There wasn't a single moment that made him realize it.
It wasn't like one day he was normal and the next he could outrun bikes or break boulders. It was subtler than that. Quiet. Like the way spring creeps in, leaf by leaf, without ever announcing itself.
But by eight years old, Arata knew he was different.
And others were beginning to notice too.
---
It started with a routine PE class.
The activity was simple: leap over stacked mats without knocking them over. One by one, the kids took turns—some graceful, some stumbling, most landing in a heap of laughter.
When it was Arata's turn, he walked up, crouched low, and jumped.
One clean arc.
Two feet landed with a soft thump.
The stack didn't even wobble.
The teacher raised an eyebrow. "Good jump, Tetsuki."
Arata just smiled and stepped aside.
Later, someone added a fifth mat just to see if he could do it again.
He could.
Easily.
---
That evening, at home, Haruto noticed something. Not from a single jump or brag—but from the way Arata carried himself. Light on his feet. Balanced. Grounded in a way that didn't match his age.
"You've been running a lot?" he asked casually over dinner.
Arata looked up from his bowl of rice. "Not really."
"You're moving… differently."
Arata didn't answer right away. He wasn't hiding anything. He just didn't know how to explain it.
"I feel... steady," he said finally. "Like everything around me is slower, but I'm not."
Haruto studied him for a moment. His chopsticks paused mid-air.
"Hmm."
Just that. No fear. No excitement. Just that quiet recognition—like something clicked.
"I'll call your grandfather," he said simply.
---
Renjiro Tetsuki didn't arrive with a dramatic flash or heroic music.
He came in the evening, wearing a plain coat and a soft scarf wrapped around his weathered neck. His silver-gray hair was pulled back, and a faint scar ran down the side of his jaw—a souvenir from a past Arata never knew.
The first thing he did was kneel and place a hand on Arata's shoulder.
"You've grown."
Arata smiled up at him. "You're taller than I remember."
Renjiro laughed. "I've always been this tall. You just used to be smaller."
They embraced quietly. No grand speeches. No booming declarations. Just warmth.
That night, they ate together—three generations under one roof. Riku wasn't there anymore. But her presence lived in the way Renjiro's gaze lingered on Arata's movements.
---
The next morning, they trained.
Not like in anime. No weighted clothes, no screaming into the wind.
Just walking drills, balancing routines, and controlled breathing.
"Your body is already stronger than most," Renjiro said as they moved through the local park at sunrise. "But strength without precision is wasteful. I'm not here to make you powerful. I'm here to make sure you don't break yourself."
Arata nodded.
And listened.
And learned.
---
Each day, they met before dawn. Jogged the same quiet streets. Practiced stepping patterns on chalk lines drawn in the back alley. Sometimes Renjiro had him move blindfolded—sensing sounds, memorizing footwork. Other times, he just told Arata to sit and breathe, saying nothing.
"No distractions," he'd say. "Let your instincts sharpen in silence."
And it worked.
By the second week, Arata's reactions became sharper. He could hear footsteps before they landed. He could tell when someone behind him raised a hand. Not because he had super senses—but because his awareness had stretched, like muscle grown through repetition.
---
On the tenth day, Renjiro watched Arata balance on a narrow railing like it was a sidewalk.
His arms were outstretched.
His movements calm.
The sunrise behind him painted the scene in soft gold.
"You remind me of her," Renjiro said suddenly.
Arata looked back. "Mom?"
Renjiro nodded. "You move like she did. Focused. Light. Like the air carried her where she needed to go."
He stepped forward and knelt, brushing a hand over Arata's hair.
"She used to say her steps felt like trust. Like the air only held her because she believed it would."
Arata smiled, eyes shining.
Renjiro leaned in and kissed his forehead.
His beard tickled.
Arata laughed.
Renjiro reached into his coat and pulled something out.
A small, smooth locket.
"Your grandmother's," he said. "She always said this belonged with the one who carried her legacy."
He placed it gently into Arata's hand, closed his fingers over it, and smiled.
"Don't open it yet. Not until you're ready. Just keep it with you."
Arata nodded slowly.
No questions. Just acceptance.
Renjiro stood and looked toward the sky. "I wish I could stay longer."
Arata's eyes widened. "You're leaving?"
"I have to. There's… someone I need to see overseas. An old friend. A hero who's still fighting."
He turned back to Arata, firm but kind. "But you don't need me every day to grow strong. You've already started. You just didn't notice."
Arata said nothing for a long while.
Then: "Will you come back?"
Renjiro smiled.
"Of course. Heroes keep their promises."
---
At the train station, Arata stood with his father, waving.
Renjiro looked back one last time before boarding.
He didn't salute.
He didn't cry.
He just winked.
And that was enough.
As the train disappeared into the horizon, Arata looked down at the locket in his palm.
It was cool to the touch.
But somehow, it made his chest feel warm.