Six months had dissolved into the sterile silence of the laboratory since the girl had vanished. In the world above, the authorities were paralyzed; organized rescue teams combed the forest, their efforts hampered by inexplicable bureaucratic delays and "missed" leads—all orchestrated by the subtle hand of Dr. Garaki. Time, the most vital currency in a search operation, had been bled dry. The girl's parents remained trapped in a cycle of mourning, never suspecting that the truth lay beneath the very hospital that promised to heal.
To ensure Taiko remained untainted by the "weakness" of compassion, Kyudai had moved the boy into a dedicated laboratory wing. It was a containment measure as much as an educational one. The scientist remained convinced that the incident at the Great Tree was a spontaneous, destructive awakening—a power that, if left uncontrolled, could expose their sanctuary.
Kyudai sat at his terminal, his iconic mustache twitching as he reviewed his logs.
«Living within four walls doesn't seem to faze him,» — Garaki noted in his private log.
«No emotional instability. He doesn't cry like a normal child. The girl's death inspired only a detached, clinical curiosity. I must keep pushing him toward the Dark Triad. I still don't understand the nature of his quirk. No matter how much research I do, no matter how many blood samples I take, I can't figure it out. He definitely awakened something in the tree back then. It was some kind of energetic push that led to the destruction of the tree trunk and, as a consequence, its fall. Weeks of observation, and yet the Quirk remains dormant. No physical fluctuations. The reinforced concrete walls are intact. He reads, he draws, he writes. But the passive approach has reached its limit. We must change the stimulus.»
— Father, I'm hungry, — Taiko's voice crackled through the intercom, flat and calm.
— I will be there shortly, — Garaki replied.
Taiko was not a prisoner in the traditional sense. He was allowed to roam the empty, echoing halls of the underground complex. He treated the environment like a macabre playground, jumping over crates of medical supplies and occasionally lying still on an operating table, staring at the shadows on the ceiling.
Sometimes, his father brought him snow-white rats in cages. Initially, Taiko's eyes had softened at the sight of the scurrying creatures, a flicker of childish wonder surfacing. But Garaki had systematically dismantled that instinct. He didn't just tell Taiko the rats were dangerous; he showed him. He presented high-resolution medical archives of bubonic plague victims, detailed the mechanics of viral transmission, and spoke of the 14th-century Black Death as if it were a tactical failure of humanity.
To Taiko, the rats were no longer pets. They were biological pests, efficient machines for breeding death and devouring resources. And since his isolation left him with an excess of restless energy, he took up the only hobby available to him under the Doctor's tutelage: dissection.
Under the cold glare of the surgical lamps, Taiko held his first scalpel. Garaki stood over him, insisting on absolute sterility.
— Father, remember you said there are no rules? That they are only constructs in our heads? — Taiko asked, his small hand steady as he adjusted his mask.
— That is correct, — Garaki replied, his goggles reflecting the boy's emerald eyes.
— Then why must I follow these? Why the mask? Why the scrub?
— A man of reason does not deny rules, Taiko—he weaponizes them. He adapts to them to survive. You follow these protocols so that the filth of this creature does not rot your own blood. Even science has fundamental laws; to ignore them is to invite a fatal outcome. It is the same with society.
Taiko nodded, the logic sinking into his mind like ink on parchment.
— There is another layer, — the Doctor continued, watching Taiko make a precise incision. — If you were truly powerful, even the fundamental laws would bend to your will. Not just the laws of science, but the laws of men. — He watched a drop of rat blood splash onto Taiko's mask. — Only a handful of people on this planet are capable of such a feat. You are fortunate to be in the shadow of one of them.
Taiko didn't answer. His eyes sparked with an intense, focused light as he carefully removed the rat's heart and placed it in a steel tray.
Garaki smiled. It had been nearly a century since a simple dissection had felt this rewarding. — Almost an eternity... — he muttered.
— What was that?
— Nothing. Let us go to lunch. And do not forget to wash your hands.
Later, standing on a chair to reach the sink, Taiko looked into the mirror. Jet-black hair, a dusting of freckles, and eyes like cold emeralds. He knew something had happened in the forest. His "Father" called it a destructive Quirk, but Taiko felt something else—a warmth. Today, the Doctor had promised a new method to activate it.
That night, the nightmare claimed him.
He stood upon blackened, scorched earth. An endless procession of grotesque, disproportionate giants marched toward the horizon. Each step they took crushed skulls into the dirt with the sound of breaking porcelain. The sky was a bruised red, torn by lightning that illuminated a mass of tentacles writhing in the clouds.
One step... two... three...
The ground began to fracture. Taiko woke with a violent cramp, gasping for air. His bedding was soaked with sweat. The room was dark, save for the hum of a fan and the dim glow of a night lamp. In their cages, even the rats were eerily silent.
He forced himself to get up. Garaki had no patience for weakness, so Taiko had learned to handle his own hygiene and basic needs. As he walked toward the bathroom, the shadows seemed to pulse. For a moment, he saw a devil in the corner, its horns sharp and jagged.
