The moment he stepped back into the villa, Yaoyorozu Arata collapsed onto the sofa with a slow exhale.
The carefully maintained expression he wore outside faded—replaced by something unreadable. He loosened his tie, then glanced down at the ring on his right index finger. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Not warm. Not cold. Something in-between.
A calculated curve.
He knew what the world called him: a genius with a sword, a ghost without a Quirk.
And they weren't entirely wrong.
Most people's reaction time hovered between 0.2 to 0.3 seconds. Arata's was clocked at 0.14—barely off the theoretical human limit. That precision, honed through years of brutal training, gave him something that felt close to precognition in combat.
At five years old, he'd already been able to disarm grown men with steel blades. By nine, he singlehandedly defeated an entire dojo of adult swordsmen in a public match.
And yet—
No Quirk.
In a world where power defined status, Arata was labeled a defective product. The gifted swordsman with a broken body and no supernatural edge.
It didn't matter how sharp his blade was. It didn't matter how disciplined his mind had become.
He was still just a boy swinging steel in a world full of gods.
That was why he trained like a man possessed. It wasn't pride—it was refusal. Refusal to live and die as background noise in a society that worshipped flash and power.
Even Momo's parents—the esteemed heads of the Yaoyorozu family—had only taken him in after witnessing his raw technique firsthand. He was nine. Standing in a pool of shattered wooden swords. Breathing heavily but unbowed.
They hadn't adopted a child.
They'd recruited a weapon.
He let the memories rise—then shut them down.
Pain was fuel. Nothing more.
Arata pushed himself up from the couch, his sharp instincts scanning the room. No presence. No movement. Just silence.
He moved toward the bookshelf.
Second shelf. Third row. Fifth floor.
Click.
The shelf rotated with a low mechanical groan, revealing a narrow stairwell behind it. The air was dry, cold, stale. He ducked through the opening and disappeared into the darkness.
The passage led to a hidden cellar beneath the estate—a place only he knew existed. He'd spent weeks reinforcing it, digging deeper, reinforcing walls, soundproofing everything.
It wasn't paranoia. It was preparation.
He stepped into the chamber.
In the center, lying unconscious on a padded mat, was a girl.
Green hair flowed like a waterfall over her shoulders. Her breathing was steady. Her skin, once marred by bruises and lacerations, had healed completely. Not a scar in sight.
Midori Fujino.
A classmate of Momo's. Gone missing days ago. Hero searches had been launched, patrols dispatched. Nothing came up. Eventually, her case had been quietly marked as "missing, unresolved."
But she wasn't missing.
She was here.
Arata knelt beside her.
She hadn't been attacked. She wasn't kidnapped. She had fallen—literally—off a cliff near the edge of the Yaoyorozu estate's forest. An accident. A stroke of luck.
He'd just happened to be there.
And when he touched her—just brushed her wrist to check for a pulse—something ignited.
An invisible surge. A whisper in his brain.
[Quirk Detected: Super Healing. Initiating analysis…]
At first, he thought he'd hallucinated it. But as the hours passed, the ring on his finger—an artifact he had owned since birth, but never truly understood—began to glow faintly. A system interface appeared in his mind. Text. Code. Functionality.
And something deeper:
He wasn't Quirkless. His Quirk had just been… dormant.
That ring—his inheritance—was a conduit.
And it was waking up.
Now, with his hand pressed against her chest—clinical, deliberate—he felt the final surge begin.
The ring flared bright red. A pulse of light ran from his fingertip into her skin.
The girl didn't stir.
In his mind, a voice echoed—clearer than ever before.
[Analysis: 98% complete.]
[Quirk: Super Healing - High-grade regenerative ability.]
[Final integration in progress…]
[DO NOT INTERRUPT.]
Arata closed his eyes and let it happen.
This wasn't the time for emotion. Or doubt. Or guilt.
This was evolution.
He didn't believe in heroism. He didn't believe in justice. Not after what happened to his parents—two selfless heroes who rushed into a fire to save a child, only to die without glory or recognition.
They'd left him nothing but a broken body and a dead surname.
So no—he wouldn't become a hero like them.
He would become something else.
A new notification blinked in his mind.
[Analysis complete.]
[Quirk acquired: Super Healing (adapted)]
[New ability: Regenerative Sync - Passive.]
He felt a jolt. A flash of pain. Then calm.
His heart beat stronger. His lungs expanded wider. For the first time in his life, his body felt…
Whole.
Arata opened his eyes. The girl was still unconscious, breathing gently.
He stood up slowly, quietly.
For the first time since he arrived in this world, he could feel it—deep in his bones.
Power.
Not borrowed. Not inherited. Not gifted.
His.