Chapter 2: The Weight of the World
The year that followed was a blurry, suffocating fog of half-heard sounds and formless touches.
The hospital was a sterile nightmare. Kaito learned to identify people by their footsteps: the heavy, hesitant tread of his father; the frantic, light patter of his mother; the soft, squeaking shoes of the doctors who brought only bad news.
"The optic nerves are severed completely," a low, somber voice explained from somewhere above him. "The damage from the blade... it was deliberate. Brutal. There's no Quirk in the world that can regrow them, Kurosawa-san. I am... I am profoundly sorry."
His mother's response was a choked, broken sound that Kaito felt vibrate through the mattress.
His father didn't speak. He just left the room. Kaito heard his footsteps running down the hall, followed by the distant slam of a door and a muffled, masculine roar of pure, unfiltered grief.
They brought Kaito home. The apartment, once a vibrant world of color, was now a confusing, hostile map of sharp corners and unseen obstacles.
He was five years old now, but he felt like an infant. He cried constantly. He cried from fear, from frustration, from the soul-deep ache of loss. He would stumble over the coffee table and collapse, weeping, not from the pain in his shins, but from the humiliation of his weakness.
His parents' sorrow was a tangible thing, a heavy blanket that smothered the apartment. At night, he would lie awake, pressing his ear to the wall, listening to their muffled arguments.
"...don't know what to do, Kenji!" his mother would weep. "He just... sits there. He won't talk. He won't play. That... that monster... he didn't just take his eyes. He took our son."
"What future does he have, Misaki?" his father's voice was hollow, defeated. "A Quirkless, blind boy in this world? What can he do? How can we protect him? He's... he's been stolen from us."
Their pain became Kaito's guilt. He felt like a burden. A broken toy. A living reminder of the moment their lives had shattered.
The "corruption" they feared wasn't from a Quirk. It was the corruption of despair. They saw the path ahead of their son, and it was a black void. They saw the evil of the world, and how it had already claimed their child, swallowing his future before it had even begun.
The breaking point came on a rainy Tuesday.
Kaito was in his room, sitting on the floor, surrounded by his old wooden building blocks. He used to build towering, colorful castles. Now, he just pushed them around, trying to remember the feel of their painted surfaces.
He was trying to build a simple square. He placed one block, then another. He reached for a third, fumbling, his fingers brushing against it. He tried to place it, but his spatial awareness was gone. The block clattered to the floor.
He tried again. It fell again.
He could hear his mother in the kitchen, washing dishes. She wasn't humming. She never hummed anymore. He heard the soft clink of ceramic, then a pause, and then the sound he dreaded most: a quiet, stifled sob.
She was crying again. Because of him. Because he was broken.
A hot, furious pressure built in Kaito's chest. It wasn't just sadness. It was rage. He was angry at the blocks. He was angry at his mother for crying. He was angry at his father for being silent. He was angry at the man in the park.
He was angry at the nothingness that had become his life.
"Stop it," he whispered, his small hands clenching into fists. The tears streamed down his face, but they were hot and acidic. "Just... stop."
He slammed his fist onto the floor.
"STOP!"
It was not a sound. It was a command.
The first thing he felt was the air pressure in the room dropping, as if he were suddenly at the bottom of a deep ocean. His ears popped.
The sound of his mother's sob cut off. The sound of the rain outside... stopped.
He felt... something. A new sense.
He didn't see the blocks, but he felt them. He felt their individual weight, their precise location, their sharp corners. They were floating.
He felt the heavy, wooden frame of his bed. It, too, was floating two inches off the carpet.
He felt his dresser. His bookshelf. The small, plastic All Might figurine on his nightstand.
They were all suspended, motionless, in a perfect, silent tableau.
The air in the room grew heavier, and heavier still. It was a tangible force, a crushing weight that emanated from him.
"Misaki...?" he heard his father's voice, terrified, from the hallway.
His parents appeared in the doorway. Kaito couldn't see them, but he sensed them. He felt their mass, their heat, the sudden, frantic spike in their heart rates.
Misaki's hand flew to her mouth. Kenji's eyes were wide with a terror that eclipsed anything he'd felt in the hospital.
Everything in the room—the bed, the dresser, every last toy and book—was floating in mid-air, bathed in a faint, oppressive purple aura. The objects weren't just hovering; they were being held, crushed by an invisible, monumental force. The wooden bed frame was audibly creaking, threatening to splinter.
"Kaito..." his father whispered, taking a step inside. The pressure was so intense he had to brace himself against the doorframe. "Son... what... what is this?"
Kaito was breathing hard, his small body rigid. He was terrified. But beneath the terror was a spark of something else.
He could feel the room.
He couldn't see the blocks, but he knew exactly where they were. He knew one was red, one was blue, and one was yellow, not by sight, but by a strange, innate knowing that came with the feel of their mass.
He felt his mother, cowering by the door. He felt his father, frozen in shock. He felt the rain... not just heard it. He could feel the weight of the individual drops as they struck the windowpane.
"He... he has a Quirk," Misaki breathed, her voice trembling with a new, complex fear. "Kenji... look at this. It's... it's immense. It's... it's too much."
This power, appearing now, after his light was gone... it felt like a cruel joke. A dark path indeed. It wasn't a gift. It was a burden. A power this great, this heavy, in a child so broken... they couldn't see a future, only a struggle.
Kaito, overwhelmed by the sensory input and his parents' terror, lost his focus.
The command in his mind vanished.
The invisible force disappeared in an instant.
With a catastrophic, deafening crash, everything in the room fell. The bed slammed onto the floor, cracking the wood. The dresser toppled over. The blocks rained down.
Kaito flinched, covering his head as his parents cried out his name.
Silence returned, broken only by Kaito's sharp, gasping breaths.
His father was the first to move. He scrambled across the ruined room, kneeling, his hands hovering over Kaito's shoulders, afraid to touch him.
"Kaito... are you alright? Did you... did you do that?"
Kaito slowly lowered his arms. He didn't answer. He was still processing.
For one year, his world had been a void. He had been a ghost, navigating a foreign land by memory and sound.
But now...
He reached out his hand, not randomly, but with perfect, unnerving precision, and picked up a single, sharp-edged block from the floor.
He felt its weight in his mind before his fingers ever touched it.
He turned his head, his lifeless, scarred eyes staring directly at his father's chest.
"I can feel you," he whispered, his voice shaking with a terrifying, newfound clarity. "I can feel your heart. It's beating... really fast."
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Plz help the story with your power stones.
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