The orphanage was simple. Wooden floors, creaking hallways, and a wide common room where sunlight filtered in through stained windows. It smelled of dust, soup, and old books. Miss Maru, the head caretaker, was a stout woman with warm hands and tired eyes. She ran the place like a military drill but had a soft spot for the children. Especially Yujiro.
"You're always quiet, Hanama," she said one evening, knitting by the window. "Always watching. Thinking. Like an old man trapped in a boy's body."
Yujiro looked up from the corner, where he sat cross-legged on the floor. "Maybe I am," he muttered under his breath.
She chuckled. "Just don't let those boys push you around. You've got more spine than all of them. They just don't see it yet."
But Yujiro didn't care if they saw it. He only cared about one thing: strength.
It happened one day in the yard. Some of the older boys, proud of their emerging quirks, had taken to picking on the younger kids. Yujiro, sitting alone with a worn-out book, heard the cry of a boy half his size.
"Leave him alone," Yujiro said without looking up.
The boys turned. Kazuto, the loudest of them, cracked his knuckles. "What did you say, quirkless?"
Yujiro stood up slowly. His eyes were calm, but inside he felt something stir.
Kazuto lunged, quirks flaring—a burst of speed and a small shockwave from his feet. But Yujiro stepped in with precision and moved like lightning. One palm struck Kazuto's chest, and the boy crumpled to the ground wheezing.
Another tried to grab him from behind. Yujiro twisted, locked his elbow, and slammed him down with surgical force.
The yard fell silent.
Even the caretakers came rushing out. "Yujiro! What on earth—?!"
But Yujiro just stood there, breathing evenly.
He wasn't surprised.
That night, in the dim bathroom light, Yujiro took off his shirt. His frame was still childish, but his back was already developing an unnatural tone—like it was molded from iron.
He looked into the cracked mirror, staring at his reflection. Not at the bruises, not at the scratches—but at the shadow behind his eyes.
And then, a flood of memory hit him.
A flash—of red hair, of monstrous muscles, of destruction and control.
The name echoed like thunder.
Hanma.
His eyes widened. Not in fear—but in realization.
He grinned. "Of course. Of course that's who I am."
A twisted joy spread through his chest. He clenched his fists and whispered to himself:
"I'm not just a quirkless kid. I'm Yujiro Hanma. The strongest creature alive."
The blood in his veins roared like fire.
He could feel it now—power waiting to be unlocked, bones craving impact, muscles begging to be tested.
"I'll train," he said to his reflection. "Every single day. With every breath. With every drop of blood."
He pressed his palm to the mirror.
"I'll show this world what a monster without a quirk looks like."
And then he smiled.
It wasn't a kind smile. It was wild. Predatory. Determined.
The kind of smile that would one day terrify both villains and heroes alike.