I detest going to school.
I didn't pursue a master's degree or any other type of further education for a reason. Yes, some may argue that it was because I had fewer aspirations. Some speculate that a lower appetite for risk could be the cause. Some might claim that my laziness was the cause. Not diligent. Not intended for a particular occasion. Not intended to be—
Great.
To begin with, those statements were inaccurate.
Contrary to those popular beliefs, I liked material things. I liked riches. I liked wealth. I liked the weight of a platinum card in my wallet, the particular whisper of expensive fabric against my skin, the way a penthouse balcony smells at dusk. All glass and distance and possibility. I liked the taste of it all, the sharpness of ambition mixed with something sweeter. Satisfaction, maybe. Or just the knowledge that I could have what I wanted without explaining myself to anyone.
"Kuroe-kun?"
The voice pulled me back. I blinked, the classroom snapping into focus around me.
"Kuroe-kun?"
Ms. Tanaka stood at the front of the room, her expression caught between concern and irritation. She was the type who believed that caring about students made her a good teacher, that noticing when someone checked out meant she was doing her job. The type who would report this to the guidance counselor if I gave her an opening.
I straightened up, letting my shoulders drop in that particular way that read as relaxed. Unbothered, a slight smile, the kind that didn't reach my eyes but looked genuine enough to most people.
"I'm fine. Just tired. Didn't sleep well last night."
It was the kind of excuse that required no follow-up. Every teenager in that room was tired. Sleep deprivation was practically a school badge of honor.
"Well, try to focus. We're going over the assignment due Friday."
I nodded, lowering my eyes to the blank page in front of me as if I was now dutifully paying attention. The lie had worked perfectly. It always did.
For approximately thirty seconds.
"Kuroe-kun, since you're back with us now, perhaps you can answer the question. According to the historical records from the Quirk emergence period, which nation was the first to establish formal laws restricting Quirk usage in public spaces?"
My mind wasn't in the classroom. It was three weeks back, sitting in this body's bedroom, tracing the parameters of my Quirk. The day I had been cursed and had been given this second chance.
I sighed. School had always been this way. A monument to wasted time. In my previous life, I'd built empires while sitting in boardrooms that mattered. I'd negotiated with people whose decisions shaped industries. And now I was supposed to sit in this classroom and care about which nation first restricted Quirk usage?
The silence stretched. Around me, I could feel the discomfort settling into the other students' shoulders. Someone shifted in their seat, a pencil scratched across paper.
"Kuroe-kun. The answer?"
Her tone had sharpened.
I turned a page in my notebook with deliberate slowness. The sound was loud in the quiet classroom. My handwriting from earlier stared back at me: blank. The physical embodiment of time I would never get back.
"I wasn't listening."
"That's not appropriate. I expect you to at least attempt to participate in class, Kuroe-kun. We all have to do things that don't interest us sometimes."
The irony was so thick I could taste it. Yes, Ms. Tanaka. We do. And the things that didn't interest me were becoming increasingly difficult to pretend to care about.
"I understand."
I let the words fall flat from my mouth like stones into still water. Just the bare minimum of acknowledgment.
She held my gaze for another moment. Searching, perhaps, for something to work with. Then she turned back to the board, and the class continued without me.
The rest of the period dissolved into background noise. But I could feel it now, the subtle shift in the room's attention. Ms. Tanaka would remember this. She would note it somewhere, file it away in that mental cabinet where teachers keep their concerns about difficult students. And by next week, it would have found its way to the guidance counselor, to my parents, to whoever managed this identity's educational records.
It didn't matter. What mattered was figuring out how to leverage a Quirk I barely understood yet. What mattered was mapping the power structures of this new world, understanding who held real influence and how. What mattered was reclaiming something approaching wealth and autonomy before I aged into a body that reflected my actual experience level. School wasn't a path to any of those things. It never had been.
Until then, I could survive a thousand Ms. Tanakas asking me trivial questions. I could nod and smile and pretend to care about historical restrictions on Quirk usage.
I had survived worse.
--- Line Break ---
Time to go home.
The sound of students switching between realities filled the hallway. The metal door of my locker swung open with the type of obedience that required weeks of correct calibration as I knelt at it.
My hands did not move till my feet did. In response to the particular gravitational changes I'd woven into them, the school shoes, those standard black leather things that pinched at the heel, started to slide off by themselves. Not precisely floating. Something better than that. The force pulling downward was manipulated locally and dispersed across the sole in patterns that I had spent hours mapping. With hardly a sound, the shoes fell to the bottom of the locker.
