Eleven years passed.
Kurayami Akira learned how to count them by scars.
Some were faint—thin lines across his palms, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. Others were deeper, older, reminders of lessons learned the hard way. None of them were wasted.
By the time he turned fifteen, blood no longer frightened him.
It listened.
Akira stood in the same storage shed behind the orphanage, taller now, broader in the shoulders, his black hair tied back to keep it out of his eyes. The space felt smaller than it used to, or perhaps he had simply outgrown it.
He drew a shallow line across his forearm.
Blood surfaced immediately, steady and controlled.
It rose without hesitation, gathering into shape as his breathing slowed. A blade formed—clean, precise, perfectly balanced. No wasted volume. No trembling edge.
He held it for ten seconds.
Then twenty.
Then dissolved it smoothly, reabsorbing the blood without a single drop touching the floor.
Akira exhaled.
That was progress.
Not strength. Not power.
Control.
Over the years, he had learned his limits as intimately as his own heartbeat. He knew how much blood he could spare before dizziness set in. How long solidification could be maintained before structural fatigue began. How pain sharpened focus—but only up to a point.
He never pushed past that point.
Heroes who relied on adrenaline burned out quickly. Akira understood that now.
He cleaned the wound, wrapped his arm, and slipped the training log back into its hiding place beneath a loose floorboard. Numbers, times, notes—nothing flashy. Just data.
Preparation for the UA entrance exam had begun months ago.
Physical conditioning first. Endurance runs at dawn. Bodyweight training. Grip strength. Balance. He couldn't afford to rely on his Quirk alone—not when overuse could end a fight before it began.
He trained to last.
When Akira returned to the main building, Director Shinohara was waiting.
She sat at her desk, hands folded, watching him with the same measured gaze she'd used since he was small. The years had softened her expression, just slightly.
"You're late," she said.
"Yes, ma'am."
She gestured to the chair. "Sit."
Akira obeyed.
"You've applied for UA," she said, not asking.
"Yes."
There was a pause.
"Hero course," she added.
"Yes."
Shinohara studied him for a long moment. Fifteen-year-old boys were usually loud. Emotional. Reckless.
Akira was none of those things.
"You know," she said slowly, "that your Quirk will be scrutinized."
"I know."
"You know they may reject you."
"I know."
"And you still intend to go?"
Akira met her gaze evenly.
"I do."
She leaned back in her chair, exhaling quietly. "Why?"
The question wasn't hostile.
It was honest.
Akira thought of the shed. The scars. The blood that had obeyed him for over a decade. The fear that had once ruled his life, now reduced to a tool.
"I've spent most of my life being observed," he said. "Measured. Restricted."
Shinohara didn't interrupt.
"I don't want to live like a risk that needs managing," he continued. "I want to choose what this power is used for."
She nodded once.
"That sounds like something a hero would say," she said.
Akira blinked.
She stood and walked around the desk, stopping in front of him. For the first time, she placed a hand on his shoulder—not heavy, not hesitant.
"I trust you," she said quietly.
The words settled into him deeper than any praise ever could.
"And," she added, allowing herself the faintest smile, "I've grown rather fond of you. Try not to die in the exam."
Akira allowed himself a small smile in return.
"I'll do my best."
Outside, the world was moving.
Heroes filled the screens. Villains made headlines. Society continued its careful balancing act between fear and admiration.
Akira walked through it unnoticed.
That suited him.
He knew the timeline now—not in detail, not in certainty—but in direction. This was the year things began to change. The year heroes would be tested in ways no exam could measure.
Somewhere in the city, a villain made of sludge was waiting.
Akira tightened the strap of his bag as he walked toward the train station.
He didn't know how the story ended.
But this time, he would be part of it.