The Tanaka living room had never seemed so large.
Kenji sat on the couch, his hands resting neatly on his knees, the blue streak in his hair dancing in the afternoon light. Across from him, in the armchair his father usually occupied to read the newspaper, a man watched him with calm intensity.
Lucas Bishop stood a head taller than his father, broad shoulders beneath a simple jacket, and eyes so pale gray they almost looked transparent. His skin was marked with scars — some thin like whip marks, others thicker and uneven. The most striking one cut across the entire left side of his face, crossing his brow and disappearing into his gray hair.
No one had spoken for nearly a minute.
"Are you afraid?" Bishop asked.
His voice sounded exactly as it had on the phone — deep, rough, with an accent that stretched the syllables.
Kenji thought for a moment.
"No," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you're sitting in my father's chair and you haven't touched your tea." He paused. "If you were dangerous, you'd drink it to pretend you're normal."
Bishop blinked. Then a strange sound escaped his throat — something between a cough and a laugh.
"Your son," he said to Akari, who had remained discreetly near the doorway, "is as observant as you said."
Akari smiled.
"He always makes comments like that."
Bishop turned back to Kenji.
"I'm going to tell you a story," he said. "After that, you'll decide whether you want me to teach you something. Alright?"
Kenji nodded.
"I got my Alter at six," Bishop began. "It was in America, in a neighborhood where Alters were either a blessing or a target. At first, no one really knew what mine was."
He extended his hand. Nothing visible happened — but Kenji felt something. A faint vibration, a slight shift in the air, a sudden warmth that was born and died in the man's palm.
"I could absorb the energy of the blows I received. Turn them into strength. Send them back."
Bishop lowered his hand.
"In my neighborhood, that was useful."
He paused.
"At seventeen, I entered a hero academy. At twenty-two, I was a professional. I worked with hundreds of heroes, fought thousands of villains. My Alter evolved — I learned to absorb more forms of energy. Heat. Light. Electricity. Radiation."
He touched the scar on his face.
"And I learned there were things you couldn't absorb."
"What?" Kenji asked.
"Fear," Bishop said. "Other people's pain. The weight of choices."
Silence.
Kenji looked at the scars. All those marks on the man's skin.
"You almost died," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Several times." Bishop didn't look away. "The last time, I absorbed a reactor explosion to save a residential area. I survived, but my body said stop."
He shrugged — a slow, heavy motion.
"So I came to Japan. For peace. For hot springs. To spend the rest of my days looking at mountains."
He looked at Kenji.
"And then your mother called me. She told me about you. About your Alter."
Kenji felt Bishop's gaze resting on him — not judgmental. Something rarer. Recognition.
"I want to see," Bishop said. "What you can do."
Outside, in the garden, Kenji stood facing the man.
Daichi watched them from the kitchen window, his nose pressed against the glass despite Akari's attempts to pull him away. Yuki and Toru weren't there — it was a Wednesday afternoon, and Kenji had promised to tell them everything tomorrow at lunch.
"Focus," Bishop said. "Close your eyes. Tell me what you feel."
Kenji obeyed.
The darkness behind his eyelids wasn't truly dark. For a month now, since the awakening of his Alter, he had trained alone to perceive. At first, he felt nothing — just emptiness. Then, through concentration, faint sensations had appeared. By the time Bishop arrived, he could detect energy within barely half a meter.
Now, after three years of training, the world was filled with invisible presences. Filaments. Waves. Pulsations.
He first felt the warmth of the sun on his skin — a diffuse, gentle caress he could now absorb if he wished. Then the vibrations of the ground beneath his feet — Daichi tapping impatiently in the kitchen. The electricity running through the house's wires, a constant hum. Bishop's breathing — and with it, a denser, more concentrated energy: his Alter, dormant but present.
"Five meters," Kenji said with his eyes closed. "I can feel everything within a five-meter radius. The energies. The flows."
"Show me."
Kenji extended his arm to the left, pointing.
"There's a streetlamp about four meters away. I can feel the current running through it." He turned his hand. "And there, in the flower bed, Yuki left a seed the last time she came. It's starting to sprout. I can feel the energy of growth."
Bishop said nothing. But when Kenji opened his eyes, there was a slight curve at the corner of the man's lips that looked like a smile.
"That's good," he said. "Very good."
He stepped closer and extended his hand.
"Touch me."
Kenji placed his fingers on Bishop's forearm.
Immediately, his perception changed. No longer distant filaments or diffuse presences — it was a torrent. The energy circulating through Bishop's body was massive, contained, ready to be released. Kenji felt his own internal reactor open, drawing in a tiny fraction of that flow.
"You're absorbing," Bishop observed. "Through skin contact. Automatically. But you can control the flow. Stop it. Regulate it."
Kenji pulled his hand back, slightly dizzy.
"It's… strong," he murmured. "You have so much energy inside you."
"Thirty years of accumulation," Bishop said. "I didn't always have time to spend it."
He looked at his own hand.
"That's why I came. Because your Alter resembles mine — but differently. I can absorb and release. You can absorb, convert, and amplify."
He leaned slightly closer.
"Do you know what that means?"
Kenji shook his head.
"It means you're not limited by what you absorb. If I absorb electricity, I can only release electricity. You…" He paused. "You'll be able to turn a punch into a laser beam. Turn an explosion into a shield. Turn light into speed. And you can amplify energy before releasing it. A little electricity can become a massive discharge if you concentrate it."
Bishop's words echoed in the garden's silence.