The outdoor sneakers rose from their place in a smooth arc, turning slightly in the air to align with my feet. The motion was controlled. My left foot slipped in first, then my right, and the shoes settled around my ankles with the particular satisfaction of something that fit perfectly because I'd designed it to be perfect.
I straightened, glancing at my watch.
4:04 PM.
This was a power that didn't require me to shout or fight or convince anyone of anything. It simply worked because I had decided, down to the microscopic level, exactly how it would work.
Automation.
That's what I called it. The ability to establish a framework, set the rules, and then let the system operate on its own.
When I first woke up in this body three weeks ago, the Quirk was barely functional. The real Kuroe used Automation for parlor tricks. Making his pencil roll across his desk. Dropping small objects without sound. Party entertainment for people who didn't understand what they were looking at.
He'd never understood that what he possessed wasn't magic but something that operated like the automated systems I had studied in factories decades ago. I had spent the first week just relearning my own body. A thirteen-year-old frame didn't respond the way I expected. My previous muscle memory from my previous exercise didn't translate. I'd tried to activate the Quirk on instinct and nearly dropped an entire shelf of textbooks on myself when I lost focus.
By the third week, it clicked.
I wasn't directly moving anything when I used my quirk. I developed a structure of forces that would manage the object's motion without my continuous supervision.
Think of it like a factory assembly line. A factory owner doesn't stand beside each product and move it manually. He designs the system so products move automatically according to preset rules. Conveyor belts move at specific speeds. Robotic arms activate when sensors detect the right conditions. Once the system was built and operating, the products moved themselves. The owner just has to maintain it, keep everything running smoothly.
My Quirk worked the same way, except the assembly line was made of invisible forces and the products were whatever I decided to move.
"Kuroe-kun?"
The voice cut through my thoughts with the urgency of someone who'd been calling for longer than I'd registered. I turned to find a boy, with hair the color of moss after rain, jogging toward me through the crowded hallway.
I recognized him from my class. Midoriya. Quirkless.The kind of kid who sat alone at lunch and took notes in that battered journal.
"Can we talk? For a second?"
I shouldered my bag. "Walking."
He fell into step beside me, his shorter legs forcing him to move faster to keep pace. The hallway flowed around us, other students absorbed in their own transitions. Midoriya's jaw worked slightly, as though he was rehearsing words before speaking them aloud.
"D-do you remember the lesson Ms. Tanaka gave us last week? About Quirk usage laws?"
"What?"
"U-Using your Quirk in public without a Pro Hero License is i-illegal. It's in the Hero Regulations Act. We l-learned about it."
What the hell, man?
The annoyance crystallized into something solid. A small, hard thing lodged behind my ribs.
"The l-law's pretty clear," he continued, his green eyes earnest, his fingers fidgeting with the strap of his bag. "If a t-teacher or s-someone reports it, you could face penalties. F-fines at least. Maybe worse if they think you were b-being reckless. I s-saw what happened at your locker. The sh-shoes floating. The way the d-door opened on its own. S-someone else might have s-seen it too."
I could explain.
The law didn't distinguish between reckless force and surgical precision because the people who wrote it couldn't comprehend the difference. They'd lumped all Quirk usage into a single category, illegal unless sanctioned, because control required licensing, and licensing meant surveillance, and surveillance meant the government maintained its monopoly on who could exercise power and when.
The quirkless would always support such laws. They had to. In a world where power was hereditary, where it manifested in your body before you were old enough to understand it, the only way for the powerless to maintain relevance was through rules. Through systems that said: you cannot use what you have, no matter how precisely you can use it.
You must wait. You must be licensed. You must prove your intentions to people who will never have your ability.
And Midoriya, standing here stuttering about regulations, was defending a system that had already decided his place in it. He was quirkless. He would always be subordinate. Yet here he was, lecturing me about following laws designed to keep people like me docile.
But what was the point? He was a child. His worldview was still crystallizing, still shaped by teachers and authority figures who had convinced him that rules existed for meaningful reasons. Arguing with him would be like arguing with a wall about the nature of bricks.
I shrugged, letting my shoulders rise and fall in a gesture of casual acceptance.
"Okay. I'll be more careful."
The lie was thin and transparent, but Midoriya didn't push. He looked almost relieved, as though my agreement, genuine or not, was enough to satisfy his conscience. He'd done his duty.
"G-good! I just didn't want you to get in t-trouble."
I reached the main doors, pushing through into the afternoon air. The late air cold bit at my face, clearing away the staleness of the classroom.
"See you tomorrow."
The distance between us expanded with each step I took away from Aldera. By the time I reached the street corner, he was already fading into the building's shadow.