Chapter 5: The Weight of Judgment
The silence in the Higuruma estate was not merely an absence of sound; it was a physical weight. It felt as if the very air had been vacuum-sealed, leaving the gathered elite of Japan's high society gasping for a breath that refused to come.
At the center of it stood Hiromi, a four-year-old child whose eyes held the weary clarity of a man who had seen too many sunsets over a courthouse. Behind him, the towering, blindfolded form of Judgeman loomed like a silent god of execution. The golden scales it held didn't sway in the wind; they remained fixed, an absolute constant in a world of variables.
The young cousin who had tried to prank Hiromi was sprawled on the grass, his face pale and eyes wide with a primal terror. He tried to spark the kinetic energy he usually felt in his fingertips—the minor Quirk that made him the star of his preschool—but there was nothing. No spark, no heat, no power. Inside the "Domain" of the boy-judge, he was just a powerless child.
[GUILTY]
The word hovered in the air like a neon brand of fire.
The first person to break the trance was the elder Yaoyorozu. He was a man accustomed to power—both the financial and the superhuman kind. He stood at the edge of the manifestation, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out, only to pull back as if sensing an invisible electric fence.
"A sentient Quirk..." the old man whispered, his voice cracking the silence. "But more than that. I have seen many manifestations, Daichi, but this... this felt like my very soul was being placed on a scale. I felt the urge to confess to things I haven't thought of in forty years."
The crowd finally found their voices, and the vacuum broke. The noise was sudden and jarring.
"Incredible! A judicial manifestation!"
"To manifest a sentient entity at four years old... he's a natural-born prodigy!"
"The Hero Commission needs to hear about this immediately. This isn't just a combat Quirk; it's a regulatory tool!"
The high-society guests, the same people who spent their lives navigating the grey areas of the law, crowded around Hiromi. Their faces were masks of performative joy, their eyes gleaming with the greedy light of people who had just witnessed the birth of a new "asset."
A high-ranking official from the Hero Public Safety Commission pushed through the throng, his suit smelling of expensive tobacco and desperation. He reached down to pat Hiromi's shoulder, his smile showing too many teeth. "Marvelous, Hiromi-kun! With a power like that, you won't just follow the law; you will be the law. Do you know how many heroes struggle with liability cases? You could be the ultimate arbiter!"
Hiromi looked at the man's hand on his shoulder. In his mind's eye, a file appeared. Embezzlement. Bribery of a local precinct. Infidelity. The crimes were minor compared to what he had seen in his previous life, but they were there, dark stains on a man who pretended to represent justice.
He felt a cold, oily sensation rising in his gut. It was a familiar feeling—the same disgust he had felt in Roppongi before he was killed. But here, the disgust didn't just sit in his stomach. It began to hum. It began to flow.
I remember this, Hiromi thought, his small fists clenching at his sides. This isn't just the Quirk. This is... Cursed Energy.
In his previous life, he had spent his few hours of leisure reading about a fictional world where negative emotions became power. He had read about a man named Hiromi Higuruma who shared his face, his profession, and his breaking point. Now, as he stood surrounded by the hypocritical cheers of the elite, he realized that the "manga" wasn't just a story. It was a blueprint.
The darkness he felt—the sheer, unadulterated loathing for the masks these people wore—was becoming a fuel. It wasn't the "plus ultra" spirit of a hero. it was the "cursed" spirit of an honest man in a dishonest world.
"Hiromi! My son!"
Daichi Higuruma broke through the circle, his face a complex map of shock and calculation. He knelt before Hiromi, his eyes darting toward the fading silhouette of Judgeman. "That was... extraordinary. The pressure you exerted... even the Pro Hero bodyguards were shaking. Do you understand what you've done? You've proven the Higuruma bloodline is superior."
"I'm tired, Father," Hiromi said, his voice flat. He didn't want their congratulations. He didn't want to be their "asset."
"Of course, of course! Manifesting such a Domain must be exhausting," Daichi said, standing up and turning to the crowd with a triumphant grin. "A toast! To my son, Hiromi! The future of Japan's legal and hero society!"
Glasses clinked. Laughter returned. The party resumed its artificial rhythm.
Emi, his mother, rushed forward and swept him into her arms, ignoring the "power" he had just shown. She didn't care about the Quirk; she felt his small body trembling. "It's okay, Hiromi. Mommy's here. It's over now."
But as Hiromi buried his face in his mother's shoulder, he knew it wasn't over. It had just begun. He could feel a new reserve of power swirling within him—a dark, thick energy that responded to his will.
The law failed me once because I didn't have the strength to enforce it, he thought, his eyes narrowing as he watched the elder Yaoyorozu shake hands with his father, likely discussing a future merger of their children's potentials. This time, I will have both. I will have the Gavel, and I will have the Strength.
He closed his eyes and focused on that internal reservoir. He didn't try to push it out; he tried to pull it in. He imagined the energy coating his bones, reinforcing his tiny muscles. It was jagged and hot, like drinking molten lead, but it was his.
He didn't need to be a hero of the people. He needed to be the Judge of the Heroes.
"Next year," he whispered to himself, "the training begins."