Four Years Later – Final Year of Middle School
The classroom buzzed with the restless energy of teenagers on the brink of freedom. The smell of chalk dust and floor wax was suffocatingly nostalgic.
"Since you're all third-year students, it's time to think seriously about your future," the homeroom teacher announced, slapping a stack of papers onto his podium. He paused for dramatic effect, adjusting his glasses. "I would hand out these career aptitude forms, but..."
He grabbed the stack and threw it into the air, the papers scattering like confetti.
"...I assume you all want to be Heroes!"
The room exploded. Quirks flared—hands turned into rock, eyes glowed, and minor telekinesis sent pencils floating. It was a display of individuality and ego, a chaotic symphony of "Me! Me! Me!"
Choso sat near the back, his chin resting in his palm. He didn't cheer. He didn't flare his aura. He just watched, his dark eyes scanning the room with a detached calmness.
He glanced at the boy two desks over—a kid who could pull his eyeballs out of their sockets and see through them. Useful for surveillance, I guess. Terrible for combat.
"Yes, yes, you all have wonderful Quirks," the teacher calmed them down. "But remember, using them in school is against the rules."
"Hey, Sensei!" A boy with jagged teeth grinned. "Don't lump us all together. I'm aiming for the top! U.A. High!"
The class gasped, then murmured. U.A. was the gold standard. The impossible dream.
"Oh, that's right," the teacher nodded, checking his list. "Itadori is also aiming for U.A., isn't he?"
The murmurs stopped. Thirty heads turned toward the back of the room.
Choso didn't flinch under the scrutiny. He simply straightened his posture and nodded once. "Yes, Sensei."
There was no mockery. No "You can't do it." Over the last few years, Choso hadn't been a loud show-off, but everyone knew he was athletic, smart, and had a "scary but cool" quirk. He had cultivated an air of quiet competence that commanded respect.
"Good luck, Itadori," the jagged-tooth kid said, actually sounding genuine. "That blood stuff is wicked."
"Thanks," Choso replied, his voice even.
Good luck to you too, he thought as the bell rang, signaling the end of the day. U.A. is a beast of its own. It's not just an exam; it's the real deal. I hope everyone here is ready for the reality check.
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The afternoon sun was blinding as Choso walked home. The streets were busier than usual, a current of tension running through the crowd. People were glued to their phones, or clustered around the large public screens near the train station.
Choso slowed his pace, his instincts prickling. Something happened.
He looked up at the jumbo screen mounted on the side of a department store. A news anchor was speaking breathlessly, the "BREAKING NEWS" banner flashing red.
"...footage from the Tatsumiyama shopping district earlier today! A villain made of sludge took a middle school student hostage, causing massive property damage and fires! But fear not..."
The screen cut to shaky footage. A towering figure with blonde hair and a smile that defied fear smashed through the chaos. A punch that changed the weather. Rain fell from a clear sky.
All Might.
The crowd on the street cheered. "He's amazing!" "Did you see that smash?" "The symbol of peace!"
Choso stared at the screen, but unlike the awestruck civilians, a wide, electric grin spread across his face.
The Sludge Incident, Choso realized, his heart pounding not with fear, but with pure anticipation. It happened. The timeline has officially started. Midoriya just met All Might! He's probably getting the 'You can be a hero' speech right this second.
He looked down at his own hands, clenching them into fists. The waiting was over. The prologue was finished.
It's showtime.
"I need to up my training," he muttered to himself, practically bouncing on his heels as he turned away from the crowd. "I'm running out of time, and I can't wait."
He pulled up his interface as he walked, the familiar blue text hovering in his peripheral vision.
[Choso Template Synchronization: 67%]
"Sixty-seven percent," he gritted out, frustration leaking into his voice.
It had been stuck there for three months. Three months.
Physical conditioning? Check. Cursed Energy reinforcement? Check. Basic manipulation? Mastered. So why am I stuck?
He knew the answer, deep down. It was lack of lethality and experience. Choso, the original Choso, was born from death paintings. He lived in a world of curses and sorcery. His techniques—Supernova, Wing King—were forged in the heat of killing intent.
