Chapter Two – No Time for Fear in This Manga
A minute.
Then two.
Finally, after many attempts to calm himself—attempts that consisted mostly of rocking back and forth on the edge of the dirty bed while taking deep, shuddering breaths that tasted of dust and decay—(Tokito) managed to settle a little.
The initial tsunami of panic had receded, leaving behind a stagnant, brackish pool of numb shock in its wake.
He sat on the filthy bed, the worn springs groaning a soft, tired complaint under his negligible weight.
Sproing. Creak.
He stared into the empty space in front of him, his new, unnaturally red eyes unfocused, as if he were trying to find a solution to this bizarre situation written in the patterns of grime on the opposite wall.
The facts, cold and hard as river stones, lined up in his mind.
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I have found myself in another world.
The sentence echoed with a hollow finality.
And this world is the world of the manga I was reading.
The confirmation was in the aesthetic of the peeling paint, in the specific, slightly-off angle of the buildings outside the window, in the very quality of the air. It felt drawn, somehow. Insufficiently detailed.
And worse than that…
He let out a breath that was more of a deflation.
…I am now in a character who didn't appear in the manga.
The memories he'd assimilated held no fame, no notoriety. Just the quiet, colorless hum of an extra, a background figure meant to fill a classroom seat or a crowd scene before being forgotten by the reader's eye.
Yet, the ability I must rely on to stay alive in this dangerous place…
A bitter, hysterical laugh threatened to choke him. He swallowed it down, the sound a painful gulp.
…is just cloud formation.
He lifted his pale hands, turning them over in a thin sliver of sunlight that cut through the dust like a dull blade.
"Is this the ability that world-transfers are supposed to get?" he whispered to the empty room, his voice tinged with a sarcasm so thick it could curdle milk.
"Where is the promised system? Where are the awesome cheat abilities? Where are those powers that let the protagonist win just in the first two chapters of the novel?"
He gestured vaguely with one hand, as if summoning a holographic status screen that refused to appear.
Swish.
Nothing.
Just the faint smell of mildew.
"Why am I the only one who got such a stupid, idiotic ability?"
The question wasn't meant for an answer. It was a lament, a curse spat at the uncaring narrative mechanics of the universe.
He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to drain what little energy he had left.
His shoulders slumped further, making the thin fabric of his t-shirt bunch up.
Rustle.
After that, he looked at his hands again, a morbid fascination taking hold.
Maybe… maybe he'd missed something. Maybe there was a hidden depth, a secret technique buried in the memories.
He tried forming some clouds.
He focused, feeling that peculiar, staticky tingle gather in his palms—a sensation like soda fizz under his skin.
Poof. Poof.
Two small, perfectly circular clouds, each no larger than a saucer, materialized above his open palms.
They were fluffy, white, and undeniably cute in a vapid, useless way. They bobbed gently in the still air, a faint cool moisture emanating from them, condensing slightly on his skin.
He stared at them, the pathetic fruits of his labor.
Even after all this talk, even now, the ability to form a small, circular cloud was not the ability that was going to save him from this dangerous world.
With a grimace, he willed the clouds to disperse. They shimmered and dissolved into a faint, damp mist that vanished before it could even hit the floor.
Fssst.
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For (Tokito), the pressing issue now was to think about what this world he had transferred into actually was.
The memories supplied the name, dripping with a false, promotional sheen.
This world is called International Hero Academy.
The story… ah, the story.
He leaned back, the bedframe giving a sharp, metallic screech of protest.
It talks about numerous organizations and a world of super-powered heroes.
On the surface, it was the standard shonen fare he'd consumed by the volume. But the memories from (Tokito Kaito), who had lived here, who had watched the news and heard the whispers, painted a far grimmer picture.
In this world, there are many people who work for the state under the profession of 'superhero,' fighting crime.
And just as there are superheroes, there are super villains.
And these villains aren't afraid to use their powers to hurt innocent people.
The memory-flashes were not of epic, stylized battles, but of shaky news footage: collapsed buildings with real-looking dust plumes, crowded streets in panic, somber voiceovers listing civilian casualties.
A cold finger traced a path down his spine.
And of course, there are many characters who die in this manga.
This was the crucial point, the one that made his new, fragile stomach clench.
This is what makes (Tokito) feel terror about transferring into it.
He hugged his knees to his chest, a defensive, childlike posture that felt instinctively right for this frail new body.
Creak.
Because, unlike other shonen manga where killing is at its minimum, in this world, which is the world of a manga, killing was the essence of everything in this brutal work.
Death wasn't a narrative spice here; it was the main ingredient. It was cheap, frequent, and often shockingly casual. Side characters, minor heroes, even named antagonists could be snuffed out with brutal efficiency to prove a point, to raise stakes, to clear the board.
For (Tokito), this wasn't the worst thing.
He let out another humorless puff of air, watching it vanish in the dusty light.
No, the worst thing…
The memories provided the information with cruel clarity.
