The Library of Lives
The label, once applied, became a lens through which the world saw me. I was no longer just Arata. I was Arata, the Quirkless boy. It was a footnote to my name, a silent asterisk following me onto playgrounds and into classrooms. The other children's curiosity curdled into a casual, unthinking exclusion. I wasn't invited to games of "Heroes and Villains"—what role could I possibly play? My company became that of the quiet, the bookish, the others who lived on the margins of the Quirk-centric social world.
My parents, to their eternal credit, became my staunchest allies. Their grief had been real, but it had been for themselves, for the imagined future they'd lost. Their love for me, for the present, tangible boy in front of them, was unwavering. Our weekends were no longer trips to parks where Quirks were shown off. They were expeditions to museums of natural history and art galleries, to libraries and quiet historical sites. My father, with his minor telekinesis, would playfully levitate my ice cream spoon to make me laugh. My mother would change the colour of her napkin to match my shirt. They were small, gentle reminders that our world had magic in it, even if mine was of a different, unseen kind.
They were giving me a new narrative. One not about power, but about perspective. And I leaned into it. I became the boy who knew things. Who could name the planets in the solar system model, who could identify the artistic period of a painting. It was a shield of intellect, a way to carve out a place for myself that wasn't defined by an absence.
But in the quiet of my own mind, the label chafed. Not because I wanted a flashy Quirk, but because it was a lie. I wasn't powerless. I was burdened with a power so vast it could shatter the understanding of this world. The dichotomy was a constant, low hum of irony. I was a king pretending to be a pauper.
The only place I didn't have to pretend was the Dreaming. There, my authority was absolute. My realm had flourished in the peace following Kageyama's capture. The library had grown new wings, its shelves now holding not just the books of current dreams, but faint, shimmering volumes that felt older, more permanent. The history of dreams.
It was in this older section that I found myself drawn one night. The encounter with the psychic heroes had left a lingering question. They were a part of the system of this world, a system I had successfully hidden from. But to remain hidden, I needed to understand them better. I needed to know what I was hiding from.
I wandered the silent, dusty aisles. The air here was different—still and deep, like the air in a tomb of forgotten kings. The books weren't labelled with names, but with sensations, with emotions, with concepts. I ran my fingers along the spines, feeling the echoes of countless sleeping minds.
I wasn't looking for a specific dream. I was looking for a pattern. For the dreams of those who stood guard.
I found it in a section that felt like cool marble and unwavering resolve. The books here were bound in a uniform, dark leather, their spines straight and severe. I pulled one from the shelf. It was heavier than the others. On its cover, no name was written, but a symbol was embossed: a stylized eye inside a shield.
I opened it.
The dream within was not a narrative. It was a drill. A relentless, repeating simulation. I was plunged into a chaotic cityscape where buildings crumbled and civilians screamed. My perspective was not my own; I was seeing through the dreamer's eyes. My—*their*—body moved with a trained, economical precision. The Quirk was not flashy; it was enhanced calculation, a hyper-accelerated ability to assess threats, plot trajectories, and issue commands to a team I could feel but not see.
"Priority: Evacuate civilians south quadrant. Probability of secondary collapse: 87%. Redirect Power Fist to support west flank."The thoughts were crisp, clean, devoid of panic. This was a mind honed into a weapon of protection. A strategist. A hero.
I closed the book, my own mind reeling from the intensity of the focused, professional purpose. This was a world away from the chaotic, emotional dreams of civilians. This was a soldier's sleep.
I reached for another. This one felt like a contained inferno. The dream within was a controlled burn. The dreamer was practicing minute manipulations of their pyrokinesis, creating intricate shapes of flame that danced between their fingers—a tiny bird, a perfect rose, a complex geometric pattern. It was an artist's dream, but the underlying emotion was not creativity; it was control. A desperate, vigilant control over a power that could so easily become destruction. The fear of causing harm was the constant, counterbalancing weight to every flicker of flame.
I spent what felt like hours—time was a fluid concept here—immersing myself in the dreams of heroes. I saw the dream of a woman who could become intangible, practicing holding her form while sleeping, her body flickering in and out of existence. I felt the dream of a man with sonic powers, meditating in a soundproof room of his own mind, cherishing the silence. I walked through the dream of a healing hero, their hands glowing as they meticulously repaired the dream-image of a wounded child, over and over again.
