Thwack. The sound was sharp, splitting the quiet stillness of the early morning.
Thwack.
Dust motes danced in the pale shafts of dawn light filtering through the paper windows of the old dojo. The wooden floorboards, worn smooth by generations of bare feet, creaked slightly under the shifting weight.
"Nine hundred and ninety-eight," a voice muttered, ragged and entirely out of breath.
Thwack. "Nine hundred and ninety-nine."
Roronoa Zoro brought the heavy wooden sword—a bokken carved from dense oak—down in a perfect, unbroken arc. Sweat stung his eyes, trailing down his neck and soaking the dark fabric of his training shirt. His muscles screamed in protest, a burning ache radiating from his shoulders down to his calves.
"One thousand."
He let the wooden blade rest against the floor and dropped to one knee, chest heaving. The air in the dojo smelled of old timber, polish, and salt. It was a smell Zoro had known since he was a child, long before he understood what the word 'Quirk' meant, and long before he realized he didn't have one.
From the shadows near the sliding doors, a soft rustle of fabric broke the silence. Master Kenji, an older man with graying hair and a posture that still hinted at a formidable past, stepped into the light. He leaned heavily on a cane, his right leg stiff—a permanent reminder of a battle the media had long forgotten.
"Your footing was entirely too wide on the last fifty swings, Zoro," Kenji said, his voice dry like crushed autumn leaves. "Power without balance is just a falling rock."
Zoro wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, grabbing a towel draped over a nearby bench. "My arms were going numb, old man. I had to shift my center."
"Excuses don't cut through steel," Kenji replied, hobbling closer. He looked around the vast, empty dojo. There were racks of training swords, padded armor, and cleaning supplies, but no students. In an era where teenagers could shoot fire from their hands, alter gravity, or turn their skin to diamond, learning how to hold a sword over ten years seemed like a fool's errand.
Kenji had been a Pro Hero once. A martial artist who relied purely on technique and physical conditioning. But when a villain with a flashy, wide-scale destruction Quirk shattered his leg, the hero society moved on. They called his methods outdated. Weak.
Zoro tightened his grip on the bokken. He hated that word.
"I'll do another five hundred," Zoro said, standing up and taking his stance again.
"You will go take a shower and put on your uniform," Kenji corrected, pointing his cane at the door. "Unless you plan on fighting the middle school attendance board. You are already late."
Zoro clicked his tongue in annoyance but sheathed the wooden sword. School was just a loud distraction. A place filled with kids who relied on genetic lotteries rather than their own two hands.
The walk to Aldera Junior High was always an exercise in patience. The streets were a vibrant, chaotic display of modern society. A man with a giraffe mutation reached the top leaves of a tree to rescue a stranded cat. A delivery worker hovered above the traffic, riding on a disk of solid air.
Zoro walked through it all with ten-kilogram iron weights strapped to his ankles beneath his uniform trousers. Every step was deliberate. Every breath was measured. While others flew, he walked. While others used shortcuts, he built his foundation.
The school day passed in a blur of mundane chatter. Zoro slept through mostly everything, his head resting on his crossed arms at the back of the classroom. He barely registered the teacher talking about future careers or the loud cheers of his classmates boasting about their hero course applications.
It was only when the final bell rang that he felt truly awake.
The afternoon sun was casting long, orange shadows as Zoro took the scenic route home, a quiet path near the commercial district. He was mentally reviewing his grip techniques when a sudden crash shattered the calm.
A few blocks down, a commotion had broken out near a convenience store. A purse snatcher with a minor speed mutation was darting between pedestrians. A rookie Pro Hero, clad in a bright, flashy costume covered in fins, was in pursuit. The hero generated a massive wave of water from his palms, aiming to wash the thief into a wall.
Zoro stopped walking. He narrowed his eyes, observing the scene not with awe, but with cold, clinical analysis.
The rookie hero unleashed the water, but to do so, he planted his feet flat, his knees completely locked. The force of his own attack pushed him backward. His feet slipped on the wet pavement, and the hero tumbled backward into a fruit stand, completely missing the thief, who laughed and turned the corner.
Zoro sighed, shaking his head. "Terrible," he muttered to himself. "He locked his knees and ignored his center of gravity. You can't redirect force if you're rooted like a dead tree."
He turned to continue his walk home, indifferent to the flashing lights of the arriving police.
"It's a common mistake among those who rely entirely on their Quirks," a voice said.
Zoro stopped. The voice came from right beside him, though he hadn't heard any footsteps approaching. He turned his head slightly, his hand instinctively resting on the side of his hip where a sword would be.
Standing there was a man in a worn, beige trench coat. His clothes were unkempt, his hair looked like he had just rolled out of bed, and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck hid the lower half of his face. But his eyes were dark, sharp, and intensely focused.
"They treat their bodies like turrets instead of weapons," the strange man continued, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked down at Zoro, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on the unnatural bulk of the boy's calves where the hidden weights rested.
"You saw the flaw in his footing instantly," the man said, his tone flat but carrying a strange weight. "You have good eyes, kid. Are you aiming for U.A. High?"
Zoro turned fully to face the stranger, his expression unreadable. "Who's asking?"