The mentor's name was Tamaki Inose, and she looked like someone who'd seen too much.
That was Haruto's first impression when she showed up at their apartment on a Tuesday afternoon. Mid-forties, maybe early fifties. Dark hair streaked with gray, pulled back in a messy braid. Dirt under her fingernails that she hadn't bothered scrubbing clean. And eyes—deep brown, weathered, tired—that immediately locked onto Haruto with an intensity that made him sit up straighter.
She studied him for a long, quiet moment.
Then she looked at Gerald.
Then back at Haruto.
"So you're the one making the grocery stores nervous," she said.
I like her already.
"Sit down, please," Haruto's mother flustered into host mode. "Tea? Cookies? We have—"
"Tea would be great." Tamaki didn't take her eyes off Haruto. "And cookies. I haven't eaten since yesterday."
"Yesterday?!" Haruto's mother looked horrified. "That's not okay! Let me make something—"
"Cookies are fine, really." Tamaki finally looked away from Haruto and smiled. It was a tired smile, warm but worn around the edges. "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Senju. Your son's case is... interesting."
Case, Haruto thought. She called me a case. Great. I'm a science experiment again.
His mother disappeared into the kitchen, and Tamaki sat down across from Haruto on the living room floor. Not on the couch. On the floor, cross-legged, like she was perfectly comfortable anywhere.
"So," she said. "Your quirk talks to you."
"Kind of," Haruto said cautiously. "Not words. Feelings."
"Hm." She tilted her head. "What's Gerald saying right now?"
Haruto blinked. She knew Gerald's name?
"Your mother told me about him," Tamaki explained, seeing his expression. "She mentioned the fern. Said you have conversations with it."
Of course she told everyone. My personal plant therapist is apparently public information now.
Haruto focused on Gerald. The fern was alert, curious, sizing up Tamaki the way Gerald sized up everyone—quietly, thoughtfully.
She's interesting, Gerald offered. Her hands have soil memories. She's grown many things.
"He says you have soil memories in your hands," Haruto reported. "And that you've grown lots of things."
Tamaki raised an eyebrow. "Soil memories. I like that." She held up her hands, studying them. "Haven't been able to scrub the garden out from under my nails in twenty years. Figured I'd stop trying."
She looked at Haruto with something that might have been respect.
"Most children with plant quirks can make things grow," she said. "Some can heal. Very few can communicate. You seem to do all three." She paused. "How old are you?"
"Two."
"Two." She said the word like she was tasting something surprising. "And you're already doing all of that?"
"Is that bad?" Haruto asked, genuinely unsure.
"Not bad. Very unusual." Tamaki leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Tell me, Haruto. When the plants talk to you, do you ever feel like there are too many of them at once?"
Finally. Someone who actually understands.
"All the time," Haruto admitted. "It's like... being in a room where everyone's talking at once."
"And does it ever overwhelm you? Make you feel dizzy or confused?"
"Sometimes. When I'm in places with a lot of plants. Like the grocery store."
Tamaki nodded slowly, like this was making sense to her. "I thought so. Your quirk is casting too wide a net. You're connecting to everything simultaneously instead of filtering."
That's exactly what I figured, Haruto thought. But nobody else seemed to understand.
"Can you teach me to filter?" he asked.
Tamaki smiled. Not a tired smile this time. A real one.
"That's exactly why I'm here."
Haruto's mother returned with tea and cookies, and the adults talked for a while. Haruto gathered that Tamaki was a retired hero—something called "Greenward"—who had spent her career using nature-based quirks for rescue operations.
A hero with a plant quirk, Haruto thought. She might actually know what she's talking about.
"I retired about five years ago," Tamaki explained, dunking a cookie in her tea. "Too many years of growing vines in burning buildings. My body couldn't handle the energy output anymore."
"Oh no," Haruto's mother said sympathetically. "That sounds difficult."
"It was what it was." Tamaki shrugged. "But it left me with a lot of knowledge about plant quirks. And a lot of free time." She looked at Haruto. "Which is why I'm willing to mentor your son."
"We really appreciate that," Haruto's mother said.
"Don't thank me yet." Tamaki's eyes were back on Haruto, sharp and assessing. "Training is going to be hard. Especially the emotional control part."
"I've been working on that," Haruto said.
