Chapter 02 ~ Discipline of Heat
The digital clock on the small bedside table shifted silently from 3:59 to 4:00 AM.
Before the alarm could emit its first electronic chirp, a heavy, calloused hand pressed the button, killing the sound. In the absolute darkness of the cramped apartment, Sakazuki rose. There was no grogginess, no lingering desire to pull the thin blanket back over his shoulders. His mind transitioned from sleep to total alertness in the span of a single breath.
He moved through the quiet rooms with the practiced silence of a shadow. The floorboards in the hallway had specific spots that creaked; he stepped over them entirely by memory. In the small kitchenette, illuminated only by the pale yellow glow of the streetlamp outside the window, he began his morning routine.
His movements were methodical. He prepared a simple, high-protein breakfast: grilled fish, a bowl of rice, and steamed vegetables. He arranged a second, identical portion in a small container, placing it neatly in the refrigerator. Beside the container, he set a small plastic cup containing his mother's daily medication, accompanied by a folded note written in sharp, precise penmanship: Eat the entire portion. Do not push yourself today.
With the domestic duties fulfilled, Sakazuki returned to his room, changing into a pair of dark, heavy sweatpants and a thick, long-sleeved athletic shirt. He strapped on a large, military-style tactical backpack. It was not filled with weights or sandbags. It was filled entirely with large, thick plastic bottles of water. Nearly twenty liters in total.
Stepping out of the apartment building, the freezing, biting wind of the early morning immediately clawed at his face. The city was completely asleep, the streets empty and silent. Sakazuki began to run.
His pace was grueling, an unrelenting, heavy rhythm that ate up the pavement. As he ran toward the city's outskirts, heading for an isolated stretch of the rocky coastline, the heavy water bottles sloshed in his pack, a constant, rhythmic reminder of his biological burden.
It was a strict requirement. His quirk, an overwhelming force of pure, molten rock, came with a severe physiological tax. His baseline body temperature ran exceptionally high. His internal organs operated like a furnace, constantly radiating a latent, consuming heat. Because of this, his body metabolized moisture at a frightening, unnatural rate. If he went for extended periods without consuming large quantities of water, his system would begin to turn on itself. He would start sweating profusely, his skin would flush red, and a dangerous, exhausting heat would build up within his core. Water was not merely hydration for him; it was the coolant required to keep the engine from melting down.
After forty-five minutes of continuous, punishing running, he reached the desolate, jagged rocks of the coast. The dark, churning waves of the ocean crashed violently against the stone, sending freezing sprays of salt water into the air.
Sakazuki dropped the heavy backpack onto a flat boulder. He unzipped his jacket, pulling the sweat-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his torso to the freezing coastal wind.
He was only fourteen, yet his musculature was dense and heavily defined, forged through years of relentless, agonizing effort. But the most striking feature was not his build; it was the sprawling network of old, faded burn scars that marked his forearms and shoulders. They were the permanent, physical receipts of his early attempts to master his quirk. They were proof that his power was not some magical, effortless gift. It was a violent, volatile beast that he had forced into submission through sheer willpower and a high tolerance for physical agony.
He stood before a massive, towering slab of gray stone, his breathing steadying into a slow, measured cadence. He closed his eyes.
Focus.
He did not want an explosion. He did not want a chaotic eruption of power. He demanded absolute, surgical control.
The air around his right arm began to distort and waver, bending the early morning light as the ambient temperature spiked drastically. The freezing sea breeze suddenly felt like the suffocating draft of an open oven. A faint, acrid smell of sulfur and burning ozone began to mix with the scent of the salty ocean.
Slowly, the skin of his right forearm began to shift. It did not simply ignite; it transformed. The flesh darkened, cracking open to reveal thick, viscous, glowing red magma welling up from beneath the surface. The heat was immense, radiating outward in punishing waves, but his expression remained entirely blank.
He raised his molten arm, pointing his index finger toward the center of the massive boulder.
A scalpel. Not a hammer.
With a sharp, concentrated exhalation, a thin, intensely pressurized beam of blindingly bright, superheated magma shot from his fingertip. It struck the stone with a sharp, violent hiss. Sakazuki held his arm perfectly still, fighting the immense recoil and the chaotic nature of the heat.
He maintained the beam for precisely ten seconds. When he lowered his arm, the magma instantly receding back into normal flesh, the boulder remained entirely intact. It had not shattered. It had not exploded. But right in the dead center of the solid stone was a perfectly smooth, cylindrical hole, exactly the size of a coin, glowing a bright, furious orange from the residual heat. It pierced straight through the two-meter-thick rock.
Total, uncompromising precision.
Sakazuki immediately dropped to one knee, a heavy, exhausted breath escaping his lips. Steam rose off his bare shoulders. His skin was flushed, and beads of sweat poured down his face. The internal heat was already threatening to consume him.
He reached into his backpack, unscrewed the cap of a two-liter water bottle, and drained the entire thing in a matter of seconds. He tossed the empty plastic aside, grabbed a second bottle, and drank half of it, closing his eyes as he used a slow, deliberate breathing technique to circulate the cold water, forcefully bringing his internal temperature back down to a manageable level.
