Part I: Ten Years in the Ordinary World
The orphanage in Saitama was quiet, but never silent. The hum of distant traffic, the creak of old wood, the occasional shout from the courtyard—it all blended into a rhythm Kaito had memorized. He lived there for ten years, tucked into the system like a forgotten bookmark. No parents. No quirk. No spotlight.
At four, the diagnosis came: quirkless. No mutation. No activation. No potential. The word landed like a verdict. In a society built around superpowers, it was a label that closed doors before he could knock.
But Kaito didn't rage. He reasoned.
He was intelligent—quietly, relentlessly so. While other kids practiced flashy moves or dreamed of hero rankings, he studied. He read manuals on support gear, blueprints of hero tech and breakdowns of battlefield logistics. He memorized the specs of grappling hooks, reinforced boots and shock-absorption suits. If he couldn't be a hero, he could build for them.
By age seven, he was sketching gear designs in the margins of his textbooks. By nine, he was repurposing junk from the orphanage's storage room—old fans became cooling units, broken toys became sensor housings. He taught himself circuitry from library books and soldering from trial and error.
He didn't want fame. He wanted function.
Teachers noticed his aptitude but didn't know where to place him. Without a quirk, he couldn't enter U.A. or any hero course. Without family, he had no sponsor. He was a ghost in the system—brilliant, but invisible.
Still, he persisted.
He built routines. Morning study. Afternoon tinkering. Evening observation. He watched how people moved, how heroes reacted, how villains exploited terrain. He became a strategist without a battlefield, a designer without a lab.
Other kids mocked him for being "quirkless," but he didn't flinch. He catalogued their quirks, noted their limitations and imagined gear that could enhance or counter them. His notebooks filled with modular designs—support drones, terrain-mapping goggles, adaptive armor.
He dreamed of becoming a support tools maker. Not just someone who built gadgets, but someone who understood the psychology of combat, the science of enhancement, the art of utility.
He didn't believe in miracles. He believed in systems.
On the night everything changed, he had just finished recalibrating a motion sensor he'd built from scrap. The moon was high. His fingers smelled faintly of solder. He lay in bed, mind buzzing with ideas.
Sleep came quickly.
Part II: The Awakening
He woke standing.
The air was colder. The sky darker. The trees unfamiliar.
His breath caught.
He was no longer in his bed. No longer in Saitama. No longer ten.
His body was taller. Stronger. Fifteen, maybe. His hands gripped a sword—real, heavy, humming with tension. His heart thundered.
Before him stood two girls. Identical. Pale. Dressed in ceremonial robes. Their eyes were wide, unblinking. Their voices, when they spoke, were soft and synchronized.
"You have arrived for Final Selection," one said.
"You will be tested," said the other.
Kaito couldn't speak. His throat locked. His mind spun.
Where was he? What was this place? Why did his body feel trained for something he didn't remember?
The twins continued, unfazed by his silence.
"You will enter the mountain at dusk," one said. "Demons await."
"You must survive seven days," said the other. "Only then will you be accepted."
Demons?
He looked down at his sword. It felt familiar. Muscle memory responded. But his mind screamed confusion. He had no recollection of this world. No training. No context and yet, his stance was perfect. His breathing, controlled. His instincts, sharp.
The twins bowed.
"Prepare yourself," they said together.
Then they turned and walked into the mist.
Kaito stood frozen.
His heart raced. His hands trembled.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know who he was supposed to be.
But the sword in his hand whispered readiness and the mountain waited.
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