Chapter: Fuji Hell
Dawn crawled over the horizon like it was afraid of what it might see.
Tomora sat at the base of the mountain, rolling his shoulders, each movement producing a sharp reminder that his body had not forgiven him for yesterday. His spine cracked loudly as he stretched, and he hissed through his teeth, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Sleep had barely touched him. Every bruise felt older than it should've been, deeper somehow, like his bones remembered the pain even when his mind tried not to.
Behind him, the mountain loomed.
Mount Fuji didn't care.
It rose into the sky with quiet arrogance, its snow-dusted peak catching the early light, cliffs jagged and cruel, volcanic rock scattered like teeth along its slopes. It didn't look like a place people trained. It looked like a place people disappeared.
Tomora yawned angrily, rubbing his face. "I swear," he muttered, "if today involves running, I'm biting someone."
The hooded figure stood a few steps away, arms crossed, posture relaxed. He wasn't looking at Tomora. He was looking at Fuji like it owed him money.
"Today," the man said, voice calm as ever, "you have one job."
Tomora didn't even turn fully. His eyes rolled on instinct. "Yeah, yeah. Lemme guess—'run from me, Tomora, don't let me touch you~'" He flailed his arms dramatically, pitching his voice higher in a mockery that would've gotten him killed by anyone else. "You're SO predictable."
The hooded figure tilted his head.
Just a little.
The silence that followed was… suspicious.
Tomora glanced back and caught the posture shift. The stillness. The subtle pause that screamed damn it without saying a word.
He grinned. "Ha. Knew it."
Then the hooded figure snapped his fingers.
"Wrong."
The word hit harder than expected.
Tomora froze mid-smug. "…What?"
The hooded figure uncrossed his arms and pointed.
Not at Tomora.
At the mountain.
"You're running up this."
Tomora followed the line of the finger. His eyes traveled up. And up. And up.
Snow. Rock. Vertical drops. Wind that screamed even from down here.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out at first.
Then—
"…HUHHHHHHHHHHH?!?!?!?!" His voice echoed off the lower slopes, startling a flock of birds into the sky. "ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"
"Up the mountain," the hooded figure continued evenly. "Down the mountain. Again."
Tomora stared at him in disbelief.
"All day."
Something inside Tomora cracked.
"ALL DAY?!" he yelled. "ARE YOU INSANE?! IS YOUR BRAIN MADE OF ROCKS?! BECAUSE WE'RE STANDING NEXT TO A LOT OF THEM AND I'M CONCERNED YOU'VE BEEN EATING THEM!"
The hooded figure shrugged, utterly unbothered. "If you start crying, I'll make you carry boulders too."
Tomora's eye twitched.
He sniffed.
His eyes burned.
"I—WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH?!" he screamed, gesturing wildly. "I SAVED PEOPLE! I'M A GOOD GUY!!! I DESERVE A BREAK! A NAP! A COOKIE!"
"Chop chop."
The hooded figure clapped twice.
Sharp. Casual.
Like calling a dog.
Something feral snapped in Tomora.
"DON'T YOU 'CHOP CHOP' ME, YOU HOODED GREMLIN!!!!"
"Run."
Tomora flipped him off with both hands and bolted toward the mountain.
The first climb hurt immediately.
Volcanic rock scraped his palms as he scrambled upward, boots slipping on loose gravel. The slope wasn't kind—it shifted under his weight, stealing momentum, forcing his legs to work twice as hard for half the progress. His lungs burned within minutes.
Higher up, the air thinned. The wind sharpened.
By the time snow appeared under his boots, his calves were screaming.
He reached the peak hours later, breath coming out in ragged clouds, hands numb, vision swimming—
And the wind hit him like a wall.
"ARE YOU KIDDING M—?!"
The gust lifted him clean off his feet.
Tomora screamed all the way down.
He tumbled. Rolled. Bounced.
Snow turned to rock. Rock turned to dirt.
He landed at the base in a heap, staring at the sky.
Nearby, the hooded figure sat comfortably on a rock, chewing on a rice ball.
He waved.
Tomora stood on shaking legs, face twisted with fury. "I SWEAR—IF I EVER FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE—I'M GOING TO—!!!"
"Run again."
Tomora screamed and charged.
By afternoon, his legs barely worked.
By evening, they betrayed him completely.
He collapsed at the base like a discarded corpse, face pressed into the dirt, chest heaving. Sweat soaked his clothes. His fingers twitched uselessly. Every muscle felt hollowed out, scraped clean.
Footsteps approached.
The hooded figure stood over him, shadow stretching long in the fading light.
"Not bad," he said.
Tomora laughed weakly. It came out broken. "If you say… tomorrow we add weights… I'm haunting you."
"Tomorrow, we add weights."
A sound escaped Tomora that might've been a sob or might've been his soul leaving his body.
"WHY," he gasped, staring at nothing, "DO YOU TALK LIKE THE WORLD'S BIGGEST VILLAIN…"
"Because I'm your trainer."
Tomora groaned once.
Then passed out.
The mountain watched them both without judgment.
The hooded figure adjusted his cloak, gaze lingering on the unconscious boy. For a moment—just a moment—the humor drained from his posture.
"…You'll need this strength soon," he said softly.
The wind carried the words away.