Chapter 2: The Echo of a Flash
The walk home was a disorienting haze. The roaring applause of the crowd still echoed in Minato's ears, a phantom sound that felt disconnected from reality. People on the street would occasionally glance at him, their eyes widening in recognition before they began whispering to their companions. He was no longer anonymous. In the space of ten seconds, he had gone from being a face in the crowd to the center of its attention. The feeling was heavy, an unfamiliar cloak that he didn't know how to wear.
When he finally reached the familiar door of his apartment, he took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing thoughts. How would he explain this? How could he put into words an experience he didn't understand himself?
He pushed the door open, and before he could even call out that he was home, a small, blond blur shot out from the living room and collided with his legs.
"Mina-nii!" a cheerful voice chirped.
Minato froze, looking down in pure shock. Clinging to his knees was a five-year-old girl with the same bright blond hair as his own, and the same startlingly blue eyes. She was beaming up at him, her smile wide and infectious.
"Natsumi?" he breathed out, his own confusion momentarily forgotten and replaced with surprised delight. "You're back! I thought you and Auntie weren't coming home from Britain for another two weeks!"
"Surprise!" she giggled, her grip tightening. "Auntie finished her work early, so we took a big fast plane home! I missed you!"
His own smile finally broke through the bewildered mask he'd been wearing all afternoon. He knelt and hugged his little sister tightly. Her simple, happy presence was an anchor in the storm of his chaotic emotions.
Dinner that evening was a surreal affair. The news was on the small television in the corner of the dining area, and a fuzzy, bystander-shot video of the incident was already on loop. They showed a blur of yellow light, a figure appearing on the ground, and a crowd erupting.
His father sat at the head of the table, his expression a complex mixture of immense pride and deep concern. "The school called, Minato," he said, his voice even. "The principal was… overwhelmed with calls from the media. We've told them we won't be making any statements for now."
His mother placed a bowl of rice in front of him, her hands trembling slightly. She wasn't looking at the TV; her eyes were fixed on her son. "Are you alright? Truly? Was it frightening?"
"My big brother is a hero!" Natsumi declared proudly from her booster seat, brandishing a carrot stick like a sword. "He went fwoosh! Like Turbo Hero on the cartoons!"
Minato poked at his food, feeling the weight of their gazes. "I… I don't know," he answered honestly, his voice quiet. "I saw her falling, and I knew no Pro Hero would make it in time. I just… I had to do something. And then… it just happened." He looked at his hands, turning them over. "I can't explain it."
"A Quirk," his father murmured, more to himself than anyone. "After all this time. And one of such… magnitude." He steepled his fingers, his architect's mind trying to analyze the situation. "This brings complications. Quirk usage without a provisional license is technically illegal, though given the circumstances, it will certainly be overlooked. But this changes things, Minato. It changes your future."
"All I care about is that you are safe," his mother added, her voice soft but firm. "That kind of power… it invites danger."
Minato understood their perspectives. His father saw the logic and the new path. His mother saw the risk. And Natsumi saw a cartoon hero come to life. He felt like a stranger in his own skin, listening to them discuss a version of him that he hadn't even met yet.
Later that night, the quiet of his room felt profound. The city lights cast a soft glow on his walls, illuminating posters of historic landmarks, not heroes. His bookshelf was filled with history, science, and literature, not hero analytics magazines. This room belonged to Minato, the aspiring teacher. It did not yet feel like it belonged to the boy who could apparently bend space and time.
Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling. The echo of the power was still there, a faint memory of warmth and humming energy. He lifted his right hand into the air, his fingers silhouetted against the ambient light.
Come on, he thought, focusing with all his might. Do it again.
He clenched his fist, trying to summon the feeling of desperation he'd felt in the street. He imagined the falling girl, the panic, the overwhelming need to act. He focused on the space just above his bed, trying to will himself there.
Nothing.
Not a spark. Not a hum. Not a flicker of blue light. His hand was just a hand. His body was just a body. There was no serene aura, no wellspring of power. It was as if the well had run completely dry.
Frustration began to bubble within him. Was it a one-time fluke? A freak activation brought on by stress that would never happen again? The thought was more terrifying than the power itself. To have tasted such an incredible ability, only to have it vanish, was a unique form of torment.
