The vow I made under the rain born of All Might became my new compass. No more doubt, no more escape. Every second of the next ten months was devoted to a single purpose: breaching U.A.'s gates and dragging the sleeping dragon inside me into the light. My life as a spectator was over; this was the era of forging. My routine was brutal in its simplicity. I woke at 4 AM daily, while the city was wrapped in darkness and silence. The cold morning air bit into my lungs as I ran further each day—empty streets, quiet parks, all the way to the beach where only the ocean's roar accompanied me.
I turned my room into a makeshift training facility. I filled my old backpack first with thick books, then bricks, and finally scraps of salvaged metal—an emergency weighted vest for push-ups and pull-ups. Every rep was a battle; every motion a war against my own limits. My muscles tore and rebuilt themselves stronger, denser. My scrawny teenage body began to take shape, forged not by Quirk but by pure sweat and willpower. This became my foundation—the one thing I could rely on.
My physical training was matched by equally intense mental preparation. The internet became my greatest teacher. I no longer watched hero fights for entertainment—I studied them. I downloaded hundreds of videos, slowed them down, analyzed every movement. I took note of how Endeavor restricted opponents, how Mirko exploited her surroundings, how underground heroes like Eraser Head used stealth and tools to counter Quirks. I assembled a mental database of fighting styles, weaknesses, and tactics. I also studied parkour videos, training my agility and how to move through complex urban environments. I learned to fall, to roll, to transfer momentum. My body became the tool and my mind its guide.
But my greatest struggle happened in the silence of my room. Every night, after my body had been shattered by training, I sat in darkness, trying to reach the heat in my chest. I meditated, calming my mind to "listen" for the power. But silence met silence. I tried the opposite: triggering strong emotions—recalling the anger and helplessness I felt during the Sludge Villain incident to spark that ember again. The heat would pulse, as if acknowledging me, but always remained just out of reach—a treasure locked away. It was the deepest frustration: knowing I could become something more, yet unable to find the key.
One morning, during one of my longest runs, I stumbled upon a place I recognized from the story: Dagobah City Beach. In reality, it was far worse than the anime—heaps of electronic waste, rusted appliances, junk towering like societal failure monuments. The smell of brine and rot was overwhelming. Just as I turned to leave, I saw movement ahead: a scrawny green-haired boy struggling to drag an old refrigerator tied to a rope. On top of the debris stood a gaunt, skull-like man, cheering him on. It was Izuku Midoriya and Yagi Toshinori.
I hid behind a wall, my heart pounding. Seeing them in person felt surreal. I watched Midoriya push with all his might, his face red with effort. I saw absolute determination in his eyes. A deep respect filled me—tinged with envy. He had guidance from the greatest hero, a clear path before him. And me? I was alone in this fight. I knew I couldn't interfere—this was their crucible. After a few minutes, I turned and ran away, never returning. The sight only strengthened my resolve: Midoriya had his path, and I had mine. We were both fighting toward the same goal from different starts.
My obsessive training didn't go unnoticed. My body might have changed, but so did my spirit. Toru was the first to notice. One evening as we walked home, she suddenly stopped. Her floating glove—the only visible sign of her presence—pointed at my arm.
"Tatsumi-kun," she said more seriously than usual. "You're hurt again. There's a bruise on your arm. And you look exhausted lately. What are you really doing?"
I stopped, not meeting her gaze. I knew I couldn't hide forever. "I'm training, Toru," I said softly.
"For what? Pushing yourself to pain. I'm worried."
I took a deep breath and finally looked at her invisible form. "I'm going to U.A.," I said, every word filled with unwavering conviction. "I have to."
Silence fell. I could almost see her surprise. "U.A.? But… how? I mean…" She didn't have to finish—"You're Quirkless" hung in the air.
"I don't know how," I admitted. "But I know why. I refuse to be powerless again, Toru. I refuse to stand by and watch while bad things happen. I'd rather fail trying than never try at all."
