Tomora woke up already angry.
That alone was impressive, because it meant he'd beaten the pain to consciousness by a solid two seconds.
Every inch of his body protested as he rolled onto his side. His muscles felt like they'd been replaced overnight with wet rope and regret. His mouth was dry enough to qualify as a desert biome. Bruises layered over bruises, some of them old, some of them new, all of them personal.
He groaned and pushed himself up on one elbow.
Bad idea.
His arm shook violently, gave up, and dropped him face-first back into the dirt.
"Great," he muttered into the ground. "Day's already perfect."
When he finally managed to sit up, blinking grit from his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the silence. No wind. No birds. Just the mountain looming in front of him like it was waiting for today's sacrifice.
Then he noticed him.
The hooded figure stood a few steps away, perfectly upright, like he'd been there all night just… watching. In one hand, he held a black blindfold. Over his shoulder was a massive backpack that bulged unnaturally, the straps creaking under the weight.
At his feet sat a bucket.
Filled.
With marbles.
Tomora stared.
And stared.
And stared.
"…No."
His voice was quiet. Horrified. Reverent, like he was witnessing a natural disaster.
"Absolutely not," he said louder, scrambling to his feet. "Whatever unholy thought just crawled out of your brain, shove it back in. NO."
The hooded figure didn't respond. He simply swung the backpack off his shoulder and tossed it.
Straight at Tomora.
Tomora barely caught it.
The impact nearly folded him in half.
His knees buckled. His spine screamed. He staggered backward three steps, wheezing like he'd just been tackled by a mountain goat wearing armor.
"What—what the hell—?!" he gasped, gripping the straps. "IS THIS MADE OF SMALL PLANETS?!"
"Rocks," the hooded figure corrected calmly. "Big ones."
Tomora's eye twitched.
"Of course they are."
The hooded figure gestured vaguely at the mountain. "Today's training is simple."
Tomora laughed.
It came out wrong. Too sharp. Too desperate.
"YOUR 'SIMPLE' IS NEVER SIMPLE, YOU DEMON," he shouted. "EVERY TIME YOU SAY THAT, SOMETHING IN MY LIFE DIES."
The hooded figure lifted the blindfold. "Run up Fuji."
Tomora opened his mouth to scream—
"Blindfolded."
—and then—
"Wearing this weight."
—and then—
"And avoid these."
The hooded figure tipped the bucket.
Thousands of marbles spilled onto the ground, clinking and rolling outward in every direction like a glittering curse.
Tomora stared at the spreading chaos.
"…Marbles?" he said slowly.
He looked up.
Back down.
Back at the marbles.
"MARBLES?!" he exploded. "WHAT AM I, FIVE YEARS OLD?! YOU WANT ME TO SLIP AND SNAP MY NECK LIKE IDIOT HUH?!"
"Exactly."
The hooded figure's voice didn't change.
"If you die," he added, "that means you need more training."
Tomora's brain visibly short-circuited.
He stood there, mouth opening and closing, eyes unfocused, like smoke was coming out of his ears. Several unholy thoughts collided at once, none of them fit for language.
Finally, he snatched the blindfold.
"Oh, I'm doing this," he snarled, tying it tight around his eyes. "But when I get stronger? When I finally catch you?"
He pointed blindly.
"I'M BREAKING YOUR LEGS."
"…You talk too much."
Something flicked through the air.
WHIZZ—
Tomora yelped and ducked instinctively as a marble screamed past his head close enough to ruffle his hair.
"WHAT THE—?!"
"Start."
Tomora took one step forward.
Immediately slipped.
He went down hard, backpack slamming him into the dirt like the mountain personally rejected him. He rolled, screamed, flailed, somehow got back to his feet—
Only to slip again.
"THIS IS ILLEGAL," he shouted as he skidded sideways. "THIS HAS TO BE AGAINST SOME KIND OF LAW—!"
Another marble zipped past his ear.
"Then dodge better," the hooded figure called calmly.
Tomora ran.
Blind.
Weighted.
On marbles.
He screamed every few seconds, sometimes in rage, sometimes in terror, sometimes just to stay sane. He slipped, recovered, slammed into rocks, scrambled up cliffs with his fingers screaming for mercy.
At one point, something huge rumbled behind him.
He turned just in time to hear—
"Boulder," the hooded figure said conversationally.
Tomora shrieked and sprinted as a massive rock barreled past where he'd been standing, missing him by inches.
"YOU'RE A MENACE TO SOCIETY," Tomora yelled. "WHO HURT YOU?!"
The hooded figure hummed.
Hours passed.
Somehow.
By the time Tomora reached halfway up the mountain, his lungs burned with a deep, aching fire. Sweat soaked his clothes. His legs shook violently with every step.
And then something… changed.
A sharp feeling brushed the back of his mind.
Tomora tilted his head.
A marble screamed past his shoulder.
He froze.
"…Huh."
Five more came.
Different angles.
Different speeds.
Tomora moved.
He didn't think.
Didn't see.
He felt them.
He ducked. Twisted. Stepped just enough.
All five missed.
He stood there, stunned, breathing hard.
"…How the hell did I do that?"
Behind him, unseen, the hooded figure stopped humming.
"Your instincts are awakening," he murmured.
Tomora couldn't hear him.
By evening, Tomora collapsed at the base of Fuji like a corpse tossed from the mountain itself. He hit the dirt face-first and didn't move.
The hooded figure walked up slowly.
"You survived," he said. "Barely."
Tomora lifted his head an inch.
"I swear," he croaked, "when I get strong enough… I'm launching you off this mountain…"
"Good," the hooded figure replied. "Anger is fuel."
He turned away.
"Tomorrow… we increase the weight."
Tomora screamed into the dirt.
Behind him, the hooded figure paused.
"…Mimic," he whispered.
Then he walked away.