"Swordsmanship is the art of killing. A single swing carries endless outcomes—each one shaped by discipline, repetition, and a lifetime of practice."
The boy's voice was calm, almost too calm for someone his age. Thirteen or maybe fourteen. Pale hands gripped the hilt of a polished samurai blade. His tone didn't match the sharp whistle of air as his sword cut down with surgical precision.
Crash.
The training dummy shattered, splinters flying like shrapnel across the polished floor.
"H-Hold on—!"
A startled voice rang out from the corner of the room. A young woman in a martial arts uniform stepped back, her black eyes wide.
"You're still that jumpy?" Arata asked dryly, not even turning his head. "And here I thought U.A. students were made of stronger stuff."
Before she could answer, Arata's wrist turned. His blade spun through the air, slicing the airborne wooden debris before it could hit the floor. A clean, crescent arc of motion—silent, efficient, terrifying in its clarity.
Yaoyorozu Momo blinked. "You've gotten scary good at that."
Arata finally turned, offering a faint smile. His breathing remained steady—elegant, controlled. But somewhere behind that calm face, something flickered. A sense of dissonance.
As if, for just a second, he wasn't really there.
He remembered it clearly now. The confusion. The weightless void before waking up in this strange new body.
Reincarnation. Or something close to it. Transported into a world where powers weren't fantasy—they were the norm.
Of course, they didn't call them powers here.
They were Quirks.
Later, after training, Arata wiped sweat from his brow and peeled off his damp martial arts gi. He moved toward the tall mirror by the wall, inspecting his reflection.
The boy who stared back had delicate features, almost ethereal. His skin was pale from years of illness. Lips faintly pink, like the petals of a cherry blossom. Handsome, in a fragile, unfair sort of way.
He clicked his tongue quietly. Looking good doesn't help if you can't keep up in a fight.
The world had given him a nickname:
"The Sakura Genius."
A brilliant but sickly prodigy. A boy born with grace, but no endurance.
Since he was young, Arata's body had been frail. A few short steps would leave him out of breath. Dozens of hospital visits had yielded nothing but vague diagnoses and apologetic shrugs. "Just a weak constitution," the doctors said.
But years of relentless kendo practice were finally paying off. His body was no longer as fragile as glass. He could move now. He could fight.
A soft knock pulled him from his thoughts.
"You want me to make you another outfit, don't you?" Momo asked, arms crossed but already sighing in resignation.
Arata just raised an eyebrow.
She glared—then relented. Her hands glowed with energy as a black casual suit materialized from her palm.
Creation—the power to generate any non-living object using her own body fat, as long as she understood its molecular structure. It was an elegant, versatile Quirk—one that could reshape a battlefield or, more often in Arata's case, replace ruined clothes.
He took the outfit with a nod. "Thanks."
Arata changed swiftly, slipping into the fresh suit. Black, well-fitted, clean. He slid a ruby ring onto his right hand and gave himself one final look in the mirror.
Tall, poised, blade at his hip. Still pale—but no longer hollow.
Momo blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in presence. "You're really… starting to look the part of a hero."
Arata ignored the comment. His attention had shifted back to her—Momo, still in her practice gi, flushed from sparring, long black hair damp with sweat. Her skin gleamed like porcelain, and even now, sword in hand, she looked effortlessly composed.
The old lady's still as dazzling as ever, he thought dryly.
Not that he'd ever say it out loud.
"You heading to your room?" she asked, brows slightly furrowed.
Arata nodded. "Yeah. Need to rest."
Momo hesitated. "You know... I still don't get it. You barely go out, you don't attend school with me, and Mom and Dad are always dodging questions. Are you really okay, Arata?"
He gave her a small smile—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I'm fine. Just... tired, that's all."
She didn't look convinced.
But she let him go.
Technically, Arata lived in the guest wing of the Yaoyorozu estate. But the space they gave him? It was practically a mansion. Three floors. His own training hall. Every comfort money could buy.
He knew it wasn't charity. It was guilt.
The truth was, he didn't belong to this family.
But to the world, he was Yaoyorozu Arata—Momo's sickly cousin, a forgotten branch of the bloodline.
And for now... that was enough.
Because soon, he would step into the world as more than a name.
He would prove that even a dying cherry blossom could cut through steel.