Chapter 1: The Path of Least Resistance
The estate of the Kuzan family did not scream wealth; rather, it whispered it in a frequency that only the old money of Japan could truly hear. It was a sprawling compound of traditional architecture fused with modern, minimalist design, nestled in the quiet, verdant hills on the outskirts of Tokyo. The air here always seemed a few degrees cooler than the city center, a phenomenon the family attributed to the altitude, though the servants whispered it was simply the nature of the bloodline that lived within.
The Kuzan lineage was not composed of heroes. For generations, they had been the silent giants of industry. Kuzan Cryogenics & Logistics was a name stamped on shipping containers, deep-freeze warehouses, and medical preservation units across the globe. They were the kings of the cold, providing the infrastructure that kept society running. They were noble, dignified, and utterly uninterested in spandex or public brawls.
Until today.
Inside the main hall, the sliding tatami doors were open, revealing a meticulously manicured Zen garden where the bamboo swayed rhythmically in the wind. Seated at the head of a low, black lacquer table was the patriarch, a man of sharp features and silver-streaked hair. Beside him sat his wife, a woman whose elegance was as rigid as an icicle.
Across from them, lying flat on his back on the expensive tatami mats with a sleeping mask pulled over his eyes, was their eldest son.
"Kuzan," the father said. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of a boardroom decision.
The boy on the floor didn't move. He was tall for his age, lanky and limber, with a shock of unruly black hair that seemed to defy gravity not out of style, but out of sheer refusal to settle down.
"Kuzan," the father repeated, slightly louder.
"I'm awake," came the muffled reply. The boy lifted one hand, scratching his ear lazily. "Just… resting my eyes. The lighting in here is too aggressive."
"The sun is setting, Kuzan. The light is fading," his mother noted dryly.
The boy, Kuzan Aokiji, finally sat up. He pulled the sleeping mask up to his forehead, revealing dark, heavy-lidded eyes that looked at the world with a profound lack of urgency. He yawned, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to suck the tension out of the room, much to his parents' annoyance.
"So," Aokiji drawled, resting his cheek on his palm. "Why the family gathering? Did we buy another glacier? Or did the stock market crash?"
"The market is fine," his father said, placing a holographic tablet on the table. He slid it toward his son. "However, the nature of influence is changing. For a century, we have ruled through commerce. But look at the charts, Kuzan. The 'Hero Society' is no longer a chaotic vigilance committees. It is an industry. A celebrity machine. The Yaoyorozu family has already begun integrating their heirs into the system. They understand that in this era, a family without a Hero is a family without a voice."
Aokiji blinked, looking at the tablet without truly reading it. "Okay. That sounds exhausting. Good luck with that, Father."
"It is not luck we are seeking," his father said, his eyes narrowing. "It is representation. We have decided. The Kuzan family will enter the Hero scene."
Aokiji stared at him. A few seconds of silence passed. Then, he pointed a thumb at himself.
"Me?"
"You have the Quirk," his mother interjected. "The Permafrost capability. It is the strongest manifestation of our bloodline in five generations. You can freeze a city block in seconds. You can transform your physical body into ice to evade harm. It is a waste to have you sitting in a climate-controlled office signing logistics paperwork."
Aokiji's face scrunched up in genuine distaste. "But being a Hero involves… running. And yelling. And saving people who probably shouldn't have walked into a burning building in the first place. It sounds like a lot of cardio."
"If you do not accept this path," his father said, playing his trump card, "then you must begin your training as the CEO of Kuzan Cryogenics immediately."
Aokiji froze. "Immediately?"
"Tomorrow," his father confirmed. "And since you would be managing the global supply chain, you would need to master the finances. Advanced calculus, fluid dynamics for the cooling systems, international trade economics, and statistical analysis. You would be in tutoring for six hours a day, specifically focused on mathematics and physics."
A thick silence descended upon the room.
Aokiji hated math. It wasn't that he couldn't do it; he was intelligent enough. It was just that numbers were so… rigid. They required constant attention. One decimal point out of place and everything collapsed. It was tedious. It was a headache.
"And if I go to this… Hero school?" Aokiji asked cautiously.
"You would attend U.A. High," his mother said. "The premier academy. It is largely practical. Field training. Combat simulations. Rescue operations."
Aokiji's mind began to whir, albeit slowly. Field training meant being outside. Combat meant instinctively throwing ice at things until they stopped moving. That sounded significantly easier than calculating the depreciation of assets over a fiscal quarter.
"Fieldwork..." Aokiji muttered. "That means less time in a classroom, right?"
"Presumably," his father nodded. "The focus is on physical application of power."
