Years passed, but time never felt rushed.
Arata grew into a quiet, thoughtful boy. Not isolated, not shy—but someone who chose when to speak and when to listen. He smiled easily, laughed when something was funny, and cried when scraped knees demanded it. But underneath all that, there was something older—an echo of someone who had lived a full life before being handed another.
He didn't talk about it, of course. He couldn't. No one would believe him, and besides, it wasn't a secret he wanted to share.
It was just a truth that sat with him, like a shadow that never left.
At age five, he passed the expected developmental checkups with no issues. His quirk evaluation was brief and inconclusive. The agency assistant scribbled down, "Potential passive physical enhancement. No active manifestations at this time."
He was fine with that.
Let them think he was average.
Riku, on the other hand, was radiant as ever. She didn't seem disappointed, nor overly excited—just present. She ruffled his hair on the walk home, swinging their joined hands as they passed the neighborhood bakery.
"You'll grow into it," she said gently. "Or you won't. Either way, you're my little hero."
That word stung just a little.
Hero.
It wasn't that Arata didn't want to be one. He had wanted to once. Back in his old life, he had idolized the idea of sacrifice and strength. But after coming to this world—and especially after living with Riku and Haruto—he found himself more drawn to the people behind the power. The parents. The mentors. The friends who held you up when the weight of your own dreams tried to crush you.
He wasn't sure where he belonged yet.
But something inside told him not to force it.
---
One evening, he sat at the edge of the living room rug, staring at his open palms.
They were small, but stronger than they looked. He curled and uncurled his fingers slowly, as if trying to feel something new surface through his skin.
Nothing came.
No glow. No tremble. No flare.
But his breath was steady. His heartbeat smooth. He closed his eyes and focused on the air around him.
He could hear his mother in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.
He could hear his father in the study, muttering softly into a headset.
And beneath it all, he could feel something… rooted. Not like a surge or spark—but like the soft hum of coal waiting to catch fire.
He let out a small sigh and stood.
No need to rush.
---
Outside, dusk was settling in. He walked with his mother to the local corner store to pick up miso and tofu. The streets were calm, and Arata liked these little errands—it gave him time to observe without feeling watched.
"Race you there?" Riku said suddenly, grinning.
Arata blinked, then nodded.
They took off.
She held back, of course, but Arata ran for real.
His feet barely touched the ground. The wind kissed his face. His heartbeat rose but didn't spike. The rhythm of movement felt natural, smooth—almost like dancing.
He reached the store ahead of her and turned, panting softly, but with a wide grin on his face.
Riku arrived seconds later, laughing. "You're fast."
"You let me win," he said, narrowing his eyes.
"Maybe," she teased. "Maybe not."
They walked the rest of the way hand in hand.
---
Back home, Arata helped Haruto with his tools—well, mostly handed him the wrong ones—but he enjoyed the company. Haruto rarely explained what he was building, but Arata liked watching things come together. Circuits. Casings. A rough sketch turning into something that buzzed and blinked.
"You're good with machines," Arata said.
"I have to be," Haruto replied without looking up. "Your mother handles everything that requires balance and grace. I stick to things that don't move unless I tell them to."
"Is it hard? Being quirkless in a world where everyone has something?"
Haruto paused.
Then he looked at Arata, his expression unreadable.
"I think... it's only hard if you spend your time comparing. It's not that I can't do amazing things. It just means I need to find my way to do them."
Arata nodded slowly.
That made sense.
More sense than most people ever made to him.
---
That night, Arata sat by his window again. The city was quieter now—only the occasional car and the distant bark of a dog.
He closed his eyes and focused inward.
Not to find power.
Not to summon anything.
Just… to listen.
Inside him, there was no map. No menu. No instructions.
But there was a feeling.
A soft pull. Like roots stretching beneath the surface, slowly soaking in what they needed. Bonds. Emotions. Trust.
He didn't know his quirk's name or nature, not yet.
But sometimes, when his mother hugged him extra tight or his father silently squeezed his shoulder after a long day—he felt a flicker. A warmth that wasn't just emotional. A whisper in his bones that said: you're not alone in here.
Maybe one day, those flickers would catch flame.
But tonight, he simply sat in the dark and let the silence speak.