The walls of the room were familiar down to every crack in the wallpaper. The dim light, sliced by a strip of brightness slipping under the curtain, had always been a safe haven. But today, the familiar space felt alien. It didn't offer shelter — only highlighted the inner storm raging within.
Arashi lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Physical exhaustion consumed him; every cell of his body ached, begging for rest. But his mind refused to shut down. It replayed the same day over and over, like a broken record.
Flashes of pain from Kenji's blows. The deafening roar of the explosion. The overwhelming wave of foreign fear slamming into his consciousness. And then… the conscious decision. The fall. The fall through a shattered wall straight into the arms of icy darkness.
He felt it again. That inexpressible sense of merging with Him. With the Sorcerer King. That cold, indifferent rage that knew no end. And his own tiny, fragile will, woven into that rage like a thread in a black tapestry. He felt the power coursing through him, draining the last scraps of energy, yet gifting him that intoxicating, terrifying sensation of absolute might. He felt the villains' wills fade, leaving them as hollow shells, and how their decline fed his own strength.
He had vomited right there, on the asphalt. From exhaustion. From horror. From the realization of just how… good it had felt.
And then her voice. Sharp, confident, slicing through lies and excuses like a hot knife through butter.
"If your power can do this — you're a hero."
"Be one. Don't ask for permission."
The words burned inside him harder than any fatigue. They clashed violently with everything he had believed about himself for the last ten years. With his parents' fear. With his classmates' contempt. With his teachers' pity and wariness. With Mr. Godai's cold, logical arguments.
Who was she to say that? A bright, famous heroine, shining like a diamond. What could she possibly know about his darkness? About the whisper that never stopped? About the constant battle that drained him more than any training ever could?
But she had seen. She had seen the result. She had seen the hollowed-out villains. And she hadn't turned away. Hadn't flinched. In her eyes, he had seen no horror — only… assessment. A cold, emotionless analysis, like a scientist examining an intriguing, dangerous specimen.
And within that was a strange, twisted kind of hope. If she, so strong, so certain, didn't immediately see him as a monster… maybe others wouldn't, either?
"They'll never accept us," whispered that familiar icy voice from the depths. "They're afraid. They're weak. Their acceptance is a lie, a curtain hiding their true feelings. Only we accept you. Only we are your real family."
"Shut up," Arashi rasped into the pillow. For the first time in a long while, it didn't sound like a plea, but an order. Weak, but still an order.
The whisper fell silent for a second, as if startled. Arashi seized that moment to clench the bent nail hidden in his pajama pocket. The sharp end dug into his palm, and the pain — clear and physical — helped drive away the shadows.
He wasn't a hero. Not yet. But maybe… maybe he wasn't an absolute monster, either. Maybe he was somewhere in between. And that unknown territory frightened him even more.
Morning came far too quickly. His head throbbed, his eyelids heavy as lead. Breakfast was wrapped in oppressive silence. His parents cast him furtive glances, their eyes filled with such a mix of love, fear, and unspoken questions that he dropped his gaze to his plate.
"I'm fine," he muttered, answering the question they hadn't voiced.
"We know, honey," his mother's fingers trembled as she adjusted the napkin holder. "Just… be careful today, okay?"
The walk to school felt like the longest of his life. Every glance from a passerby seemed accusatory, every whisper like a discussion of yesterday's incident. He hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself invisible.
But being invisible at School No. 3 was impossible. Especially today.
The moment he stepped into the classroom, the buzz of voices cut off abruptly. Every eye turned to him. Not with the usual contempt or boredom, but with a new, unfamiliar expression — raw, animal fear mixed with… curiosity. Even Kenji, normally so loud and cocky, sat pale and silent, avoiding his gaze. Rumors had spread like wildfire, recasting him from "that weird quiet kid" to "the dangerous psycho who can burn your soul."
Teachers, during lessons, watched him with a newfound cautious politeness. No questions for him, no remarks. As if he were made of glass — and they were afraid of breaking him. Or afraid he'd shatter everything around him.
They summoned him to the principal's office after the second class. The secretary's voice trembled as she called his name. He walked down the corridor to the sound of ringing silence and the weight of stares from half-open classroom doors.
Godai's office smelled the same — dust, paper, and cheap coffee. But today the air held something else as well: tension, thick and heavy.
The principal sat behind his desk, but wasn't working. He just sat there, staring at his folded hands. His face was gray and drawn, as if he hadn't slept all night. He didn't look at Arashi when he entered.
"Sit down, Tanaka," his voice was hollow, stripped of any intonation.
