Learning to read another mind—and doing it correctly on the first try—was a challenge of an entirely different nature.
Mewtwo managed to reach into Muscular's thoughts, but he couldn't filter the flood of information properly.
The instant he accessed Muscular's mind, a tidal wave of sensations crashed into his own mind.
Every piece of data—every memory, sound, smell, and emotion—rushed toward him all at once. The only thing he could truly discern were flashes of chaotic images: fragments of Muscular's life, jumbled together and overwhelming.
The human mind, he quickly realized, wasn't a simple projection of moving pictures. It wasn't like watching a film—it was far more intricate than that.
Minds carried everything: the scent, the sound, the texture of everything.
Even for someone with a powerful mind like Mewtwo, it was too much, at least currently. His mind strained under the weight of countless impressions trying to force their way in at once. He couldn't process them all—couldn't even begin to. His head throbbed, and for a moment, he was sure it would burst if he didn't regain control.
With a sharp grunt and sheer focus, he gathered his psychic power and commanded the torrent to stop. The overwhelming flood ceased abruptly. The chaotic swirl of sensations vanished, and silence filled his mind again. Relief washed over him.
"I need to focus more—much more. Otherwise, I'm going to be in serious trouble," he muttered to himself. "If I lose control, the images start running wild."
He was right. The moment his concentration wavered, the scenery in his mind began to twist and change rapidly. The headache returned, merciless and sharp. Only by regaining his focus did the storm subside again, granting him a fragile peace.
Okay, let's try older memories, he thought. Maybe they'll be easier to handle.
Shifting his focus, he reached for the earlier layers of Muscular's consciousness—back to when the man had been a child. But the same chaotic surge repeated itself. Waves of disjointed images flooded in again: fragments of a young Goto's life.
Mewtwo recoiled and was forced to pull out once more, retreating again and again from the unbearable tide.
"I need a way to rearrange this… I need a method to keep everything from rushing in at once. Think—the mind is your domain," Mewtwo muttered to himself.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and focused again.
This time, however, he approached it differently. He began to imagine a structure—a mindscape—a place where memories could unfold in an organized manner, allowing him to observe each one slowly, at a pace his mind could endure.
He concentrated, trying to reassemble Muscular's thoughts into something coherent. He started with the earliest ones—simple, hazy recollections that would, in theory, hold less detail. After all, humans tend to forget much of their first memories.
Then, the landscape shifted. The psychic world around him rippled and reformed, and in an instant, Mewtwo found himself standing in what appeared to be a school—perhaps a kindergarten?.
He turned his head, trying to make sense of the scene. Everything looked… wrong. The world around him was soft and indistinct, as if molded from sand. Shapes wavered and dissolved at the edges of his vision. The air smelled muddled—a strange blend of fruit juice, milk, and cleaning powder.
"This is… weird," he murmured, stepping forward.
He reached out to touch a desk, but his hand passed straight through it. "So this is how Mirio must feel when he phases through matter… no, he can't see when he does it."
Mewtwo wandered through the ghostly classroom, moving through walls and furniture as if they were made of mist. The entire place shifted and flickered, a reflection of how unstable early memories could be. The more he walked, the more the scenery changed—faces appeared and vanished, laughter echoed from nowhere, colors brightened and faded like old paint peeling from a wall.
Then, amidst the blur, a single image began to solidify. A boy—Goto.
He looked no older than seven or eight. The scene grew clearer around him, and Mewtwo could finally make out the details: the wooden floors, the morning light filtering through dusty windows, the chatter of other children.
Goto was smiling, helping to move things around the classroom. Earlier, the teacher had struggled to lift a piece of furniture, so after she left, he'd decided to handle it himself. A small but genuine act of kindness.
He must've been around nine, Mewtwo thought, studying the child's broad shoulders and confident posture. He's been strong from childhood it seems.
He braced himself and pushed—his Quirk activated, muscles swelling along his arms and back—and he hoisted the furniture as if it were a small chair.
He wasn't as strong as he would become, and his Quirk wasn't fully formed yet, but it was more than enough to lift something impossible for a child.
When he finished, a pair of classmates spoke behind him, voices sharp with surprise.
"Hey, you used your Quirk—that's forbidden. That's illegal." They weren't taunting him; they were children, blunt and matter-of-fact.
Quirks were not to be used casually—one of the first rules they were taught—and now they'd seen a classmate break it.
That was the problem. Nearly every Quirk came with a cost: headaches, nausea, small physical side effects. Some Quirks altered the user's mental state more dangerously. In Goto's case, his Quirk carried a creeping recklessness. It clouded his judgment, dulled the sense of consequence.
He knew they might tell an adult. If they did, he could get into trouble. He'd only meant to help the teacher—nothing more.
So... panic spiked; he had to stop them. He ran after the children. They bolted, but he was faster. Instinct took over: he grabbed the backs of their necks. It wasn't meant to hurt—just a forceful, desperate attempt to halt them. With a boyish cry of "No!" he flung them backward as if they were toys.
Then something happened.
He'd gripped too hard. The sound of strain—bone, spine, whatever it was—snapped in the air.
The two kids landed like rags, eyes wide, terrified, frozen with tears in the corners. They couldn't move. Horror flooded Goto as he realized what he'd done. He stepped toward them to help, frantic, but there was nothing he could immediately do.
He tried to lift them. He tried to make them stand. Every attempt felt heavier and more futile than the last. Panic and guilt tangled inside him.
Hello everyone! Here's another chapter. If you've read up to this point, I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a review—it helps me know whether I'm doing well, need improvement, or if things are just so-so. Your feedback means a lot!