The training room was my kingdom.
No, scratch that.
It was my throne room, and every scorched panel and twisted screw was a monument to my will.
Blueprints clung to the walls like battle flags, their corners curled with age and heat. Tables overflowed with half-assembled devices—some humming, others smoldering, all of them dangerous in the wrong hands. The air smelled of ozone and burnt copper, a scent I'd come to associate with progress.
It was beautiful.
This world was woefully behind in weapons technology. Hero society had become so reliant on quirks that they'd forgotten the power of innovation, of intellect. Most villains ran around with claws or flame-spewing fingers like that was supposed to be impressive. As for the heroes? Spandex, catchphrases, and punching things really hard.
Idiots.
Today, that was going to change.
"Laser guns," I muttered, tapping my fingers on the polished steel of the workbench.
Such a pitiful phrase. A child's toy. The stuff of Saturday morning cartoons and third-rate space operas where fools ducked glowing bolts moving slower than my disdain.
Useless.
At least, that's what I thought—until I decided to be better.
See, the idea wasn't flawed. The execution was. Energy inefficiency, overheating, power limits, battery constraints. All of it screamed amateur hour. But me?
I was no amateur.
The first step was power.
This world didn't have arc reactors or sci-fi tech, but it had quirks, which meant it had potential. And potential was just another word for raw material.
I reached under the bench and pulled out a small black case. Inside sat a miniature capacitor array—delicate, complex, and highly illegal. I'd "borrowed" it from one of Father's prototype support items. Not that he'd notice. He was too busy playing puppet master with corporate drones.
Next came the energy cells. I smirked as I slid them into place. Courtesy of the Yaoyorozu family's R&D division. Momo had no idea I'd hacked their servers and swiped the schematics. Sweet girl, but far too trusting.
With a sigh of satisfaction, I sketched the design.
Modular Barrel – Adjustable energy output. From stun to goodbye, spinal cord.
Heat Sink Matrix – Because crispy fingers were a fashion statement I wasn't interested in.
Overcharge Safeguard – I liked explosions, just not when they happened to me.
I leaned back, hands behind my head, studying the draft like an artist admiring a masterpiece.
Yes. This would do nicely.
Now came the fun part.
My quirk pulsed beneath my skin, eager. The threads unspooled from my fingertips like crimson serpents, coiling through the air with predatory grace. I'd spent hours refining my control. Not just cutting and binding, but shaping, lifting, manipulating with the precision of a surgeon and the artistry of a madman.
I flexed my fingers.
A dozen components across the room jerked into motion—screws, circuits, plating, and a delicate bundle of wires I nearly forgot I had. Each piece hovered midair, suspended by invisible threads. Assembly began with a flick of my wrist, a choreographed dance of precision.
The barrel slotted in. The capacitor snapped into place. Wires snaked through channels like blood vessels through a living organism.
Ten minutes later, I held my creation.
A sleek, silver pistol, humming with restrained violence. Compact, elegant, deadly.
"Let's see what you can do," I murmured.
I turned toward the reinforced dummy in the corner of the room. Reinforced steel alloy, triple-layer plating. Father used it for testing armor.
I pointed.
Fired.
The crimson beam lanced forward with a shriek of energy. It punched clean through the dummy's chest, searing a hole the size of my fist before scorching the wall behind it.
No recoil. Minimal heat.
I grinned.
"Oh yes," I whispered. "We're going to have so much fun."
But even as I admired the weapon, another itch began to crawl at the back of my mind.
Haki.
The true power. The will to crush mountains, defy logic, dominate fate. I'd wielded it like a second skin in if i was in One Piece—Observation, Armament, even Conqueror's. A natural extension of my will.
And now?
Gone.
No matter how hard I strained, how much I meditated or pushed myself, there was nothing. Not a spark, not a whisper.
This world had quirks, not willpower. But Haki… that was mine. It had to be.
I clenched my fists, jaw tight. Observation required instinct, peril, death breathing down your neck. Armament needed resistance, conflict, pain. Real pain.
And therein lay the problem.
My father wouldn't dare lay a hand on me. My mother? She'd probably commit homicide if someone so much as bruised my arm. The staff? Please. They bowed lower than our dining chairs.
Weaklings.
I needed danger. I needed pain. I needed enemies.
So I'd make them.
Automated combat drones. Sentry turrets. Variable pressure testing chambers. An AI system that could learn and adapt, strike when I wasn't looking.
But that was a project for another night.
For now?
I had weapons to build. Armories to design. A future to construct and rule fufufufufu.
Dinner was the usual masquerade of civility and lies.
Crystal chandeliers bathed the dining room in a warm, golden glow. Too warm. The kind of light that tried to pretend everything was perfect.
My father sipped his wine, eyes flicking toward the news feed on the wall. My mother smiled serenely, the perfect image of grace and class. On the screen, All Might laughed, his booming voice echoing off the walls like nails against glass.
Disgusting.
"How was school, Doffy?" Mother asked, as if she didn't already know. As if she didn't have surveillance on every step I took.
I stabbed a piece of steak with a lot of strength. "Tolerable."
Father chuckled. "That's high praise from you."
I didn't grace him with a response. Instead, I watched the news footage of All Might laying waste to another villain like a man swatting flies. The crowd cheered. The press salivated. Another show for the masses.
Pathetic.
"The Hero Commission's approval ratings are up again," Father mused. "Their new PR campaign is working wonders."
I scoffed, swirling my water. "Of course it is. The sheep love a symbol to bleat at."
Mother arched a brow. "And what would you do differently?"
I looked up, smiling slowly. "Control the narrative. Own the media. Make sure they never even think to question you. Better yet, make them think you're their idea."
A beat of silence.
Then Father laughed. Deep and genuine. "God help the world when you take over."
I took a sip of water.
They had no idea.
Later, in my room, I stared at the ceiling.
Four years old. A toddler with a kingdom in his head and a blade hidden in his smile. My body was weak. Muscles underdeveloped, bones fragile. If I pushed too hard now, I'd only limit myself later.
But in three years?
Seven was the age where training became expected. Acceptable. Encouraged. No one would question it.
And when that time came?
I would remake myself.
Not into a hero. Not into a villain.
Into something more.
The future lay ahead, a web of endless paths and fragile fates waiting to be snapped.
And every thread?
Mine to pull.