Three years had passed since Arthur's first brush with real heroism, and the transformation was remarkable.
At eight years old, Arthur Himura stood in his family's apartment, now moved to a slightly larger unit to accommodate his growing needs, and surveyed the changes time had wrought. The boy in the mirror looked normal enough—perhaps a bit more athletic than average, with unusually intense green eyes that sometimes caught the light strangely. But Arthur knew the truth hidden beneath that ordinary exterior.
He was strong. Not child-strong. Strong enough that he had to be constantly careful not to reveal the true extent of his capabilities.
Three years of systematic training, three years of his Royal Core steadily enhancing his body's development, three years of pushing his limits every single day had produced results that would have been impossible for a normal child. Arthur could now bench press his own body weight without his quirk active—unheard of for an eight-year-old. With his quirk engaged, he could lift nearly three times that. His running speed was approaching that of a middle school athlete. His reflexes were sharp enough to catch objects before they hit the ground.
But more than physical capabilities, Arthur had developed control. His Royal Core could now be maintained for over thirty minutes continuously, and he'd learned to modulate its output with precision. A trickle for everyday enhancement. A surge for maximum performance. And everything in between.
Yet even with three years of progress, Arthur knew he was nowhere near where he needed to be. Not even close
But Arthur Pendragon had never been one to shy away from impossible tasks.
He activated his quirk, letting golden energy flow through his body. The sensation had become as natural as breathing—more natural, perhaps, since this power felt like it was truly his in a way his first life's borrowed strength never had.
Today was special. Today, Arthur was going to attempt something he'd been theorizing about for months. Something that could change everything.
In his previous life, Excalibur had been the ultimate expression of his power—a holy sword that could channel and release devastating amounts of magical energy. The signature
technique, Excalibur's beam attack, had been capable of destroying armies, obliterating fortifications, changing the landscape itself.
He had no Excalibur now. No physical blade to channel his power through. But what if he didn't need one?
What if he could become the sword?
Arthur had spent years studying his quirk's properties, understanding how it enhanced his body, how it flowed through his muscles and bones. Royal Core wasn't just making him stronger—it was fundamentally altering his physiology, preparing his body to handle forces that would destroy a normal human.
And if his body could handle those forces internally, then perhaps it could project them externally.
The theory was sound. Heroes did it all the time—Endeavor projected flames, Todoroki ice, countless emitters released their quirk's energy into the world. But Arthur's quirk was classified as Enhancement-Emitter hybrid, which meant it primarily worked on his body. Projecting energy outward would be... unconventional.
But then again, so was everything else about him.
Arthur took a deep breath and centered himself. His room had been cleared for this—futon rolled up, furniture pushed to the walls, nothing breakable within reach. If this worked, if he could actually project his quirk's energy, he needed space to fail safely.
He raised his right hand and focused. Not just on activating his quirk, but on pushing it beyond his skin. On extending that golden energy outward, shaping it, controlling it.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then—
A flicker. Just for an instant, Arthur saw golden light extend past his fingertips, forming a small, unstable shimmer in the air.
Then it collapsed, the energy snapping back into his body with enough force to make him gasp. His hand ached like he'd punched a wall.
But he'd done it. For just a fraction of a second, he'd projected his quirk's energy outside his body.
It was a start.
Over the next weeks, Arthur practiced in secret. Every morning before school, every evening after homework, every spare moment he could steal. He practiced extending his quirk's
energy, trying to maintain it, to shape it, to control it.
Progress was agonizingly slow. The longest he could maintain the external projection was perhaps two seconds, and the energy was formless, unstable, barely visible. Nothing like the solid blade of light he was envisioning.
But Arthur was patient. He'd spent three years building his foundation. He could spend however long it took to develop this technique.
The challenge wasn't just technical—it was conceptual. Enhancement quirks worked inward, strengthening the user. Emitter quirks worked outward, projecting something into the world. Arthur's quirk was both, which should theoretically make projection possible, but the execution was tricky.
He needed a bridge. A way to extend his internal enhancement outward. And after weeks of failed attempts, Arthur finally realized what that bridge needed to be.
Intent.
In his previous life, Excalibur hadn't just been a sword. It had been a symbol, a crystallization of his will to protect Britain. The blade itself was almost secondary to the conviction it represented.
Arthur didn't need to project raw energy. He needed to project his will, his determination, his purpose—and let his quirk give that projection physical form.
