Six months had passed since Arthur's quirk registration, and the young reincarnated king had settled into a careful routine. To any observer, he was simply a precocious four-year-old with an interest in heroes and an unusual dedication to his morning "exercises." But Arthur knew the truth—every stretch, every controlled movement, every moment of meditation was laying the groundwork for something far greater.
The autumn morning was crisp as Arthur knelt in the small patch of their apartment's balcony that his mother had designated as his "special training spot." She thought it was adorable, the way her son insisted on greeting each dawn with what he called his "knight exercises." If only she knew they were modified forms from his past life, adapted for a child's body—breathing techniques to strengthen his core, flexibility exercises to prepare his young muscles, and most importantly, quirk control drills.
Arthur closed his eyes and reached for his Royal Core. The golden energy responded instantly, more smoothly than it had six months ago. Practice had made the connection almost instinctive. He let it flow through his body in controlled pulses, never pushing too hard, always mindful of his physical limitations.
But with each passing day, those limitations were loosening.
His quirk, Arthur had discovered, did more than just enhance his physical capabilities. It accelerated his development, allowing his body to grow stronger, faster, more resilient than a normal child's. Not dramatically—he wasn't suddenly going to sprout muscles or shoot up in height—but consistently, steadily, laying a foundation that would support incredible power in the future.
The key word being future. Arthur had done the calculations in his head countless times. If he wanted to reach the level he was aiming for—strong enough to surpass even the mightiest heroes of this era—he would need to build systematically. His body was like a building; you couldn't add upper floors without first ensuring the foundation could bear the weight.
"Arthur-kun! Breakfast!" Akari's voice called from inside.
Arthur opened his eyes, letting the golden glow fade from his skin. He stood, noting with quiet satisfaction that the movement was smoother than last week, his balance more refined. Small improvements, but they added up.
Inside, the apartment smelled of rice and miso soup. Takeshi sat at the table reading news on his tablet, his expression troubled. Arthur had learned to read his father's moods over the past months—this was his "villain attack" face.
"Another one?" Akari asked, setting plates down.
"Hosu City this time," Takeshi said, shaking his head. "The Hero Killer struck again. That's three pro heroes in two months."
Arthur's attention sharpened, though he kept his expression neutral and childlike. The Hero Killer. He'd read about this villain in his library books—or rather, about the pattern of attacks. A vigilante who targeted heroes he deemed "false," killing them to make some twisted point about heroic purity.
Stain. The name came to him from the picture books' warnings about dangerous villains. A man with a quirk that paralyzed victims through blood consumption, combined with exceptional combat skills and a fanatic's conviction.
Dangerous, Arthur assessed. Not because of raw power, but because of skill, dedication, and willingness to kill. The kind of opponent who would have been formidable even in my first life.
"They'll catch him," Akari said, though her voice carried uncertainty. "All Might or Endeavor will—"
"All Might can't be everywhere," Takeshi interrupted gently. "And this Hero Killer... he's smart. Strikes fast, vanishes faster. It's troubling."
Arthur listened as he ate, filing away information. This world wasn't the peaceful place his picture books suggested. Beneath the veneer of hero society, there was real danger, real violence. Villains who killed, heroes who died. The stakes were as high here as they'd been in Britain, just wrapped in different trappings.
And if I'm going to become the strongest hero, Arthur thought, I need to understand not just the power levels I'm aiming for, but the threats I'll face.
After breakfast, Arthur retreated to his room with his library books. Over the past six months, he'd carefully escalated his reading material, showing "rapid improvement" that impressed his mother but didn't quite raise alarms. He was now reading at roughly a second-grade level, at least as far as anyone knew. In reality, he was devouring junior high-level texts on quirk theory whenever he could sneak them.
Today's reading was a children's biography of All Might, but Arthur had learned to read between the lines. The Symbol of Peace's power was described in vague, awestruck terms—"strong enough to change the weather with his punches," "fast enough that cameras couldn't capture his movements," "once destroyed a city block's worth of buildings to stop a villain."
These weren't precise measurements, but they gave Arthur benchmarks. Weather-affecting punches suggested air pressure manipulation at a massive scale. Camera-defying speed
meant faster than the eye could track, possibly faster than sound. City block destruction spoke to output in the tens or hundreds of tons of force.
And this is what I need to surpass, Arthur mused. Not match. Surpass.
