Today's the last day of the holidays.
From tomorrow onwards, it's back to school again.
That thought ran idly through my mind as I gazed down at the blue planet floating silently beneath my feet. Earth looked both familiar and foreign from this vantage point — a distant world wrapped in swirling clouds, beautiful and fragile.
Over the past few days, I've been spending more and more of my time out here, in space.
At first, it was disorienting. Out here, there's no concept of up or down, no directions, no sound, no gravity pulling you toward anything. Just endless emptiness.
But gradually, my body adapted to the vacuum. My domain handled what oxygen couldn't, my physique adjusted to the pressure — or rather, the lack of it — and my mind grew comfortable in this alien silence.
Looking back now, I think coming here might have been one of the best decisions I've ever made, because out here, I finally broke through a bottleneck that had been holding me back for a while.
A while ago, I'd noticed something odd — my growth had completely stalled. No matter how much I trained, pushed, or refined my techniques, there was no real progress. Naturally, I turned to the system for confirmation.
Its answer was simple, but frustrating:
[Host needs to evolve the way you are using your quirk.]
At first, my mind jumped to the concept of quirk awakening. It's a popular trope — push your power to the brink of death, then suddenly awaken something new. But the system quickly crushed that thought.
[There is no concept of 'awakening' for your quirk. Your quirk is special. What you must do is evolve, not awaken.]
It explained that I needed to change the way I was using my quirk, and that would lead me to a breakthrough.
Honestly, it sounded exactly like those vague enlightenment speeches from Chinese cultivation novels. "Empty your heart, embrace the Dao," or something equally cryptic. So, I decided to ignore it. I was already strong enough; it didn't feel urgent.
But now, after spending all this time in space, I think I finally understand — at least a little.
I've been looking at my quirk through too narrow a lens all this time. The system had told me before that I could manipulate abstract concepts within my domain. The key word there was manipulate, and yet… I never truly processed what that meant.
Up until now, I'd mostly treated my quirk as a way to speed up or slow down phenomena, focusing on controlling the flow of time and motion. But speeding up and slowing down are themselves just facets of a larger concept — control. I was stuck in that mindset, unable to see the bigger picture.
Out here, in the silence of space, that wall finally cracked.
The moment the realization hit me, I stopped consciously controlling my quirk and let my subconscious take over.
It felt a bit like how the brain subconsciously prevents us from hurting ourselves — an invisible limiter placed by my own mind. I'd been unknowingly restricting myself all this time.
But now… those restrictions were gone.
For the first time, I was in complete control of my power.
The change was instant. Techniques that previously required system support became effortless. My domain began expanding rapidly, almost tripling in size in a matter of moments. If I'm the center, then my domain is now a massive, perfectly spherical field, extending equally in every direction — a boundless sphere that feels more like an extension of my will than just an ability.
And more than that, I could faintly sense the abstract concepts that had always eluded me. Things I'd brushed against before without truly understanding were now within reach.
Honestly, the "evolution" of my quirk was a bit anticlimactic. There was no near-death battle, no emotional breakdown, no dramatic screaming under a blood-red sky.
Just… a shift in perspective.
But I prefer it this way. There's no need for me to throw myself into some desperate struggle to achieve growth. I've never needed melodrama.
And the result? The current me is so absurdly powerful that the previous me looks like a baby in comparison.
For the first time, I felt a faint sensation of omnipotence within my domain.
Although I'm not yet at the ultimate level I'm aiming for, I can feel that I'm already walking toward it unconsciously.
Now, I can manipulate almost all phenomena within my domain freely.
If I wish, I can make it rain or turn night into day.
I can analyze and replicate other people's quirks, then imitate them to a near-perfect degree.I can even completely nullify quirks or even permanently erase them within my field.
The scope of what I can do has expanded beyond anything I imagined.
Once my little power trip ended and I calmed down, I noticed something else: I'd actually grown a bit taller, and my body felt stronger than ever.
At this level of control, I no longer need to constantly check the system to understand my limits or capabilities.