It was a subtle distinction, but it changed everything.
The next morning, Arthur stood in his room and raised his hand again. But this time, he didn't just push his quirk outward. He focused on what he wanted to protect. His parents. The civilians from that day three years ago. The people he would one day save as a hero. He focused on his determination to stand between them and danger, to be the shield and sword they needed.
And when he pushed his quirk outward this time, it responded differently.
Golden energy flowed from his palm, extending outward in a coherent stream. It was still unstable, still flickering and formless. But it was there, sustained, responding to his will.
Arthur held it for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
Then his concentration broke and the energy dissipated, leaving him gasping and drenched in sweat. But he was smiling.
This was it. This was the path to his Excalibur.
Arthur's eighth birthday came with another small celebration and another round of wooden practice swords from his father. Takeshi had noticed his son's dedication to his "sword forms" and encouraged it, thinking it was just childhood fascination with hero stories.
If only he knew those forms were centuries old, refined through countless battles in a previous life.
But the best gift came from an unexpected source. Akari, who had been carefully watching her unusual son for years now, presented him with a book that made Arthur's breath catch.
"Advanced Quirk Theory and Application," she said quietly, handing him the thick textbook meant for high school students. "I know you've been reading above your level for a while now. And after that day three years ago... I think you're ready for this."
Arthur looked at his mother and saw understanding in her eyes. She didn't know everything—couldn't know everything—but she knew her son was special. Driven. Preparing for something.
"Thank you, Mama," Arthur said, and meant it more deeply than she could know.
That night, Arthur devoured the textbook. It covered topics he'd been piecing together from children's books and overheard conversations—quirk factor biology, enhancement limits, energy projection mechanics, the physiological changes that came with quirk usage.
But most importantly, it had a section on quirk evolution.
Most people thought of quirks as static abilities—you were born with a power and that was what you had. But the book explained that quirks could grow, develop, evolve through training and stress. The examples were numerous: heroes whose quirks had strengthened over time, developed new applications, exceeded their original limitations.
All Might's quirk, One For All, was the ultimate example. A stockpiling ability that grew stronger with each generation, each user pushing it further than the last.
Arthur's quirk was different—he wasn't inheriting accumulated power. But the principle was the same. Royal Core could grow. Could evolve. Could be pushed beyond its current limits through training and application.
The book outlined several methods for quirk evolution: systematic training that pushed boundaries, exposure to extreme conditions that forced adaptation, development of new applications that expanded the quirk's scope.
Arthur was already doing the first. But the second and third... those opened possibilities.
If he wanted to reach the level of power he needed by age sixteen, steady training wouldn't be enough. He would need to push his quirk to evolve, to grow beyond a simple enhancement-emitter hybrid into something more.
He would need to push himself to break.
And then heal stronger.
It was dangerous. The book had warnings about quirk overuse, about the damage that could come from pushing too hard too fast. But Arthur had fought through countless injuries in his previous life. He knew pain. Knew his limits. Knew how to walk the razor's edge between growth and destruction.
More importantly, his Royal Core had that healing property he'd noticed years ago. The energy that enhanced his body also helped it recover, helped it adapt. That was his safety net.
Arthur made a decision that night. He would accelerate his training. Not recklessly—he was still eight years old, still needed to let his body develop properly. But more intensely. More focused. More willing to push into the red zone where real growth happened.
Eight years to become strong enough to punch through mountains. To generate shockwaves that destroyed city blocks. To react faster than light in combat. To survive attacks that would vaporize normal humans.
It should have been impossible.
Arthur had stopped believing in impossible a long time ago.
The new training regimen started small. Arthur began waking up earlier—four in the morning instead of five. The extra hour went to quirk projection practice. Every morning, without fail, he stood in his room and practiced extending his Royal Core's energy outward, shaping it, maintaining it.
The formless golden shimmer slowly became more solid. More controlled. By the end of the first month, Arthur could maintain a crude blade-like projection from his hand for nearly thirty seconds. It wasn't stable enough to cut anything yet, wasn't solid enough to be useful. But it was progress.
During school, Arthur maintained the facade of a bright but normal student. He excelled academically—his adult mind made elementary school work trivial—but was careful not to be too perfect. He made friends, participated in activities, played at recess. The mask of normalcy.
But after school, when other children went home to watch TV or play games, Arthur went to the local park. He'd found a secluded area behind a maintenance building where he could train without being observed. Here, he pushed his physical limits.
