The field stretched wide beneath a pale morning sun, grass bending gently as the wind passed through like a slow breath. Dew clung to every blade, catching the light in soft flashes of gold. Birds traced lazy circles overhead, their calls light and careless, as if nothing in the world carried weight.
Tomora stood barefoot in the middle of it all.
His eyes were closed. His arms hung loosely at his sides. The cool earth pressed into the soles of his feet, grounding him. Somewhere deep in his chest, his heart beat steadily—loud in the silence, each thud clear and measured.
Inhale.
The air filled his lungs, sharp and clean.
Exhale.
He let it go slowly, jaw clenched, shoulders steady.
For a brief moment, the world was quiet.
Then his body moved.
He dropped to the ground without hesitation, one hand bracing against the grass as the other bent beneath his weight. His arm shook almost immediately. Muscles screamed, protesting the strain, but he didn't stop. His body dipped and rose again, breath hissing through his teeth as sweat began to bead along his brow.
The second rep was slower.
The third burned.
By the tenth, his arm trembled violently, veins standing out against his skin. His face twisted, teeth bared, but he pushed through, forcing his body upward with a sharp grunt. When his strength finally gave out, he collapsed onto both hands, chest heaving.
He didn't rest long.
Rolling onto his back, he wedged his feet beneath a nearby boulder and began sit-ups, elbows slicing through the air. Each movement pulled a sharp ache through his core, but he welcomed it. Sweat darkened the grass beneath him as his breaths grew rough and uneven.
When he finished, he staggered to his feet.
A thick branch lay nearby, snapped clean from its tree. He lifted it, testing the weight, then wedged it between two trunks. Hanging from it, he pulled himself up again and again, muscles screaming with every inch gained. His grip slipped once, bark tearing at his palms, but he caught himself and continued.
No lightning answered him.
No energy surged beneath his skin.
Only effort.
When his arms finally failed, he dropped to the ground and stood there for a moment, bent forward, hands on his knees, breath rasping in his throat. His chest burned. His legs trembled.
He straightened slowly.
Then he ran.
Bare feet pounded against the earth as he crossed the field, pace steady at first. Grass whipped past his ankles, cool against his skin. His breaths fell into rhythm—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. As the ground blurred beneath him, he pushed harder, stride lengthening, muscles tightening with every step.
The field gave way to a forest path.
Leaves crunched beneath his feet as the shade swallowed him whole. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken shards, painting the ground in gold and shadow. His pace slowed to a jog, then a walk, breath still heavy but controlled.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
That was when he felt it.
The air shifted.
Not a sound—something deeper. A pressure, faint but unmistakable.
Tomora stopped.
Two figures stepped onto the path ahead of him.
Their black coats hung heavy despite the warmth, iron insignias gleaming coldly on their shoulders. Boots polished. Posture straight. Eyes sharp and assessing.
Black Iron.
One of them took a step forward.
"You there."
Tomora's face remained blank. He stood still, chest rising and falling evenly, hands loose at his sides.
The agent studied him for a moment before speaking again.
"Have you seen a boy about your height?" he asked. "White hair. Water-type abilities."
Tomora met his gaze.
"No."
The word came easily. No hesitation. No crack.
The second agent circled him slowly, eyes flicking over his bare feet, the dirt-streaked clothes, the faint scars tracing his skin.
"Then why are you out here?" the man asked.
Tomora lifted his hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead, smearing dirt across his skin in the process.
"Training."
Silence followed.
The forest seemed to lean in, leaves rustling softly above them. The agents exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them as they weighed him—his posture, his breath, the absence of power humming beneath his skin.
Finally, the second agent nodded once.
"Stay out of trouble," he said.
They moved past him, boots crunching steadily as they disappeared deeper into the trees. Their presence lingered for a moment longer, like a shadow that refused to fade.
Tomora waited.
He counted their steps until the sound was gone.
Then his jaw tightened.
His eyes darkened, something sharp settling behind them.
"…Someone's in trouble," he murmured.
Without another glance back, he leaned forward and broke into a run.
Faster this time.
His legs burned, lungs screaming for air as he tore through the forest, branches whipping past him, roots flashing beneath his feet. His breath came ragged, but he didn't slow. The ache in his muscles became a familiar companion, grounding him, reminding him that he was still here—still moving.
Still fighting.
The trees blurred.
The path stretched on.
And somewhere ahead, unseen, iron boots continued their march—unaware that the boy they'd passed was already chasing the echo of their shadow.
The screen cut to black.