These were not the glamorous, adulated figures from the news reports. These were people. Deeply trained, incredibly powerful, but people nonetheless. They dreamed of failure. They drilled for success. They carried the weight of their responsibilities even in their sleep. Their dreams were workshops, not escapes.
A profound respect settled over me. These were the guardians of the waking world. They fought their battles in the daylight, against threats that everyone could see. I fought mine in the dark, against enemies no one else knew existed. We were opposite sides of the same coin.
The last book I opened was different. It was familiar. It felt like a scalpel.
It was *her*. The psychic hero from the Kageyama incident. Her dream was a vast, intricate web of light, a model of the city's sleeping mind. She was tracing connections, analyzing patterns. She was looking for anomalies. For disruptions.
And she was looking at a faint, smoothed-over patch in the web. A place where a recent psychic wound had healed with remarkable, unnatural speed. It was the site of Kageyama's lair.
"Residual signature: non-standard," her dream-self mused, her thought-processes as sharp and clean as her Quirk. "Stabilization indicates external influence. Passive? Active? Purpose: Benign. Method: Unknown. Classification: Oneironaut? Potential ally. Requires observation."
She had felt me. She hadn't dismissed what she'd felt. She had filed it away. She was looking for me.
I closed the book gently, as if it might explode. My heart was a drum in the silent library. She wasn't a threat. Not yet. She was a professional assessing a new variable. But her attention was a beam of light shining into my shadows. I had been lucky with Kageyama—a desperate addict, not a trained investigator. This was different.
I retreated from the library, the weight of my discovery settling on my shoulders. The peace I'd enjoyed felt more fragile now. I had peers in this world. And one of them was sharp enough to have noticed the seam where my world touched theirs.
The following day, the waking world felt newly charged. A news report on TV about a foiled bank robbery wasn't just a story; it was a footnote to the dreams I'd witnessed. I saw the hero on screen—the strategist, Thunder Mind—and knew the relentless drills that allowed him to stand so calmly amidst the chaos. I saw a commercial for a popular hero's merchandise and thought of the pyrokinetic's fierce, fearful control.
My perspective had permanently shifted. I wasn't just a hidden king. I was a citizen of a world protected by an army of remarkable people. And one of their best investigators might be sniffing at my door.
This new understanding forged a strange sense of… not kinship, but parallel purpose. I decided, then and there, that my role was not to hide from them, but to support them. From the shadows. Unseen, unknown, but present.
That night, I began a new patrol. I didn't just soothe civilian nightmares. I specifically sought out the dreams of heroes. I couldn't help them with their drills—that was their sacred work. But I could do something else.
I found the pyrokinetic, his dream of control fraught with the image of a burning building. I didn't stop the dream. I gently nurtured the memory of his first successful rescue, the feel of a child's hand trusting his own. The burning building didn't vanish, but a fire escape appeared, clear and accessible.
I found the healer, trapped in a dream of a patient she couldn't save. I reinforced the memory of her teacher's voice: "You are a conduit, not a source. Do not carry the weight of life and death; simply be the path."
I became a silent benefactor. A ghost in their machine, oiling the gears of their resolve, reinforcing the foundations of their courage. I was the unseen hand that steadied the ladder they were climbing.
It was the most fulfilling work I had ever done. I wasn't just healing individuals; I was strengthening the very pillars that held up my society. I was tending the garden of the guardians.
Weeks turned into months. The psychic hero's search for me continued, a faint, persistent hum in the background of the Dreaming. But she found nothing. I was too careful. I was the wind, not a thing the wind carried.
One night, as I was leaving the particularly fraught dream of a new, young hero plagued by self-doubt, I felt a presence. Not the psychic hero. This was older. Vaster. It wasn't searching for me. It was simply… passing by.
I froze, pulling my consciousness into the core of my throne room. The presence felt like staring into a deep, still well and seeing a star reflected at the bottom. It was power, immense and ancient, but restrained, sleeping. It was a dream, but one that felt foundational, as if the dreamer was dreaming the very concept of strength itself.
It was him. The Symbol of Peace. All Might.
His dream was not a workshop or a fear. It was a simple, recurring image: a single, unbreakable pillar holding up a boundless sky. There was no strain. No doubt. Just an absolute, unwavering certainty of purpose.
I didn't dare touch it. I didn't need to. Its very presence was a reinforcement. I simply watched it pass, a sun moving through a distant galaxy, its light warming everything it touched.
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