Chapter 4: The Seed of a Hero.
Two years.
Two years can feel like an eternity, or the blink of an eye. For Denki Kaminari, it was both.
He stood before the mirror in his bedroom, now fourteen years old. His frame was leaner, taller. The boyish roundness of his face had sharpened, replaced by the angled lines of adolescence. His blond hair was still the same defiant shade of sunlight, the black lightning bolt a familiar emblem of his identity. But the eyes that stared back from the reflection were different. They held a depth, a quiet intensity that hadn't been there before.
With a soft hum, a controlled thread of yellow electricity danced from the index finger of his right hand to his left. It was a perfect, stable arc of energy. He could hold it for minutes now, twisting it into shapes, a silent testament to countless hours of practice. His control over his Quirk—his yellow Quirk—was precise, meticulous. It had to be.
His room had changed, too. The All Might posters were still there, but they were joined by anatomical charts of the human nervous system and well-read books on electrical engineering. On the wall opposite his bed, where a huge, flashy poster might have gone, there was only a blank space. A quiet, intentional void.
The door creaked open, and his mother leaned in, a soft smile on her face. "The U.A. acceptance letter came. The one with the exam details."
Kaminari let the arc of electricity dissipate with a soft fizz and turned, his own smile appearing instantly. It was a bright, easy grin, one he had perfected over two years. It was his shield. "Awesome! It's finally time."
Later, in the living room, the mood was heavier. His parents sat opposite him, the official U.A. hologram projector resting on the table between them like an unexploded bomb. The joy of his passing the first screening was tempered by their deep-seated fear.
"Denki," his father began, his voice low and serious. "Are you absolutely sure about this? After… after what you went through, no one would blame you for choosing a different path. A safer one."
This was a conversation they'd had many times. He knew the words by heart. His smile didn't waver. He met their worried gazes with practiced reassurance.
"It's because of what happened that I have to do this," he said, his voice ringing with a conviction he desperately wanted to be real. "I know what it feels like to be helpless. To be scared. I'm going to become a hero so that I can stand in front of people who feel that way and tell them, 'It's okay now. I'm here.' I will stop that from ever happening to anyone else."
His words, brave and noble, washed the worry from their faces, replacing it with a hesitant pride. They saw their son, a survivor, turning his pain into purpose. They saw the hero he promised to be.
They didn't see him late at night, when the house was dark and silent, and the smile was finally allowed to fall. They didn't see him staring at his right hand, rubbing the palm with his thumb as if trying to wipe away an invisible stain. They didn't see the memory that haunted him, clearer than any nightmare: not just the fear, but the terrifying, exhilarating surge of violent power. He remembered the feeling of the purple storm erupting from his core, and the sickening sight of the men collapsing, foam on their lips. It was a memory stained with a phantom crimson—his own blood from a split lip, dripping onto his hand in the dark.
He wasn't just chasing a dream. He was running from a ghost. And that ghost was inside him.
The main auditorium at U.A. High was colossal, designed to intimidate. Hundreds of teenagers, the best and brightest from every middle school in the region, sat in tiered rows, the air thick with a nervous, competitive energy. Kaminari found a seat, pulling his exam packet onto the desk. He ignored the boastful chatter around him, the loud proclamations of powerful Quirks. He just focused on the silence in his own head.
When the written exam began, he worked with a quiet, intense focus. Math was a struggle, and literature was a blur, but when he reached the section on Heroics and Situational Analysis, everything sharpened.
Question 7: A villain has taken hostages in a collapsed subway tunnel. The structure is unstable. Your Quirk is ill-suited for underground combat. What is your primary objective?
He could almost feel the cold, damp air of the tunnel. He could hear the panicked breathing of the hostages. Other applicants were likely writing about evacuating civilians or finding structural weak points. Kaminari wrote about something else first.
Primary objective: Establish verbal contact. Let the hostages know someone is there. A hero's first job is to fight despair. Even a voice in the darkness can be a shield.
His answers were filled with a perspective that couldn't be learned from a textbook. It was an empathy forged in the fires of his own ordeal. He wrote not just of defeating villains, but of protecting the fragile thread of hope in those who were terrified.
When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the written portion, Kaminari felt a quiet confidence. He had given it his all.
In the massive hall where the applicants waited for the practical exam orientation, the energy was even more frantic. Students showed off their Quirks—a boy with engine-powered legs, a girl with floating pink hair. Kaminari leaned against a wall, content to observe, to stay in his own bubble.
Then, he saw him. Standing with a group of other confident-looking applicants was a familiar figure with spiky, bright red hair. Eijiro Kirishima. He was taller, broader, his arms already showing the definition of hard training. He laughed at something a friend said, and the sound was deep and self-assured. Their eyes met across the crowded room.
For a moment, they were twelve again, standing in a sunlit alley. A silent understanding passed between them. A memory of a shared past, and a recognition of the shared goal that brought them here. Kirishima gave him a sharp, toothy grin and a single, firm nod. A nod that said, You made it too. Now let's do this.
Kaminari nodded back, a small, genuine smile touching his lips.
Finally, the voice of the hero Present Mic boomed from the speakers, explaining the rules of the practical exam. Robots. Points. A massive, simulated cityscape. They were herded into groups and led to different staging areas. Kaminari found himself standing before Battle Center B.
In front of him and a hundred other examinees stood a gate of impossible scale, a monolithic slab of steel that sealed off the mock city within. The collective hum of their nervous energy was a palpable force.
Kaminari stood near the front of the pack, his hands tucked into his pockets. He rolled onto the balls of his feet, his body thrumming with anticipation. This was it. The final barrier between the boy who was a victim and the man who would be a hero.
His blond hair caught the light. His golden-brown eyes were fixed on the seam of the giant doors, narrowed in absolute focus. There was no fear in them. There was no hesitation. There was only the cold, hard glint of resolve. He would pass this test. He would control his power. He would define his own future. He would not let the purple storm win.
"AAAAAAND, BEGIN!!!" Present Mic's voice shrieked from unseen speakers.
The crowd stood in confused silence for a moment.
"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! THERE ARE NO COUNTDOWNS IN A REAL FIGHT! GO, GO, GO!"
As the monolithic gates began to slide open with a deafening groan, revealing the shadowed city streets within, a single, brilliant spark of controlled, determined yellow electricity crackled to life in Kaminari's eye. The race had begun.
~~~~~
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