Tomora slept like the dead.
Not the peaceful kind of dead either—the kind that had been trampled by horses, kicked off mountains, pepper-blinded, and emotionally abused by a hooded menace for nine months straight. He lay sprawled across his makeshift bed of furs and straw, one arm dangling off the side, mouth slightly open, a faint snore escaping between breaths that sounded more like wheezes.
The camp was quiet.
No rocks flying.
No surprise kicks.
No sarcastic voice telling him to "run again."
Just the crackle of dying embers and the soft hum of night insects hidden in the trees.
For the first time in months, Tomora's body didn't scream at him to move.
The hooded figure stood a few steps away, arms crossed, posture relaxed in a way that almost felt wrong on him. The firelight licked at the edges of his cloak, but his face remained buried in shadow as always. He watched Tomora sleep for a long moment—longer than necessary.
"Today, you rest," he said at last, voice low, almost careful. "No training."
Tomora didn't react. Didn't flinch. Didn't curse him out.
That alone felt strange.
"You deserve it," the hooded figure added, then shifted his weight awkwardly, like he wasn't used to saying things like that. A pause followed. Too long.
"…Now, Tomora, sleep," he muttered. "Bye."
Another pause.
"…I mean—good night."
Tomora stirred, brows knitting together. His lips parted.
"…Huh?" he murmured, half-asleep, eyes barely opening. "…What?"
The hooded figure stiffened like he'd been caught doing something illegal. He turned sharply, cloak swaying, and without another word, stepped back into the darkness beyond the firelight. His footsteps faded quickly, swallowed by the forest.
Tomora's breathing evened out again.
Sleep claimed him whole.
Morning came gently.
Too gently.
Sunlight filtered through the thin cloth covering the small window of the room Tomora now found himself in—a real room, not a camp. Wooden walls. A simple bed frame. A rough-hewn table in the corner with a chipped clay cup resting on top. Somewhere outside, a rooster crowed like it had a personal vendetta against silence.
Tomora's eyes snapped open.
He sat up too fast and immediately regretted it.
"Oh—oh that was a mistake," he groaned, clutching his head as the world tilted. His muscles protested all at once, like they'd been waiting for permission to riot. He hissed through his teeth, breathing shallowly until the pain dulled enough for him to think.
"…Where am I?"
He looked around slowly. No trees. No fire pit. No hooded figure looming nearby with a rock and bad intentions.
A room.
Medieval-simple. Stone floor. Wooden beams overhead. The smell of old wood, iron, and faint smoke drifting in from somewhere distant.
His gaze dropped to the bed.
Something was wrong.
There was a folded piece of parchment resting neatly beside his pillow.
Tomora stared at it.
Silence stretched.
"…No," he said quietly.
He snatched the note and unfolded it, eyes scanning the rough handwriting. His brow furrowed. Then twitched.
He read it aloud, voice rising with every word.
"'My job is done, kiddo. I'm gone.'"
The room shook.
"WHAT?!"
Tomora launched himself off the bed, ignoring the sharp protest from his legs.
"I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO KILL YOU!"
He spun in a full circle like the hooded figure might be hiding behind a chair, behind the door, behind the wall itself.
"YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE!" he shouted at the empty room. "THAT'S ILLEGAL! THAT'S AGAINST—AGAINST EVERYTHING!"
He crushed the note in his fist, hands shaking.
"When I see you again," he snarled, pacing back and forth, "you excuse-for-a-sensei, I'll kill you!"
The door creaked open slightly as his shout echoed down the hall.
A woman peeked in—middle-aged, wearing a plain wool dress, hair tied back, eyes wide with concern.
"…Young man?" she said cautiously. "Are you… arguing with the furniture?"
Tomora froze.
Slowly, he turned.
"…Where is he?" he demanded.
She blinked. "Who?"
"The hooded idiot," Tomora snapped. "Tall. Annoying. Emotionally abusive. Throws rocks."
Her expression softened with pity. "You were brought here alone. A traveler found you unconscious near the forest and carried you back to town."
Tomora's grip tightened around the note.
"…He really left."
The woman nodded gently. "You've been asleep most of the night and all morning. You're lucky. Most men don't survive collapsing where you did."
Tomora didn't answer.
He sank back onto the bed slowly, shoulders slumping.
The room felt… quieter than before.
Too quiet.
No sarcastic comments.
No impossible tasks.
No presence watching him from the shadows.
Just him.
He unfolded the note again, smoothing it out this time, eyes lingering on the messy ink. For a split second—just a fraction—his chest felt tight.
"Tch," he muttered, shoving the feeling down. "Coward."
But when he stood again, steadier now, something was different.
His breathing was calmer.
His footing more grounded.
When he moved, his body responded without hesitation.
The training hadn't vanished with the man.
Tomora stepped outside into the morning air. The town bustled softly—merchants setting up stalls, blacksmiths hammering steel, horses snorting as carts rolled over dirt roads. life carried on, unaware that a boy who could copy anything was standing among them.
He clenched his fists.
"Fine," he said under his breath, eyes hardening. "Run away."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"But next time we meet… I won't be the one on the ground."
Somewhere far beyond the town, deep in the forest, a hooded figure paused mid-step.
"…He's going to be a problem," the man muttered, then smiled beneath the cloak and kept walking.