In his first life, Arthur at his peak could cleave castle walls in two, move faster than trained warriors could perceive, survive falls and impacts that would kill normal men. But that had been with Excalibur's power and Avalon's protection. This time, he had only his quirk and his determination.
It would have to be enough.
Arthur set the book aside and held up his hand, activating his Royal Core. Golden light suffused his small palm, and he focused on maintaining it, pushing the duration. Six months ago, he could hold this for maybe thirty seconds before exhaustion. Now, he was approaching two minutes.
Progress. Slow, but steady.
His quirk's energy felt limitless in potential, but his body was the bottleneck. Every time he pushed his limits, his muscles ached, his bones felt the strain. But the quirk also helped them recover, helped them adapt. It was a delicate balance—push hard enough to stimulate growth, but not so hard that he caused permanent damage.
The phone rang, breaking his concentration. Arthur heard his mother answer in the other room, her voice brightening. A moment later, she appeared in his doorway.
"Arthur-kun, guess what? Your Aunt Yuki is visiting this weekend! And she's bringing Kenji-kun. Won't that be fun? You'll have someone to play with!"
Arthur maintained his childish smile while internally sighing. Kenji was his five-year-old cousin, a rambunctious boy with a quirk that let him stick to walls. Nice enough, but exhausting in the way only children who hadn't learned volume control could be.
"That sounds great, Mama," Arthur said dutifully.
Still, perhaps it wouldn't be entirely wasted time. Kenji's quirk, while simple, offered an interesting study in how quirk factors expressed. And Arthur needed to maintain his cover as a normal child, which meant occasionally acting like one. Playing with cousins fit that requirement.
The rest of the week passed in Arthur's established routine. Mornings: physical training disguised as play. Midday: reading and study. Afternoons: quirk control practice. Evenings: family time, where Arthur carefully maintained his role as a precocious but ultimately normal four-year-old.
But Arthur had never been normal, in either life.
His quirk was the key. Royal Core didn't just enhance his body—it was his body, in a sense. The power flowed through every cell, strengthening them, preparing them for the incredible forces they would eventually need to channel. As he grew, as his physical frame developed, his quirk would scale with him, amplifying his growth beyond normal human limits.
But enhancement alone wouldn't be enough. Arthur needed technique, skill, combat instinct. He needed to relearn everything he'd known as a warrior and adapt it to this new world, this new body, this new way of fighting.
And most crucially, he needed to maintain his humanity. Power without wisdom had destroyed him once. It wouldn't happen again.
A thought occurred to him, one that had been percolating for weeks. In this world, heroes used "Super Moves"—specialized techniques that maximized their quirk's potential. All Might had his various "Smashes." Endeavor had his flame techniques. Every top hero had signature moves that defined their combat style.
What would mine be?
In his previous life, Arthur had been a master of many weapons but specialized in the sword. His techniques with Excalibur had been devastating—strikes that released waves of energy, thrusts that pierced any defense, slashes that could cleave through armies.
But he had no Excalibur here. No holy sword to channel his power through.
Which meant he needed to become the sword himself.
The idea crystallized in Arthur's mind with sudden clarity. If his quirk enhanced his entire body, if it could channel energy through his limbs, then why couldn't he replicate his sword techniques with his bare hands? Punches that released energy like Excalibur's beam. Strikes with the precision and power of a blade.
It would take years to develop. Years to build the physical strength necessary, the quirk control required, the technique to execute. But Arthur had years. And more importantly, he had the knowledge of exactly what he was trying to achieve.
This was the advantage of his reincarnation. He wasn't starting from scratch, fumbling in the dark. He knew what mastery looked like. He just needed to reach it again.
Saturday arrived with Aunt Yuki's enthusiastic knock on the door. Arthur, properly dressed and coached by his mother on being "a good host," greeted his cousin with appropriate childish cheer.
Kenji bounced into the apartment like a rubber ball, already talking at high speed about his new quirk trick—apparently, he could now stick to ceilings as well as walls. He demonstrated immediately, scrambling up the wall and hanging upside down from the living
room ceiling while the adults laughed.
"Arthur-kun, show Kenji your quirk!" Aunt Yuki encouraged.
Arthur obliged, letting the golden glow of Royal Core shimmer across his skin. Kenji's eyes widened.
"Whoa! It's so shiny! What does it do?"
"Makes me stronger," Arthur said simply. It was the explanation he'd settled on—true enough to satisfy curiosity, vague enough to avoid detailed questions.