Kenji looked at his hands.
"I don't know how to do that," he said.
"No one does at first." Bishop placed a heavy but not painful hand on his shoulder. "But we'll learn together."
Three years passed.
Kenji is ten years old now.
He had grown a few centimeters taller. His hair remained black — the blue streak now lasted only a few hours after absorption, proof that his body was learning to metabolize faster. His eyes still held the same calm depth as when he was seven, but now there was something new in them. Confidence. Certainty.
Elementary school was coming to an end. Next year would be middle school. Kenji thought about it sometimes, between lessons with Bishop and chases with his friends.
Yuki Watanabe was still there, with her twin ponytails and her flowers. Her Alter had evolved — she could now make seeds sprout in seconds and partially control plant growth. Her pencil case had become a portable jungle, stems sticking out everywhere.
"My mom says I should stop," she told Kenji during recess. "She says I'm going to end up growing a tree inside my locker."
"So what?" Kenji said. "A tree in a locker is original."
Yuki laughed. "You're weird, Tanaka."
"You've told me that before."
Toru Hagakure had gained better control over her two abilities. She could activate and deactivate her invisibility at will, and her force fields were strong enough to stop a soccer ball at full speed — which happened often, thanks to Kenta running everywhere.
"Look," she said one day at lunch.
She raised her hand, and the air above her palm folded in on itself, thickened, almost solidified. A small translucent sphere floated for a moment, then vanished.
"I can make them bigger too," she said proudly. "But it tires me out more."
Yuki applauded. Kenji nodded, impressed.
Kenta Aoki was still as fast and just as clumsy. His Alter, Turbo, allowed him to run at impressive speeds, but his braking remained disastrous. He collected bruises with almost masochistic pride.
"Heroes don't cry!" he would declare, getting up with a scraped knee.
"You're crying," Toru said.
"I'm not crying, I… I've got something in my eye."
"In both eyes?"
"…Yes."
They were still inseparable.
When Mrs. Fujimura assigned group projects, they automatically ended up together. When one of them had a problem, the others were there.
"You guys are weird," other students would say.
"We know," Toru would reply. "That's why we're together."
Daichi, now thirteen, had entered middle school.
His Alter, Sound Impact, had developed under Yamada Kenjiro's guidance. He could now project shockwaves several meters away and was working on more precise techniques — targeted vibrations, controlled pulses.
"Your brother's not bad," Bishop would tell Kenji. "He's got power. He just needs patience."
Kenji knew he was right.
One evening, Daichi entered Kenji's room without knocking, as usual, and sat on the bed.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"About what?"
"About us. Our Alters." He fiddled with the blanket. "You've got an Alter that can do everything. I've got noise and impacts."
Kenji waited.
"But maybe… I don't need to be like you." He looked up. "Maybe I just need to be good at what I do."
"That's smart," Kenji said.
"You don't have to sound surprised."
"I'm not. I'm… glad."
Daichi stared at him.
"You're really weird, Kenji."
"You've told me."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"Bishop's good for you?" Daichi asked.
Kenji nodded.
"He teaches me things. Not just about my Alter. About what it means to have power."
Daichi nodded.
"Yamada does too."
He left.
Kenji watched him go.
He's less useless than he thinks, he wrote in his notebook. And maybe I am too.
Lessons with Bishop continued three times a week.
Kenji's perception now extended five meters — an invisible bubble in which he could sense every vibration and flow. He could cross a room with his eyes closed without hitting furniture.
"You can absorb, convert, and amplify separately," Bishop said one afternoon. "Now you'll combine all three without storing the energy first."
He placed a small battery on the garden table.
"Absorb it. Amplify it before releasing it."
Kenji did.
A spark burst from his hand — brighter than it should have been.
"Good. Now convert it into heat."
Absorption. Amplification. Conversion.
A wave of warmth left his palm.
"Amplification is what makes you unique," Bishop said. "You can take something small and make it big."
Kenji wrote in his notebook that night:
Amplification possible on all absorbed energy. Current factor: 1.5 to 2 (estimate). To improve.
Later, on his computer, Superpower Wiki became his digital bedside book. He read about fictional characters who could absorb cosmic energy, dimensional energy, even concepts.
I'm just starting, he thought.
One Saturday, Bishop brought a briefcase.
"A test," he said.
Inside were batteries, a halogen lamp, a small heater, and a device with electrodes.
Kenji spent the afternoon absorbing and releasing.
At the end, Bishop looked at him seriously.
"Your efficiency is excellent. Nearly 70%. Your amplification is still low — maybe 1.5 to 2 — but it will grow."
Kenji felt proud.
"Your storage capacity will increase with your physical strength. If you keep training, you could store the equivalent of several power plants."
Kenji's eyes widened.
"Several?"
"It's a goal," Bishop said. "Not a promise."
That night, Kenji opened his notebook.
Ten years old.
Perception: 5 meters (start: 0.5m after one month alone).
Skin-contact absorption mastered.
Conversion into three basic forms.
Amplification factor 1.5–2.
Efficiency 70%.
Storage linked to physical strength, increasing.
Objective:
1. Mastery of Alter (partial, in progress)
2. Physical conditioning (started)
3. Increase storage capacity (equivalent of at least three power plants)
Bishop says I have potential. I see the pride in Mom and Dad's eyes every time I show them my progress.
He paused.
I don't know yet what I want to become. But I know I have time to figure it out.
He closed the notebook.
Outside, the city hummed with energy.
And the future promised to be interesting.