The abandoned mansion did not feel abandoned to Tomora.
To the world, it was a corpse of stone and rot—windows shattered, vines choking its walls, roof sagging under the weight of forgotten years. But to him, it was warmth. Shelter. The only place where his name had ever been spoken gently.
In the basement, a single candle burned.
Its flame trembled with every draft that slipped through the cracked walls, casting shadows that danced like ghosts along the stone. In a small wooden crib, Tomora slept, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His tiny fingers twitched now and then, curling as if grasping at dreams.
Nearby, the girl sat with her back against the wall.
Her eyes never left him.
She had not slept.
Dark circles clung beneath her eyes, and her shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but she remained awake—always awake. Even when her head dipped forward, her body never truly relaxed. Every sound outside, every creak of the mansion, sharpened her senses like a blade.
This was how the first year passed.
By the time Tomora turned two, the basement floor bore scratches from tiny hands and knees. Dust no longer settled evenly—small paths marked where he crawled, explored, and fell.
One morning, he stood.
His legs shook violently beneath him, knees knocking together as he took a step—then another. The girl froze, breath caught in her throat.
Tomora wobbled, arms flailing, before crashing down onto his bottom.
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Then he laughed.
A bright, fearless sound echoed through the basement. The girl pressed her lips together, a strange ache tightening in her chest. She clapped softly, once, then again, until Tomora beamed at her like he'd conquered the world.
That was the day she allowed herself to smile.
At three, Tomora discovered the outdoors.
The mansion's garden had long since surrendered to nature—wild grass, thorny bushes, and trees that leaned like silent sentinels. Leaves fell endlessly, drifting through the air like tiny flames.
Tomora chased them.
He laughed as he jumped and missed, again and again, his small fingers snapping shut around nothing. The girl stayed close, her grip firm around his wrist, ready to pull him back at the slightest danger.
She never let go.
At four, the candlelight became his sun.
Old papers—yellowed, torn, half-rotted—were spread across the stone floor. Tomora sat cross-legged, tongue sticking out in concentration as he dragged a piece of charcoal across the page.
Crooked lines. Misshapen letters.
The girl knelt beside him, pointing slowly, repeating sounds in a low voice. Her patience was unshakable. Even when he grew frustrated, even when he smudged the pages with tears, she never raised her voice.
She only guided his hand again.
By five, the mansion echoed with movement.
Tomora ran through the overgrown garden, chasing a mangy stray dog that darted between broken columns. His laughter rang louder than the birds. Dirt smeared his face, his clothes torn at the knees.
The girl watched from the doorway, arms crossed.
She did not call him back.
But her eyes never stopped tracking him.
At six, she began to teach him how to fight.
Not with kindness.
Not with stories.
But with discipline.
She cleared a space in the basement, sweeping aside rubble and broken furniture. Tomora stood before her, feet planted awkwardly apart. She demonstrated slowly—how to punch, how to block, how to move his weight.
When he stumbled, she corrected him.
When he fell, she waited for him to stand.
Bruises bloomed on his arms and legs, but he never complained. His eyes burned with determination far beyond his age.
She watched him carefully.
Too carefully.
The first spark appeared when he was seven.
It was an accident.
Tomora had been fiddling with a bent piece of metal he'd found near the mansion gates. As his fingers tightened around it, a faint crackle filled the air.
Blue-white light snapped between his palm and the metal.
He yelped, dropping it instantly.
The girl moved in a blur, yanking him back, her heart slamming against her ribs. She stared at his hand—unburned, unmarked—then at the metal still twitching with residual energy.
Slowly, her expression hardened.
The past had found them.
At eight, Tomora read alone.
The books were few and fragile, their spines broken, pages missing. But he treated them like treasure. Candlelight flickered across his face as his eyes moved steadily from line to line.
The girl watched from the shadows.
Her jaw tightened.
She knew what he was becoming.
At nine, the electricity returned—this time on purpose.
Tomora stood in the basement, palm outstretched, sweat dripping down his face. His teeth clenched as a thin arc of lightning snapped into existence above his skin.
It trembled violently.
The girl barked instructions, sharp and controlled. Tomora adjusted his stance, his breathing, his focus. The arc stabilized—small, but real.
She exhaled slowly.
Pride and fear twisted together in her chest.
By ten, the rain no longer scared him.
Tomora stood at the mansion's doorway as water fell from the sky in a gentle curtain. His hair clung to his forehead, clothes soaked through, eyes fixed on the forest beyond.
Something pulled at him.
A world he had never seen.
Behind him, the girl watched silently.
She knew this moment would come.
The shadows had raised him.
Now, one day soon, he would step out of them.