The days after I told Mom about my quirk, everything changed subtly.
I no longer hid the notebook under my bed. I carried it with me, filling its pages with observations and hopes. Each entry was a step forward toward understanding what I truly could become.
School was always a battlefield, but now it was different.
I kept my ability secret—not because I was ashamed, but because I wasn't ready to explain it to anyone. Most kids bragged about their quirks. They talked about flashy powers or heroic dreams.
Me? I focused on quiet growth. Absorbing the traits of living things without quirks, learning what it meant to be more than just a boy waiting to awaken.
One afternoon, during recess, I spotted a group of kids gathered around a small injured bird.
It was a sparrow, its wing bent awkwardly beneath it. The others looked helpless, afraid to touch or make it worse.
Without thinking, I approached slowly. "Can I try something?" I asked softly.
They looked at me strangely but nodded.
I held my hand over the bird, whispering inside my mind, absorb.
A tingling wave rolled up my arm. I focused, imagining the fragile bones, the tiny muscles that beat underneath feathers.
The sparrow's wing twitched. A faint pulse of warmth spread from me into the bird, and then through me like a thread connecting our bodies.
The pain in its wing eased; the bird blinked uncertainly and flapped weakly before hopping to a nearby branch.
The others gasped. "How did you do that?" one asked.
I shrugged. "I don't really know. It's part of my quirk—I can borrow traits from living things, but only if I wish it."
No one understood, but I felt something inside settle—a piece of strength, not flashy like Riku's sparks, but real.
That night, I added to the notebook.
Injured sparrow (x1): Temporary accelerated cell repair. Soft warmth spreads when wished. Effects last minutes but could save lives.
A whisper curled around my thoughts: someday, if I absorbed this enough times... maybe permanent healing ability.
School was tougher than before. The kids who teased me didn't stop. If anything, it got worse once I showed any ability, however small.
"Trait-absorber freak," Riku spat one day, flicking sparks toward me during class. "Bet you're just stealing scraps from animals. That's pathetic."
I clenched my jaw but said nothing. Words didn't matter. What mattered was control.
And control was growing.
To keep up, I began training in secret.
Early mornings, Mom and I would take walks to the park. I collected samples—a blade of grass, a petal, a bug—and silently wished to absorb them. The cold air mixed with the rush of potential.
I practiced holding onto the traits longer, pushing the edges of what I could borrow. Sometimes I felt my muscles twitch in new ways, or my senses sharpen, as if the traits buried deep inside whispered back to my cells.
One day, near the river, I found a small turtle sunbathing on a rock.
It didn't look like much. Slow, plodding—a creature of calm shells and quiet strength.
But I knew better.
I reached out and touched its shell lightly, closing my eyes and wishing hard: absorb.
Energy surged, slow and steady, grounding me. I felt patience settling over my shoulders, a kind of quiet resilience that spread into my bones.
I opened my eyes, heart pounding.
For a moment, my back felt heavier, stronger—like armor was forming beneath my clothes.
I smiled. This was progress.
But every gift had its cost.
At school, whispers followed me. Kids avoided me as if I carried something strange, something unknowable.
Even teachers gave me wary looks. "Yuto, try to stay with the group," one warned. "Your experiments are interesting, but remember you're part of a community."
I nodded, but inside, I felt something else. A promise made quietly to myself: I would never let my quirk make me a threat. I would shape it into a force for good.
One afternoon, that promise was tested.
A small fire broke out near the playground. Smoke curled thick and black, children screaming as flames licked the wooden fence.
Teachers rushed to evacuate, but instinct pulled me forward. I knew I could help—if I could just borrow strength and speed fast enough.
I grabbed some dry leaves from a nearby bush, touched them with intent, and wished to absorb their quick-burning energy. My heart pounded as power surged into me—sharp, fast, hot.
I ran toward the fire, dodging panic. The heat bit my face, but my lungs drew in air more efficiently—as if feathered gills were brushing past my ribs.
Using what I had learned, I found a spot to push against the flames, slowing their spread until adults arrived with proper equipment.
Later, Riku approached, a grudging look on his face. "Not bad," he muttered.
I nodded, but I knew this was just the beginning.
That night, in bed, I stared at the ceiling.
The world was big, and I was small. But with every blade of grass, every flutter of feathers, every inch of turtle shell, I was becoming something else.
Stronger. Wiser.
More than just a boy with a dormant quirk.
A force shaped by choice and quiet will.
This was the future I dreamed of, one step at a time.
100 ps = 1 new chapter
200 ps = 3 new chapters