Tomora woke face-first in dirt.
Not the gentle kind either—the gritty, sharp kind that lodged itself between his teeth and under his fingernails. His body protested the moment he tried to move. Bruises bloomed everywhere he could feel, and probably several places he couldn't yet. His ribs ached when he breathed. His arms felt like someone had replaced his muscles with wet rope.
He groaned and rolled onto his back, staring up at the pale morning sky filtering through the trees.
A shadow fell across his face.
Of course.
The hooded figure stood where he always stood—upright, still, hood pulled so low it swallowed his face completely. No movement. No sound. Just presence. Like a bad omen that drank coffee instead of sleeping.
Tomora pushed himself up on his elbows and immediately regretted it.
"Morning," he muttered bitterly.
The figure didn't respond. He simply pointed at the ground.
Tomora followed the gesture slowly, suspiciously.
"…What."
"Pushups," the hooded figure said. Calm. Neutral. Like he was ordering bread. "One thousand."
Tomora stared at him.
Then blinked.
Then exploded.
"WHAT?!" He scrambled to his feet, nearly falling over. "Why?! It's MORNING, you psycho! People stretch in the morning! They eat! They—"
"If you stop," the man interrupted, "I restart the count."
Tomora froze mid-rant.
The silence stretched just long enough for the threat to sink in.
His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. A low growl crawled up from his chest, raw and angry, the kind that made birds flee and instincts scream.
"Fine," he snarled. "WATCH ME CRUSH THIS STUPID TRAINING."
He dropped to the ground and started.
At first, it was manageable. His arms shook, sure, but pride carried him through the early numbers. Sweat beaded quickly, dripping off his nose, darkening the dirt beneath him.
One hundred. Two hundred. His breathing deepened.
Three hundred. Four hundred. His shoulders burned.
Five hundred. Six—
Something heavy pressed down on his back.
Tomora nearly face-planted.
"What—?!" he gasped.
The hooded figure had stepped onto him, one foot planted squarely between his shoulder blades, as casual as if he were testing a chair.
"Count," the man said.
Tomora screamed something incoherent into the dirt and kept going.
By six hundred, his arms were trembling uncontrollably. His vision swam. At six hundred twelve, his elbows buckled.
He collapsed.
Panting. Shaking. Broken.
"One," the hooded figure said.
Tomora slammed his forehead into the ground.
The day only got worse.
By the time the sun climbed higher, his muscles had been pushed past failure and into something uglier. The hooded figure eventually stepped off him and tied a cloth tightly around his eyes before Tomora could protest.
"Oi!" Tomora snapped. "Why am I blind?!"
"Your eyes make you stupid," the man replied evenly. "Learn to feel danger."
Tomora opened his mouth to argue—
ZIP.
Something sliced past his cheek. Pain flared. Warmth trickled down his skin.
Tomora sucked in a sharp breath. "WHAT THE—ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!"
"If you die from a pebble," the hooded figure said, "you don't deserve to fight the government."
Another sound ripped through the air.
ZIP—ZIP—ZIP.
Tomora twisted on instinct, barely dodging one. The rest slammed into him from different angles—arms, ribs, thigh. Each impact carried terrifying speed. No power. No energy. Just precision.
He dropped to one knee, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw screamed.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the time the blindfold was removed, Tomora was bruised in places he didn't know existed.
He barely had time to breathe before the hooded figure dragged his boot through the dirt, carving a rough circle around him.
"Stand here," the man said.
Tomora wiped blood from his lip. "For what?"
The answer arrived as a fist.
It came from nowhere.
BOOM.
Tomora flew.
He hit the ground hard but rolled instinctively, coughing as air fled his lungs. He barely managed to push himself back into the circle before another strike sent pain exploding through his side.
"One minute," the hooded figure said calmly. "Survive."
The attacks didn't stop.
They came from blind spots. From angles Tomora didn't expect. High, low, behind. The man moved like a ghost—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Every strike landed where it would hurt most without killing him. A cruel kind of mercy.
"You rush in too much," the hooded figure said, punching him in the stomach.
Tomora gagged.
"You hesitate too much," another blow to the ribs.
His legs shook.
"You think too much," a sharp strike behind the knee.
He fell.
"And you react too slow."
Tomora coughed blood into the dirt, vision blurring. His hands dug into the ground, fingers trembling as he forced himself upright.
"Shut… up…" he rasped. "I'm still… standing…!!"
He straightened inside the circle, every nerve screaming.
The hooded figure stopped.
For half a heartbeat, there was silence.
"Not bad," the man said.
Then he punched him again.
When the sun finally dipped low, Tomora lay flat on his back, chest heaving like he'd drowned and been dragged back to shore. Every breath burned. Every heartbeat hurt.
Nearby, the hooded figure cooked over the fire.
Still hooded.
Still faceless.
Just darkness where a person should be.
"Why…" Tomora croaked, staring at the sky. "Why are you training me… this hard…?"
The fire crackled. Shadows danced.
"Because right now," the hooded figure said, "you wouldn't last ten seconds against the people you want to expose."
Tomora growled weakly. "I'm not weak."
"You are."
The words landed heavier than any punch.
"And that's why I can help you."
Tomora clenched his fists, knuckles screaming in protest. "I didn't ask for your help."
"Too bad," the man replied. "You need it."
Silence followed.
Tomora turned his head away, jaw tight, anger simmering beneath exhaustion. The world faded slowly as sleep dragged him under, unwilling and unstoppable.
Across the fire, the hooded figure watched him.
Unmoving.
Observing.
As if measuring something deeper than strength.
And all the while, beneath the hood, no hint appeared that he knew the truth about Tomora at all.