The day after the quirk test, he was taken to a clinic.
Not a grand hospital. Just a small neighborhood medical center with cheerful posters of smiling heroes and colorful charts about healthy eating. Still, the moment he walked through the sliding doors, he knew this visit mattered.
The caretakers had been confused.
A testing device that shut down. A ripple in the air. No data to explain it.
In a society built on quirk science, unexplained powers were unacceptable.
So they sought an answer.
He sat on a padded chair, legs swinging slightly above the floor. A doctor adjusted her glasses and gave him a warm smile.
"Don't worry," she said. "We'll figure out your quirk together."
He nodded quietly.
He was worried.
Not about failing.
But about revealing too much.
The tests were simple.
Sensors. Motion trackers. Visual observation. He demonstrated only the smallest fraction of what he could do. Just a faint wobble in the air. A gentle nudge to a suspended foam ball.
The machines recorded data. The doctor took notes.
In the end, she printed a report.
Quirk Classification: Minor Spatial Displacement
Description: User can slightly distort local space to redirect small objects. Low output. Short range.
She smiled kindly.
"A rare but harmless quirk. Nothing to be concerned about. With practice, you might grow a bit stronger, but it seems mild."
The caretaker sighed in relief.
"Thank you, doctor."
He remained silent.
Let them believe their explanation.
On the walk back, the caretaker squeezed his hand.
"You have a quirk after all," she said. "Maybe not a flashy one, but every quirk is special."
He smiled politely.
Inside, he thought:
Your science is shallow.
But that is good for me.
That night, he sat on his bed and released restraint for the first time.
He called the energy from his core.
Let it flow through his body.
Into the air.
Space before him bent like glass under pressure.
A soft ripple spread across the wall, curving it inward without touching the surface itself.
He released it quickly.
The wall returned to normal.
No damage. No evidence.
But his breathing had quickened.
This was real.
This was power.
From then on, his training advanced.
But he changed one thing.
He began practicing during the day.
Carefully.
Secretly.
The orphanage had a small playground behind the building. A dirt yard, a rusted swing set, a cracked slide, and an old wooden bench beneath a tree.
Children played there every afternoon.
He joined them.
But when games grew loud and chaotic, attention scattered.
That was when he trained.
He sat on the swing.
Pushed lightly with his feet.
As he reached the forward peak, he focused cursed energy beneath him and folded space just slightly.
The swing carried him higher than momentum alone should allow.
No one noticed. Children rarely questioned physics.
They just laughed and asked him to go higher again.
He obliged.
Another day, he stood near the slide while two children argued over whose turn it was. Their shouting masked any odd noises.
He placed a small pebble on his palm.
Focused.
Bent the space between his hand and the ground.
The pebble floated for a brief second before dropping.
Not flying.
Not levitating.
Just hesitating in the air.
He smiled.
Better control.
He tested range.
Distance.
Energy cost.
He learned that small distortions required little effort. Larger folds drained him quickly. He discovered that maintaining a distortion was harder than creating one.
He recorded everything in memory.
A personal research journal written in thought.
One afternoon, a strong wind swept through the yard.
Dust rose. Leaves scattered.
Children ran inside.
He remained.
Alone.
He stared at the open sky.
Blue. Endless. Inviting.
He raised his hand.
Poured more energy than usual.
The air above him rippled.
A long transparent fold formed, stretching several meters.
Like a piece of sky being gently pulled aside.
His heart pounded.
This was the largest manipulation yet.
His knees shook.
He released it immediately.
The fold vanished.
He fell backward into the dirt, breathing hard.
Exhausted.
But thrilled.
That night, he discovered a new limit.
He tried to repeat the large fold in his room.
The space bent—but too much.
A sharp pressure stabbed behind his eyes. His vision blurred. He lost focus.
The distortion snapped back violently.
A picture frame fell from the wall and shattered.
He froze.
Quickly, he cleaned the mess before caretakers noticed.
After that, he respected burnout.
Too much cursed energy without rest strained his mind.
A dangerous weakness.
One he vowed to overcome someday.
Weeks passed.
Training became routine.
Small manipulations during play. Larger ones when alone. Recovery afterward.
No one suspected anything beyond a mild quirk.
No one saw the invisible growth happening under their noses.
One evening, he stood in the courtyard again.
Moonlight bathed the orphanage.
He folded space under his feet.
This time, he held it longer.
One second.
Two.
Three.
He hovered just above the ground.
Silent.
Still.
Then released.
He landed gently.
No noise.
No trace.
He looked up at the stars.
His technique had awakened.
His control was growing.
And this was only the beginning.
In the world's eyes, he was a child with a weak spatial quirk.
But in truth—
A sorcerer had begun his rise.