"I know. Miss Yamada from the control classes told me. She said you're improving but still reactive." Tamaki tilted her head. "When you're frustrated, your quirk activates. When you're annoyed, plants respond. Am I right?"
She already knows everything, Haruto thought. How does she already know everything?
"Yeah," he admitted.
"We'll fix that," Tamaki said simply. "Not overnight. But we'll fix it."
The confidence in her voice was reassuring. Not performative like Miss Yuki's endless enthusiasm, or worried like his mother's well-meaning concern. Just solid, grounded certainty.
I trust her, Haruto realized, and was surprised by how quickly he'd arrived at that conclusion. She's been where I am. She knows what this is like.
"When do we start?" Haruto asked.
Tamaki grinned. "Tomorrow. Wear clothes you don't mind getting dirty."
She has no idea how dirty my life already is, Haruto thought. Between Gerald and the grocery store incidents, I'm basically a walking soil sample.
The next day, Tamaki showed up at 8 AM sharp.
Haruto was already dressed—his mother had laid out old clothes, as instructed—and waiting by the door. He'd barely slept, too excited to think clearly.
Wait, Haruto thought, catching himself mid-bounce. Am I excited? Since when am I excited about anything?
But he was. Genuinely excited. This was the first time since his rebirth that someone was going to teach him about his quirk in a real, meaningful way. Not baby-proofed quirk control classes or worried doctor visits. Actual training.
"Ready?" Tamaki asked, shouldering a worn backpack.
"Ready," Haruto confirmed.
They walked to the park—the same one where Haruto had first healed the cherry tree—and Tamaki found a quiet corner away from other people.
"First things first," she said, setting down her backpack and pulling out several plants in small pots. "I want to see what you can do. No holding back, no trying to control it. Just show me."
"My mom said—"
"Your mom isn't here. And I'm a trained professional who's dealt with runaway plant quirks for twenty years." She set the pots down in a line. "These are plants specifically chosen for this exercise. They're hardy, they can handle a lot of growth, and they won't attract attention in a park." She looked at him. "Grow them."
She wants me to just... let loose?
"All of them?" Haruto asked.
"All of them. At the same time if you can."
Haruto approached the pots. Five plants, all different. A fern—which immediately reminded him of Gerald—a small succulent, some moss, a vine, and a flower he didn't recognize.
He placed both hands on the ground between them and thought: Grow.
The response was immediate and electric.
All five plants surged. The fern doubled in size. The succulent sprouted new leaves in rapid succession. The moss spread across the ground in a green wave. The vine shot upward, curling and twisting. The flower bloomed in a burst of color.
It felt incredible. Like breathing after being underwater for hours.
This is what it feels like when I don't fight it, Haruto realized, amazement spreading through him. This is what my quirk actually wants to do.
He kept going, pushing more energy outward. The plants responded enthusiastically, growing faster, bigger, more complex. The vine wrapped around a nearby tree trunk in spirals. The moss covered an entire section of ground. The flower opened wider, petals catching the morning sun.
"Impressive," Tamaki said quietly.
Haruto pushed harder, lost in the sensation. He could feel every plant now—not just the five he'd started with, but the trees nearby, the grass beneath him, every green living thing within twenty feet. They were all responding to him, all growing—
"Haruto. Stop."
The word cut through the haze. Haruto blinked, and the world rushed back into focus.
He was sitting in the middle of what could only be described as a small jungle. The five plants had grown enormously. The vine had created a canopy overhead. The moss covered everything. The fern was now taller than he was.
Tamaki stood at the edge of the growth, looking at it with an expression that was hard to read.
Did I mess up? Haruto thought anxiously. Was that too much?
"Huh," Tamaki said.
"Too much?"
"Way too much." She paused. "That was also exactly what I needed to see."
She stepped carefully into the small jungle, examining the plants. Touching leaves, feeling bark, studying the growth patterns with the eye of someone who'd spent decades doing this.
"Your quirk is not just plant manipulation," she said finally, looking at him with those sharp, tired eyes. "It's dominion."
"Dominion?"
"Command. Authority. You're not asking these plants to grow." She gestured at the canopy above them. "You're telling them to."
Oh.
That was... a very different way of looking at it.
"Most plant quirks work on a request basis," Tamaki continued. "You push energy into a plant and it responds by growing. Simple cause and effect. What you're doing is..." She searched for the word. "It's control. Like a conductor controlling an orchestra."
