"I've awakened a Quirk. I should apply to the Hero Course at U.A."
That was all it took for the decision to be made—for someone else to decide the shape of his future.
Arata Yaoyorozu sat in silence, fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the polished redwood table before him. The muffled thump of each tap echoed softly through the empty living room, as if mimicking the heartbeat of a war drum.
His uncle's words still hung heavy in the air, impossible to swat away.
"You're better now. Your Quirk's finally come in. It's time you prepared for the U.A. entrance exam."
A pause. A breath. A sentence that chained his future to a single outcome.
He wasn't surprised. Disappointed, maybe. Tired, definitely.
He leaned back against the sofa and exhaled slowly, as though the act itself could push away the frustration clinging to his chest. The idea of becoming a Hero—U.A.'s shining image, the smiling protectors of peace—had never appealed to him. That wasn't his reason for getting stronger.
His uncle meant well. Arata knew that. They had taken him in when he was barely surviving, when his Quirk hadn't awakened and his health was a constant concern. But none of that made it easier to accept the way decisions about his life were made without him.
He glanced toward the hall, then to the stairs.
No use fighting over it tonight.
He stood, slipped into his black robe, and crept down through the house until he reached the concealed passage behind the cellar's wine shelf.
With practiced ease, he vanished into the night.
The city never truly slept.
Beneath the glow of neon signs and the rhythm of pulsing nightlife, Arata moved like a shadow, his black cloak blending into the crowds. His face was hidden—only a sliver of skin and a pair of sharp eyes visible beneath the hood.
No one stopped him. In a world where mutation-type Quirks were common, strangers wearing cloaks weren't so unusual. Most just assumed he had something to hide. In a way, he did.
After several blocks, he came to a plain-looking skyscraper with tinted windows and no signage—one of those buildings that blended into the background, unnoticed by anyone who wasn't looking for it.
He was.
Two guards stood at the entrance, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind opaque sunglasses. Their black suits fit snugly, like armor for bureaucratic soldiers.
A young couple, laughing, tried to enter.
"Please show your identity," one guard said flatly.
The couple blinked. "Identity? What're you talking about? This is a mall, right?"
The guards didn't respond.
Arata walked past them without breaking stride.
"You're not qualified," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for them to hear.
Their laughter stopped.
And then—"Welcome, Number Seven!" the guards barked, bowing stiffly as Arata passed through the reinforced doors without a second glance.
Inside, the noise hit him like a tidal wave.
A roar of cheering, jeering, and chanting echoed through the building like an underground festival with no end. He moved past biometric scanners and metal detectors, showing his golden identification badge only once before the gates to the inner arena opened.
The underground Quirk Duel Hall.
Here, laws bent and rules blurred. It wasn't officially illegal—but no one who came here ever spoke of it in the light of day. Blood was spilled, bets were placed, and reputations were forged in combat. It was where Arata had built his second name:
Number Seven.
Undefeated. Mysterious. Dangerous.
"They say he's never lost," someone whispered as he passed.
"Ninety-eight wins. Six draws. No defeats."
"They call him the Cold Blade."
Arata didn't react. He rarely did.
What did it matter, really?
He wasn't here for the glory. He wasn't here for bloodlust or the cheers of the crowd. He was here because the battlefield was honest. It didn't expect him to smile or pose or save kittens from trees.
It just asked one thing: Can you win?
And every time, Arata answered yes.
As he stepped into the fighters' prep room, the announcer's voice rang out over the intercom:
"Victory number six for the Mad Bull tonight! Can anyone stop this beast?"
A deafening cheer followed.
Arata said nothing, sliding his robe off and checking the weight of the sword at his hip. The familiar presence of it steadied him, cooled the fire building in his chest.
Soon, his name would be called.
But not Arata Kurosawa. Not the boy with a healing Quirk and a future decided by others.
No. Not tonight.
Tonight, he was Number Seven—and in the arena below, the only future he answered to was the one he carved with steel.