The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting a pale, cold light over the crashing waves. His training was complete. It was time to return to the mundane reality of the civilian world.
Hours later, the violent heat of the coastline was entirely hidden away. Sakazuki sat in a small, suffocatingly warm office within his middle school, wearing his perfectly ironed dark uniform. Across the wooden desk sat his career guidance counselor, a balding man who was currently wiping nervous sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
The only sound in the room was the rhythmic, metallic ticking of the wall clock.
The counselor stared down at the single sheet of paper resting on his desk. It was Sakazuki's high school application form. The paper was entirely blank, save for a single, boldly written line in the first-choice slot.
U.A. High School - Hero Course.
"Sakazuki-kun," the counselor began, his voice tight with a mixture of apprehension and forced professional warmth. "I have reviewed your academic records. Your grades are flawless. You could easily secure a recommendation for any top-tier general education or business track in the country." He tapped the paper with his pen. "But this... U.A. is the pinnacle of hero academies. And, well, I must be honest with you."
Sakazuki did not blink. He sat with perfect posture, his dark eyes locked onto the man. "Speak plainly."
The counselor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It is about your quirk, and your... disposition. The hero industry today relies heavily on public relations. The media loves heroes who are approachable. Heroes who smile, who offer comfort, who appear on talk shows and sell merchandise." The man gestured vaguely. "Your power is... highly destructive. And you are a very intense young man. You do not smile. You do not socialize. I worry that a quirk based on magma, paired with your stoic nature, might terrify the public rather than reassure them. It simply does not fit the modern image of a hero."
Sakazuki let the silence stretch for a moment, allowing the counselor's words to hang in the air before he systematically dismantled them.
"With all due respect," Sakazuki's deep voice resonated in the small office, cold and entirely devoid of emotion. "You are confusing a hero with an entertainer. I have zero interest in appearing on talk shows, and I do not care if the public finds my demeanor comforting."
The counselor blinked, taken aback by the sheer, unyielding bluntness of the fourteen-year-old.
"The fundamental purpose of a hero is not to provide a comforting smile," Sakazuki continued, his tone clinical and absolute. "The purpose is deterrence. The criminals who plague this city are not stopped by friendly public relations. They are not deterred by a colorful costume. They are deterred by the absolute certainty that if they break the law, they will be met with an overwhelming, uncompromising force that they cannot possibly defeat. If my presence terrifies them, then I am doing my job correctly. The public will be safe, regardless of whether they find me approachable."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. "I am applying to U.A. I will pass their exam. There is no alternative path."
The sheer gravity of his presence left the counselor entirely speechless. The man simply swallowed hard, nodded weakly, and stamped the form with a trembling hand.
By the time the lunch bell rang, Sakazuki had already moved on from the interaction. He sat alone at a small table in the corner of the busy school cafeteria. Around him, the noise was deafening. Groups of teenagers laughed loudly, showing off minor quirks to one another, boasting about which hero agencies they wanted to intern for in the future.
Sakazuki ignored them completely. He methodically ate his lunch—a large portion of plain chicken breast, rice, and a massive bottle of water—while his eyes remained fixed on the book resting open on the table before him.
The cover read: The Villain Conqueror: The Unseen Reality of the Symbol of Peace.
It was a dense, heavily analytical text, far removed from the colorful comic books and flashy magazines his peers read. The book detailed the lesser-known, tactical reality of All Might's career. The media constantly praised the Number One Hero for his trademark smile and his booming laugh. They claimed his smile brought peace.
Sakazuki found that notion incredibly naive.
As he turned the page, he read the author's analysis. Villains did not cower in the shadows because All Might smiled. They cowered because All Might possessed an absolute, terrifyingly vast power that utterly crushed their ambitions. He did not negotiate with evil; he eradicated it with overwhelming physical force, establishing a rigid, unshakable justice. The smile was merely a byproduct for the cameras; the foundation of the peace was pure, undeniable strength.
That was the reality Sakazuki respected. That was the framework of justice he intended to implement.
As he took another bite of his meal, a quiet buzz vibrated in his pocket. He set down his chopsticks and retrieved his phone. It was a text message from his mother.
The breakfast was delicious. Thank you, Sakazuki. I took my medicine and I am feeling much better today. Focus on your studies. I will see you at the shop later.
Sakazuki read the message twice. The cold, analytical mask that he wore at all times did not break, but a microscopic softening occurred around the edges of his eyes. A subtle release of tension in his shoulders that went entirely unnoticed by the loud, chaotic students surrounding him. She was resting. She was safe for now.
He placed the phone face down on the table and looked out the large cafeteria window. The sky was a clear, piercing blue.
Ten months remained until the U.A. entrance exam. Ten months to refine his control. Ten months to increase his heat, to build his stamina, and to ensure that when he stepped onto that testing ground, he would not just pass. He would dominate.
He closed the book with a solid, definitive thud. The time for preparation was ticking down, and he would not waste a single second.