Aokiji sighed, a sound like wind whistling through a cavern. He scratched the back of his head, messing up his black hair even further. "Arara... well, if those are my choices. I guess I'll go be a Hero. Just don't expect me to wear anything tight."
Later that evening, Aokiji stood on the veranda of his room, looking out over the darkened estate. The air around him was freezing, though he didn't feel it. Frost patterns were slowly creeping across the wooden railing where his hand rested, beautiful and intricate fractals of white.
"You're actually going to do it."
The voice came from behind him. He didn't turn. He knew the footsteps. It was Sayuri, his younger sister. She was fourteen, a year his junior, and possessed all the energy and anxiety that he lacked.
"Hey, Sayuri," he greeted lazily.
She stepped out onto the balcony, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself. She shivered slightly as she entered his personal atmosphere. "U.A. High, Aokiji. It's the hardest school in the country. The acceptance rate is less than one percent."
"Father pulled strings," Aokiji said, watching a moth flutter near a lantern. "Recommendation exam. I skip the general pool."
"That's not the point!" Sayuri huffed, leaning against the wall. She had the same black hair as him, but hers was kept in a neat bob. Her eyes were sharp and worried. "You hate working. You hate sweating. You hate people telling you what to do. And you think U.A. is going to be a vacation?"
"I think it's going to be better than Advanced Calculus," Aokiji replied honestly.
"You idiot," she said affectionately. "U.A. is a high school. They still have normal classes. You're still going to have to do math, English, and history. You haven't escaped anything."
Aokiji waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, but think about it. In a normal school, you sit at a desk for seven hours. In a Hero course? Maybe two hours of books, then five hours of 'Hero Basic Training.' That's five hours where I can just… exist. Maybe freeze a robot or two. It's the ratio, Sayuri. It's all about the ratio."
Sayuri stared at him, dumbfounded by his logic. "You are underestimating this. The people going there… they have dreams. They have burning passion. They want to be the next All Might. You're going there because you don't want to learn economics."
"Passion burns out," Aokiji said, his voice dropping an octave. He lifted his hand, and the moisture in the air condensed instantly, forming a small, perfect sculpture of a bird in his palm. It was detailed down to the feathers. "Ice preserves. I'll be fine. I'll just do enough to pass, keep the old man happy, and avoid the spreadsheets."
He crushed the ice bird, letting the powder fall like snow over the railing.
"Besides," he added, looking at his sister with a rare, faint smirk. "It might be interesting to see what all the fuss is about. This 'justice' everyone talks about."
Sayuri sighed, shaking her head. "You're impossible. Just... don't get expelled on the first day for sleeping during roll call."
"No promises."
Two weeks later, the recommendation arrived. Or rather, the summons.
The Kuzan family name carried weight, and the video attached to his application—a simple clip of Aokiji turning a swimming pool into a solid block of ice in under three seconds with a mere dip of his finger—had evidently been enough to intrigue the U.A. faculty.
Aokiji stood in front of the mirror in his room. He was wearing a black tracksuit his mother had bought him, claiming it looked "athletic yet respectable." He thought it looked like pajamas that were trying too hard.
He packed a small bag. A bottle of water. A towel. And his sleeping mask.
"Young Master," the family chauffeur called from the hallway. "The car is ready."
Aokiji took a deep breath. The air entering his lungs felt cold, comforting. He could feel the hum of his Quirk beneath his skin, a dormant winter waiting to be unleashed. He wasn't nervous. Nervousness required energy. He was just… resigned.
"Alright," he muttered to the empty room. "Time to go become a hero, I guess."
The drive to Musutafu was smooth. Aokiji spent the entire trip looking out the window, watching the city skyline grow denser. When the massive glass barriers of U.A. High came into view, shaped like a giant 'H', he felt a flicker of something that wasn't boredom. It wasn't quite excitement, but it was curiosity.
The gate was imposing. He stepped out of the car, the morning sun beating down on the pavement. It was a hot day, unusual for early spring.
"Too hot," he complained immediately.
He walked toward the designated entrance for Recommended Students. There were fewer people here than he expected. The general exam was a chaotic sea of thousands; this entrance was quiet, reserved for the elite.
He saw a boy with a shaved head and an intense expression walking stiffly. He saw a girl with a ponytail who looked like she was mentally reciting a textbook.
And then, he felt it.
A wave of heat, and a wave of cold.
Aokiji stopped. Ahead of him, walking alone, was a boy with hair split down the middle—white on the right, red on the left. The air around him was heavy, burdened with an unspoken anger.
"Interesting," Aokiji whispered.
He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and slouched forward, his long legs carrying him toward the building. He didn't know it yet, but his "path of least resistance" was about to get a lot steeper. But for now, he just hoped the exam hall had air conditioning.