Sprints until his legs burned. Pull-ups until his arms gave out. Quirk-enhanced exercises that
pushed his young body to its absolute limits. And then, when he was gasping and trembling with exhaustion, he'd activate his Royal Core and let it flow through his body, feeling it accelerate his recovery, adapt his muscles, strengthen his bones.
This was the key—train to failure, heal with his quirk, repeat. Each cycle pushed his body a little further, made his quirk a little stronger, brought him one step closer to his goal.
It hurt. Gods, it hurt. There were days when Arthur's entire body was one massive ache, when even his quirk's healing couldn't completely remove the soreness. Days when he wanted to quit, to just be a normal eight-year-old.
But then he'd remember Camelot falling. Remember standing alone on that battlefield, dying from his failures. Remember the promise he'd made to himself and his mother.
So he pushed through the pain. Because heroes didn't quit. Because the power he needed wouldn't come from comfort. Because eight years wasn't as much time as it seemed.
By age eight and a half, Arthur could maintain his energy projection for two minutes straight. The blade-like shape was becoming more defined, more solid. He still couldn't cut anything with it—the energy dissipated on contact with physical matter—but he was getting closer.
More importantly, his physical capabilities were exploding. Arthur could now run faster than most middle school athletes. Could do a hundred push-ups without stopping. Could jump nearly five feet vertically. With his quirk active, those numbers doubled.
He was approaching the low end of what a quirkless adult could achieve. At eight and a half years old.
But it still wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
Arthur started seeking out more challenging training. He began doing his exercises with his quirk actively suppressed, pushing his base body to its limits before allowing the enhancement. He practiced his sword forms with weights attached to the practice blades, building strength and precision simultaneously.
And he started taking calculated risks.
There was a construction site three blocks from his apartment. At night, after his parents were asleep, Arthur would sometimes sneak out and practice there. The skeletal framework of the building-in-progress provided a three-dimensional environment to test his mobility, his balance, his courage.
He'd climb to the second story. The third. The fourth. Each level higher made his heart race—not from fear of heights, but from the knowledge that a fall from this distance would seriously injure even his enhanced body.
But he needed to overcome that fear. Needed to be comfortable with heights, with danger, with the vertigo of combat in three dimensions. Future fights wouldn't happen on convenient flat ground.
One night, standing on the fifth floor of the construction site, Arthur looked out over sleeping Yokohama and made a decision.
He needed to test his limits. Really test them. Needed to know what his body could actually handle now, three and a half years into his training.
So Arthur jumped.
For one heart-stopping moment, he was in freefall, the ground rushing up at him. Then, at the last possible second, he activated his Royal Core at maximum output and bent his knees to absorb the impact.
He hit the ground hard enough to crack the concrete beneath his feet. The shock ran through his entire body, rattling his bones, compressing his spine. For a moment, Arthur couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the overwhelming impact.
Then his quirk surged, flooding his body with healing energy. The pain receded. His stunned nervous system rebooted. And Arthur stood up, shaking but intact.
He'd survived a five-story fall. At eight years old.
That was the moment Arthur truly understood what his quirk was capable of. What he was capable of. This wasn't just enhancement. This was transformation. His body was becoming something beyond human, something that could handle forces and impacts that would kill anyone else.
The path to mountain-busting punches suddenly seemed less impossible.
But the fall had also taught him something important—he'd reached the limits of what he could achieve alone. His body was adapting, growing stronger, but he needed more. Better training methods. Professional guidance. Resources he couldn't access as an eight-year-old child.
He needed a teacher.
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Finding a teacher proved more difficult than Arthur had anticipated. Most martial arts dojos had age minimums, and even those that accepted eight-year-olds focused on discipline and basic forms rather than serious combat training. Arthur needed someone who would push him, who understood what he was trying to achieve.
The answer came from an unexpected source.
There was a small, run-down gym near the construction site Arthur frequented. Not a hero gym—those were expensive and prestigious. This was a place for ordinary people to train, to stay fit, to practice boxing or kickboxing or whatever discipline they preferred.
Arthur had walked past it dozens of times. But one evening, he saw something that made him stop.
Through the window, an old man was practicing with a wooden sword. His movements were precise, economical, deadly. Arthur recognized the style immediately—it was similar to techniques from his previous life, adapted for a world without magic but no less effective for it.
