The news had spread like wildfire: a quirkless boy had tried to save a classmate from a villain made of sludge. It wasn't just any villain either—it was the one All Might had failed to catch during his brief time in his weakened form. The sludge villain.
And that boy—Izuku Midoriya—was now All Might's chosen successor.
The plot had begun.
Hikaro had read the articles, seen the grainy footage, felt the gears of destiny begin to turn. The world was inching closer to chaos, and he was just one anomaly in the middle of it.
"So the MC has started training," Hikaro muttered, wrapping a strip of cloth around his knuckles as he stood barefoot on the rooftop. "That means I've got about nine and a half months until the UA Entrance Exam."
He cracked his neck, breathing in the morning chill. The rooftop of his apartment had become a sanctuary. A place to train, to think, to stay invisible.
And he had no intention of being left behind.
His days became rituals.
He would wake at dawn, body aching from the previous night's drills. First came the basic conditioning—sprints, pushups, isometric holds. Every part of his quirk-enhanced body needed to be pushed, tested, mastered.
Then came the Devil Fruit.
He started small: controlling a few nails, bending spoons, floating steel rods across short distances. But the Magnet-Magnet Fruit wasn't just about moving metal. It was about control. Precision.
He built up slowly, from lifting small chunks of metal to manipulating entire dumpsters. At first, it was chaos—rusted bolts would launch too fast and scatter, or hover erratically mid-air. He even gave himself a nasty gash across the cheek when a pipe spun out of control and grazed him.
But each failure taught him more.
Each drop of sweat was an investment in survival.
"Kid's power wasn't flashy, but it was terrifying in the right hands," he whispered one night, forming a makeshift spear out of rebar and electrical wire. "And I've got more metal here than he ever did."
The city was a treasure trove of steel and iron. Fire escapes, abandoned vehicles, trash bins, antenna towers—it was all potential ammunition.
But despite the progress, Hikaro couldn't escape the past.
Sometimes, after training, he'd just sit in the corner of his small apartment, staring at the wall. A single mug sat on the table—chipped and faded. Something left behind by the previous tenant, or maybe something Hikaro had bought long ago.
He'd hold it, thumb running over the crack on its side, and remember things he didn't want to.
Burnt coffee. Missed deadlines. The glow of a laptop screen at 2 A.M., and the silence of a room too small for dreams.
In his old life, he'd been just another guy. Not dumb, not lazy—but life didn't care. He'd done everything right. Studied hard. Tried harder. He'd gotten into college . Got a job lined up… just for it all to collapse overnight.
"You got a second chance," he muttered to himself, tightening his fists. "Don't waste it whining."
But sometimes… the memories clung.
He remembered what it felt like to be helpless.
And the irony wasn't lost on him—that now, in this world, he was anything but.
Two weeks in, he built something new: a weighted harness made from scavenged steel and rebar. He strapped it to his back each morning and ran up and down the stairwell of his apartment until his legs nearly gave out. Then he would fly—clumsily—using sheets of metal beneath his feet, learning to balance, to shift direction in midair.
More than once he crashed into walls.
More than once he bled.
But he never stopped.
And he never let anyone see him.
"Stay low," he'd mutter, walking home in a hoodie with his face down. "Not until I'm ready."
He was a ghost in the city. A shadow training in silence.
At night, he studied the timeline.
He made a board—sketched on the back of a pizza box. Scribbled with dates and events from the anime. All Might losing his power. The League of Villains forming. The UA Sports Festival. Kamino Ward.
"In eleven months, the League starts moving seriously," Hikaro muttered, marking the approximate date with a red pen. "Stain's attack should happen just after that."
It was a countdown.
A war clock.
And he was one ticking piece inside it.
Then came the breakthrough.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the skyline, Hikaro stood on the rooftop surrounded by metal—a dozen rods, nails, wires, chunks of scrap floating around him.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Instead of forcing the power, he listened. Felt the metal. Felt the magnetism like a pulse in his veins.
He shifted his hands slightly—and the metal moved in harmony. Quiet. Clean. Smooth.
A dance.
His eyes opened, and he smiled.
"This is it," he whispered. "Control. Not just power."
And in that moment, his range extended—not in a wild burst, but in a calm wave. Across the rooftops. Through the alleyways.
Seventy meters. Clean.
He laughed, almost shocked.
"Hell yeah."
But power brought something else: fear.
What if he went too far? What if he lost control again?
One night, he dreamed he'd magnetized an entire subway car and crushed everyone inside. He woke up drenched in sweat, heart racing.
"You're not here to destroy," he told himself, panting in the dark. "You're here to survive. Maybe even protect."
But the lines were thin.
By the end of the month, he was strong.
Not unstoppable, but getting close. He could control large amounts of metal at once. Float for short bursts. Form shields, weapons, and even entrap opponents. His quirk gave him stamina and durability. His fruit gave him range and versatility.
But he still felt like a stranger in his own skin.
The only thing grounding him was purpose.
"I don't know if I'll be a hero," he said one night, watching the city lights flicker from his window. "But I'm not letting anyone else decide what I become."
And deep inside, a spark was building—magnetic, undeniable.
Hikaro was a storm gathering force.
And the world had no idea he was coming.