I felt something shift in her. Her concern hadn't vanished but was now layered with understanding. After a moment she said, "Then… I'll help you."
And she did. She became my secret partner. When I trained parkour in empty playgrounds at night, she was my scout—using invisibility to warn me of anyone approaching. When I practiced evasion, she'd sneak at me from different angles to sharpen my hearing and awareness. She cheered as I ran, her cheerful voice pushing me when my legs felt like lead. Her support became a guiding light in my grueling training. She didn't fully understand, but she believed in me—and that was enough.
Ten months felt like ten years. My body had reached the peak physical condition a fifteen-year-old could. I was stronger, faster, tougher than ever. But the power inside me remained dormant. U.A.'s entrance exam would be my final gamble. I bet that when faced with real life-or-death stakes, my dragon would have no choice but to awaken.
The exam day arrived. I stood before U.A.'s towering gate, surrounded by a sea of aspiring heroes. The air crackled with energy—a mix of excitement, anxiety, arrogance. I saw kids with wings, metallic skin, sparks dancing on their fingertips. And there I was, in standard athletic wear, empty-handed. I felt like an infantry soldier in a squadron of fighter jets. I pushed the feeling aside and focused on the goal.
The written exam went exactly as I expected—those questions were easy for an adult mind. I finished swiftly and confidently. The hard part came next. We were herded into a large auditorium where Pro Hero Present Mic explained the practical test rules with ear-splitting enthusiasm. Three types of combat robots with different point values—and zero point obstacles. As he spoke, I saw Midoriya whispering under his breath and Iida reprimanding him in stiff fashion. Everything was unfolding just as in the story—it felt surreal to finally be part of an event I'd watched so many times.
We were assigned different Battle Centers. I ended up at Center B. Standing before the giant sealed gate, waiting for the signal, my heart pounded. This was it. No turning back. Around me, others warmed up, stretched muscles, activated their Quirks. I closed my eyes and focused on the ember in my chest. Wake up, I whispered inwardly. Please, wake up now.
"AND… GO!" Present Mic's voice thundered through the speakers.
The gate swung open. For a moment, everyone froze, stunned by the sudden start. But not me. I had anticipated it. I launched forward, becoming the first to enter the simulated city. I heard murmurs of surprise behind me. I didn't care. I had to gain every point before the others spread out.
I rounded the first corner and encountered it—a one-point robot. A green machine with a single red eye, hissing as it charged, metal arms raised to crush. My plan: use agility and strength to dodge and attack its joint weakness. I braced for evasion.
But in that moment, everything clicked: ten months of hellish training, countless frustrations, burning desire to prove myself, and now this real steel threat. My desperation and determination reached a boiling point. The ember in my chest wasn't part of me anymore—it exploded.
An indescribable pain tore through me, as if my bones shattered and reassembled in an instant. I screamed—not out of fear, but from the raw pain and release of energy. Heat surged outward through my limbs like molten lava. Plates of black armor, resembling chitin, burst from my arms, forming serrated gauntlets. Similar metal erupted around my legs, becoming solid shin guards. Pieces covered my chest and back—a rough, evolving cuirass. It was not a graceful transformation. It was a violent, painful birth. The armor didn't form neatly—it ripped through reality to make room.
Through the haze of pain, I saw the robot's arm mere inches from my face. Instinct took over. I didn't dodge. I raised my armored arm and struck with my fist.
The contact didn't make a metallic clang. It was a sonic boom. My black gauntlet met the robot's steel, and the machine shattered. Not dented—shattered. My punch penetrated its frame, blew its power core from behind in a storm of sparks and twisted metal. The shockwave rattled nearby vehicles.
The one-point robot collapsed into a motionless scrap heap. Silence blanketed the street. I panted—not from exhaustion, but from shock and fading pain. I slowly lowered my arm and stared at my hand encased in that strange, black glove, wisps of smoke curling off it. The ember in my chest still burned—but now it had form. It had purpose.
I grinned—a wild, triumphant grin I'd never known. The dragon had finally awakened. And it was hungry.