Snow hadn't started falling yet, but the air had taken on that sharp, metallic chill that promised winter was near.
It had been three months since Hikaro arrived in this world.
Three months since he woke up on a trash-covered beach in a Pikachu shirt, wondering if life had decided to play its last cruel joke.
But now… things were different.
Hikaro's body had changed.
Not just from the training—though the results of that were obvious. His shoulders had broadened, muscles now shaped with both natural strength and quirk-enhanced density. His reflexes had improved, his stamina doubled. He'd even managed to create a full-body shield of compacted steel that could absorb mid-tier explosive attacks.
But more than his body, it was his mind that had sharpened.
He no longer flinched at the memories of his past life. They were still there—quiet reminders of who he had been—but they no longer weighed him down. He had stopped asking why he ended up here. There were no answers to that question.
And now, he didn't need one.
"This life… it's mine now," he said aloud one morning as he stood on the rooftop, stretching beneath the dawn sky. "Whether I wanted it or not, it's mine."
His training had evolved, too.
Gone were the chaotic, improvised drills with rebar and scrap. Now, Hikaro had routines. Purpose. Precision.
Each morning began with mobility work and quirk-resistance training. He'd test how long he could keep his body hardening active while doing squats and pushups. He'd wear a harness loaded with metal plates—50 kilos strapped across his back, simulating the pressure of combat while he trained his core strength and control.
Then came magnetism control.
By now, he could feel metal from nearly 100 meters away. But distance wasn't enough. He needed finesse.
He practiced using different types of metal—aluminum, copper, iron, steel. Learned how they responded. Built floating orbs from scrap and maneuvered them around his body in synchronized orbits while doing sit-ups. Some nights, he'd even blindfold himself and try to detect where metal objects were placed in the alley behind his building, pulling them to himself without seeing them.
He constructed traps.
Metal vines to entangle.
Floating shields to block.
Rotating disks to deflect projectiles.
"If I can't outpunch my enemy," he told himself, "I'll outthink them."
And then, there was the float.
He called it Magnetic Lift—standing on a thin plate of compacted steel and using controlled magnetic pulses to stay aloft.
He could hover for fifteen minutes now.
Even fly in short bursts.
Crude. Exhausting. But it worked.
Every Sunday, he'd walk to the beach where he first woke up.
He didn't train there.
He just stood, hands in his coat pockets, staring at the waves. Remembering.
It grounded him.
He no longer hated what had happened. He no longer feared the future.
"The guy I used to be… I think he'd be proud I made it this far."
He would whisper those words to the sea, then walk home with a little more steel in his spine.
One month before the UA Entrance Exam, Hikaro finally took a break.
Not from training—but from hiding.
He walked through downtown Musutafu one evening, coat buttoned up, gloves in his pocket, hoodie off. No cloak-and-dagger. No ducking into alleys.
He watched as heroes patrolled the streets. A tall woman helped escort children across traffic. A man with a trench coat stopped a purse-snatcher with a flick of his wrist.
People were watching them with awe. Reverence.
"So this is what it looks like," Hikaro thought. "Being a symbol."
And for the first time, he didn't feel like a stranger in this world.
He felt like someone who could earn that kind of gaze.
When he returned to training that night, something clicked.
He could now form a giant mechanical hand made entirely of scrap—his own version of Kid's infamous metal arms. It was unstable, crude, but it could deliver blows like a wrecking ball. He even began experimenting with electromagnetic pulses to fry low-tier electronics or create magnetic interference.
His fighting style had become a hybrid.
Steel and strike.
Power and precision.
Quirk and fruit.
He was no longer fighting like a person who borrowed strength.
He fought like someone who owned it.
And finally, the day came.
He stood in front of the UA gates, dressed in plain training gear—tight black tactical pants, a compression shirt, and a grey hoodie worn open, flapping gently in the wind.
A small backpack rested on one shoulder, containing water, ID, and a protein bar.
Around him, dozens of other students were buzzing—some nervous, some cocky. A kid with jet legs. Another with a reptilian tail. Someone already using fire to warm their hands.
Hikaro ignored them.
He stood still, eyes fixed on the golden "U.A. High" emblem above the gate.
"This is it."
Nine and a half months of silent grind.
Nine and a half months of bleeding on rooftops, talking to walls, and fighting against the weight of a life that no longer existed.
And now…
Now it was time to step into the story.
He didn't care if he didn't get recognized.
Didn't care if he was overlooked.
He wasn't here to be famous.
He was here to become powerful enough to never go back to being helpless again.
"I'm not trying to be the next All Might," he said quietly to himself as the crowd began filing in. "I'm just trying to be someone this world can't break."
He looked at his hands—calloused, scarred, but steady.
"Let's see what you've got, UA."
And with that, he walked through the gates, a quiet shadow with the heart of a storm.