"Bang, bang, bang…"
Yaoyorozu Chihiro sat alone on the sofa in the villa, his right hand tapping rhythmically on the high-grade red-wood table. The sound was sharp, urgent, almost like the prelude to a fight, sending a thrilling rush through him.
He didn't want to be a hero. He didn't want to enter U.A. High School, the famed cradle of heroes-in-training. Yet, facing his uncle's unilateral decision, Chihiro found himself unable to refuse. For years, his illness had kept him from attending even junior high school, and though his health had gradually improved, it was only now—with his Quirk awakened—that his uncle could justify sending him. To Chihiro, what his uncle saw as natural was a source of deep, inescapable irritation.
Still, he could refuse—he reminded himself—but thinking of the care and investment his uncle and aunt had shown him over the years, he swallowed his protest. Attending U.A. High School, in this world, was no small honor. In his previous life, it would have been akin to being admitted to the most prestigious university: a mark of status, a badge of respect. Even if his guardians were occupied with business elsewhere, sending him to U.A. meant their family would have prestige—an outwardly perfect "double U.A." image.
Conflicted, his heart twisted between obligation and resentment. Hours of deliberation yielded no solution. Finally, Chihiro set his thoughts aside, returned to his bedroom, and quietly donned a black robe. Silently, he slipped out of the cellar.
The city at night was alive: red lanterns flickered, neon lights danced on the streets, and the moon cast silver reflections across the pavement. Each light mingled with the other, forming a kaleidoscope of colors that painted the urban landscape in surreal tones.
Shrouded in the black robe, Chihiro's face was obscured, revealing only a pair of sharp, calculating eyes. In this world, the strange and the inhuman were commonplace, and the desire to go unnoticed was universal. Few people even glanced his way.
He walked down a long street until he arrived at a tall, ordinary-looking building. Two security guards, dressed in black and wearing dark sunglasses, stood motionless at the entrance, their expressions cold and unreadable, as if they were the living embodiment of gatekeepers.
"Please show your identification," one said in a firm, clipped tone.
Nearby, a young couple looked puzzled. "Identification?" the woman whispered, bewildered.
The guards did not explain further, their silence intimidating. The couple's confusion turned to frustration. "It looks like a regular building… why can't we just go in?"
Chihiro shook his head slightly and, as he passed, muttered almost dismissively, "Identification is only required for those unqualified to enter."
The young couple turned, flushed with embarrassment, ready to protest—but their eyes caught the stern gazes of the guards. Hesitating, they instinctively bowed, voices trembling as they said, "Welcome… Number Seven."
Chihiro ignored them, focusing solely on the building. A subtle wave of his hand seemed to dismiss the need for introductions—his presence alone sufficed.
Inside, the building opened into a massive hall, a vast arena unlike anything ordinary. Chihiro moved like a shadow, ten steps felt like a hundred as he silently surveyed the crowd. From the shadows, he caught fragments of whispers:
"That's Number Seven. He's never lost—ninety-eight wins, six ties. Some call him invincible.""Terrifying… mysterious… you see blood when he passes by.""Leng Jun, that's Number Seven. No wonder I felt a chill—like death itself was behind me."
Chihiro smirked faintly. So this was how the world perceived him: legend without effort, fear without proof, myths built around his very existence.
The path forward opened as he passed through the barriers. A golden token in his hand activated a gate, and he stepped into the heart of the arena.
The noise hit him like a tidal wave. Cheers, shouts, and the roar of spectators washed over him, indistinguishable from the clamor of a grand sporting event. Some yelled in victory:
"Win! Win! Mad Bull claims his sixth victory tonight—let's cheer!"
The announcer's voice boomed, echoing across the hall. Excitement surged like electricity, drowning out even the occasional curse or cry of defeat.
At the center stage, a man with the body of a champion, a bull's head, and thick black horns slammed his chest, showing off the raw power of his Quirk. The crowd erupted further, and the atmosphere became electric. This was the Quirk Duel Hall at its peak—raw, dangerous, and exhilarating.
Chihiro paused at the threshold, taking it all in. The cheers, the energy, the tension of competitors preparing for battle—every detail was data, every movement an opportunity to observe, calculate, and predict. Here, he realized, was not just a test of skill or power—it was a spectacle, a battlefield of wits, speed, and sheer will.
With a slow, deliberate breath, Yaoyorozu Chihiro stepped forward, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow, ready to engage the arena on his terms. The stage was set, the spectators oblivious to the storm quietly calculating within the quiet genius who had just entered their midst.