…is that the age of this person I transferred into is 16 years old.
He was a teenager. A kid. With a kid's body, a kid's voice, and now, apparently, a kid's impending doom.
This means he is about to enroll in the International Hero Academy.
The name sounded so grand, so full of promise. A place of training, of growth, of colorful costumes and budding camaraderie.
But the memories corroded that image instantly.
This place, which is one of the zones where the new generation is trained to become heroes…
He clenched his fists, the knuckles white against his pale skin.
…is a meat grinder.
(Tokito) had read the story. He knew the truth.
These places aren't only for training new heroes.
The real purpose, the one buried under layers of propaganda and patriotic music, was far darker.
They also serve to send weak people who don't possess good abilities to their end. Simply.
The sentence landed with the weight of a tombstone.
Japan and the rest of the countries had established a special law that sends teenagers who are 16 years old into these academies.
It was mandatory. A societal sorting hat with lethal consequences.
And unlike those academies that could teach you ways to survive, this academy, simply put, operates on a system of ability.
The memories conjured images not of supportive teachers, but of cold evaluation rooms, of ranked scoreboards posted publicly, of students watching each other with the wary, desperate eyes of potential rivals.
This means every person must act by themselves and master their ability and become useful…
Useful. The word tasted like ash.
…or they will die in a fight against a villain, or even just against a regular gang member.
Anyone can die, even if they possess a strong ability, because this academy cares more about the value of personal abilities and not about cooperative abilities.
It was pure, social Darwinism dressed up in a spandex uniform. Every student for themselves. Your worth was your power's direct combat applicability. Support? Rescue? Non-violent applications? They were marks of weakness, paths to being culled.
Even most of the famous heroes who are promoted in the manga are, in truth, people who use their abilities for their personal interests.
The illusion shattered completely. These weren't selfless paragons. They were celebrities, brand ambassadors, powerful individuals leveraging their status for wealth, fame, and influence.
Most of them might not fight villains except once a month or once a year, depending on their personal mood.
A shiver, cold and deep, racked his slender frame.
"This is very bad," he muttered, his voice barely audible.
The silence of the room seemed to press in, agreeing with him.
"I must not drink the fear in this manga, because that might kill me."
(Tokito) commanded himself in a low voice, the words a shaky mantra against the rising tide of dread.
It was a bizarre, awkward phrasing from the translated memories—'drink the fear'—but the meaning was chillingly clear: succumb to terror, and you're dead.
After that, he decided to focus on the positive situation.
He forced his brain to switch gears, to look for loopholes, for any scrap of hope in this landfill of bad news.
Think. Plan. Strategize.
They will certainly send the academy entrance letter soon.
The thought was like a key clicking in a lock.
He clung to it.
I have to find a way to not enter that place.
The logic was impeccable. The academy was death. His power was a joke. Ergo, avoid the academy.
"With an ability that is just forming clouds," he said aloud, the words echoing his internal certainty, "I will die on the first days inside that academy."
The image was clear: him, in some generic training yard, puffing out a sad little cumulus while a classmate with laser eyes or super-strength casually turned him into a red smear on the pavement.
Squelch. His imagination provided the sound effect unhelpfully.
He nodded to himself, a plan forming in the desperate sludge of his mind. He just needed time. The original owner had only just turned 16 a few weeks ago. There had to be a window, a processing period. He could run. Disappear. Become a hikikomori in this very apartment, living off instant noodles until the heat died down. Anything was better than walking into that deathtrap.
Of course, fate does not agree with my ideas.
The thought had barely finished forming when the sound came.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp, authoritative raps on the thin apartment door.
The sound was like a gunshot in the silent room.
(Tokito) jolted as if electrified, his heart leaping into his throat and hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
"Who is this?" he breathed, his mind racing through the stolen memories.
"I don't remember the body's owner having friends. It seems he was lonely. He was even bullied because his ability is very weak—it's just forming clouds."
He interrogated the memories, the specific ones he had obtained from the body's original owner, sifting through them with frantic speed.
He found no one. No friendly faces, no family visits, no acquaintances who would drop by. The memory of the door opening was almost exclusively for delivery men and landlords.
Therefore, he reached a conclusion quickly.
His blood ran cold.
"Could it be a criminal? Is someone trying to steal something from this apartment?"
The thought was almost laughable, but fear wasn't logical.
"But what could possibly be in this apartment worth anyone trying to steal it?"
Driven by a nervous impulse, (Tokito) scanned his apartment—this apartment—with fresh, paranoid eyes.
He found that there was nothing in it of value worth stealing.
The television was just a small, old-fashioned square box, its screen dark and dusty. It wasn't worth anyone, even a crazy person, stealing it. A rusty hotplate. A chipped mug. Stacks of outdated magazines. This wasn't a home; it was a collection of debris.
"Then what is knocking?"
While he was thinking, the person behind the door knocked for the second time.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Louder this time. More impatient.