"Cool! Let's play heroes! I'll be the villain, you have to catch me!"
What followed was an exhausting afternoon of Kenji scrambling across every vertical surface in the apartment while Arthur "chased" him, careful to seem appropriately challenged by the task. But even in play, Arthur's tactical mind was working.
Kenji's wall-clinging was achieved through some kind of molecular adhesion quirk. The boy could attach and detach at will, could even walk across ceilings by redistributing his weight. It was limited—he couldn't stick to wet surfaces, and there seemed to be a maximum weight capacity—but within those limits, he had remarkable mobility.
Mobility that Arthur himself would need to develop, though through different means. If he was going to fight villains in urban environments, he'd need to navigate three-dimensionally. His quirk's physical enhancement would eventually let him leap between buildings, maybe even wall-jump like Kenji. Something to work toward.
That evening, after Yuki and Kenji had left and Arthur was supposedly asleep, he lay in bed thinking about the day's observations. Every interaction, every piece of information, was a data point. He was building a mental database of how quirks worked, how people fought, what tactics proved effective in this world.
But more than that, he was studying how heroes thought. And that's where he kept noticing problems.
The Hero Killer's attacks weren't succeeding because he was overwhelmingly powerful. By all accounts, his quirk was dangerous but beatable. He succeeded because he was smart, because he struck at heroes' weaknesses, because he understood psychology and tactics.
Most heroes, Arthur was learning, relied heavily on their quirks and relatively little on technique. They had powerful abilities and learned to use them effectively, but they didn't think like warriors. They didn't study their enemies, didn't prepare for every contingency, didn't train in fundamentals that would save their lives when quirks weren't enough.
That would be my advantage, Arthur realized. Not just power, but the mindset of a king who had commanded armies. Strategic thinking. Tactical flexibility. The ability to fight smart as
well as strong.
All Might might be stronger than me for a long time. Endeavor might have more raw destructive power. But I'll outthink them. And eventually, when my power matches or exceeds theirs, that combination will make me unstoppable.
It was, Arthur admitted, somewhat arrogant. But then again, he'd ruled Britain once. Confidence came with the territory.
The key was not letting that confidence become the same cold arrogance that had doomed him before. He needed to remember that heroes weren't pawns to be commanded. They were people, with their own strengths and weaknesses, their own stories and struggles. He needed to fight alongside them, not above them.
That would be the hard part.
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Two more months passed. Arthur turned five, celebrated with a small party that made him feel absurdly touched despite his mental age. Akari baked another cake. Takeshi gave him a set of wooden practice swords—meant as toys, but Arthur saw their potential for training.
The swords were lightweight, balanced for a child's hands. Perfect for learning forms without the risk of injury. That night, while his parents slept, Arthur stood in his room and went through basic sword katas from his previous life, moving slowly, precisely, ingraining the movements into muscle memory.
His five-year-old body made the forms clumsy, imprecise. But that was fine. He wasn't trying to be perfect now. He was building the foundation, teaching his body the motions so that later, when he had the strength and speed, the techniques would be second nature.
This was how he would bridge the gap. Physical training for his body. Quirk exercises for his power. Technical practice for his skills. And reading, constant reading, to understand this world's particular challenges.
It was during one of his library visits that Arthur found something unexpected—a book on rescue techniques. It was aimed at junior high students interested in hero work, full of diagrams and explanations about how to safely evacuate civilians, provide first aid, navigate disaster zones.
Arthur devoured it.
Because here was something he'd never truly considered in his first life: the aftermath. Kings dealt with strategy, with victory and defeat. They didn't personally pull people from rubble or treat wounds or comfort the traumatized. That was for others.
But heroes did all of that. And if Arthur wanted to be the best hero, not just the strongest, he
needed to excel at every aspect. Fighting was important, but so was saving. Defeating villains mattered, but so did protecting civilians.
The realization shifted something in his thinking. He'd been so focused on power, on surpassing All Might's strength, that he'd almost fallen into his old pattern—obsessing over capability while losing sight of purpose.
Power isn't the goal, Arthur reminded himself. It's the tool. The goal is protecting people. Saving them. Being the kind of hero this world needs.
It was a subtle distinction, but crucial. And it would shape how he approached his training going forward.
That night, Arthur added a new element to his routine. After his physical exercises and quirk practice, he studied rescue techniques. He read about structural engineering, about how buildings collapsed and where survivors were likely to be. He studied basic medicine, memorizing pressure points and first aid procedures. He learned about crowd psychology, about how panic spread and how to counter it.