He froze, his heart hammering. But as he stood his ground, the fear began to recede, replaced by a cold realization. He walked toward the "devil," only to see it dissolve into the silhouette of a coat rack.
— "Fear is just a hypertrophy of the mind," — he thought, his breathing leveling out. — "A prototype we build to scare ourselves. Psychology is a strange science." — With that clinical thought, he returned to his cell—a room with heavy steel bars that Dr. Ujiko had simply "opened" for him. Taiko wondered, not for the first time, what kind of monster those bars were originally built to hold.
The next day, the air was cool and drizzling. They exited through a hidden hatch into a rocky, forested ridge overlooking Jaku City.
— Sometimes even I grow weary of the dust in the lab, — Garaki remarked, staring at the horizon.
They stood near a concealed entrance. The Doctor turned to him, his voice echoing with a share of irony. — Do not come back until the Quirk has awakened. Success or failure—both are results. But do not return empty-handed.
— I don't need a hint, — Taiko replied, his pride stinging.
Garaki chuckled. — Self-confidence can be a virtue, Taiko, or a sin. Be careful. Do not wander too far.
Taiko watched him disappear back into the earth. He found a secluded spot, spread a bed of fallen leaves, and sat down.
— "What is a Quirk?" — he mused, exhaling a plume of steam into the morning air. — "It is an internal tool. A concentration of energy. And I am the vessel."
He lay back and closed his eyes, filtering out the croaking of crows and the rustle of the wind. He sank deep into himself.
Just before he drifted off, a surge of warmth blossomed in the center of his back.
When he opened his eyes, only minutes had passed, but the world was different. The moon was still visible, a strange, blood-red disc hanging in the sky. He stretched his arms, feeling a strange weight behind his shoulders.
He turned his head. His eyes widened.
Towering above him were wings—massive, unreal, black-feathered wings that looked like they belonged to a creature from the Jurassic era.
— What is this... — he whispered. He moved his shoulder, and the feathers rustled, brushing against the bark of a nearby tree. He pinched his arm, hard. The pain was sharp. This was no dream.
The fear he had felt in the lab transformed into a soaring curiosity. He began to stretch the wings, testing their five-meter span. They were awkward on the ground, getting snagged on branches, making his small frame feel clumsy.
He looked toward the cliff edge. — "If I can't walk with them, maybe I can fly."
It was a terrifying thought for a child who had spent his life on solid ground. He squeezed through the brush, his wings tucked tight, and reached the rocky precipice.
— Phew...
He didn't try to fly at first. He simply jumped, aiming to glide. The wings caught the air instantly, slowing his descent to a gentle float. He landed a few meters down, his heart racing with exhilaration.
He did it again. And again. Each leap was more confident. Finally, he caught an upward draft and began to soar. He looked down at his hands—the warmth was spreading from his back to his fingertips. He felt like a miracle worker, a god of the sky.
But as he reached the peak of his ascent, high above the clouds where the sun blinded him and the cold bit into his bones, the power flickered.
The wings began to dissolve into black dust.
— No. No-no-no! — Taiko clawed at the air, trying to grab the evaporating feathers. The jacket he wore tore as the appendages vanished completely.
The warmth died out. He began to fall.
The city of Jaku rushed up to meet him. Two kilometers of empty air. The wind screamed in his ears, preventing him from concentrating. He saw his short, clinical life flash before his eyes. A moment before he hit the asphalt—before he was smeared across the pavement like one of his dissected rats—his eyes flew open.
Taiko lay on the forest floor, his chest heaving. The silence of the thicket was absolute. The "flight" had been a lucid dream—a psychic projection of his awakening power. His hands were shaking from the phantom shock of the fall.
He sat up and, for the first time in months, he started to cry. The disappointment was a physical weight in his chest.
He stood up and ran toward the hatch, reaching for the steel lever. But as his fingers touched the cold metal, he stopped.
He was ashamed. To return without "success" felt like a betrayal of the perfection Garaki demanded. But the thought of staying in the woods was worse. Through his tears, a new resolve hardened. He would come back every day. He would prove to the forest, to the birds, and to his Father that he was worthy.
When he finally returned, Kyudai was not thrilled. The training had lasted only a few hours. The Doctor had expected some grand biological breakthrough, perhaps a mutation he could stabilize with drugs, but the reality was far more elusive.
Seeing Taiko's apathetic silence, the scientist decided not to press him. But he was worried. Taiko was his prize creation, his intended heir, but the boy's progress was erratic.
— "Whatever Taiko is planning, I should leave him to his own devices for a while," — Garaki thought. — "I need to check the other clones in the shelters. I cannot put all my eggs in one basket."
He picked up his phone and dialed a familiar number. It was answered on the first ring.
— ...
— Mr. Ujiko, you are just in time. Sensei will be with you shortly.
— I understand. After my audience with Sensei, I have a task for you. I will be away visiting the shelters. I need you to stay with Taiko. Look after him for an indefinite period.
— Oh? That's wonderful. No problem at all, — the voice of the loyal subordinate crackled with cheer. — I'll make sure nothing happens to the boy.