Chapter 2: Foundations
The group home wasn't anything fancy, but it was mine.
Officially, they called it the Mizuho Youth Development Center. No one used that name, though. Around here, it was just "the house." Tucked between a convenience store and a laundromat, it was the kind of place you wouldn't give a second glance—chipped paint on the walls, ancient pipes that groaned at night, and a common room that always smelled like a weird mix of curry and bleach.
Still, it had warm beds, decent food, and just enough freedom for me to train without too many questions.
And for the first time since I woke up in this new life, it felt like I had a family again.
"Oi, Riku! Heads up!"
A tennis ball whizzed toward my face.
I snatched it out of the air without even turning, a quiet pulse of Observation Haki warning me a split second before it hit.
Souta let out a whistle. "Dude! You're a ninja or something?"
I gave a casual shrug. "Good reflexes."
Souta was a year older and had the loudest voice in the house. He had this wild black hair and a Quirk that let him heat up stuff by touch—not enough to burn, but enough to make a cold lunch piping hot or give you a sting if you annoyed him.
"You're a total weirdo," he grinned, dropping onto the porch beside me. "A cool one, though."
"Takes one to know one," I said, tossing the ball back.
Afternoons like this were our usual. Just chilling out behind the house, tossing a ball around or playing cards. Sometimes we ignored the shouting matches inside. Sometimes we couldn't. But Souta and I? We stuck together.
Some kids cycled in and out of the home, depending on whatever fate had thrown their way. But we were the long-timers. And I didn't mind. After everything, stability was something I'd learned to value.
At night, when everyone else was asleep, I trained.
There was an old storage shed behind the building—forgotten, dusty, and half-falling apart. I cleaned it up. Swept the floor, taped over the cracks, dragged in some old mats. It became my own little dojo.
I'd sit cross-legged in the dark, breathing slowly, letting my senses stretch out like invisible threads. I could pick up the faintest movements: mice crawling behind walls, branches shifting outside, cars passing blocks away.
Observation Haki was getting sharper. I could feel intentions now—sudden anger, footsteps, even lies... sometimes.
I moved through footwork drills, my body light and quiet. Step. Pivot. Shift. Then came strikes—palm thrusts, elbow jabs. Nothing fancy. Just the basics. Just focus.
I once snapped a broom handle trying to channel Armament Haki. It fizzled out before the technique really took hold. I still had a long way to go.
By morning, I was just another kid at breakfast.
"Hey, Riku! Soy sauce!" Aiko called, waving her chopsticks.
I passed her the bottle with a grin. "On rice again?"
"Obviously. It's gourmet."
Aiko was ten, two years younger than me, with a Quirk that made her fingers stretch like noodles. She was one of the first kids to open up to me—always talking, always fidgeting. She braided her own hair into wild loops and had a dreamer's heart.
"When I get adopted," she said proudly, "I'm gonna be a chef. My restaurant's gonna serve soy sauce with everything."
"Sounds like a stomachache waiting to happen," I said.
Souta snorted. "I'll work security. Keep the soy sauce bandits away."
Aiko turned to me. "What about you, Riku? What do you wanna be?"
I paused.
A hero, I thought. Not for fame. Not for glory. Just to protect people.
"I don't know yet," I said instead. "Still figuring it out."
Weekends meant supervised trips to the park. Ms. Hana was usually the one who came along. She was in her thirties, strict but fair, with a Quirk that let her stretch her arms like elastic. She gave off this stern aunt energy that somehow made even the wildest kids behave.
"Stay together," she warned as we got off the bus. "And Souta, the pond is off-limits. Again."
"It was one time," he muttered.
I walked beside Aiko and a younger boy named Kenji. He didn't have a Quirk yet, and it made him nervous. Always scribbling in a battered sketchpad, asking a million questions.
"You think my Quirk will be cool?" he asked. "Like fire breath or maybe a tail?"
"Could be," I said.
"Or... super fart powers!" Souta yelled from ahead.
"Gross!" Kenji made a face, but laughed anyway.
We spent the day swinging from monkey bars, playing tag, kicking soccer balls. Just being kids.
For a little while, the world didn't feel so heavy.
That night, I changed my training.
I started adding strength exercises—push-ups, sit-ups, squats, lunges. Haki alone wasn't enough. I needed real endurance. Real power.
I kept a journal. Old habit from my past life. I tracked my progress, noted changes in how my Haki worked, jotted down details from games or sparring sessions with other kids.
Sometimes, I wondered if I was overdoing it. If maybe I should stop pushing so hard.
But I remembered the crane collapse. The helplessness. The regret.
This life was my second chance. I wasn't wasting it.
One evening, two new kids got into it over a toy car. Voices rose. A shove turned into a punch. One boy's hand flared with fire.
I felt the intent spike just before it happened.
I stepped in.
"Stop," I said, my voice steady—calm, but heavy.
They froze.
The flame snuffed out. The tension vanished. Like a switch flipped in both their minds.
Ms. Hana came rushing in, but the fight was already over.
I didn't stick around for praise. I just walked away.
I didn't need recognition.
I needed control.
By the time I turned twelve, my Observation Haki was good enough to read people from ten meters out. I could tell when someone was lying. I knew when I was being watched, envied, feared.
I used it to dodge balls in PE, win card games, even sneak past staff when I needed space.
Everyone assumed I had a stealth-type Quirk. I let them.
But I never showed off.
One night, Souta and I sat on the roof, legs dangling into open air. The lights of the city blinked in the distance.
"You think we'll ever leave this place?" he asked. "Actually make it out?"
"Maybe," I said. "But I'm not aiming for a normal life."
He looked over. "What, you wanna be a villain or something?"
I laughed. "No. I want to make a difference."
He nodded slowly. "Aiko says I'd make a good hero. I dunno. Maybe. If I do it, I wanna be the kind that's always watching out for people. Quiet support. Not the flashy types."
"You'd be good at that."
"You too, man. You've got this... chill. Like nothing ever rattles you. It's kinda creepy."
I didn't say anything.
Just stared up at the stars and smiled.
Because I was building something here. Not just strength or technique. But something real.
A life.
A purpose.
Even if I never changed the world, I'd be strong enough to protect what mattered.
In a world filled with heroes, it wasn't a flashy Quirk that made you strong.
It was resolve.
And mine wasn't going anywhere.