The morning after that kitchen conversation with my Dad, I woke up with a strange knot in my stomach. Not fear—I knew fear intimately, I had swallowed it like bread in my first life. This was something else. Anticipation, maybe. Or the heavy weight of a promise I hadn't quite figured out how to keep with my father.
Kenji was already at the table when I shuffled out of my deep thoughts and into the kitchen after washing up, rubbing my eyes. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a crumpled newspaper in the other, but he set them both down the moment he saw me.
"Morning," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Eat fast. We're going to the park."
I blinked. "The park?" I had never been to the park due to my constant protective nature regarding going outside alone, it was a new experience for me.
"You need to move. Test that thing, or form, you did last night. See how long you can hold it." He stood, grabbing his worn jacket from the hook by the door. "Don't tell your mother, Betta. She'll worry."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat. This was the first time my father had initiated anything with me—no demands, no disappointment, just a simple plan. I nodded, shoved a sandwich pre made from my Mom into my mouth, and followed him out the door before she could wake up.
---
The park was a small, neglected patch of grass two blocks from our apartment in Musutafu, in Tokyo. The swings were rusted, the slide had a crack down the middle, and the sandbox was more weeds than sand. But it was empty at 6 AM, the morning sun just peeking over the buildings, casting long shadows across the ground.
Kenji stopped in the middle of the field and turned to face me. "Alright. Show me."
I hesitated, glancing around. No one was watching. Just my father, arms crossed, waiting imminently.
I closed my eyes and reached for that drumbeat—the rhythm that pulsed somewhere behind my ribs. It came easier this time, like a muscle I'd already started to stretch. I focused on the warmth, on the memory of last night's transformation, and I pushed.
The change washed over me in waves. My skin loosened, my limbs elongated, and that familiar euphoria flooded my veins. When I opened my eyes, I felt taller—not by much, but enough that the world looked slightly different. I caught my reflection in the murky puddle nearby: white hair, cloud-like frills around my neck, eyes that glowed with an almost mischievous light.
I looked like a cartoon character. A tiny, rubbery god of chaos.
Kenji's breath caught. For a long moment, he just stared, his face unreadable. Then he let out a low whistle. "Damn. You really did it. It's incredible."
I grinned—a wide, toothy grin that felt natural in this form. "Yeah. I did."
"Can you move? Run? Jump?"
I tried. I took a step, then another. My legs felt springy, like they had extra bounce. I broke into a clumsy jog, and within seconds I was zipping across the grass, my feet barely touching the ground. I laughed—a high-pitched, melodic laugh that echoed off the empty swings, just having the time of my life.
But then, after maybe two minutes, my chest tightened. The drumbeat faltered, and my body snapped back to normal, leaving me sprawled on the grass, gasping for air, my tongue out and out of complete breath.
Kenji walked over, his brow furrowed. "That's it? Two minutes?"
I wheezed, clutching my chest like I was on the verge of a heart attack. "I… I can't hold it… long…"
He knelt down, studying me with those sharp, assessing eyes. "You're winded like you ran a marathon. But you barely moved." He paused, rubbing his chin. "This quirk—it burns through your stamina like crazy. You need to build that up. Endurance. Lung capacity. Muscle memory. We need to train your body to take this form into a different level."
I nodded, still panting and out of breath. It made sense. In my first life, I'd been weak, malnourished, barely able to climb a flight of stairs without resting. This body was healthier, but it was still three years old—a toddler's lungs and heart trying to power a god's ability like it was nothing.
"From now on," Kenji said, his voice taking on a commanding edge, "we train every morning. You run, you stretch, you hold that form as long as you can. And you don't stop until you collapse or even get near to death. Got it?" My father looked expectantly at me, his hope had transferred all to me ever since he saw my quirk, diminishing my sisters quirks. It was harsh, but I understood it completely.
I looked up at him, sweat dripping into my eyes. He wasn't smiling, but there was something in his posture—a stiffness, a determination—that I hadn't seen before. He believed in me. Not in the way Betta did, with unconditional warmth, but in a harder, more practical way. He believed I could be strongest of this world, and he was willing to push me there.
"Got it," I said, and meant it in every way, whilst still panting heavily.
---
That was the beginning of our routine. Every morning at 5:30, before the sun fully rose, Kenji, my father, would drag me out of bed and into that sad little park. We'd start with laps—running around the field until my legs felt like jelly. Then he'd have me transform, hold the Nika form for as long as possible, and try to do basic movements: stretches, light punches, even just standing still without collapsing.
At first, I couldn't manage more than a few seconds of activity before I reverted. My record for holding the form while stationary was three minutes. Moving cut that in half. By the end of the first week, I'd collapsed so many times that I'd lost count.
