The days that followed were not easy. Yujiro didn't wake up the next morning a warrior. His body, despite its potential, was still a child's. But his mind—his mind was older, sharper, and burning with intent.
Each morning began before sunrise. He would sneak out of bed quietly, careful not to wake the other children. The orphanage had a small storage room behind the kitchen, long abandoned and filled with dust and old furniture. That became his temple.
Push-ups until his arms trembled.
Sit-ups until his stomach cramped.
Stretches until his joints screamed.
There were no trainers. No guides. Only pain—and that was enough.
The caretakers started to notice the bruises, the callouses, the way he ate like a starving animal. One day, Miss Maru pulled him aside.
"Yujiro," she said softly, kneeling down to his level. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
He didn't answer at first. His eyes, red from exhaustion, stared into hers with unsettling calm.
"Because no one's coming to save me," he replied at last. "And I won't be weak. Not in this world."
Miss Maru hesitated. She wanted to argue, to tell him to be a child, to enjoy life. But there was something in his tone—steel, not sorrow.
So instead, she just sighed. "At least let me help with your meals. If you're going to train like this, you need to eat like it too."
Months passed.
Yujiro's body began to change. Slowly. Subtly. His back thickened. His legs grew dense with muscle. He started lifting crates from the storage shed for fun, balancing on one leg while doing so. His stamina was unnatural, his recovery frightening.
The kids at the orphanage still avoided him. Some out of jealousy. Others because they felt something off about him—like he wasn't really one of them anymore.
He didn't mind.
There was one boy, however, who stuck around. A quiet kid named Toma. Small, glasses always slipping, voice barely above a whisper.
"Why do you do all this?" Toma asked one night as he watched Yujiro practice punches in the courtyard.
"To be strong," Yujiro replied, not missing a beat.
"But… aren't quirks what make people strong?"
Yujiro stopped. He turned, sweat dripping down his face, and looked at Toma with a mix of curiosity and calm fury.
"No," he said firmly. "Quirks are just tools. Real strength comes from mastering yourself. From breaking your limits with nothing but your own blood and will."
Toma blinked. Then nodded slowly. "That sounds… really lonely."
Yujiro grinned. "Strength is always lonely. But it's real."
That winter, a small incident shook the orphanage.
A local delinquent gang—older teens with minor quirks—snuck into the yard at night, looking to steal supplies. When a caretaker caught them, one of the boys lashed out with a spark of electricity. She fell unconscious.
The children panicked. Some screamed. Some hid.
Yujiro walked straight into the yard.
He wasn't big. He wasn't glowing. He didn't have flashy powers.
But the way he moved—slow, calm, deliberate—made the gang pause.
"Get lost, brat," one of them sneered.
Yujiro rolled his shoulders. "Put her down. Or I'll make you."
The thug scoffed and raised his hand to blast him.
He never got the chance.
Yujiro's fist slammed into his gut so fast the boy's feet left the ground. Before the others could react, Yujiro was behind them. One kick to the knee, one elbow to the jaw. It was brutal, efficient, and terrifying.
When the police arrived later, the delinquents were already unconscious, stacked in a pile at the gate.
Yujiro stood beside the caretaker, arms crossed.
No one dared to call him quirkless after that.
That night, Yujiro sat on the roof, knees tucked up, looking at the stars.
Toma joined him silently.
Are you scared of anything?" Toma asked.
Yujiro didn't answer immediately. His voice, when it came, was low.
"Of being ordinary again. Of living without purpose. Of being powerless when it matters most."
Toma nodded. "That's why you're strong, isn't it?"
Yujiro looked down at his hands—scraped, bruised, but steady.
No," he said. "I'm not strong yet. But I will be. Stronger than anyone. Quirk or no quirk."
And as the cold wind swept through the night, the monster in him stirred just a little more awake.