(Mirai POV)
I threw a punch, followed by a kick.
The air in the sterile, reinforced training room—a new addition to my parents' estate, constructed at the cost of one-third of my father's current sponsorship budget—didn't simply rustle. It separated with a crack of displaced pressure, followed by a sustained, violent gust that rattled the high-density lighting fixtures.
I was not really bothered by the sonic consequence. I was simply executing my normal routine, driven by the pure, suffocating logic of boredom.
Nothing much had changed after the reveal of my Quirk. The designation Unknown and the fusion hypothesis had been formally recorded by Principal Nezu, confirming my personal deductions. However, the operational reality remained the same: I was an anomaly requiring control.
My parents could not compel me to remain at U.A. for immediate, full-time training for two predictable reasons:
Logistical Conflict: U.A. is a hero high school, currently in session. The integration of an unsupervised, potentially catastrophic toddler would present a tactical, social, and legal liability.
Housing Deficiency: The facility lacked the required secure and specialized residential unit necessary for a child whose sudden tantrum could equate to a 4.5 Richter magnitude event.
Therefore, the training needed to be brought to me. This led to the only significant change in my highly controlled domestic existence.
"Gramps."
I halted my sequence, my gaze locked onto the small, aged man who was currently levitating three meters away, hands crossed, emitting an audible sound of profound irritation. Gran Torino. Or, as I logically designated him: Gramp, my reluctant instructor that father turned to for my training.
"Do not call me that, brat," he snapped, his voice a gravelly monotone that still managed to convey maximum disdain. "I am not your grandfather. I am your jailer."
I processed his statement. "Your assertion is semantically flawed. A jailer implies enforced, unpaid custodial work. My father provides substantial financial compensation for your presence, making you a hired operative, not a jailer. Furthermore, the term 'Gramps' is an emotionally efficient and culturally relevant familial designation, and its use generates the expected comedic friction which is a necessary component of this training environment. Therefore, I will continue its use, Gramps."
He sighed, the air from his compressed Quirk jets momentarily stalling. "You've been studying human psychology again. You think you're funny."
"Humor is the perception of incongruity. My continued existence is incongruous with your desire for a quiet retirement. Therefore, my presence is a source of humor," I replied, my face remaining perfectly unmoving.
Besides, it wasn't as if I actually cared. It was just a term I was using for him since father saw him as a father figure.
His tiny figure zipped forward, a streak of yellow blurring the air. He executed a feint—a predictable, yet still blisteringly fast maneuver—aimed at my left flank.
I reacted, with a block to the kick. Then my palm struck out powerfully, a gust of air blasting the man back as I decided to pause mid way to his face.
The old man was helping me get used to this supernaturally enhanced body after all.
That meant he was useful as a pawn for now.
My training regimen had been surgically precise. My mother, Clara Yagi, focused purely on the Hand-to-Hand Expert side. Her Quirk, Lockdown, necessitated absolute mastery of close-quarters combat, and she drilled that discipline into me. We started with her simple goal: hit a target without breaking its structure.
Her training was relentless, focusing on the minute difference between a strike that delivered concussive force and one that distributed kinetic energy harmlessly. She taught me to feel the difference between applying strength and restraining it. Because of my Supernatural Senses and my intrinsic Incredibly Perceptive trait, I absorbed her lessons like a computational model integrating new data.
Gran Torino, however, focused on the Supernatural Speed. His own Quirk, Jet, was the ideal counterpart.
"You're too fast for your own mind, brat!" he'd scream, orbiting me like an angry, aged satellite. "You react before you think! You need to control the velocity, not the output! Think of your movement as a water hose. I taught All Might how to stop being a fire hydrant. I'll teach you how to stop being a typhoon."
His methods forced me to apply my Combat Intellect not just to strategy, but to physics. I was learning to use Newtonian mechanics to my advantage, calculating the necessary vector and force dissipation needed to move at Mach 1.5 without tearing the training room apart. It was challenging, but also quickly became... procedural.
The irony was not lost on me: the more perfectly I learned to suppress my power, the more intense my boredom became.
