The years blurred together in a steady rhythm of sweat, bruises, and late-night planning.
Izuku Midoriya was eight now. Most kids his age thought eight years was a long time to wait for a birthday. For Izuku, it was barely a blink compared to what he'd already endured—and what he knew was coming.
Every morning started before sunrise. The alarm clock was unnecessary; his body had adapted to waking on instinct. He'd slip out of bed quietly so his mother wouldn't worry, stretch his arms and legs until the stiffness melted away, then hit the streets for his first run of the day.
Today was no different. The morning air bit at his lungs as he sprinted along the park path, the dew-damp grass brushing his ankles. His legs moved with precision—long strides, controlled breathing, each footfall landing on the ball of his foot to reduce impact. This wasn't a kid's jog. This was a soldier's training.
He wasn't running to get fit. He was running to survive.
No amount of dreaming would save you in the face of real danger. Muscles, reflexes, awareness—these were his weapons until One For All would finally be his. And even then… there were no guarantees.
By the time he finished his fifth lap, the sun was beginning to peek over the rooftops, painting the sky with streaks of gold and pink. Izuku slowed to a jog, wiping sweat from his brow, and began his next set—push-ups, sit-ups, squats, each rep counted in his head.
He wasn't the same quirkless boy who had been told to give up. His arms were lean and defined, his legs stronger, his movements sharper.
Still not enough. The thought whispered in the back of his mind, the same way it did every day. I have to be ready for anything—heroes, villains, even… him.
It happened during his cool-down lap.
Three figures stepped onto the path ahead. He recognized them instantly—local troublemakers. They'd hassled him before, but he'd always avoided direct confrontation. Today, they weren't moving aside.
The tallest, a broad-shouldered boy with stone-textured skin, cracked his knuckles.
"Midoriya. You've been running around like some wannabe hero for months. Think you're tough now?"
Behind him, another boy smirked, tiny sparks dancing between his fingers. The third lingered at the back, grinning in the way hyenas do when they smell blood.
Izuku stopped. His heart rate didn't spike—he controlled it, steady and calm. This wasn't fear. This was a test.
"One rule," Izuku said, voice low but firm. "You attack first."
The stone-skinned boy laughed. "Big mistake."
He charged, fist swinging in a wide arc meant to knock Izuku flat. But Izuku sidestepped, grabbing the boy's arm and twisting it in one fluid motion. He didn't break it—no need to escalate—but the pain made the bully drop to one knee with a grunt.
Electric-boy lunged next, sparks flaring dangerously. Izuku ducked under the swing, swept his legs out from under him, and shoved him into the dirt. Sparks fizzled harmlessly into the grass.
The third boy took one step forward—then froze when Izuku's gaze locked on him. It wasn't a glare exactly, but it was enough to promise you're next if you move.
Ten seconds. That was all it took.
The bullies limped away without another word.
Izuku exhaled slowly. No victory cheer, no smug grin—just quiet satisfaction. His training was working. But there was a difference between playground fights and real combat. Villains wouldn't give him a chance to control the fight.
He looked down at his scraped knuckles, flexing his fingers.
Not strong enough yet. But I will be.
The rest of the day was quieter. He returned home before his mother could ask where he'd been, cleaned up, and spent the afternoon at the library—reading about hero case files, quirk analysis, and combat strategies. Every scrap of information mattered. Every second he invested now could save lives later.
When night fell, he sat at his desk, scribbling in his notebook. The cover was worn, the pages crammed with diagrams, footwork drills, and scenario breakdowns. In the corner, he'd written two words in bold:
Be Ready.
He closed the book, glanced at the moon through his window, and made a silent promise to himself.
This was only the beginning.
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Thank you for reading chapter 4.
Next chapter: preparations almost finished.