Chapter 2: Tiny Hands, Big Explosions
The next morning, I woke up before sunrise. My tiny eyes snapped open, my body already twitching with energy. Even at four years old, sleep felt like a waste of time. Every second counts.
I glanced at my reflection. Four-year-old me stared back—small, scrawny, but with the same fire in my eyes. That fire didn't care about size or age. It didn't care about anyone's doubts. It was mine.I padded to my little training area in the backyard. Yesterday's explosion practice had left a crater, and dirt clung to my tiny shoes. Perfect. Real terrain to test my new moves.
I clenched my fists and let my Quirk flare. Sparks crackled, then BOOM—a perfect, controlled explosion. Smaller than yesterday, but precise. I took a step back, studying the dirt and rocks I'd moved.
"You need control," I muttered to myself. "Power without control is useless. Useless."
I began running through the motions in my head. Compression… ignition… blast… retreat. Every detail I'd learned as a teenager came rushing back. But now I had something I'd never had before: time.
Time to master every move before anyone else could even touch me.
I experimented with angles. Low, high, straight, diagonal—tiny explosions, big ones, short bursts, extended blasts. The sandbox became a battlefield of my creation. Each blast taught me something new.
"Hmm…" I murmured, crouching to analyze the craters. "If I combine rapid small bursts with a single massive blast… perfect range and destruction."
I tried it. Sparks flared like lightning, then a thunderous BOOM erupted, sending sand, dirt, and rocks flying in a perfect arc. My small chest puffed with pride. That's it. That's the one.
By midday, Mom called me inside. She thought I was just playing. Ha. Playing? This was research, training, evolution. I didn't respond. Explosions, calculations, perfecting angles… nothing could interrupt me.The neighborhood kids dared to come back, tossing a ball into my sandbox. They laughed, thinking it would distract me. I barely looked at them. A small burst sent the ball flying over the fence. They screamed and ran. Again. Pathetic.
After lunch—which I mostly ignored—I focused on movement. Explosions are useless if you can't dodge attacks. So I sprinted, jumped, rolled, dodged imaginary opponents, all while using small bursts of my Quirk to boost my speed.
Even at four years old, I could feel the difference. Tiny sparks propelling me forward, explosive kicks off walls, rapid repositioning… I was faster, sharper, more lethal than my teenage self at the same age.
"I'll never lose," I whispered. My reflection in the puddle showed determination burned into every tiny muscle. "Not to anyone. Not Deku, not Todoroki… no one."
By evening, my little arms ached and my legs trembled, but my mind was already calculating tomorrow's training. Obstacles, precision targets, endurance drills, combined techniques… the list was endless.I looked up at the sky as the sun dipped low. Sparks flickered faintly in my hands, like embers of the fire that refused to die.
"Four years old… and already better than I should be," I muttered with a grin. "Just wait. By the time UA starts… no one will touch me. I'll be the strongest hero ever. And it all starts now."
Tomorrow, I decided, I would start learning combos—small explosions into long-range blasts, aerial maneuvers, perfect accuracy strikes. By the end of the week, I would have my own signature technique perfected before even starting school.Because even as a four-year-old, I already knew one thing: age doesn't matter. Power does. And Kacchan will have all of it.