Age: 7
The smell of the dojo was an unmistakable mix: old wood permeated by decades of strikes, cheap floor cleaner with a lingering scent of synthetic pine, and the acidic sweat of young bodies in constant motion. It wasn't a glamorous place. It was functional, spartan. There were no shiny All Might posters on the walls, nor agency logos promising glorious futures. Just worn wood and the echo of discipline.
"Back straight! Knees bent!" barked Sensei Ogawa's raspy voice, a sound that cut through the air like a well-executed bokken.
Ogawa wasn't a retired hero. He wasn't a symbol of hope or a decorated legend. He was a fifty-year-old ex-cop, a sturdy man with calloused hands and eyes that had seen too much everyday misery. He had spent three decades patrolling the least photographed streets of Musutafu, dealing with the gritty reality: drunks with minor mutant quirks and purse snatchers who, on a bad day, could spit weak acid.
He understood the reality of violence, the physical weight of a falling body, and the betrayal of inertia far better than any TV hero. To Ogawa, a punch was just a punch, regardless of whether it came with fireworks.
"Hajime!"
I lunged forward. My opponent was a kid a year older, with grayish rock skin and a smug expression that deeply irritated me. His Quirk was a natural shield that gave him unjustified confidence. He was too cocky, thinking his armor would make him invincible against the frontal attack of a seven-year-old.
Big mistake. Invulnerability is an illusion when you don't know how your own body moves.
Instead of wasting my momentum punching him in the chest—where all I'd achieve was breaking my knuckles—I took a quick step. I smoothly tripped his supporting leg right as he was about to shift his weight onto it, using his own attacking momentum against him. It was a textbook o-soto-gari. His heavy body crashed onto the tatami, echoing through the room like a bass drum.
"Point for Bakugo," Ogawa announced, his voice monotone.
I stood up, feeling the heat in my chest from the exertion, and adjusted my white belt. I looked to my side. Izuku was on the other mat, sparring with a girl with elastic arms who could strike from impossible angles. Izuku didn't have explosive power or stony defense, but he possessed something the rest of us ignored: perception. He dodged a strike aimed at his head and rolled across the floor with surprising agility. Although he ended up losing on points, he didn't take a single direct hit. He was exhausted, but his movements had been surgical.
"Alright, five-minute break," the Sensei ordered.
The dojo instantly filled with the murmur of heavy breathing and the crinkle of water bottles. I walked over to the bench and, while drying my face with a towel, observed the other kids.
Hero society is a terrifying structure. In a normal world, hierarchy is based on money, intellect, or hard work. Here, your social worth and future are decided by a genetic lottery held at age four.
I watched a kid who generated colorful bubbles; he'd probably end up in showbiz. The rock-skinned kid might be a construction worker. And then there was me, with powerful explosions, destined for the peak of the pyramid.
And there was Izuku.
Being Quirkless was like being born without arms in a society of professional rock climbers. People didn't hate you; they pitied or ignored you. But the funny thing was, in this musty dojo, those rules didn't apply. Ogawa didn't care about Quirks. He cared if you could keep your guard up and fall without breaking your neck.
"You did great with that takedown, Kacchan!" Izuku said, sitting next to me with a thud. He was red and drenched in sweat, but smiling widely.
"You move too much," I critiqued, taking a sip of water. "You waste energy dodging backward. You distance yourself from danger, but you give up your offense. Dodge to the sides, close the gap."
"It's hard," Izuku admitted, rubbing his bruised knuckles. "When I see her stretch her arms, my instinct tells me to get away. It's my body reacting on its own."
"Prey instinct," I muttered dryly. "You have to change that. If you run backward, you become dinner and get hunted. If you slip into a tight angle, you confuse them and take the initiative."
Izuku nodded, soaking up the information with the eagerness of a sponge.
When class ended, we walked home together, leaving the smell of wood and sweat behind. We stopped in front of a vending machine in a small park. We bought two orange juices and sat on the swings. The metal chains creaked under our weight.