But Kenji never let me quit. He'd stand over me, arms crossed, his voice flat but relentless. "Get up. Again. You're not done yet. This family has been known to provide quirks consistently, and you stand above them all in terms of potential. You aren't going until I know you gave it your all."
And I'd drag myself up, transform again, and push through the burning in my lungs.
Betta found out, of course. She was too observant not to notice my scraped knees, my exhaustion, the way I'd fall asleep at the dinner table. One evening, after Kenji had left for his night shift, she sat me down in the kitchen, her hands cupping my face.
"Suon, honey… what are you and your father doing every morning?" She looked at me with the most caring eyes I had ever seen, it almost hypnotised me.
I hesitated. I didn't want to lie to her, but I also didn't want to worry her. "Just… training, Mom. He's helping me with my quirk."
Her eyes softened, but there was a flicker of concern behind them. "I know you want to be strong. And I know your father… he has his own way of showing love." She sighed, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. "Just promise me you'll be careful. You're still so small. I don't want you to hurt yourself."
I leaned into her touch. "I promise, Mom. I'll be careful."
She smiled—that tired, beautiful smile that always made my chest ache. "Alright. But I'm going to watch you sometimes, okay? Just to make sure you're not overdoing it."
And she did. A few mornings later, she showed up at the park with a thermos of warm tea and a blanket, sitting on a bench while Kenji put me through my paces. She didn't interfere, didn't scold him for pushing me so hard. She just watched, her eyes tracking every stumble and every recovery. When I collapsed after a particularly brutal session, she rushed over with the tea, helping me sit up.
"Drink this," she said, pressing the cup into my hands. "Slowly."
I sipped the warm liquid, feeling the strength creep back into my limbs. Kenji stood a few feet away, looking slightly guilty.
"Betta, I—"
"It's fine," she cut him off, her voice calm but firm. "I see what you're doing. You're teaching him to push past his limits. That's not a bad thing." She looked at me, her gaze steady. "But remember, Suon, strength isn't just about how long you can hold a form. It's about knowing when to rest, too. Even heroes need to breathe."
I nodded, the words sinking in. She was right. Luffy could fight for hours, but he also ate and slept like a maniac. The Nika form demanded more than willpower—it demanded balance.
That night, I added a new rule to my training: rest. I'd push hard in the mornings, but I'd also take naps in the afternoon, eat extra portions, and let my body recover. Kenji grumbled about it at first, but when he saw my stamina improve over the next few weeks, he stopped complaining and let me adjust accordingly.
---
By the time I turned four, I could hold the Nika form for nearly ten minutes while stationary, and about four minutes while moving. My punches had more snap, my jumps had more height, and I could stretch my arms a good three feet without losing control. It wasn't anywhere near Luffy's level—not even close at all to Joyboy—but it was a start.
And the family started to notice.
Hana, with her enhanced hearing, would often creep to the window in the morning, listening to my labored breathing and Kenji's gruff commands. "You sound like a dying cat," she told me one afternoon, flopping onto the couch beside me. "But I guess it's working? You're not as puny as before." She looked interested as she said it, her blonde hair falling over her forehead whilst looking at me.
"Gee, thanks," I muttered in tiredness, my body had been aching for hours on end after training.
She grinned, poking my cheek. "Don't get cocky, little bro. You still can't even beat me at arm wrestling."
I snorted, looking back at her. "You're thirteen and have a foot of height on me. Give me a few years."
Hana's grin widened, before twirling around back to her room. "I'll hold you to that."
Yuki was more reserved, but I caught her watching me during my evening stretches in the living room. One night, she sat down across from me, her textbook closed for once.
"Your quirk," she said quietly. "It's not just stretching, is it? That transformation… I saw it when you were training with Dad."
I tensed. I hadn't realized she'd seen me aswell, it was a mostly private thing between Mom and Dad. "It's… complicated."
She nodded slowly. "I won't tell anyone. But be careful, Suon. Some quirks are flashy. Yours feels… different. Like it's hiding something." She paused, her tea-colored eyes searching mine. "I don't know what it is, but I don't want you to get hurt trying to figure it out."
For the first time, I heard genuine concern in her voice. Not annoyance, not dismissal—worry. I laughed in response, before smiling.
"I'll be careful, Yuki. I promise."
She gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, then returned to her textbook.
And Emi—sweet, wonderful Emi—became my unofficial cheerleader. She'd sit on the park bench next to Betta, her hair cycling through excited colors as she watched me run and stretch. "Go, Suon! You're so fast! You're like a superhero!" she'd shout, clapping her tiny hands whilst her smile beamed loudly.
After training, she'd rush over and hug my legs, her hair turning a warm gold. "You're going to be the best hero ever," she'd say, looking down at me with absolute faith.
I'd smile and look up at her, still annoyed I'm not taller than her.. "I'll try, Emi. I'll try."
