The snow had just begun to fall when the second attack came.
The orphanage was quiet—too quiet. The kind of stillness that didn't feel like peace, but anticipation. Yujiro lay awake, his breath forming small clouds in the cold air. The blankets barely warmed him. Something in his chest buzzed, not fear, not anxiety… something deeper. A primal awareness.
Then came the sound.
Crash.
A window shattered downstairs.
Then a scream—short and sharp. Miss Maru.
Yujiro was already up, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor as he dashed down the hallway. Children peeked from behind their doors, their eyes wide with fear. He caught Toma's gaze—terrified, clutching a blanket. Yujiro didn't speak. He just nodded. Stay put.
He descended the stairs two at a time, the scent of blood already in the air.
Three men.
Not kids. Not bullies. These were real predators.
One held Miss Maru by the neck, shoving her into the kitchen wall. She was bleeding from her forehead, struggling but unable to break free.
Another was dragging canned goods into a black duffel, while the last—taller, lean, and mean-looking—kept watch, a knife glinting in his hand.
"This is a waste of time," one grunted. "Barely anything here."
"Doesn't matter. Easy job. Quirkless brats and one old lady. Nobody's gonna stop us."
Yujiro stepped into the doorway.
"You should leave."
The words weren't loud, but they cut through the air like a blade.
The man holding Miss Maru turned. "What?"
Yujiro didn't repeat himself.
"You deaf, punk?" the one with the knife sneered. "Get back upstairs before you catch a scar."
Yujiro's eyes narrowed. Calm. Controlled.
And then he moved.
The man with the knife lunged. Sloppy. Predictable. A wide slash aimed at Yujiro's side.
Yujiro stepped inside the arc of the blade and delivered a palm strike to the man's jaw. The crack echoed like a firework.
The man dropped.
Yujiro turned without pause. The second attacker swung a metal pipe like a bat. Yujiro ducked, grabbed the man's waist, and lifted.
His back arched, knees bent, and with a roar, he slammed the man onto the kitchen table, which splintered under the impact.
"Holy sh—!" the third one yelled, shoving Miss Maru aside. He charged, throwing a flurry of wild punches.
Yujiro let them come. He absorbed the first hit, his jaw snapping to the side. Pain exploded—but it grounded him. Focused him.
He grabbed the man's collar, drove his forehead into the bridge of his nose.
Blood sprayed.
Yujiro didn't let go. He twisted, dragged him to the floor, and mounted him.
Then came the blows.
Left. Right. Left. Right. Over and over.
The man's face turned to pulp. His nose collapsed. His lip split like paper. Blood splattered across the linoleum, pooling around his head.
Yujiro didn't stop until the man's limbs stopped twitching.
He sat there, chest heaving, fists soaked in red.
The room was silent.
Miss Maru, trembling, leaned against the wall. "Yujiro…"
He stood up, looking at her. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, tears brimming. "You saved me."
Yujiro looked down at his hands.
"I hurt them," he said quietly.
"They were monsters," she said.
"So am I," he whispered.
The police came an hour later. The attackers were barely conscious. One had a shattered ribcage. Another had a broken leg and multiple fractures to the skull.
Yujiro gave his statement simply, factually.
"Self-defense. They had weapons. They hurt my guardian."
The officer in charge, a stern woman with a scar under her eye, studied him. "You're telling me you did this with no quirk?"
"Yes."
She glanced at the bodies, at the kitchen wreckage. "Kid… you might want to consider hero training."
Yujiro didn't respond.
The next day, the children avoided him. Even Toma. He walked through the halls and they parted like the sea. Whispers filled the orphanage.
Monster. Weapon. Dangerous.
Yujiro didn't flinch.
He walked to the mirror in the upstairs bathroom, peeled off his shirt, and stared.
His body was changing—more rapidly now. His shoulders were broader. Veins crawled like roots across his arms. His back was developing something unnatural… something primal.
And on his face, a faint smile.
"I am becoming him," he whispered. "Yujiro Hanma."
He wrapped his knuckles with cloth strips.
Then, barefoot and shirtless, he stepped outside into the snow.
And began training.
Pushups until the blood from his hands dyed the snow.
Punches into the brick wall until his fists tore.
Kicks, squats, sprints.
The pain made him grin.
Because pain meant growth.
Because pain meant he was alive.
As the snow thickened and the cold gnawed at his skin, Yujiro moved like a machine possessed by something older than humanity.
Something born not from power—but from fury.
The monster wasn't just waking.
It was learning to smile.