Arashi sat silently, his heart pounding in his throat. He waited. Waited for the usual lecture about "fitting in," "accepting reality," "finding other paths."
"Yesterday's incident…" Godai began, then stopped, swallowing hard. He still didn't look at him. "The committee has conducted a preliminary investigation. Your actions… technically… did not exceed the limits of necessary self-defense and assistance to the victims."
Arashi froze. Had he heard that right?
Godai finally lifted his gaze. There was no anger there, no familiar tired condescension. There was something new — hurt, humiliation, and… fear. Not the general fear of his quirk, but something specific, personal.
"In light of this," the principal spoke the words as if they burned his tongue, "and considering your… persistent requests… I've made a decision."
He paused, as if hoping someone would stop him.
"When the time comes for the hero university entrance exams… our institution will not obstruct you. You will receive all necessary documentation and… a recommendation."
Silence crashed down on the room. Arashi couldn't believe his ears. He'd expected anything —scolding, suspension, threats to call his parents. But not this. Not this sudden, inexplicable consent.
"Why?" The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Godai flinched as if struck. His face twisted in a grimace of anger and helplessness.
"Because it has to be that way!" he nearly shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. Papers jumped. "Because all the higher authorities agree you need to be given… a chance." He spat the word like it was an obscenity. "So you'll get your chance, Tanaka. You'll get it and…" He stopped, turned his eyes away again. "And whatever happens, happens."
He waved his hand, clearly signaling the conversation was over.
"Go. And…" he added in a near whisper, "try not to… scare anyone until then."
Arashi left the office in a near stupor. His thoughts tangled in a storm. What "higher authorities"? Who could force Mr. Godai, that relentless bureaucrat, to change his mind? Was it her? Rumi Usagiyama? But why? Why would she do this?
But beneath the avalanche of questions, a single, fragile, yet blindingly bright sprout pushed through. A sprout of hope.
He walked down the hall, no longer bowing his head. He looked straight ahead, ignoring the frightened stares of his classmates. Inside, everything was singing. He had a chance. An official, signed, and stamped chance.
He practically ran home, his feet barely touching the ground. He burst through the apartment door so hard it slammed into the wall.
His mother came out of the kitchen, nervously wiping her hands on her apron. His father looked out from the living room.
"Mom! Dad!" Arashi gasped, breathless. "Mr. Godai… he… he said he'll give me a recommendation! I can apply! I can try to become a hero!"
He blurted it all out in one breath, afraid that if he stopped, it would turn out to be just a dream.
There was a second of stunned silence. And then something happened that he hadn't seen in many, many years.
His mother's eyes filled not with fear, but with tears. And they weren't tears of despair. They were tears of relief. Of joy. She let out a cry, covered her face with her hands, then threw herself at him, hugging him so tightly it knocked the wind out of him.
"My boy…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "My little boy…"
His father approached more slowly. His strong, work-worn face was serious. He placed a heavy hand on Arashi's shoulder and looked him straight in the eyes. And in that gaze, Arashi saw not the usual wariness, but something else. Pride? Yes. Pride — and that long-lost glimmer of hope.
"Is this… is this real, Arashi?" he asked softly, as if afraid to scare away their luck.
"It's real, Dad. He said it himself."
His father nodded, squeezed his shoulder, and pulled him into an embrace, joining his mother. They stood together in the hallway, arms wrapped around one another, as they hadn't in years. And in that moment, Arashi felt none of their old fear, none of their worries. He felt only love. Pure, unconditional, radiant love.
That evening was different. They laughed over dinner. Talked about the future, made plans, however uncertain. His mother even dug out an old photo album and showed him her school pictures, where she had once dreamed of designing hero costumes.
The fear didn't vanish completely. It still lingered in the corners like a shadow. But it had retreated. It was overshadowed by something greater.
Lying in bed, Arashi stared at the ceiling again. But this time, his thoughts were different.
"They're happy," hissed the venomous whisper. "Happy at the chance to get rid of you. To send you far away, to a place where you'll finally break and stop being their problem."
But for the first time in a long time, Arashi had an answer. No. He'd seen their eyes. That wasn't joy at getting rid of him. It was joy for him. Belief in him.
He clenched the nail in his hand. He remembered the Sorcerer King's icy gaze. Remembered Rumi's sharp voice. Remembered Mr. Godai's humiliated face and his parents' joyous ones.
The path ahead was unknown and terrifying. His power was dangerous and unpredictable. But now he had something he'd never had before.
Not just a faint chance. A reason to fight for it.
He closed his eyes — and for the first time in many years, his sleep was deep and free of nightmares.