched every few seconds—opening, closing. Opening, closing. Like he was grabbing for something that refused to be there.
Lightning never came.
His jaw clenched.
Jer and Yora trailed behind, quiet for once, their eyes constantly moving as they took in the unfamiliar camp. But Tomora barely registered them. His focus stayed inward, heavy and loud.
Patricia suddenly stopped.
Tomora nearly walked straight into her.
"Tch—!" He caught himself, scowling.
She didn't turn right away. Just stared out at the village, eyes reflecting the firelight.
"So…" she said casually. Too casually.
Tomora stiffened.
"What now?" he snapped, already bracing.
Patricia glanced back at him, and something shifted. The usual sharpness in her eyes dulled—not weak, just… tired. Older.
"I heard something crazy about you."
Jer's hand tightened on his sword hilt. Yora's shoulders slumped.
Tomora felt it before she said it. Like cold water down his spine.
"You lost your power."
The words landed quietly. No echo. No drama.
Just weight.
For a moment, the noise of the village seemed to fade. The clang of metal, the laughter, the wind—everything blurred into a distant hum.
Tomora clicked his tongue and looked away.
"So what?" he barked.
Patricia turned fully now. She stepped closer, studying his face the way she used to—like she was checking for bruises he pretended weren't there.
"You don't have to be strong anymore," she said gently.
Her hand rested on his shoulder.
"I'll protect you from now on."
The contact burned.
Something snapped—clean and violent.
Tomora slapped her hand away so hard the sound cracked through the air.
"HUH?! SHUT UP!!"
Heads turned.
"I DON'T NEED ANYONE TO PROTECT ME!"
His voice ripped out of him, sharp enough to cut. Heat rushed to his face, veins throbbing at his temples. His fists shook at his sides.
Patricia didn't flinch.
She just raised an eyebrow.
"Tomora—"
"I'LL TRAIN!" he shouted, stepping forward. "I'LL BECOME STRONGER—WITHOUT POWERS!!"
The firelight flickered wildly, as if reacting to his fury.
Jer coughed into his hand, barely holding back laughter. Yora pressed her lips together, shoulders trembling.
For a split second—
The world warped.
Tiny Tomora stood in the center of the camp, face red, veins bulging, holding baby-sized dumbbells that were clearly too light to matter.
"RAAAAAH! I'M NOT WEAK!!!"
Back to reality.
Jer let out a snort. Yora turned away, failing miserably to hide her smile.
Patricia's lips twitched. She looked away just long enough to regain control.
"There's the brat I know."
Tomora spun toward her, mortified.
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, WOMAN!!" he yelled. "I'M STILL STRONG!!"
She crouched down suddenly, bringing herself eye-level with him. The laughter faded. The teasing vanished.
Her gaze locked onto his—steady, unyielding.
"Then prove it," she said.
The fire crackled between them.
"Power or no power," she continued, "fight beside me."
Tomora's breath hitched. He turned away sharply, jaw tight, ears burning.
"Tch," he muttered. "I will."
He stared at the dirt beneath his boots.
"I don't care if I die."
Patricia's expression hardened—not with anger, but recognition.
"Good," she said quietly.
She stood.
"Because we have a new problem."
A hush swept through the camp.
Warriors began gathering near the central fire, murmurs spreading like ripples across water. A few looked uneasy. Others tightened their grips on their weapons.
An elder stepped forward, his voice low but trembling.
"He's here."
Tomora's head snapped up.
"The one searching for the boy."
Wind surged through the camp, carrying ash and sparks into the darkening sky.
High above the village, on the jagged spine of a distant mountain, a figure stood unmoving.
Cloaked. Silent.
Watching.
The wind tore at their robes, but they didn't sway. Golden symbols glowed faintly on their hand, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"He's still weak," the figure murmured.
Eyes flared brighter.
"Not ready yet."
The fire below burned on.
And Tomora—unaware of the gaze fixed upon him—stood clenched and defiant, fists shaking, pride and fear warring violently inside his chest.
The storm wasn't gone.
It was waiting.