The weight of the world sat squarely on Izuku Midoriya's shoulders, even if no one could see it.
By day, he walked the cracked hallways of Aldera Middle, head down, keeping his voice soft and steps quieter. The other students—Bakugo most of all—had grown used to him being invisible unless they needed a target to remind themselves how powerful they were.
But by night, he wasn't just Izuku Midoriya anymore.
He was something… more.
The grimoire sat beneath his bed, wrapped in old cloth, pulsing gently. It didn't call out to him the way it had that first night. It didn't need to. Now, he came to it willingly.
Every night, he opened it. And every night, it taught.
The lessons were quiet at first: stillness, breath control, focus. Then it introduced motion. Small gestures. Words not in any known language, yet instinctively familiar when spoken.
Magic, it told him, was emotion given form. Chaos magic, especially, was volatile—drawn from the deepest parts of the heart. Without balance, it could destroy the user as easily as the world around them.
So Izuku trained. But not just in magic.
The grimoire's words had been clear: "A storm lives within you. Strengthen the vessel, or be shattered by your own potential."
So he needed space—somewhere to be loud, to fail, to fall, to rise again.
One night, after tossing in bed too long, he pulled on a hoodie and stepped outside. He didn't tell his parents. Not because he didn't trust them—they'd done everything for him—but because he didn't have answers. Not yet.
He walked until the city lights thinned and the scent of salt touched the air.
Dagobah Beach.
He'd been here once when he was younger, long before it had been forgotten by the city. Now, it was a wasteland—choked with years of garbage, rusted metal, broken furniture, shattered appliances. A place no hero would bother saving.
And maybe, that's why it felt right.
"I guess I belong here," he whispered into the wind.
He stepped onto the sand, the crunch of debris beneath his shoes strangely grounding.
The grimoire, glowing softly from his backpack, hummed with anticipation.
Training Day One
He began small.
A crushed car door—weathered and orange—became his first focus. He extended his hand, breathing slowly, feeling the tension coil inside his chest like a spring.
"Let it rise," the grimoire had said. "Feel it. But do not let it control you."
A faint green shimmer sparked across his fingertips.
The door twitched.
Izuku gasped. He lost control. The spark vanished.
But for one heartbeat, he had done it.
He trained for hours, sweat soaking through his shirt, his muscles screaming. When his magic failed, he used his body—lifting scrap, pulling tires from piles, tossing bricks just to feel the weight leave his hands.
His arms trembled. His legs ached.
But for the first time in his life, every ache had purpose.
He collapsed against a cracked refrigerator, breathing hard, the stars overhead like quiet judges.
"I'm still so weak," he whispered, hugging his knees. "What's the point of all this?"
The grimoire stirred in his bag, lifting slightly and opening its pages without a touch.
A new passage appeared, glowing faintly.
"Power is not given. It is built. Brick by broken brick."
Izuku stared at the words, tears slipping down his cheeks. For so long, he'd been told he couldn't be anything—no Quirk, no strength, no future.
But this book… this power… it didn't judge him by what he lacked.
It believed in what he could become.
He stood again, wiping his face.
"I'll build it," he said. "Even if I have to do it alone."
Days Became Weeks
Every day after school, he returned to the beach.
He told his mom he was studying at the library, and Inko—grateful that he was slowly healing from his recent breakdown—didn't question it.
At the beach, he learned to balance physical labor and spellcraft. He'd lift tires until his arms failed, then practice levitating them with shaky hands. He used fire spells to reduce damp wood into ash, then put it out with conjured gusts of wind.
His progress was slow, painful—and beautiful.
One evening, after two weeks of grueling practice, he finally lifted a full car hood into the air and held it there for five whole seconds.
He collapsed after, laughing into the sand.
"I did it! I actually did it!"
The grimoire opened, displaying a single glowing line of text.
"Good. Again."
Izuku groaned. "You're relentless."
The page shimmered. Was that a… joke?
He smiled.
A Crack in the Calm
It wasn't all peace and focus.
Some days, he lost control.
One night, angry after another round of Bakugo's bullying, he tried to conjure fire. But it was too much. The flame burst from his hand and scorched a ten-foot patch of sand into glass.
The recoil knocked him backward.
He lay there, shaken, smoke curling from his fingertips.
That night, the grimoire didn't offer praise. It wrote one word across its pages in sharp red script:
"Control."
The Question of Truth
At home, Hisashi noticed Izuku's improved posture, his thicker arms, the sparkle in his eyes. "You've been working out?"
Izuku grinned nervously. "Kinda. Just trying to get better."
Inko simply pulled him into a hug. "You're doing amazing, sweetie."
One night, after a particularly long session, he stood at the edge of the beach, overlooking the waves. His hands still glowed faintly green from channeling magic.
He reached out toward the sea.
The waves responded—just slightly, curling toward him in rhythm.
His breath caught.
There was something inside him. Something vast.
"Maybe I really can become a hero," he whispered.
Behind him, in the far distance—just beyond sight—a shimmer in the air twisted like a ripple in a mirror.
A portal closed silently.
On the other side of the world, in a dark chamber lit only by violet candles, a cloaked woman watched through a scrying pool, her fingers curled around the edge like claws.
Her lips curled into a smile.
"He blooms faster than I thought."