My quirk has finally evolved.
I've broken free from many of the physical and biological constraints that bind others. I can even sense souls — my own and those of others.
It's honestly terrifying how much everything changed from just a single change in thought.
Which leads me to only one conclusion:
I probably had this level of potential a long time ago, but living on Earth — surrounded by people with normal perspectives — made me subconsciously think like them, limiting myself in ways I didn't even notice.
Out here in the endless void, I finally saw things as they were.
And I stepped forward.
Back on Earth, staring at the small, messy outline of my life—my family's "apartment", the spotless tiles on the kitchen floor, the faces I couldn't bear to lose—the possibilities that opened up in space suddenly looked both intoxicating and terrifying.
With the level of control I'd just unlocked, I could do damn near anything. Brainwash All For One and his merry band into pacifists. Rewrite the instincts of an entire criminal network. Make Japan unassailable. Hell, I could bend the world into a place with no wars and no fear.
The thought chilled me more than it tempted me.
It wasn't the logistics that bothered me; it was the shape of the person who would make that choice. In the quiet after my little "god-mode" experiment, I noticed something else had shifted—my own inside voice. The part of me that used to swell with outrage or joy had thinned.
Where I'd once felt adrenaline, pity, or anger, there was now a faint, clinical calm. Bystander → spectator → indifferent. The change was small at first, subtle as a bruise, but it let me look at suffering the way you look at a broken toy: useful to fix, but not necessarily worth mourning.
That scared me.
I wanted to be strong in this life, yes—but I also wanted to be human. I wanted to laugh badly at dumb jokes, to get angry about real injustices, to be protective in a messy, imperfect way.
I didn't want to wake up one day and find I'd traded feeling for efficiency; to realize I'd become some distant god who sorts people into "useful" and "disposable" with a single thought. The idea of being indifferent to life and death—of treating people like variables on a spreadsheet—made the hairs on my arms stand up.
So I made a choice. Not a grand vow, just a careful, practical plan: I would stop being a bystander. I would be involved—present in the small, human ways that actually matter. I'll step into the plot when it needs me.
I'll pull my weight, quietly, where it helps. But I will also put limits on myself. No wholesale rewrites of other people's minds. No playing god because I can. I'll use my edge to protect, not to dominate.
That's the compromise I can live with: intervene, but not erase. Help shape outcomes, but let people shape themselves. Be a hand at the wheel, not the driver of everyone else's life. And between crises? I'll try—really try—to enjoy my life.
Eat bad food with my family, tease Momo, act like a kid in a classroom. If I'm going to carry power like this, I won't let it steal the one thing worth keeping: the messy, warm life that reminds me why I fight in the first place.
And with that quiet, personal resolution set in stone, the day gradually drew to a close. The last streaks of sunlight bled into the horizon as the night sky stretched overhead, vast and familiar. For the first time in a while, I didn't feel the restless urge to push further, to train more, or to chase the next breakthrough. Instead, there was a strange sense of calm settling in my chest—like everything was finally aligning.
Tomorrow, the holidays would be over, and life at the academy would begin again. A return to the crowded halls, noisy classrooms, ridiculous rivalries, and the kind of youthful chaos that made the world feel alive. After everything that had happened—the USJ attack, my evolution, my little existential crisis in space—going back to school almost felt surreal, like flipping a page in a book and suddenly landing in a slice-of-life chapter after an intense battle arc.
Still, I didn't mind. In fact, I was looking forward to it. It was a chance to ground myself again, to live among my peers not as some untouchable being, but as Hayato—the student, the classmate, the guy who occasionally causes trouble and laughs too loudly.
As I lay on my bed that night, staring at the faint glow of the ceiling light, a small smile tugged at my lips. I'd made my choice. I'd drawn my line. And tomorrow, when I stepped through the academy gates again, it wouldn't just be the start of another semester. It would be the beginning of a new phase—one where power wouldn't isolate me, but walk beside me.
With that thought, I closed my eyes, letting sleep take me. A new day awaited.