He was five years old, and he was preparing to save lives.
Sometimes, late at night, Arthur wondered if he was pushing too hard. If maybe he should just be a kid for a while, enjoy the childhood he'd never had. His parents certainly gave him every opportunity—they took him to parks, bought him toys, encouraged him to make friends.
And he did try. He played with other children at the library's reading hour. He participated in his preschool's activities. He laughed at his mother's jokes and helped his father with simple chores.
But always, in the back of his mind, was the awareness of what was coming. U.A. The hero course. The battles ahead. The villains he would face. And beyond that, the nebulous but certain knowledge that this world had threats that would require everything he could become.
He'd failed his kingdom once through arrogance and distance. He wouldn't fail this world through laziness or complacency.
So Arthur trained. He studied. He prepared.
And slowly, incrementally, impossibly, he grew stronger.
By his fifth birthday, Arthur could hold his quirk's activation for five minutes straight. He could do twenty push-ups without assistance, fifty sit-ups, run for nearly a mile before tiring. His sword forms were becoming smoother. His quirk control was approaching fine enough manipulation that he could make the golden glow brighter or dimmer at will.
To anyone watching, he was just an unusually athletic child. But Arthur could feel the difference. Every cell in his body was being refined, tempered, prepared for the incredible forces it would one day need to channel.
The path to surpassing All Might wasn't a sprint. It was a marathon that would take years. But Arthur had learned patience. And more importantly, he'd learned that the destination mattered less than the journey.
Because somewhere along the way, between training sessions and library visits and family dinners, Arthur had stopped being just a reincarnated king playing at heroism. He was becoming something new. Something better.
He was becoming Arthur Himura, future hero. And that person would be strong enough to change the world.
One day at a time.
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Six months after his fifth birthday, Arthur experienced his first real test.
It was a normal afternoon. He and Akari were walking home from the library, Arthur carrying a stack of books that was probably too heavy for a five-year-old but which his quirk-enhanced strength handled easily. The autumn sun was warm, the streets busy with the usual urban bustle.
Then the screaming started.
Arthur's head snapped around, his combat instincts flaring to life. Two blocks away, something was causing panic—people running, shouting, scattering in all directions. His enhanced hearing picked up crashes, the sound of breaking glass, an animalistic roar.
"Arthur, stay close!" Akari grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the nearest building. But Arthur's eyes were locked on the source of the chaos.
A villain. He could see it now—something large, something monstrous, tearing through a shop front. No, not a villain. A person, transformed by their quirk into something barely human, rampaging without control or reason.
A quirk accident. Even more dangerous than a villain attack because there was no malice, no reasoning with them. Just raw power run amok.
Heroes would respond. They had to. But response time in a city this size could be minutes, and people could die in seconds.
Arthur felt his mother's hand shaking as she pulled him into a doorway, felt her fear radiating like heat. All around them, civilians were panicking, running without direction,
some toward the danger rather than away from it.
And in that moment, Arthur made a choice that would define everything that came after.
He couldn't fight the rampaging quirk user. His five-year-old body, despite months of training, wouldn't make a difference against something that size and strength. But he could help in other ways.
"Mama," Arthur said, his voice calm despite the chaos. "We need to help people get to safety."
Akari looked at him, startled by his tone—by the certainty in it, the command. For just a moment, Arthur let his true self show through, let her see the ancient soul behind her child's eyes.
Then he smiled, breaking the moment. "The heroes will come, but we can help until then, right? Like in my books?"
It was the right thing to say. Akari's fear crystallized into determination. She was a librarian, not a hero, but she was also a mother who'd watched her son read hero stories for months. She understood the lesson he was invoking.
Heroes help. Always.
"You're right," Akari said, her voice steadying. "We can help. But you stay with me, understand?"
Arthur nodded, already moving. His mind raced through the tactical situation. The rampaging quirk user was moving erratically but generally in one direction—toward them. People were scattering, some running into traffic, others freezing in panic.
Crowd control. That's what was needed. Someone to organize the chaos, direct people to safety, prevent the panic from causing as many casualties as the actual threat.
Arthur and his mother became that someone.
It started small—Arthur pointing out a safe alley to a confused elderly woman, Akari guiding a group of children away from the main street. But others saw what they were doing and helped, and suddenly there was a chain of civilians working together, moving people systematically away from danger.
