"Swordsmanship is the art of killing."
Yaoyorozu Chihiro spoke calmly, a gentle smile resting on the face of a boy who looked no older than thirteen or fourteen. As he spoke, he held a sword in both hands and raised it once more, bringing the katana down toward the wooden training puppet in front of him.
Slash.
The sound of air being violently torn apart echoed through the room again, as if it had reached some invisible breaking point.
With a sharp crack, the battered puppet exploded instantly.
"What—?!"
A woman wearing a bushido training uniform cried out in shock. She stared at the splintered fragments flying through the air, panic flashing across her dark eyes.
"I'm about to enter U.A., and you're still this timid, big sister?"
Before the boy's words had fully settled, his wrist twisted smoothly. The katana in his hand hummed, releasing a sharp sword cry as a crescent-shaped arc of light cut through the air. In the next instant, the countless wooden shards were swept away as if erased.
Watching him effortlessly dismantle the fragments, the girl swallowed hard before speaking in disbelief.
"Chihiro… this kid's swordsmanship is getting more terrifying by the day."
Yaoyorozu Momo stared at him, her expression filled with shock. Chihiro smiled faintly in response, yet his thoughts drifted far away, as though he had returned to the moment when he first arrived in this world.
It was difficult to believe that reincarnation and rebirth had truly happened to him.
Even harder to believe was the fact that he had crossed into a world ruled by superhuman abilities.
Of course, they weren't called "superpowers" here.
He preferred the word Quirk.
—– For collection —– For flowers —– For rewards —–
After removing his sweat-soaked white martial arts uniform, Chihiro walked slowly toward the standing mirror in the room and began his usual routine of getting dressed.
In this life, Yaoyorozu Chihiro was undeniably good-looking—handsome, even. His facial features were delicately sculpted, and his lips carried a faint cherry-blossom hue. Taking advantage of Momo's absence, he examined himself in the mirror and nodded in quiet satisfaction. While appearance wasn't particularly important in this world, no one wanted to scare people just by stepping outside.
Yet when his gaze fell on his pale, sickly complexion, bitterness surfaced in his eyes.
A cherry-blossom-like genius… a sickly swordsman.
That was how the world described him.
Since childhood, Chihiro's body had been frail. Running only a short distance left him gasping for breath. His parents had taken him to hospitals countless times, but no clear diagnosis was ever found. In the end, the doctors simply labeled it a "physical constitution issue."
Only in recent years had relentless kendo training begun to show results. His body, at the very least, had finally caught up to that of an average person.
Shaking his head and forcing those thoughts aside, Chihiro extended his right hand toward Yaoyorozu Momo.
"Want me to try it again?"
Momo shot him an annoyed glare, but still spread her hands helplessly. In the next moment, a brand-new black suit appeared in her palms.
"Creation—" she explained, as she always did. "I can freely create any non-living object using my body fat. As long as I understand the molecular structure, it's easy. But the more complex or larger the object, the more time it takes."
This was Yaoyorozu Momo's Quirk—one that could rightfully be called terrifying, with near-limitless potential. Of course, that potential depended entirely on how she used it. For now, Chihiro merely smiled and had her make simple items: clothes, pants, and occasionally a few decorative diamonds—purely because they looked nice.
Taking the suit from her hands, Chihiro slipped it on effortlessly. His tall, slender figure was perfectly suited to the tailored black casual wear. The ruby ring on his right hand added a striking accent, giving him an air that was both elegant and strangely captivating. For a moment, Momo's eyes shimmered with color as she looked at him.
After sheathing the katana beside the mirror, Chihiro turned his attention to Momo herself.
She hadn't trained for long today, yet sweat soaked her white martial arts uniform, the fabric clinging softly to her form. Her chest rose with each breath, strikingly developed despite her not yet having entered high school. Her snow-white skin gleamed beneath the sheen of sweat, her fingers gripping the sword like polished jade. Her face was beautiful and refined, her eyes clear and bright, her nose high and well-defined, giving her a subtle Western elegance. Her long black hair fell loosely over her shoulders, lending her an unexpectedly heroic presence.
Big sister really is as beautiful as ever, Chihiro thought, though his expression remained calm and unreadable. He had always been sparing with words.
"Are you going back to rest?" Momo asked softly, frowning as concern flickered between her brows.
She worried about this younger cousin who had suddenly appeared in her life two years ago. His daily routine was rigid—training room, bedroom, repeat. Whenever she asked her parents about him, they always gave the same answer: Chihiro was ill and couldn't travel far, not even to attend school.
Chihiro nodded, smiling as he always did. After saying goodbye, he turned and walked toward his room.
It was called a bedroom, but in truth, it was part of a three-story mansion lavishly decorated in every detail. Though he was technically being taken in by Yaoyorozu Momo's parents, they treated him no differently than their own son.