(Tokito) didn't move a muscle. He held his breath, becoming a statue on the dirty bed, hoping with every fiber of his being that the person would just go away.
The silence stretched, taut and fragile.
Then, he heard the third knock, followed immediately by the sound of something being set down with a soft thud on the floor outside.
After that, a male voice, which sounded like it belonged to a man in his twenties, grumbled, "Damn it. Seems like no one's home."
The man behind the door had reached this conclusion.
(Tokito) nearly wept with relief. It was just a delivery guy. A postal worker. Not a villain, not a recruiter, not death incarnate.
"I'll just leave this box here. Even if it gets stolen, I've done my duty and delivered the parcel."
Without any more concern than that, the mailman left his parcel behind the door and left immediately to go and deliver his other packages.
The sound of receding footsteps, heavy and brisk, echoed down the hallway outside before fading away.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp… silence.
Behind the door, (Tokito) had managed to hear the man's voice, even though it was at a low volume, but he understood what he was saying.
He let out the breath he'd been holding in a long, shaky sigh that seemed to originate from the soles of his feet.
The tension drained from his body, leaving him feeling boneless and weak.
"So it was just a mail run," he murmured, wiping a thin sheen of cold sweat from his forehead.
He waited another full minute, listening to the absolute quiet, before he dared to move.
Creak.
He went to the door, his bare feet making soft shuffling sounds on the gritty floor.
He leaned in, his eye aligning with the tiny, fisheye peephole in the door—the security hole.
The world outside warped into a distorted, grayish tunnel. An empty hallway. No monsters, no men in black suits.
He unlocked the door, the mechanism letting out a series of loud, metallic clicks and clunks that sounded deafening in the silence.
Click-clack. Thunk.
He opened the door for a second, just a crack, the chain lock still engaged.
A sliver of brighter hallway light cut into the dim apartment.
Squeak.
He peered out, then down.
There it was. A small, rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper, sitting forlornly on the dusty welcome mat (which wasn't welcome to anyone).
In one swift, panicked motion, he slipped his hand through the gap, snatched the box, and pulled it inside, closing and relocking the door in a frantic, fluid series of movements.
Snatch. Thud. Click-clack-clunk. Sigh.
He was back in the safety of his filthy sanctuary, the uninvited package held in his trembling hands.
He walked back to the bed and sat down, the mattress groaning again in weary recognition.
Sproing.
He looked at the parcel.
It was lighter than he expected, but it felt heavy with portent.
After a few counted seconds, he let out a sigh.
This wasn't a sigh of relief. It was the sound of hope dying, of doors slamming shut, of futures narrowing to a single, grim path.
"Damn it," he whispered.
Then, with fingers that felt clumsy and numb, he tore the brown paper wrapping.
Riiiiip.
Beneath it was a box of cheap, white cardboard. He pried the lid open.
Creeak.
Inside, folded with crisp, institutional precision, lay a uniform. A sleek, modern tracksuit-style outfit in a dark navy blue, with subtle silver piping along the seams. An emblem was stitched over the left breast: a stylized globe intertwined with a lightning bolt—the logo of the International Hero Academy.
Beneath the uniform was a single sheet of thick, official-looking paper.
ADMISSION NOTICE & MANDATED ENROLLMENT ORDER
For: (Tokito Kaito)
Report to: International Hero Academy – East Tokyo Satellite Campus
Reporting Date: 7 Days From Receipt of This Notice
Failure to Comply Will Result in Judicial Apprehension and Mandatory Conscription.
The words blurred before his red eyes. The formal language couldn't disguise the threat.
"I hoped that if I had some time, especially since the original body's owner just turned 16 a few weeks ago… I thought I could use that time and get away from this place by any means, so I could avoid entering the academy."
His plan, his beautiful, desperate plan of escape and obscurity, lay in tatters at his feet, shredded as effectively as the brown wrapping paper.
"But after sending this parcel, this means the academy knows his location and all his information. In addition, they have approved his entry."
There was no mistake, no administrative error. They knew about the white-haired, red-eyed boy with the cloud power. And they wanted him.
A cold, hard certainty settled in his gut, heavier than lead.
He let the notice fall from his fingers. It fluttered down to land on the dirty bedspread, a stark white island in a gray sea.
Flutter. Pat.
He stared at the uniform, the symbol of a system designed to chew up the weak and spit out the useful.
His hands, those pale, cloud-making hands, clenched into futile fists on his knees.
"Damn it," he said again, his voice flat and hollow, all the earlier panic burned away into a cold, ashen despair.
"There is no room for escape anymore."
The words were a final verdict.
"I am trapped."
The silence of the small, dirty apartment closed in around him, no longer a sanctuary, but a holding cell. The countdown of seven days had begun, its ticking audible only in the frantic, terrified pounding of his own heart.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
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End of Chapter.
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Author's Note:
Thank you for enduring the relentless descent of(Tokito)'s new reality with him. Your readership is a small, fluffy cloud of hope in this grim narrative sky. ❤️ :)
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