Arthur's training showed in ways his mother couldn't quite understand. He positioned himself where he could see the threat's approach, called out warnings before anyone else could. His young voice somehow carried over the chaos, clear and commanding.
"This way! Move quickly but don't run! Watch for cars! Help anyone who falls!"
Akari stared at her son, really looked at him, and saw something she'd been missing for
months. The way he moved with unusual grace. The way his eyes tracked everything. The complete absence of panic in his expression.
Who are you? she wanted to ask. But there was no time.
The rampaging quirk user was getting closer. Arthur could hear its labored breathing, the sound of claws on pavement. Thirty seconds, maybe less. The civilians were almost clear, but there was one problem—a man trapped under debris from the initial rampage, too injured to move.
The tactical part of Arthur's brain calculated instantly. He couldn't lift the debris. Couldn't fight the approaching threat. But he could buy time. Just a few seconds. Just enough for someone else to help the trapped civilian.
Before Akari could stop him, Arthur stepped into the middle of the street.
His mother screamed his name. The approaching threat—a man transformed into something bear-like, foam dripping from his jaws, eyes vacant with quirk-induced madness—fixed on the small figure blocking its path.
Arthur activated his Royal Core.
Golden light exploded across his body, brighter than he'd ever managed before. The transformed man hesitated, some part of his animal brain recognizing a threat display. It wasn't enough to stop him, but it was enough to slow him, to make him pause for just one critical second.
A second that stretched into eternity as Arthur stood his ground, five years old and glowing like a tiny star, facing down something that could kill him with one swipe.
He wasn't afraid. He'd faced death before, stood alone on battlefields, known the weight of last stands. This was just another line that needed to be held. Just another moment where someone needed to be brave.
The transformed man roared and charged.
And then a blur of red and white slammed into him from the side, sending him crashing into a building wall. The impact shook the street, knocked Arthur off his feet. He hit the pavement hard enough to bruise, his quirk flickering out.
When he looked up, a hero stood there. Not a famous one, not someone Arthur recognized, but a hero nonetheless. The woman's quirk seemed to be speed-related, and she moved with professional efficiency, restraining the transformed civilian with specialized equipment before he could rampage again.
Other heroes were arriving now, drawn by the commotion. The situation was being contained. And Arthur realized, with a strange mixture of relief and disappointment, that his
moment of standing alone was over.
Akari reached him, sobbing, checking him for injuries. Arthur let her, playing the shocked child, but his mind was elsewhere. He was analyzing what had just happened. What he'd done right. What he'd done wrong. What he'd learned.
Most importantly: how it had felt to be a hero, even for just a few seconds.
The golden glow of his quirk had faded, but Arthur could still feel it humming under his skin, eager to be called again. He'd pushed harder than ever before, channeled more power, held it longer. And his body had responded. Tomorrow he'd be sore, but tonight he'd grown stronger.
This was the path. Not just training in isolation, but testing himself against real situations. Not fighting—he was still far too young for that—but being present, being aware, being ready to help in whatever way he could.
One day, Arthur promised himself as his mother carried him away from the scene, one day I'll be the one stopping threats like that. One day, I'll be strong enough that no one has to be afraid.
But for now, he was five years old. And he had a lot of growing to do.
As they walked home, Akari kept looking at him with an expression Arthur couldn't quite read. Fear, yes. But also something else. Recognition? Suspicion? Wonder?
"Arthur-kun," she finally said, her voice quiet. "That was very brave. But also very dangerous. Promise me you won't do something like that again until you're actually a hero."
Arthur met his mother's eyes and saw that she knew. Maybe not the full truth—not the reincarnation, not the centuries of experience—but she knew her son was different. Special in ways that went beyond quirks.
And she was afraid. Not of him, but for him. Because she understood, perhaps better than Arthur did, what it meant to have that kind of courage at such a young age. What it might lead to. What it might cost.
"I promise, Mama," Arthur said. And he meant it. He wouldn't put himself in danger unnecessarily. Not until he was strong enough to make a real difference.
But when that day came—when he was powerful enough, skilled enough, ready enough—he would stand on that line again. And he wouldn't need rescuing.
He would be the one doing the rescuing.
That was the promise Arthur Pendragon made to himself and his mother, there in the fading light of an autumn afternoon. Not as a king. Not as a legend. But as a boy who had seen
people in danger and couldn't walk away.
A boy who would one day become the greatest hero his world had ever seen.
One day at a time.
To be continued...
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