The morning proceeded with the grinding predictability of a poorly calibrated machine. Wake. Bathe. Endure the saccharine theater of a family breakfast where I, as always, deconstructed my father's corporate headaches with surgical indifference. Then—because even monarchs must pretend to be children—submit myself to the intellectual purgatory known as school.
Every day felt like captivity inside a golden cage. I could feel my potential pacing inside me, restless and sharp, my thoughts scraping against the bars.
But today, something shifted. A flicker of rebellion sparked in the well-oiled monotony.
As the final bell rang—a sound that usually heralded my swift escape via limousine—I turned to Momo, who was, predictably, aligning her stationery with geometric perfection.
"I'm walking," I said.
She paused mid-motion, her pencil hovering in disbelief. "Walking? Home?"
"Indeed. A bold, unprecedented act of pedestrianism." I slung my bag over my shoulder. "One foot in front of the other. Primitive, yes, but perhaps enlightening. A king should occasionally survey his future dominion from ground level."
Momo blinked. "It's a long walk. And not exactly the safest route."
I smirked. "Concerned for my well-being, Yaoyorozu? How touching. Or is this a thinly veiled excuse to prolong our quality time together?"
Her cheeks tinted pink. "I'm just concerned you'll get lost and accidentally start a political scandal because a street vendor gives you the wrong change."
"Ah, yes. A tragedy of international proportions." I gestured for her to follow. "Very well. You may accompany me. Think of it as… fieldwork. A cultural exchange. You can study the commoners in their natural environment."
She sighed, but fell into step beside me. "You're impossible."
"I prefer 'visionary.'"
The city, seen from street level, was a different animal entirely. From the limousine, it was a painting—flat, quiet, untouchable. But down here? It breathed. It sweated. It roared.
The noise was almost tangible: the hum of hover-cars overhead, the shouting of vendors, the chaotic chatter of the crowd. The air was thick with smells—oil, food, rain, ambition. Disorder, but not without purpose.
Momo looked around, her lips curving faintly. "See? It's not so bad. There's a vibrancy to it."
"'Vibrancy' is a poetic euphemism for unsanitary chaos," I retorted, though my eyes were busy cataloging every detail. The flow of foot traffic. Camera placements. Escape routes. Weak structural points. It was second nature—seeing the battlefield hidden beneath the mundane.
Then came the scream.
A raw, jagged sound that sliced through the air like broken glass. The crowd froze, then detonated into panic.
The first explosion followed seconds later.
Concrete rained down. A shockwave slammed into us, and I instinctively raised my arm, thin threads of quirk-born string flickering to life around me, absorbing the smaller debris before it could hit Momo.
Her eyes widened—but she said nothing. She was smart enough not to.
Through the settling dust, I saw the source.
A hulking man, his body an obscene tapestry of twitching muscle, like a thousand living ropes writhing under his skin. His grin was wild, feral. A name echoed through the chaos—Muscular.
Of course.
He laughed, the sound deep and gleefully cruel, and swatted a nearby car as if it were a child's toy. It flipped twice before exploding.
"A villain," Momo breathed, her voice tight. Her hand brushed her chest—the focus point for her quirk. She was about to act.
Before she could, a pair of blue-and-white streaks dropped from above—heroes. Water Hose. Mid-tier professionals, competent but unremarkable.
"Civilians, evacuate!" the male shouted. "We'll handle this!"
They attacked instantly, torrents of water slamming into Muscular's body. A solid tactic—most wouldn't stand against that level of force.
Muscular didn't even flinch. He grinned wider, then flexed. The water veered off him like it had hit armor plating.
Then he moved. One backhanded swing, and the female hero crashed into a streetlight. Her partner lunged—and Muscular simply caught his arm and dislocated it with a casual twist.
The pros fell. Just like that.
I felt something dark and analytical stir inside me. Not fear. Not pity. Curiosity.
This was reality—the unpolished truth behind the Hero Commission's propaganda. Power was not distributed fairly. And that imbalance was fascinating.
"Doffy, we have to get out of here!" Momo grabbed my sleeve, panic flickering in her eyes. "Reinforcements will come soon!"
"The 'reinforcements' are currently serving as street decor," I said, my voice steady. My mind was already racing. His quirk reinforced his muscle fibers to absurd levels—external attacks were near useless. But what about sensory vulnerabilities? Eyes. Nerves. Inner ear.
This wasn't danger. This was opportunity.
I stepped forward.
"Doffy!" Momo hissed. "What are you doing?!"
"Field research."
Five nearly invisible threads slid from my fingers, dancing through the chaos, hidden by the smoke and the fleeing crowd.
Muscular was roaring, his back to me. I guided the strings across the pavement, through the crowd's legs, until they reached him. Then I made them vibrate—rapid, focused oscillations. Surgical precision.
They cut into his lower back, slicing small, deep lines. Nothing mortal. But enough to touch nerves.
He jolted, growling. "Who's there?! You little rats think you can—"
He turned, scanning the panicked crowd. His one visible eye passed right over me. He couldn't see it. The threads were invisible, thinner than light.
I sent another volley—toward his face this time.
He moved faster than expected. My threads grazed his cheek, carving a shallow line before he leaped back. His gaze fell on me—small, still, unafraid.
"You?" He laughed, incredulous. "A little brat?"
My lips twitched into a smirk. "Observation confirmed: limited intelligence, high ego. Predictable."
His expression twisted into rage.
And that was my cue to leave.
"The test subject," I murmured, "has become agitated."
He charged.
The air trembled. The street cracked beneath his feet.
Then—
"FEAR NOT! FOR I AM HERE!"
A shockwave of presence swept over the street.
A red, white, and blue blur streaked past me, the sheer wind pressure nearly toppling me. I turned, just in time to see All Might—towering, smiling, larger than life—catch Muscular's punch with one hand.
The sound of impact was like thunder.
Two blows later, it was over.
Muscular lay unconscious, crumpled like discarded garbage. All Might stood victorious, sunlight gleaming off his teeth.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
I was already walking away.
Momo followed, silent, her face pale. We didn't speak until we reached the estate gates. Then she exploded.
"Are you insane?!" she shouted, spinning on me. "He could've killed you! He defeated two pros in seconds!"
I regarded her coolly. "I was thinking theoretical models were insufficient. I needed empirical data on the limits of a high-tier physical quirk. I acquired it."
"Empirical—?!" She threw her hands up. "He was looking at you, Doffy! He would have crushed you!"
"Unlikely." I tilted my head. "I had contingencies. Three, in fact. Sever the optic nerves, destabilize the inner ear, induce collapse. He was power without precision. I am the inverse."
"You're not a hero," she said, almost whispering. "You're… a scientist. Experimenting on people."
"'People' is a generous term," I said dryly. "And yes—progress requires data. Heroes chase glory. I chase results."
Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second. "You're… impossible."
I allowed myself a small smile. "And yet, here I am."
She huffed, turned sharply, and stormed off toward her approaching car.
When she was gone, I finally let the façade crack. Just slightly.
Back in my room, I replayed the fight in my mind—each moment, each string, each failure. My precision was excellent. My control was immaculate. But my power output was insufficient. My threads could pierce skin, maybe shallow muscle, but not sever reinforced tissue.
Not yet.
I looked down at my small, pale hands. They were still childish. Fragile. The body of a boy trying to house the will of a god.
"Patience," I whispered. "The blueprint is perfect. The foundation just needs time."
Muscular had humiliated two heroes, yet he had bled at my hand—however shallowly. That was enough. Proof of concept.
The king in waiting had drawn his first blood.
And the world, though it didn't yet know it, had already begun to kneel.