My name is Kazuya Tetsutetsu.
Eighteen years ago, I failed.
Not in some grand, cinematic way, there wasn't any big fight, no villain or no earth shaking rejection. It was just a piece of damn paper, handed to me with quiet eyes and a simple line.
"We regret to inform you, you did not pass the entrance exam."
I'd trained like hell for the U.A. Entrance exam. I believed I had what it took. I thought that strength was surely enough. But when the dust settled, all I had were bruised knuckles, broken armour, shattered pride and a crushed dream.
I remember staring at the sky that night, lying flat on my back on some rooftop, wondering why the hell I event tried. My parents didn't say much, they were kind people, but they didn't understand how these kind of things worked. I didn't want to worry them further.
So I left.
It was a stupid decision that I regret now, my parents were so kind to me, and I left. For what? No reason, I just wanted to escape.
I took a bag, my saved up yen for U.A. And vanished into the deeper corners of the city.
I still wanted to be a hero, so I tried to be one on my terms.
I went to the darker side of the city. The alleys that didn't have heroes patrolling them. The neighbourhoods where quirks were used as weapons, not for dreams. I got in deep, too deep. Some gang, bunch of bastards with strong quirks who thought a street punk like me would be easy prey.
And well, they were right.
They beat me into the ground. Kicked in my ribs, laughed at my weak gold dusted hands. My "worthless sparkle." One of them said he'd make an example out of me. Make sure the city knew what happened to worthless losers with a useless quirk and even more useless dreams.
He raised a pipe to finish me off—
—and then it all stopped.
A dark red blur. The crack of bone. Screams. Blood. Then silence.
When I blinked through the haze, I saw him. Standing over me, muscles like steel cables under a simple robe, arms folded, another arm from his shoulder holding the gang leader by the throat.
His name was Kaijin Tengai.
His hair was a dark, stormy red. Not the colour of fire. But the colour of blood dried by time. And his eyes, sharp, ancient and pissed off. But there was definitely grief in those eyes too.
"You want to die in a back alley for pride?" He said to me. "Then fine. But at least earn it. Don't die for nothing, at least put up a fight."
He left me there. I was half dead, humiliated, aching in places I didn't know could ache. But the next morning, he was back. He threw a rice ball at my head and told me to eat.
I didn't know it back then, but that was my first lesson.
…
Kaijin didn't teach me how to fight. Not really.
He taught me how to survive more than anything. Hell, he taught me how to think. How to move.
How to respect violence, but not to worship it.
How to understand pain, but not fear it.
He never sugar coated anything with me. He never held my hand.
I broke bones, I bled, I fell a thousand times. But he kept making me get back up.
And when I finally landed a punch that made him step back — just a little — he smiled at me for the first time.
"Now you look like a man."
He gave me a purpose, not one wrapped in capes and approval ratings — he gave me a real purpose. To protect what mattered to me. To stand in the way of evil to protect what no one else would.
That's why kept fighting. That's why I helped him bring more people to the gym he loved so much. That's why I come back, even now.
And that's why, when I saw that bastard standing over Kaijin, blade in hand—
I needed to save him.
No hesitation. No thought.
Because I'm not that scared, broken kid anymore.
I'm Kazuya Tetsutetsu.
The Great Golden Lion of Kaijin's Underground Gym.
But… still, there was always one conversation that I could never forget.
"Why aren't you a hero? You have the strength to save many. Why do you insist on keeping this gym?" I asked him.
He looked at me, he didn't seem dissatisfied or anything, if anything he looked a little sad.
"Someone very close to me loved this gym. I built it for him. We used to train here every day."
When he told me that, he looked so sad. He looked like he was going to break down into tears if I asked any more. So I didn't, after that day, I never asked anything about him again.
…
…
My name is Kaijin Tengai.
I wasn't born in a hospital.
Didn't come screaming into a clean room with lights and nurses waiting.
I was born in a back alley behind some store.
My mother was homeless, just another forgotten soul in a city that forgets people way too easily. My last memory of her, or well, my first. She wrapped me in a torn tarp and held me close to her chest as snow fell around her when I was about two or three. She died two days later from the cold. I don't remember her face, all I can remember is her dark red hair, just like mine.
But I also remember the cold.
After that, I somehow managed to survive. Food didn't come easy. Shelter didn't come at all. Every scrap of bread I ever tasted, I had to fight for it. Every coat on my back was taken from someone else. You learn to fight fast when starvation's your teacher.
By the time I was fourteen, I'd already broken more jaws than I could count. I was bigger than most kids, maybe I'd be even bigger if actually ate. I was naturally gifted, probably why I wasn't already dead. But that's only what the people around me said, but it wasn't a natural gift.
It was me. It was my rage.
A deep, bone deep fury I didn't even understand. I was angry at the world, angry at the silence, angry that the only thing that made people look at me was the violence I dished out.
I thought I'd live and die like that. Just another bastard with a mean right hook and a grave in the gutter waiting for me after a couple more years of fighting.
But then… I met her.
…
She could breath the most beautiful fire I'd ever seen, it was warm. A warmth I'd never felt.
She had scales on the lower half of her face. Sharp, jagged teeth like a dragons maw. A mutation quirk that made everyone cast her aside.
Everyone but me.
She was beautiful. Not in the way the world would measure it, no, not polished or perfect. But she was kind. Every part of her was kind.
She told me her name was Ayame. She'd been abandoned too, left behind for how she looked. But when she smiled, and those dragon teeth gleamed, it felt warm, her breath warmed my cold heart.
We dated for a while, I beat anyone who'd laugh in our direction. And eventually, we got married.
We even had a son.
His name was Ryujin.
My light. My salvation.
I built the gym for him.
A place where strength didn't mean survival, it meant pride. He loved training there, he loved watching me throw punches and correct stances. And when his quirk bloomed, gods, I cried.
It was a beautiful blend of me and Ayame.
He could sprout arms from anywhere on his body just like I could, but instead of hands, they were dragon heads. His muscles, his shoulders, even his hands—heads of red scales and roaring fire. He trained every day and every night, always with a bright grin on his face, he looked just like his mother. He always went on talking about how he was going to be a hero.
And he did it. He became a hero. My little hero.
The Bright Red Dragon, he'd call himself.
I'd never been prouder.
My fists weren't angry anymore. I used my fists to teach him. To grow with him. To laugh with him.
For the first time in my cursed life, I was really happy.
But this world is cruel, it doesn't let people like us stay happy for long.
After a year of being a hero, my son died.
A villain overwhelmed him. It was a dirty ambush, the kind that isn't documented in the papers. They said he went out like a warrior. That he saved lives. That he died with honour.
I didn't give a damn.
I'm just wanted my boy back.
Ayame didn't survive the grief.
She took her own life.
And just like that, I was alone again.
Without the fire in my life, the gym became cold. I became cold.
I went back to fighting without purpose. Brutal. Unrelenting. The old Kaijin, but twice as vicious. I broke more bones than ever, but there was never any satisfaction. Just grief.
Then came Kazuya.
The boy reminded me of Ryujin. Not his face. Not his voice.
But his eyes, those eyes with the same dream of being a hero.
He picked fights he couldn't win. He had a heart bigger than his fists. He was heading straight for the grave. So I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of it.
I trained him in the gym my son loved so much. Made him work, sweat and bleed. Just like I did.
Not to turn him into a weapon, but to turn him into a man.
He's not my son.
But I chose him.