The man was good. More than good. He moved like a true master, every strike purposeful, every transition flowing.
Arthur made a decision. He walked into the gym.
The interior was spartan—concrete floors, heavy bags, training equipment that had seen better days. The old man had finished his practice and was cleaning his sword with a cloth when Arthur approached.
"Excuse me, sir," Arthur said politely. "Would you be willing to teach me?"
The old man looked at him with sharp eyes that missed nothing. He saw an eight-year-old child, probably. But Arthur held his gaze steadily, let him see the seriousness behind the request.
"Teach you what, boy?"
"Swordsmanship. Combat. How to fight properly."
The old man snorted. "I don't teach children. Come back in ten years."
"I can't wait ten years," Arthur said quietly. "I need to be ready sooner than that."
"Ready for what?"
"To be a hero."
The words hung in the air. The old man studied Arthur for a long moment, and something in his expression shifted.
"You're serious."
"Yes, sir."
"Most kids who say they want to be heroes are playing. Make-believe. They don't understand what it really means."
"I understand," Arthur said, and let some of his true self show through—the warrior who'd stood on battlefields, the king who'd made life and death decisions, the person who'd died once and been given a second chance. "I understand exactly what it means."
The old man's eyes widened slightly. Whatever he saw in Arthur's gaze, it convinced him.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Arthur. Himura Arthur."
"I'm Tanaka Kenji. I used to be a hero, before an injury forced me to retire. Now I run this gym and try to keep in shape." He paused, considering. "I don't usually train children. But you're different, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you be here every evening at six?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then we start tomorrow. And I warn you—I won't go easy on you just because you're eight. If you want to learn how to really fight, you'll earn every lesson."
Arthur bowed, proper and deep. "Thank you, Tanaka-sensei."
The old man nodded. "We'll see if you're still thanking me in a week."
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Tanaka Kenji, Arthur quickly learned, was absolutely serious about not going easy on him.
The first lesson consisted of Tanaka watching Arthur go through his sword forms. The old man said nothing, just observed with those sharp eyes. When Arthur finished, Tanaka shook his head.
"You have the basics down, but your footwork is wrong. Your grip is too tight. You're relying on strength instead of technique. We're starting over from scratch."
And so they did. Arthur, who had been a master swordsman in his previous life, submitted himself to being taught like a complete beginner. Because Tanaka was right—his old techniques didn't perfectly translate to this new body, this new world. He needed to relearn everything properly.
The training was brutal. Tanaka had him practice single stances for hours. Made him do sword swings until his arms trembled. Corrected his form over and over until Arthur wanted to scream with frustration.
But he didn't complain. Didn't quit. Because beneath the harsh instruction, Arthur
recognized what Tanaka was doing—building a perfect foundation. Teaching him to move efficiently, to strike effectively, to waste no energy on unnecessary motion.
This was exactly what he needed.
After two weeks, Tanaka finally acknowledged Arthur's progress. "You learn fast. Faster than any student I've ever had. It's almost like you already know this stuff and just needed reminding."
Arthur said nothing. Let the old man think what he wanted.
"Alright. Now we add the real training." Tanaka gestured to the gym equipment. "Physical conditioning. If you want to be a hero, you need more than technique. You need strength, speed, endurance. Show me what you can do."
Arthur demonstrated—push-ups, pull-ups, sprints, everything he'd been doing in secret. Tanaka's eyebrows rose as the eight-year-old performed feats that shouldn't have been possible for his age.
"Your quirk?"
"Partly. But I've been training for years."
"I can tell." Tanaka rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "This changes things. With your physical capabilities, we can accelerate your combat training. But first, I need to see your quirk."
Arthur activated Royal Core. Golden light suffused his body, and Tanaka's eyes widened.
"Enhancement type?"
"Enhancement-emitter hybrid. I can project the energy externally, but I'm still learning how."
"Show me."
Arthur raised his hand and focused. The golden energy extended outward, forming that crude blade-like shape. He'd gotten better—could maintain it for nearly three minutes now—but it was still unstable, still useless for actual combat.
Tanaka stared at the projection for a long moment. Then he smiled, really smiled, for the first time since Arthur had met him.
"Boy, do you know what you're sitting on? That's not just an enhancement quirk. That's something special. If you can actually solidify that projection, actually make it stable enough to use..." He shook his head in wonder. "You could cut through almost anything. It would be like wielding pure energy."