This current spar with Gramps was a clear example. I knew he was going to circle around for a momentum-based kick. I could detect the subtle hiss of air pressure building in his boot nozzles, perceive the slight shift in his body mass distribution, and calculate the exact microsecond required to block with minimal energy expenditure.
I let him circle, then met his knee with a forearm. The impact sent a shockwave of air that blew his hair back, the short amount of touch negating his quirk too.
Unknown or I negated all Quirks, even mutation types. The specifics is access to their enhancements or extra parts. A strength Quirk would lose it, a quirk like Gran Torino's, well his Jet's would simply stop working. I can't negate the physical mutations fully.
He still had the soles on his feet that was his Quirk, but he couldn't activate it now.
He knew this too well.
I jabbed him lightly, sending him back.
(Gran Torino POV: I want to show this from his point of view)
The brat was impossible.
Every time I managed to build momentum, every time I felt the rush of air telling me my Quirk was at maximum effectiveness, she met my attack. And in that instant of contact—a soft forearm block, a light tap of her foot—my jets sputtered and died.
It was like hitting a wall that absorbed all energy, a null point in the laws of physics. She wasn't just faster than I was; her Quirk was the ultimate cheat code against mine.
I hit the reinforced wall with a familiar thud, sliding down a few inches. The training room, a marvel of anti-Quirk design, barely registered the impact.
I pushed off the wall, using pure physical strength and years of ingrained habit, not my Quirk. The golden-haired monstrosity stood in the center, still radiating that unnerving, emotionless calm. She didn't look tired, or even slightly winded.
"Your velocity dissipation is still inadequate, Gramps," she stated, tilting her head. "You rely too heavily on your Quirk's output for directional control, creating a predictable arc in your attack vector. You should be utilizing the wall's rebound inertia to mask your next move, thus achieving a state of perceived unpredictability."
"I am not getting tactical advice from a child!" I roared, pushing a burst of air from my feet just to get off the ground, immediately feeling the lack of power because of her Quirk's residual effect.
But she was right. Damn it. She always was.
Training this girl was a nightmare.
(Mirai POV)
The training session with Gran Torino ended shortly thereafter. I permitted him one final, highly constrained attack—a non-Quirk-enhanced shoulder check designed to practice my reactive displacement—before declaring the session's data yield to be negligible.
Gramps left, grumbling about "super-powered brats" and demanding his paycheck be doubled. I didn't blame him; maintaining an effective training partnership required both parties to be challenged, and my body's rapid assimilation of his techniques meant the effective challenge window was shrinking daily.
I spent the next hour reviewing the combat footage, cross-referencing my movements with the established principles of physics and applied Kinesiology. My mother entered the room, carrying a cooling compress and two electrolyte drinks.
"You pushed him too hard, Mirai," Clara said, handing me a bottle. Her voice held its usual controlled tone, but the slight tightening around her amethyst eyes spoke of exhaustion and persistent worry.
I took the drink. "He requires a persistent elevation of stimulus to maintain peak performance. Furthermore, pushing him to his limit allows me to measure the full decay rate of the nullification effect on his Quirk Factor. It's a dual-purpose strategy, Mother."
Clara sighed, sitting on a nearby bench. "I know your reasons are always logical, but he's getting old. And you are improving too fast. The speed at which you mastered the Quietus restraint method—the one I developed over ten years to pin an Emitter-type villain without excessive force—was unnerving."
"The process was straightforward," I countered. "It required only the immediate restraint of force to within 0.05 Newtons of residual output and the precise manipulation of five pressure points. My Supernatural Senses and Incredibly Perceptive trait rendered the ten years of practice irrelevant."
The truth was, the technical challenge was gone. Only the boredom remained.
Comparing it to my past life however...
A memory resurfaced.
"Line up."
The instructor's command echoed through the stark white room. I, along with ten other children, quickly formed a line. One boy struggled to breathe, clutching his chest. The instructor held our test results on a sleek tablet, his expression unreadable.
A loud thud broke the silence. The boy collapsed, convulsing from a heart attack. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the line, but none of us moved. We knew the harsh reality: failures were discarded without a second thought.
I glanced at the boy, his face contorted in pain, then back at the indifferent instructor. I, too, was indifferent; having seen this time and again, I simply no longer cared for human life.
This was a hundred times better than that.