---
But the training wasn't all sunshine and sibling support. There were setbacks—days when I couldn't transform at all, when the drumbeat remained stubbornly silent. Days when my limbs felt like lead, when I'd collapse after thirty seconds and Kenji would have to carry me home. He never yelled on those days, but his disappointment was palpable, a heavy silence that hung between us.
One such morning, after a particularly bad session, I sat on the grass, tears of frustration pricking at my eyes. "I can't do it. I'm too weak. It's never going to work."
Kenji knelt beside me, his face hard but not cruel. "You think All Might became the strongest of any hero in a day?"
I blinked, startled. "You know about All Migjt aswell?"
He shrugged. "Your mother watches that show with you sometimes. I've seen bits of it." He paused, his voice dropping lower. "That man—he didn't start out strong. He trained for years. He got beaten, broken, knocked down more times than I can count. But he never stopped." He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. "You've got that same fire in you, Suon. I see it. Now get up and show me you're not just talk and willing to surpass anyone."
I wiped my eyes and stood. I transformed, feeling the familiar warmth flood my limbs, and I ran. I ran until my lungs screamed, until my vision blurred, until the world faded into a haze of motion and rhythm.
And when I collapsed again, I stayed down for only a moment before pushing myself up once more.
Because Kenji was right. The fire was there. And I wasn't going to let it die.
---
The months blurred into a routine. Wake, run, transform, collapse, recover, repeat. By the time I turned five, I could hold the Nika form for fifteen minutes stationary and nearly seven while fighting. I could stretch my arms up to five feet, and my punches—while still weak by any real standard—had a snap that could send a soccer ball flying across the field.
I started to experiment with partial transformations: just stretching one arm while keeping the rest of my body normal, or using the white cloud frills to soften falls. The power was slowly becoming mine, piece by piece, like assembling a puzzle with no picture on the box.
Kenji started to smile more. Not often, and never fully, but the corners of his mouth would twitch when I succeeded at something new. "Not bad," he'd say. "But you can do better than that."
And I'd nod and push harder, staying silent.
Betta kept coming to watch, always with her thermos and a warm blanket. She'd started packing small snacks—rice balls, fruit slices—and she'd feed me during breaks, her hands gentle, her voice soft.
"You're getting so strong," she said one morning, wiping sweat from my forehead. "I'm proud of you, Suon. So proud."
I leaned into her touch, the words washing over me like a salve. In my first life, I'd never had anyone say they were proud of me. Now I had two people—my mother and, in his own gruff way, my father—who believed I could be more.
I held onto that belief like a lifeline, something I yearned for.
---
The timeskip came faster than I expected.
I turned six on a crisp autumn morning, and with that birthday came a new milestone: elementary school. The local public school, Musutafu Elementary, was a fifteen-minute walk from our apartment. Betta had already enrolled me, and she'd spent the week before making sure I had a new backpack, fresh uniforms, and a bento box with a cartoon hero on the lid.
The morning of my first day, I stood at the front door, clutching my backpack straps, feeling a strange mix of nerves and excitement. Kenji was at work, but he'd left a note on the kitchen table: "Don't get too shy and have fun at school."
It was the closest he'd ever come to saying "good luck."
Emi, now 8, was bouncing around me, her hair a bright pink. "You're going to make so many friends! And you'll be the strongest kid there, I know it! You're really coming to school with me now!" Her smile was so radiant and her hair color changes made it all the obvious she would be heavily attached to me during school time.
Hana, now 15, rolled her eyes from the couch. "He's six. He's not going to fight anyone on the first day. Probably." Hana had finally entered high school and was less energetic than before, with her behaviour shifting more to a serious mode due to upcoming exams.
"Probably," Yuki, now 17, added from the doorway, her voice dry. "But knowing you, Suon, you'll find a way to stand out as usual." She turned around back to her room with that message, she had made it to her dream college and was much more relaxing to be around, as I noticed.
I smiled, the tension easing. "I'll try not to cause too much trouble."
Betta knelt in front of me, adjusting my collar with careful hands. "Be kind, Suon. Be yourself. And if anyone gives you trouble, come tell me or your father. Okay?"
"Okay, Mom."
She kissed my forehead, and I felt that familiar warmth spread through my chest. Not the drumbeat, not Nika's power—just love. Pure, simple, unconditional love.
I stepped out the door, into the morning sunlight, and started walking toward the school. The path was lined with autumn leaves, crunching under my feet. I thought about all the training, all the sweat and tears, all the moments I'd wanted to quit. I thought about Kenji's gruff encouragement, Betta's gentle smiles, Emi's unwavering faith.
And I thought about the promise I'd made to myself: to be free, to protect the people I loved, to never be the helpless boy on that hospital bed again.
I squared my shoulders, adjusted my backpack, and kept walking.
The world was waiting.
And I was ready to meet it, head on with no regrets.