---
Chapter 7 – Blueprints of Tomorrow
Adrien's POV
The school had been shut down for the week. Between collapsed walls, half-melted lockers, and three supervillains' worth of collateral damage, Midtown needed more than duct tape to get back in shape.
The students celebrated like they'd been granted early summer vacation. For me, though, it wasn't rest time.
It was training time.
---
The mornings were simple: sunrise runs across rooftops, strength drills, chi exercises Bark had taught me, and flexibility training that left my muscles trembling. At lunch, I'd practice Miraculous techniques in secret, cycling through them like a deck of cards. Balance, stealth, agility. Each day I measured improvement—my punches sharper, my jumps higher, my stamina longer.
But I knew something else was just as important as raw strength.
Resources.
I couldn't rely on magic jewelry alone. If I wanted to survive in this world full of gods, monsters, and billionaires with battle armor, I'd need plans. Real, long-term plans.
So I pulled out a thick notebook and began what I called my Idea Book.
Page one: Naruto.
I sketched the character line-up from memory—Naruto, Sasuke, Sakura, Kakashi. I summarized arcs, mapped power systems, wrote down themes of bonds, sacrifice, and perseverance.
Page two: Death Note.
Light, L, Ryuk. A cat-and-mouse game where a notebook killed with a name. I described the morality, the suspense, the ending.
Page three: Your Name.
I jotted designs of Taki and Mitsuha, the red string of fate between them. The bittersweet romance across time.
The pages filled quickly—Fullmetal Alchemist, Ben 10, Avatar: The Last Airbender, even smaller series I half-remembered. Every world, every character, every theme—preserved in ink.
To anyone else, it looked like fanfiction. But I knew better. These were seeds. Stories that could inspire millions, or fund me if money ever became a problem. Movies, comics, shows—gold mines waiting to be dug up.
I paused, tapping my pen against the page. "If people like these even half as much as I think, this could change everything."
Tikki floated nearby, tilting her head. "You really love stories, Adrien. I've never seen someone so passionate about making them."
I smiled faintly. "Yeah. Stories can shape the world."
Bark barked in approval. "Better than stealing gold."
I grinned. "Exactly."
---
But stories were just one half.
The other was infrastructure.
That afternoon, I hiked deep into the wilds, past thick jungles and uncharted rivers, until the land grew primal—the edge of the Savage Land. A place where dinosaurs roamed and ancient magic lingered.
Perfect.
I located a cliffside cave that sloped down toward the ocean. A perfect candidate for a base—isolated, hard to find, yet accessible.
"Alright," I murmured, securing the Cat Miraculous. "Time to test some ideas."
With Cataclysm's destructive potential, I cleared unstable rock formations, carving clean walls from jagged stone. Then, switching to the Goat Miraculous, I summoned constructs—solid, permanent objects bound by magic.
First: ventilation shafts. A honeycomb system carved into the rock, leading fresh air through enchanted ducts.
Next: temperature regulators. I embedded glowing runes into the stone, set to absorb heat in the day and release warmth at night.
Then: a light system. With careful application, I created crystal-like panels that glowed faintly, illuminating the cavern without electricity.
Finally: pressure stabilizers for deeper tunnels. If I ever extended toward an underwater entrance, I'd need to counteract crushing ocean weight.
By the time I finished, the cave looked less like raw wilderness and more like a rough draft of something futuristic.
I wiped sweat from my brow, chest heaving. "Not bad for one day."
Tikki drifted down, smiling. "Adrien, you realize you're essentially designing a fortress?"
"Not yet," I said, sketching on my notebook. "Right now it's just foundations. But one day… yes. A base with a medical bay, cafeteria, weapons vault. Even a prison, maybe. Something humanity could use when the real wars start."
Bark wagged his tail. "A pack needs a den."
I chuckled. "Exactly."
---
By evening, I headed back to the city. Gwen had invited me for dinner, and I promised her I wouldn't flake.
The Stacy home was warm, but the air hung heavy. Her mother's hands trembled slightly as she set down the plates. Her brother kept glancing at the news on TV—reports replaying footage of the school attack.
George Stacy tried to act calm, but his jaw was tight, the kind of look police officers wore after too many crime scenes.
I could feel it: the family was rattled.
So, I slipped into my old armor. Not magic, not Miraculous—just the mask of a boy who knew how to make people laugh.
"Did you guys know Ned nearly fainted when the ceiling cracked?" I said lightly. "I thought I'd have to carry him like a bride through the hallway."
Gwen chuckled despite herself. "You're exaggerating."
"Exaggerating? He squealed like a kettle." I mimicked Ned's high-pitched yelp, drawing a reluctant laugh from her brother.
Her mother smiled, just a little. George shook his head, but the corners of his lips twitched.
Through dinner, I kept up the act—teasing Gwen about her science club, joking about how teachers would probably assign us a fifty-page essay as "trauma therapy." Slowly, the tension eased.
By dessert, the house was filled with real laughter.
And as I sat there, sipping tea while Gwen's family smiled around me, I realized something.
Building bases, collecting Miraculous, planning for cosmic wars—those were necessary. But moments like this? Quiet dinners, shared smiles, families being whole?
This was what I was really protecting.
---
That night, back in my room, I flipped open my Idea Book again. My sketches of heroes and worlds stared back at me.
"Tomorrow," I whispered, "we start making this real. Stories, training, bases. Piece by piece."
Because if the world was going to keep throwing storms at us, then I'd be ready.
Not just as Adrien Agreste.
But as the Guardian of Miraculous