Some parts will be Au, but not a lot, except the concept of when you get your quirk, you dont get it straight away at four years old. It can come at any age, some can even be born with it causing complications from birth. First episode for the fanfic, by the way, it is assisted by AI. Although everything from scenes to way it is laid out is from my own doing. Hope you enjoy!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I remember the peace of that life, a life that now feels like a dream blurred by memory and shadow. The smell of my mother's cooking always lingers at the edges of my mind—the kind of smell that makes your stomach flutter even before you've seen what's on the table. She had a way with food, a way that made every dish feel like a hug. Pancakes on lazy Sunday mornings, miso soup that could chase away the coldest days, rice balls shaped into little animals just to make me laugh. Her laugh… that sound. High and bright, spilling into the hallway, echoing off walls and ceilings, making the house feel alive. I can still hear it sometimes, if I close my eyes, if I let myself remember.
My father always seemed relaxed, a stark contrast to my mother's constant motion. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, teasing her about burning toast when it wasn't even burnt. He would grin, that lazy, easy smile that could melt away any worry. They were happy. We were happy. That's all I knew, and I never questioned it. I felt safe. I trusted them entirely.
I was six then, stubborn and reckless, already wanting the world beyond the walls of our home. One afternoon, I decided I needed more than their comfort—I needed my friends, the park, the swings, the freedom of running as fast as my little legs could carry me. So I sneaked out. I remember the grass under my bare feet, the wind against my face, the laughter of children mixing with the songs of birds. For a moment, I thought I had escaped the watchful eyes of my parents, but of course, I hadn't.
When they found me, the worry on their faces froze me in place. My mother's eyes were wide, her hands trembling as she pulled me into a hug, scolding me softly through tears of relief. "Kaito! Don't do that again!" she whispered, her voice cracking. My father, usually easygoing, let out a sharp, exasperated laugh, ruffling my hair and pulling me close. I remember their relief, their arms wrapped around me, warm and grounding. In that moment, I realized just how much I relied on my mother. I admit it—I was a mother's boy, utterly dependent on her warmth, her laughter, her care. And I wouldn't have had it any other way.
But all of that changed when I turned seven.
I had fallen asleep on the sofa that evening, a book still open beside me, half-finished as my eyelids finally gave in. Midnight came, and I woke to a silence so heavy it pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe. The house was dark, the shadows stretching unnaturally long across the walls. Something felt… wrong. I remember stepping cautiously into the hall, and then seeing him—my father—standing there, bloodied, unmoving, bathed in the cold glow of moonlight. His eyes looked hollow, distant, like someone had reached inside him and pulled something vital away.
I called out. My voice trembled, small and uncertain. "Dad…?"
No response.
I followed him slowly, my bare feet silent on the floorboards. And then I saw it. Her dress. His hands clutched it tightly, torn, soaked in blood. My stomach dropped, a cold, icy weight that stole the air from my lungs. My mind couldn't process it. I froze. My voice caught again. "Dad! Dad!"
He didn't answer.
I tried again, louder, desperation creeping into my tone, but his face remained blank, the world behind his eyes gone. I remember thinking, in that moment, that something fundamental had shifted. The warmth, the laughter, the jokes, the teasing—all of it was gone. And with it, my childhood.
He never told me exactly what had happened, not the details. I only knew that she had been killed, and that somehow, it was planned. Those words, though few, carved themselves into my mind deeper than any wound. I didn't cry then. I couldn't. I could only stand there, numb, staring at the broken pieces of our life scattered across that midnight room.
After that night, everything changed. My father became someone else entirely—no longer the relaxed, teasing man who had leaned against doorframes with his easy smile. He was withdrawn, angry, and impossibly protective. He drilled me every day, from dawn until my small body screamed for mercy. His hands were harsh, his words sharper. There was almost no warmth, almost no comfort. He trained me like I was a weapon, a soldier, someone who could survive a world that had taken everything from us.
And yet, I understood even then. Even as a child, I understood that every strike, every command, every exhaustion-inducing drill was meant to make me strong. Strong enough not to die the way she had. Strong enough to endure what life might throw at me. My father's love was buried beneath the armor of discipline, but it was there. I could feel it in the way he corrected my mistakes, the way his eyes softened for the briefest fraction of a second when I succeeded at something he had doubted I could do.
I think that's when I began to understand him. To see the man behind the pain, behind the grief, behind the rage. His quirk—Iron Bastion—was a perfect reflection of him: unyielding, almost impossible to break, a fortress against the world. He could coat his body in metal, making him stronger, faster, and nearly invulnerable. Even the strongest villains would hesitate before meeting him head-on. He was a top-tier hero, the kind who could stop reinforced steel trucks with a single punch, who could crush concrete with a flick of his fingers. And he demanded excellence from me because he believed, somehow, that I could reach a fraction of his strength. That I could survive. That I could endure.
I didn't tell him, and I never have, that I missed her so much it sometimes hurt to breathe. That I longed for her warmth, her laughter, the way she smelled when she was cooking, the way she would fuss over me even when I acted stubborn. I carried it inside me, hidden behind my smirk, my teasing, my playful mischief. I carried it in my heart like a fire, a small, steady warmth that reminded me why I had to be strong.
Training under my father was relentless. Every morning began before dawn. Push-ups, sprints, precision strikes, and reflex drills. His hands didn't flinch when they landed on me; his words cut like knives when I faltered. But I learned. I learned discipline, endurance, control. I learned to respect power, to respect danger, to respect life itself. And I began to understand something else: fear could be a weapon, but so could confidence. I could use it. I could mold it. I could take the grief and anger inside me and channel it into something useful.
I started noticing things about my own body, about the way I moved. My reflexes were quicker than the other kids'. My punches and kicks had weight behind them. I could see subtle shifts in the air, feel vibrations beneath my feet. My parents had begun teaching me, in pieces, how to push myself beyond normal limits—and though I didn't know it yet, my quirk was awakening, responding to the training, to the grief, to the fire inside me.
I remember one night, long after she had died, long after the first weeks of training had begun, sitting on the roof of our house, staring at the stars. I wondered what she would think if she could see me now, if she could see the small boy she had held in her arms, now standing on the edge of the roof like a shadow, strong enough to survive, smart enough to strategize, and fearless enough to face a world that had taken her from me.
I laughed softly, the sound hollow but somehow freeing. "You gave me this, didn't you, Mom?" I whispered. "Your strength… your fire… your blessing. I'll make sure it doesn't go to waste."
Even as I trained, even as I sparred under my father's unyielding gaze, I never forgot the warmth of the life before the darkness. It became my anchor, my memory of love that kept me human in a world that could so easily crush innocence.
My father's drills were harsh. His anger often unnerving. But I knew, deep down, that every strike, every shout, every scolding glance was born of a single desire: to ensure that I would survive. That I would endure. That I would not perish like she did. And even though he never explained, even though he never said the words, I felt it. I felt his love in the only way he could express it—through unrelenting preparation for a world that had already taken too much.
And so I trained. I learned to fight. I learned to think. I learned to endure pain, exhaustion, and fear. I learned to hide my grief behind smiles and mischief. I learned to carry the memory of my mother like a shadow at my back: silent, constant, driving me forward.
I became a student of survival. A student of strength. A student of the world. And even as I trained under the unyielding hand of my father, I never forgot the warmth of pancakes, the hum of her laughter, the smell of miso soup. Those memories are still my secret armor, my quiet rebellion against a world that tried to take everything from me.
I am Kaito Asahina. I am a son. A student. A warrior in training. And one day, I will make sure that the fire she left in me burns brighter than anything the world can throw my way.