"That's what I'm trying to achieve," Arthur admitted. "A blade made of my quirk's energy. Something that can channel my full power."
"A sword of light," Tanaka murmured. "Every swordsman's dream. And you're eight years old." He laughed, a sound of genuine delight. "Alright, Arthur. I'll teach you. Not just swordsmanship—everything I know about combat, about tactics, about what it takes to be a hero. But in return, you need to promise me something."
"What?"
"When you become the greatest hero in Japan—and you will, I can see that now—you'll remember the old man who taught you. And maybe, if some kid shows up at your door asking to be trained, you'll give them the same chance I'm giving you."
Arthur met the old man's eyes and saw understanding there. Tanaka knew what he was looking at—a once-in-a-generation talent, a child with the dedication of an adult and the potential to reshape the hero world.
"I promise, sensei."
"Good. Now drop and give me two hundred push-ups. If you're going to wield a sword of light, you'll need the strength to back it up."
Arthur dropped and started pushing. This, he thought as his muscles burned and his quirk hummed with energy, this is what I needed. A teacher who understands. Who can guide me. Who can help me reach my potential.
Over the next six months, Arthur's progress accelerated dramatically. Training with Tanaka five evenings a week gave him structure, expertise, and push he couldn't achieve alone. The old man was relentless, designing training regimens that pushed Arthur to his absolute limits.
They started each session with swordsmanship—forms, strikes, parries, footwork. Tanaka had adapted his style for Arthur's small size, teaching him to use speed and precision over power. Though as Arthur's strength grew, power was becoming less of an issue.
After swordsmanship came physical conditioning. Weights, cardio, plyometrics, exercises designed to build explosive power and endurance. Tanaka pushed Arthur harder than anyone else would dare push a child, but he also watched carefully, knew when to pull back, when to let Arthur rest.
And finally, they'd work on quirk projection. This was the trickiest part, requiring both physical and mental training. Tanaka, despite not having an emitter-type quirk himself, proved surprisingly good at coaching. He approached it like any other combat technique—break it down into components, practice each component, integrate them into a whole.
"Your projection fails because you're thinking of it wrong," Tanaka explained one evening. "You're trying to push energy out of your body. But your quirk doesn't work that way—it's part of your body. The energy doesn't have an 'inside' and 'outside.' It's all you."
Arthur frowned, considering. "So instead of projecting outward..."
"Extend yourself. Make that energy blade an extension of your arm, not something separate from it. You wouldn't think about 'projecting' your fist forward when you punch. You just... punch. This should be the same."
The advice clicked. Arthur had been approaching the technique wrong, treating the projected energy as something foreign rather than something intrinsic. When he tried again, thinking of the blade not as projected energy but as an extension of his own body—
The golden light solidified.
It was still flickering, still unstable in places. But for the first time, the projection had actual substance. Actual form. It looked like a sword blade made of crystallized light, extending two feet from Arthur's palm.
"Hold it," Tanaka urged. "Don't let it collapse. Feel how it's part of you."
Arthur held it. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. His concentration absolute, his quirk flowing smoothly through the extension. It was draining—much more draining than normal enhancement—but he could maintain it.
After a minute, he let it dissipate, breathing hard but exhilarated.
"That's it," Tanaka said, grinning. "That's your first real sword. Now you just need to make it stable enough to actually use in combat."
Arthur nodded, already planning how to integrate this into his training. A blade of pure energy, capable of channeling his full power. It wasn't Excalibur yet—nowhere close. But it was the first step toward recreating his greatest weapon.
By his ninth birthday, six months after starting training with Tanaka, Arthur had achieved something remarkable.
He could consistently manifest an energy blade from his right hand. It was stable enough to hold for five minutes. Solid enough to clash against physical objects without immediately dissipating. And sharp enough that Tanaka wouldn't let him practice with it anywhere near other people.
"You've got the foundation," Tanaka said during their training session on Arthur's birthday. "Now we start real combat training. Not forms and exercises—actual sparring. You need to learn how to fight with that blade against a real opponent."
"You're going to spar with me?" Arthur asked, surprised.
"Not with the energy blade—that thing would cut me in half. But with practice swords, yes. I need to see how you move in actual combat, how you react under pressure. Your techniques
are good, but techniques aren't enough. You need to develop instincts."
The sparring was eye-opening. Tanaka, despite being in his sixties and retired from hero work, moved like water. Arthur's strikes, precise and powerful, consistently failed to connect. The old man flowed around them, redirected them, countered them.
