Middle school brought Ren more freedom than ever, but he quickly realized that freedom came with limits. City streets were alive with chaos and negative energy, yes—but practicing his blades openly there would be reckless. Too many people, too many unpredictable factors.
So he adapted. Rooftops, abandoned alleys, the unused corner of the orphanage's playground—those were his arenas now. Private, quiet, and far enough from curious eyes. The city's energy still reached him, subtly, through windows, cracks, and even the occasional news broadcast of minor incidents. He could absorb it without anyone noticing, and refine his techniques in solitude.
That afternoon, atop a low rooftop shielded by nearby buildings, he tested multiple blade trajectories. Three blades spun in precise arcs. Then five. Each one flicked around imaginary targets, tracing spirals and curves in the air. He moved silently, limbs fluid, concentrating, letting his reservoir hum as energy circulated through his body.
Not perfect… but improving, he muttered, adjusting the angle of a spinning blade. He chuckled at himself: Still can't draw a decent stick figure, so manga is out. But novels? Novels I can do. I can turn Naruto, My Hero stories, even Lord of Mysteries into my own writing… assuming I can remember the chapters. Which I might, if I can figure out how to push energy into memory.
That idea had him flexing fingers experimentally. Circulating energy quietly through his chest, letting it flow toward his brain, he imagined it smoothing edges of forgotten details, filling in gaps with intuition. It was subtle, almost imperceptible—but he felt something shift.
After several hours of private practice—projecting blades, spinning them through complex arcs, and quietly absorbing subtle negative energy from city chaos in the distance—he paused, letting the reservoir settle. The hum in his chest was steady and comforting.
Money, of course, still nagged at him. The bank account was set up, and he had enough for necessities, but middle school meant more than just survival. Supplies, potential UA prep, and someday, materials for writing. He could combine errands with energy absorption, but… maybe he didn't need to.
I could replicate novels instead, he thought. Not manga, that's a lost cause, but written stories? I already remember the major arcs. If I can use energy to enhance memory, maybe I can reconstruct chapters, dialogue, and minor details.
Rooftop practice wasn't glamorous. It was quiet, sometimes lonely. But it was safe, and it worked. Blades spun in spirals, arcs, and controlled short-range projections while his mind worked in parallel—calculating, remembering, imagining.
By evening, he sat cross-legged on the edge of the roof, letting the city's subtle pulse brush against him. News of minor villain incidents drifted through radio and phone alerts, adding passive spikes to his reservoir. He didn't intervene; he didn't need to. Observation alone was enough to feed him small but steady streams of energy.
He let himself think of Nejire briefly. UA High. Three hundred kilometers away. He couldn't see her, couldn't meet her, but knowing she was officially there brought a faint warmth.
She's learning, growing, and doing what she needs to do. Meanwhile… I've got rooftops, blades, energy, and now a plan to use all of it to turn stories into money and practice.
He flexed his fingers, blades hovering in arcs, a silent display of control. Circulating energy to his brain, he imagined memory reconstructions of novels, hoping that subtle guidance from his Quirk could fill in gaps.
Tomorrow, he would continue refining multi-blade control, continue experimenting with energy circulation for memory, and continue absorbing negative energy safely, quietly, and fully under the cover of private rooftops and secluded spaces.
The city sprawled beneath him, chaotic but distant. Ren leaned back, letting a faint smile tug at his lips. Free-spirited in practice, schemer in planning—this balance felt more real every day.