The boy woke up choking on smoke that wasn't there.
His eyes snapped open, vision blurred, head pounding like something had tried to split it open from the inside. The first thing he noticed was the rope—rough, biting into his wrists and ankles. He tried to move. Pain shot up his arms. The second thing he noticed was the smell.
Wood.
Dry. Freshly stacked.
He lifted his head as much as the bindings allowed. Logs surrounded him in a tight circle, piled waist-high, deliberate. Not random debris. Not shelter.
A pyre.
His breath hitched.
"Hello?" His voice came out smaller than he wanted, cracked at the edges. "What's going on here?"
A villager stood closest to him, a man he recognized—someone who had shared meals at his mother's table. Their eyes met for half a second before the man flinched and looked away, jaw clenched, guilt written all over his face. He turned and walked off without a word.
Confusion bled into fear.
The boy twisted against the ropes again, panic rising. More villagers gathered, forming a loose circle. None stepped too close. None met his eyes for long.
"Hey," he said louder now. "Hey! What's going on?!"
No answer.
His breathing sped up. His chest tightened. He scanned the faces—neighbors, friends, people who had watched him grow up.
Then he saw her.
"Hey—Jessica!"
His voice cracked when he said her name.
She stood near the back of the crowd, hands clenched in the fabric of her dress. Younger. Smaller. But unmistakable. The same eyes. The same girl who, years later, would look at Tomora with that same hesitation before making her choice.
Panic flooded his face.
"Jessica," he said again, louder, desperate. "What's going on? Why am I tied up?"
She took a step forward, then stopped. Her lips trembled.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
That was all.
Someone lit the torch.
The flame caught fast, licking up the wood with an eager hiss. Heat rushed in waves. Smoke curled upward, thick and suffocating. The boy screamed as the fire climbed higher, flames snapping inches from his skin.
"STOP!" he shouted, thrashing wildly. "PLEASE—STOP!"
The villagers backed away.
The fire grew.
Pain tore through him—not just heat, but something deeper, sharper, like his veins were being ripped open from the inside. His screams rose, raw and animal, echoing across the ruins of the village.
Then—silence.
The screaming stopped.
The flames froze mid-flicker as the boy's body lifted from the pyre, ropes snapping like thread. His head tilted back. His eyes glowed a violent yellow, brighter than before.
The air screamed.
The explosion tore through the village like a god's breath. Villagers were thrown backward, bodies slamming into the dirt, ears ringing, vision swimming. The fire vanished in an instant, replaced by scorched earth and shattered wood.
When the smoke cleared, the pyre was gone.
So was the boy.
Far beyond the village, bare feet pounded against dirt as he ran—lungs burning, eyes wide, fear driving him forward. He didn't look back.
He never would.
Five years later, the road was quiet.
Dust drifted lazily in the orange glow of dusk as a lone figure stumbled along the path, boots scuffing unevenly. He hummed under his breath, off-key and slow, a bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.
A burn scar crossed his face like a jagged map, disappearing beneath his collar. More hid under his sleeves, his clothes chosen carefully—not for style, but for coverage.
"Another day," he muttered, taking another swig, "another damn nightmare…"
His laugh was hollow.
Shadows shifted ahead.
Five men stepped into the road, blocking his path. Rough clothes. Cheap weapons. Smiles that didn't reach their eyes.
"Well, well," the leader drawled. "What do we have here? A lost little drunk?"
The young man stopped walking.
"Hand over your valuables," the bandit continued, "or we take them."
The humming stopped.
The young man lifted his head slowly. His eyes darkened—not angry, not afraid. Just… empty.
His fist clenched.
The ground beneath the bandits groaned.
Cracks spread outward like veins, the earth rotting beneath their boots. Roots blackened and snapped. Stones crumbled into dust. One bandit stumbled, dropping his weapon with a yelp.
"What the—?!" another screamed. "The earth's killing us!"
Decay raced across the road, swallowing metal, eating leather, rusting blades in seconds. The bandits scrambled, slipping and falling as the ground betrayed them.
The young man spoke, voice calm and flat.
"You don't want to find out what else I can do."
They ran.
Screaming. Tripping. Fleeing like animals.
He watched them go, then sighed, rubbing his forehead like this was all terribly inconvenient.
"Running won't help you."
They didn't hear him.
They didn't need to.
Moments later, he stood over them anyway.
The decay crept back into the earth, leaving the road cracked but stable. The bandits trembled, pressed into the dirt, eyes wide with terror.
The young man swayed slightly as he crouched.
"Name's Connor," he said, slurring just enough to sound careless. "And I ain't your average element user."
His eyes flickered yellow.
"I got three… three ancestral vein awakened elements." He smiled faintly. "You hear that? Three."
He leaned closer, breath hot with alcohol, gaze sharp despite it.
"But shhh," he whispered. "No one else knows. Not even the damn world."
The earth rumbled beneath them.
"You don't wanna be the ones to find out what happens if you tell."
He raised his hand.
The ground erupted.
Stone and dirt swallowed the bandits whole, their screams cut off mid-sound as the earth closed over them like a grave being sealed.
Silence returned.
Connor straightened slowly, shaking his head as if clearing fog from his mind.
"Keep it quiet," he murmured to himself. "Just keep walking."
He turned, humming that same broken tune, and staggered down the road—scars hidden, past buried, power simmering just beneath the surface.
The fire hadn't killed him.
It had only taught him how to survive.