Age: 7
The smell of the dojo was an unmistakable mix of old wood, cheap floor cleaner, and childhood sweat. It wasn't a glamorous place. There were no All Might posters on the walls, no logos of famous agencies.
"Back straight! Knees bent!" barked the raspy voice of Sensei Ogawa.
Ogawa wasn't a retired hero. He had no scars from epic battles against S-rank villains, nor a cape stored in his closet. He was a fifty-year-old ex-cop, a man who had spent three decades patrolling the streets, dealing with drunks with minor mutation Quirks and purse snatchers spitting weak acid.
He understood the reality of violence better than any TV hero.
"Hajime!"
I lunged forward. My opponent was a kid a year older than me, with grayish rock skin. A decent defensive Quirk. He got cocky, thinking his hard skin would make him invincible.
Big mistake.
Instead of punching him in the chest (where I'd break my knuckles), I swept his pivot leg and used his own momentum to slam him onto the tatami. The thud resonated through the room.
"Point for Bakugou," Ogawa announced, emotionless.
I stood up, adjusting my white belt. I looked to my side. Izuku was on the other mat, sparring against a girl with elastic arms. Izuku didn't have strength, but he had something the others ignored: awareness. He dodged a strike, rolled across the floor, and although he ended up losing on points, he didn't take a single direct hit.
"Alright, five-minute break," the Sensei ordered.
I walked to the bench and grabbed my towel. As I wiped my face, I observed the dojo.
Superhero society is a fascinating and terrifying structure. In a "normal" world, without powers, social hierarchy is based on money, charisma, or intellect. These are things that, in theory, can be acquired or worked for.
Not here. Here, your place in the food chain is decided by a genetic lottery at four years old.
I looked at the other kids. There was one who could generate colored bubbles; he'd probably end up in show business or decoration. The rock-skin kid might be a construction worker or a security guard. And then there was me, with my explosions, destined for greatness.
And there was Izuku.
In this society, having no Quirk is like being born without arms in a society of climbers. People don't necessarily hate you; they pity you. Or worse, they treat you like you're invisible. The funny thing is, in this dojo, those rules didn't apply. Sensei Ogawa didn't care about Quirks. He cared about whether you could throw a punch without breaking your wrist.
"You did great with that takedown, Kacchan," Izuku said, sitting next to me and pulling out his water bottle. He was red and sweaty, but smiling.
"You move too much," I critiqued, though without malice. "You waste energy unnecessarily dodging backward. Dodge to the sides, close the distance."
"It's hard," Izuku admitted, looking at his bandaged hands. "When I see her arms stretch, my instinct tells me to get away."
"Prey instinct," I murmured. I took a sip of water. "You have to change that. If you run, they hunt you. If you slip past them, you confuse them."
Izuku nodded, absorbing the information like a sponge.
By the time class ended, the sun was already setting, dyeing the Musutafu sky in oranges and purples. We walked home together, gym bags slung over our shoulders. It was a moment of quiet. The noise of the city, the cars, the giant screens advertising perfumes with Midnight's face; it all seemed like background hum.
We stopped in front of a vending machine in a small park.
"Got any coins?" I asked.
"Yeah, Mom gave me a little for juice," Izuku said, rummaging through his pockets.
We bought two drinks and sat on the swings. The metal chains creaked under our weight.
"Hey, Kacchan," Izuku pulled his notebook out of his bag. It wasn't the usual one; it was a smaller one he had brought to the dojo. "I was thinking about what Sensei said about 'using the environment.'"
"Uh-huh?"
"Look at this." He handed me the notebook.
On the page was a quick but detailed sketch of the dojo. There were arrows pointing to corners, pillars, and light fixtures.
"Most heroes fight in open spaces to minimize damage," Izuku explained, swinging gently. "But if you fight someone stronger in an alley, like Eraserhead..." He paused, hesitant. "Well, I thought if I don't have strength, I have to know where to step. If I can predict where the villain will step, I can make him trip on the environment."
I looked at the drawing. It wasn't an analysis of brute force. It was spatial tactics.
"You're analyzing the battlefield, not just the opponent," I said, handing the notebook back.
"Do you think it's silly?"
It took me a moment before answering, watching as the streetlights began to flicker on one by one.
"No. It's the only smart thing I've heard today."
Izuku lit up.
"People obsess over Quirks," I continued, resting my head against the swing chain. "They think if they throw stronger fire, they win. But look at All Might. He doesn't just hit hard. He changes the weather with a punch to put out fires, or jumps at specific angles so he doesn't destroy buildings when he lands."
I looked directly at Izuku.
"Your analysis... that is your weapon, Deku. The others are playing fighting games. You are studying war. Keep it up."
Izuku hugged his notebook against his chest, staring at his red sneakers.
"Sometimes... sometimes I feel that, no matter how much I analyze, it will never be the same as having a power like yours, Kacchan." He lowered his voice. "At school, they say that no matter how much I train at the dojo, I'm still weak."
I sighed, letting the air out through my nose. Society and its damn obsession.
"People are idiots, Izuku." I stood up and tossed my empty can into the recycling bin with a perfect shot. "They value the packaging, not the contents. Having a strong Quirk is like having a sports car. It's cool, yeah. But if you don't know how to drive, you're going to crash at the first curve. You're learning to be the best driver, even if you don't have the car yet."
Izuku looked up, surprised by the analogy.
"Do you really think so?"
"I don't say things I don't believe." I adjusted my backpack. "Come on. It's getting late, and if I don't get back soon, the Old Hag will yell at me. And believe me, her screams are worse than any villain's."
Izuku let out a genuine laugh, jumping off the swing.
"Wait for me!"
As we walked under the streetlights, watching our long shadows on the pavement, I thought about how ironic it all was.
The world saw two kids: one blessed by the gods and another forgotten by nature. A genius and a useless child.
But I knew the truth. I was walking beside the future greatest hero in history. And my job, for now, wasn't to be his savior, but to ensure he didn't lose that analytical mind before his body was ready.
"Tomorrow we practice the lateral takedown," I said without looking at him.
"Yes, Kacchan!"
It was a simple life. School, dojo, analysis. But in this simplicity, we were building the foundations of something that, hopefully, would support the weight of the world in a few short years.
[End of Chapter 6]