An orchestra that sometimes plays when I don't want them to, Haruto thought. But still.
"Is that dangerous?" Haruto asked.
Tamaki considered the question. "It can be. Especially at your age, when your control isn't fully developed. You just created a small forest in a park. Imagine if this happened in a crowd. Or a city."
I'd rather not.
"That's why we need to work on precision," Tamaki said. "Not just making things grow. Controlling exactly how they grow. How fast. How big. In what direction."
She pulled out a single leaf from her backpack and set it on the ground.
"Can you make just this leaf grow?" she asked. "Nothing else. Just this one leaf."
Haruto focused. One leaf. Just one.
He reached out with his quirk and—
The grass around the leaf started growing too.
"Just the leaf," Tamaki reminded him calmly.
Haruto squeezed his focus tighter. The grass settled. The leaf responded, growing a new vein pattern, becoming greener.
"Better," Tamaki said. "Not perfect. But better."
They practiced for another hour. One leaf at a time. Then two leaves. Then a single flower. Each time, Haruto had to fight the urge to let his quirk spread to everything nearby, had to consciously limit himself.
It was, by far, the hardest thing he'd ever done.
Harder than being reborn, he thought. Harder than pretending to be a normal toddler. Harder than anything.
But Tamaki never lost patience. Never raised her voice. Just calmly corrected him when he strayed and praised him when he succeeded.
"Good," she'd say. "Again."
"Good," she'd say. "Try smaller."
"Good," she'd say. "One more time."
By the end of the session, Haruto was exhausted. Properly exhausted—his hands trembled and his head pounded and every muscle in his small body ached.
"Enough for today," Tamaki decided, packing up the plants. "You did well."
"Doesn't feel like it," Haruto muttered.
"Learning never does." She handed him a water bottle. "Drink. You need to rehydrate after using that much energy."
Haruto drank obediently, too tired to argue.
They walked home slowly. Tamaki didn't try to fill the silence with chatter, which Haruto appreciated.
"Same time Thursday?" she asked when they reached his building.
"Yeah," Haruto said.
"Good." She shouldered her backpack. "And Haruto?"
He looked up at her.
"The dominion thing? That's rare. Very rare." She studied him for a moment. "You're going to be very powerful someday. More powerful than most heroes."
I know, Haruto thought. That's the plan.
"The question is," Tamaki continued quietly, "what you're going to do with that power."
I know the answer to that too, Haruto thought. But you wouldn't like it.
"I'll think about it," he said instead.
Tamaki nodded, like she expected that answer. "Take care of yourself, Haruto. See you Thursday."
She left, disappearing down the street with her worn backpack and dirt-stained hands.
Haruto stood in the lobby for a moment, thinking.
Dominion, he thought. Not just growing plants. Controlling them.
That's exactly what Mokuton is. That's what Hashirama had.
And I'm only two years old.
From the balcony above, he could feel Gerald's presence. The fern had been sensing everything—the training, the growth, the exhaustion.
You did well today, Gerald said.
"Yeah?" Haruto managed, barely conscious.
You learned something important.
"What?"
That fighting your nature is harder than following it. But sometimes it's necessary.
"When did you get a fortune cookie machine?"
The oak tree in the park has been teaching me again.
Of course it has.
Haruto dragged himself inside, where his mother was waiting with lunch and a million questions he didn't have the energy to answer.
"How was it? What did you learn? Was she nice? Did anything grow out of control?"
"Yes, good, yes, and a little," Haruto summarized.
"A little?"
"Small jungle. Gone now."
His mother stared at him. "A small jungle. In the park."
"Very small."
"Haru."
"It was training, Mama. Tamaki said to let loose."
His mother looked like she wanted to call Tamaki immediately, but instead she just sighed and handed him a glass of juice.
"Eat your lunch," she said. "And then you're taking a nap."
For once, Haruto thought, barely keeping his eyes open, I'm not going to argue about nap time.
He was asleep before he finished his sandwich, face-down on the table while his mother carefully moved his plate out of the way.
Outside, in the park, the small jungle Haruto had created was already fading, the plants slowly returning to their normal sizes.
The cherry tree watched it happen and felt something it hadn't felt in years.
Hope.