"Hey, Kacchan," Izuku pulled a small notebook from his backpack, a training journal. "I was thinking about what Sensei said about using the environment."
"Uh-huh? And what does that have to do with your inability to knock out the rock kid?"
"Look at this." He handed me the notebook.
On the page was a quick but detailed sketch of the dojo. It was a tactical map, with arrows pointing to the corners, the pillars, and even the height of the light fixtures.
"Most heroes with powerful Quirks fight in open spaces to minimize damage," Izuku explained, swinging his legs. "But if you fight someone stronger in an alley, like Eraserhead... I figured, if I don't have the strength to hit them directly, I need to know where to step. If I can predict the villain's steps, I can make them trip over a crack or the corner of a table."
I stared at the drawing in silence. It wasn't about brute force; it was about manipulating the geometry of combat.
"You're analyzing the battlefield, not just the opponent," I said, handing the notebook back in a grudging acknowledgment.
"Do you think it's silly? That I'm overthinking it?"
It took me a moment to answer, kicking a bit of gravel under the swing as the streetlights began to flicker on.
"No. It's the only smart thing I've heard all day in the entire dojo."
Izuku lit up at the sparse compliment.
"People obsess over Quirks," I continued, resting my head against the swing's cold chain. "They think if they shoot stronger fire, they win automatically. It's lazy thinking. But look at All Might. He changes the weather with a punch to put out fires, or jumps at specific angles so he doesn't destroy buildings. He uses his power with precision."
I looked right at him, with all the seriousness my seven years allowed.
"Your analysis... that's your weapon, Deku. Everyone else is playing a video game where only the special attack button matters. You're studying the logistics of war. Keep it up."
Izuku hugged his notebook to his chest, staring intently at his red sneakers.
"Sometimes I feel like, no matter how much I analyze, it will never be the same as having a power like yours," he whispered. "At school, they say I'm still weak."
I sighed, letting out a frustrated breath through my nose.
"People are idiots, Izuku." I stood up and tossed my empty can into the recycling bin with a perfect shot. "They value the packaging, not the content. Having a powerful Quirk is like having a sports car. It's great, yeah, but if you don't know how to drive, you'll crash on the first turn. You are learning to be the best driver, even if you don't have the car yet."
His large green eyes looked at me, surprised by the analogy.
"Do you really believe that? Do you think I have a chance to be a hero?"
"I don't say things I don't believe." I adjusted my backpack and gave his shoulder a messy pat. "Come on. If I don't get back soon, the Old Hag will make me clean the kitchen. And her yelling is worse than any B-list villain's."
Izuku let out a light laugh and hopped off the swing.
"Wait for me!"
As we walked under the streetlights, watching our shadows stretch across the asphalt, I thought about how ironic it all was. The outside world saw a natural genius and a useless kid. But I knew the truth. I was walking next to the greatest future hero in history. My job, for now, wasn't to be his savior, but to make sure he didn't lose that analytical mind before his body and destiny were ready.
"Tomorrow we'll practice the side takedown, the yoko-otoshi," I said without looking at him, kicking a loose pebble. "You have to use your center of gravity."
"Yeah, Kacchan! I'll write that down..."
It was a simple life, dictated by school and dojo schedules. But in that methodical simplicity, in the sweat and the learning of the perfect fall, we were building the foundations to carry the weight of the entire world.
Author's note: Hey everyone, just a quick heads-up on the update schedule for this fic. I'll try to upload chapters 4 days a week. I don't have the exact days and times figured out just yet, but I'll aim for 2 chapters on each update day. If I can't manage two on a given day, I'll make up for it later, I promise!
Also, I'd love for you to leave ideas in the comments about what you'd like to see implemented in the story. I'm all ears for corrections I could make compared to the old version too: things you didn't like before, errors I might be overlooking now, etc. Let me know what you think!