His eyes fell upon the digital clock on his nightstand. 1:17 AM. Beside it, his running shoes were sitting on the floor. An idea, born of sheer determination, took root in his mind. He couldn't force it with his mind alone. Maybe he needed to push his body.
He would wake with the dawn.
The house was perfectly still when his alarm vibrated silently under his pillow. The sky outside his window was a deep, dark purple, just beginning to blush with the faintest hint of orange at the horizon. He slipped out of bed, dressing quietly in athletic clothes. Tiptoeing past his parents' room and Natsumi's, he felt a pang of guilt for sneaking out, but the need to understand what was happening to him was too strong to ignore.
The city was asleep. The usually bustling streets were empty and silent, bathed in the cool, pre-dawn air. He ran, his footsteps echoing in the quiet. He didn't head for the city center, but towards its outskirts, where the urban sprawl gave way to a dense, ancient forest reserve.
Inside the forest, the air was cool and smelled of damp earth and pine. A clearing, dappled with the first rays of morning light breaking through the canopy, became his training ground.
He took a deep breath. Okay. Remember the feeling. He ran towards a large, moss-covered boulder. As he neared it, he leaped, pushing off the ground with all his strength, trying to replicate that instantaneous leap. He landed with a clumsy thud on the other side, his ankles jarring from the impact. Nothing.
He tried again. He ran towards a thick tree, pushing off its trunk in a parkour-like move, willing himself to flash to another tree ten meters away. He just spun in the air and landed hard on his side, scraping his arm.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with the morning dew. He tried over and over. He would sprint, then stop abruptly, trying to force the movement. He would jump from a low-hanging branch, focusing on a spot on the ground. Each attempt ended in failure, leaving him more breathless and frustrated than the last. The sun was climbing higher now, casting long, golden shafts of light through the trees.
Finally, his legs burning and his lungs aching, he collapsed onto the soft earth, slumping onto his rear. He stared at his trembling hands, which were now scraped and dirty. It was useless. He couldn't grasp it. It was like trying to catch smoke. Why? Why did it work then, and not now? What was the key he was missing?
"The body and the will must be one," a calm, smooth voice spoke from above. "Right now, yours are in conflict."
Minato's head snapped up. Perched effortlessly on a high branch, as if he were a natural part of the tree, was a man. He was slender, dressed in a dark, form-fitting hero costume with a distinctive white and red mask covering his face, and a long red scarf that hung motionless in the still air. It was the Ninja Hero: Edgeshot, the Pro Hero ranked Number Four in all of Japan.
Minato's heart leaped into his throat. He was so shocked he couldn't even speak.
Edgeshot looked down at him, his masked face unreadable. "You are trying to command the storm, when you should be learning to guide the river."
With a grace that defied physics, Edgeshot seemed to simply… dissolve. He flattened, folded, and vanished from the branch in an instant. A faint whisper of air was the only sign he had moved.
Before Minato could even process his disappearance, the voice continued, now directly behind his ear.
"...and I would not be exaggerating to say that I have been waiting for our reunion."
Minato spun around, scrambling backward on the ground. Edgeshot stood there, perfectly poised, not a single blade of grass disturbed. He hadn't made a sound.
Reunion? Has he been watching me? All night? The thought sent a chill down his spine.
"That instantaneous movement you used yesterday," Edgeshot continued, his voice calm and analytical. "It was not the result of a fluke, or luck. It was raw, unrefined, but it was pure talent. A talent that would be a terrible waste if left unpolished." He tilted his head slightly. "Allow me to be the one to sharpen it."
The offer hung in the air, heavy with unspoken promise. The Number Four Hero wanted to train him. The boy who, until yesterday, thought his greatest contribution to society would be grading homework.
The rising sun finally crested the trees, flooding the clearing with warm, golden light. A new day was beginning.
Minato found his voice, his determination overriding his shock. "I accept," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "But I have to get back. I have a school routine to keep."
A silent, almost imperceptible chuckle seemed to emanate from Edgeshot. "Tell your family you will be coming home late from school from now on."
Minato blinked in surprise. "What? Why—"
He was talking to empty air. Edgeshot was gone. Vanished as silently and completely as he had arrived, leaving Minato standing alone in the sun-drenched clearing, his exhaustion forgotten, his heart pounding with a new and powerful rhythm of purpose.
.
.