The dojo is great for discipline, Choso acknowledged, wiping sweat from his brow. But there's a limit to what I can learn in a controlled environment. The original Choso forged his techniques in blood and battle. I'm trying to replicate that intensity here, but without the actual threat of danger, my body refuses to cross that final line.
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The house was silent when he arrived. A note on the kitchen counter in Kaori's elegant handwriting:
"Dad and I are at an anniversary dinner! There's leftover stew in the fridge. Don't stay up too late training! Love, Mom."
Choso crumbled the note gently and set it aside. "Perfect."
He didn't go to the fridge. He went straight to the garage, which they had converted into a makeshift gym. Mats covered the floor, and a heavy punching bag hung from the ceiling.
He stripped off his school uniform, changing into gym shorts and a tank top. He didn't wrap his hands. He needed to feel the blood.
He stood in the center of the room, closing his eyes. He breathed in deeply, finding that dark, viscous pool of Cursed Energy in his gut. It was a roaring river now, heavy and potent.
"Flowing Red Scale," he whispered.
Thump-thump.
His heart rate didn't just increase; it obeyed. He felt the blood vessels in his eyes dilate. The familiar red lines traced their way across his face, framing his eyes. His muscles swelled slightly, oxygen flooding his system at a supernatural rate. The world slowed down. He could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the house. He could see the dust floating in the air.
He moved.
He struck the heavy bag, his fist a blur. Bang! The bag folded around his knuckles, swinging violently.
Faster.
He didn't just punch. He visualized the blood inside his knuckles hardening on impact, creating a biological brass knuckle, then softening instantly to disperse the shock.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The rhythm was hypnotic. But it wasn't enough. This was just physical enhancement. He needed the technique that defined Choso's mastery.
He stepped back, holding his hand out. He nicked his thumb with a small knife he kept on the shelf, drawing blood.
"Convergence," he commanded.
The blood flowed out, hovering over his palm. He poured Cursed Energy into it, compressing the liquid. It needed to be dense. Harder than rock.
"Compress," he grunted, sweat beading on his forehead. The red sphere shrank, vibrating violently. The pressure was immense. He was fighting the laws of physics with nothing but willpower and cursed energy.
Supernova.
He tried to split the compressed sphere into multiple, tiny projectiles. He visualized the explosion. The omnidirectional assault.
The sphere wobbled. The Cursed Energy fluctuated.
Hold it. Hold it!
POP.
The sphere didn't explode into deadly bullets. It burst like a water balloon, splattering hot blood all over his face, the mats, and the pristine white garage wall.
"Dammit!"
Choso wiped the blood from his eyes, his breathing ragged. The red lines on his face faded as he released Flowing Red Scale.
He slumped against the punching bag, sliding down to the floor. He looked at the mess. It looked like a crime scene.
Failure.
He looked at the synchronization rate again. Still 67%.
It's getting harder and harder to raise it, he thought, staring at the red stains on his hands. I'm hitting a wall. My body can handle the strain, but my control over the Cursed Energy... it lacks the precision of a Special Grade.
He needed a breakthrough. He needed something real. But for now, he had to clean this up before Kaori got home and fainted at the sight of her garage looking like a scene from a horror movie.
He grabbed a rag and a bucket of water, scrubbing the blood from the floor. As he worked, his mind shifted from frustration to calculation.
The Sludge Incident was today. That meant the timeline had officially begun.
"I have ten months," he whispered to the empty garage. "Ten months until the U.A. Entrance Exam."
He scrubbed harder, the image of All Might's punch replaying in his mind.
Midoriya is going to spend the next ten months moving trash on a beach to inherit the greatest power in the world. I need to spend the next ten months turning my own body into a weapon that doesn't need to inherit anything.
He stood up, tossing the bloody rag into the bucket. The water turned a dark, murky crimson.
I won't just pass, Choso vowed, his dark eyes reflecting in the bloody water. I'm going to dominate.
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