Author's Note & Disclaimer
To the Reader,
This story is a work of fan fiction. It is an original story created for entertainment purposes, using characters and world-building elements from existing franchises.
I do not own the rights to the world of My Hero Academia or its characters. All rights for My Hero Academia (僕のヒーローアカデミア, Boku no Hīrō Akademia) belong to its creator, Kōhei Horikoshi, Shueisha, and Bones Inc.
Similarly, I do not own the rights to the character of Rock Lee or any related concepts from the Naruto universe. All rights for Naruto (ナルト) belong to its creator, Masashi Kishimoto, and Shueisha.
This work is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights. It is a tribute to these incredible worlds and characters that have inspired so many. Please support the official releases.
Chapter 1: The Extra Joint
The room was aggressively cheerful. Posters of the top Pro Heroes lined the walls in a vibrant collage of explosive colors and dynamic poses. All Might, in his signature red, white, and blue, was front and center, his smile so bright it seemed to generate its own light. For a ten-year-old Rock Lee, this room should have been a paradise. Today, it felt like a cage.
He sat on the edge of the examination chair, the crinkly paper beneath him whispering with every nervous twitch of his legs. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, his knuckles white. He wore his favorite All Might t-shirt, a hopeful gesture that now felt foolish. Across the small, sterile room, his parents sat side-by-side, their smiles as thin and brittle as autumn leaves.
The doctor, a kind-faced man with a gentle voice, swiveled in his chair. He clipped a shimmering, black sheet of film onto the light box on the wall. With a soft click, the box illuminated, revealing the ghostly, white architecture of a child's foot.
"As you know," the doctor began, his tone carefully neutral, "the emergence of a Quirk is directly linked to human evolution. For over a century, the baseline human form has adapted. The redundant, or vestigial, pinky toe joint has been phased out. Its absence is the key indicator that a person possesses the potential for a Quirk."
He tapped a long, slender finger on the X-ray. He was pointing at the smallest toe. Lee leaned forward, his dark, round eyes wide with concentration. He could see it, a tiny, almost insignificant line in the bone. A joint.
"This," the doctor said softly, the single word landing with the force of a physical blow, "is the X-ray of Lee-kun's foot. As you can see, the extra joint is present."
Silence.
It was a profound, suffocating silence that swallowed the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant sound of city traffic. Lee looked from the glowing X-ray to his father's face. His father, a man who could lift heavy boxes at his warehouse job with a flick of his minor telekinetic Quirk, looked pale. His hand was gripping his wife's shoulder, his knuckles as white as Lee's own. Lee's gaze shifted to his mother. She could make small plants and flowers bloom with a touch, and her smile was usually the warmest thing in his world. Now, her smile was a trembling, fragile thing, her eyes glistening with a wetness she was fighting to hold back.
"So… there is no mistake?" his father asked, his voice strained.
"The test is conclusive," the doctor confirmed, his professional sympathy doing nothing to soften the verdict. "Lee-kun is a wonderful, healthy boy. He simply… does not have a Quirk."
Quirkless.
The word echoed in the small room. Lee had heard it before, of course. It was a word from old history books, a label for all the people who lived before the age of heroes. It was a word that meant… ordinary. A word that meant… powerless.
He didn't cry. He just stared at the All Might poster, at the hero's booming, confident smile. All Might's famous words were printed below his image: "You can become a hero!" Lee had always believed those words were meant for him. Now, he wasn't so sure.
The car ride home was a journey through a foreign country. The city Lee had known his entire life suddenly looked alien. A construction worker on a high-rise girder had four muscular arms, each one welding or riveting with perfect synchronicity. A woman walking her dog had the dog trotting happily on a leash made of her own elongated, elastic hair. A food vendor was flash-frying squid on a grill using jets of flame that erupted from his fingertips.
Quirks were everywhere. They were in the mundane, the spectacular, the very air people breathed. They were the texture of modern life, the fundamental truth of the world. And it was a world to which he did not belong.
Inside the car, the silence was a heavy blanket. His mother occasionally glanced back at him, her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. His father stared straight ahead at the road, his grip on the steering wheel so tight it made the leather creak. They weren't angry. They weren't disappointed, not in him. They were sad, and in some ways, that was worse. It was the quiet grief for a future that had just been erased.
Lee stared out the window, his own reflection a ghostly passenger superimposed over the vibrant city. What does it mean? he wondered, his mind a quiet storm of confusion. Does this mean I can't help people? Does this mean… I can't be like him? His eyes drifted to the All Might keychain hanging from the car's rearview mirror.
School the next day was worse.
His teacher, a cheerful woman named Mrs. Tsubasa, believed in fostering a positive Quirk environment. "Let's go around the room!" she chirped. "Tell us one small thing you practiced with your Quirk this week!"
A girl with bright pink hair concentrated hard, and her pigtails slowly turned a light shade of blue. The class applauded politely. A boy named Kenji managed to make his pencil hover a whole centimeter above his desk for three seconds before it clattered down. He beamed with pride.
This was their world. A world of small wonders, of innate potential.
"Rock Lee?" Mrs. Tsubasa said, her smile unwavering. "Your turn."
Lee stared at his desk. The polished wood seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. He could feel every eye in the classroom on him. He felt hot, his ears burning.
He said nothing.
"He can't, Teacher," Kenji blurted out, not with malice, but with the simple, brutal honesty of a child. "He's Quirkless. My dad heard his dad talking about it. He has the extra toe joint."
The word, spoken aloud in the open air of the classroom, hung there for a moment. Then, the whispers started. They were like the rustling of snakes in dry grass. A stifled giggle came from the back of the room. A girl looked at him with wide, pitying eyes, as if he were a sick stray puppy. He wasn't being punched or pushed. He was being redefined. In an instant, he was no longer Rock Lee, the boy who loved heroes. He was Rock Lee, the boy with nothing. The broken one.
He spent lunch break alone, his rice tasting like ash in his mouth.
He took the long way home, his feet dragging on the pavement. He didn't want to go back to the quiet house, to his parents' sad eyes. He walked through streets he didn't usually take, past older shops with faded awnings and residential buildings with peeling paint. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The long shadows of the buildings stretched out like grasping fingers.
He was so lost in his own sorrowful world that he didn't see it until it slapped against his calf. A single sheet of paper, carried by a sudden gust of wind.
Annoyed, he bent down and peeled it from his leg. It was a cheap, simple flyer, printed with bold, black ink on flimsy paper. There were no flashy colors or pictures of heroes. There was only the stark silhouette of a man in a powerful, low fighting stance. Above the image, a line of text.
Dojo of the Resolute Fist
And below it, a single, declarative sentence.
"A strong body and an unbreakable will are the only powers you need."
Lee read the words once. Then twice. The only powers you need. The phrase was a direct contradiction to the verdict from the doctor, to the whispers in the classroom, to the very fabric of his world. It was an impossible statement. And yet…
He looked up from the flyer. Standing before him, nestled awkwardly between a modern laundromat and a concrete apartment building, was an old, traditional dojo. It was made of dark wood, with a tiled roof and sliding paper doors. It looked like it had been transported from another century. It looked forgotten.
He stood there for a long time, the flyer clutched in his hand. The setting sun caught the corner of his eye, and he felt something wet and hot trace a path through the dust on his cheek. It was the first tear he had shed since leaving the doctor's office. He wasn't sure if it was a tear of sadness, or of something else entirely. Something that felt dangerously like hope.