"You're too committed to each strike," Tanaka explained after disarming Arthur for the third time. "You put everything into every attack. That works fine when you're stronger than your opponent. But what happens when you face someone faster? Smarter? You need to learn when to commit and when to feint. When to press and when to retreat."
It was a harsh lesson. Arthur had been a master swordsman in his previous life, had defeated countless opponents. But that had been as an adult, with a lifetime of experience and supernatural power. Here, as a nine-year-old still learning his limits, he was vulnerable in ways he'd forgotten.
Tanaka taught him to be humble. To accept that he didn't know everything. To learn from every exchange, every mistake.
And slowly, gradually, Arthur's combat instincts sharpened. He learned to read Tanaka's body language, to anticipate attacks, to create openings instead of just reacting to them. The old man was a harsh teacher but a brilliant one, and Arthur absorbed every lesson.
By the end of his ninth year, Arthur could maintain his energy blade for ten minutes continuously. His base physical capabilities had reached the level of a fit adult human. With his quirk active, he was approaching low-level pro hero territory in terms of raw strength and speed.
But the most important development was internal. Arthur could feel his quirk evolving, adapting to his training. The energy that had once been a trickle was becoming a river. His body, constantly pushed to its limits and forced to adapt, was changing in fundamental ways.
The road to mountain-busting power was long. But Arthur was on it. And he was accelerating.
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On a cold evening just after his ninth birthday, Arthur stood alone in Tanaka's gym, practicing his energy blade technique. The old man had left early, trusting Arthur to lock up when he was done.
Arthur held the golden blade before him, watching it shimmer in the dim light. Ten minutes of continuous manifestation was good. But it wasn't enough. He needed more power, more stability, more... everything.
He thought about his goal. About being strong enough to surpass the greatest heroes of this
age. About the power he would need to achieve that.
And Arthur made a decision.
He'd been holding back. Training smart, yes. Being careful not to damage his developing body, yes. But also... safe. Staying within his comfort zone. Never truly pushing his quirk to its absolute limits because he was afraid of what might happen.
That ended now.
Arthur took a deep breath and fed more energy into the blade. The golden glow intensified. The blade, normally about two feet long, began to extend. Three feet. Four. Five.
His quirk screamed in protest. His arm burned like he'd thrust it into fire. Sweat poured down his face.
Arthur pushed harder.
Six feet. Seven. The blade was now longer than he was tall, a massive sword of pure energy crackling with power. The drain on his quirk reserves was immense—Arthur could feel himself approaching his limit.
But he pushed further.
The blade exploded outward, suddenly doubling in size, in intensity. Golden light filled the gym, bright as the sun. Arthur felt his quirk surge, felt something inside him break and restructure, felt his body scream and adapt and change.
This was quirk evolution. This was pushing past his limits into something new, something more. This was—
The energy blade destabilized. The massive construct of light shattered into fragments, the backlash hitting Arthur like a physical blow. He flew backward, crashing into the gym wall hard enough to crack the concrete.
For a moment, Arthur couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His entire body was on fire. His quirk, overtaxed beyond anything he'd ever done before, had shut down completely. He lay against the wall, gasping, wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake.
Then his Royal Core rebooted. Energy flooded his system, but it felt different. Stronger. Denser. More refined.
Arthur stood on shaking legs and raised his hand. When he manifested the energy blade this time, it came easier. Smoother. And the blade itself was more solid, more stable than it had ever been.
His quirk had evolved.
It was a small evolution, nothing dramatic. But Arthur could feel the difference. His energy reserves were deeper. His control was finer. His projection was more stable.
And the limits of what he could eventually achieve had expanded.
Arthur smiled despite the pain, despite the exhaustion. This was the path. Push to the breaking point. Shatter. Rebuild stronger. Repeat.
It would hurt. Gods, it would hurt.
But in seven years, when he was sixteen and standing among the greatest heroes of the age, he would be the strongest. Fast enough that light seemed slow. Strong enough that mountains trembled. Durable enough to tank attacks that vaporized cities.
He had seven years. And every single one of them would count.
Arthur Himura, nine years old, stood in a dim gym and made a promise to himself. Not as a reborn king. Not as a legend given a second chance.
As a boy who would become the greatest hero his world had ever seen.
Starting now.
To be continued...
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