U.A. High School. First-Year Orientation.
Classroom 1-A buzzed with unstable energy. Chairs scraped across tile. Someone sneezed ice. Another accidentally short-circuited their desk trying to plug in their charger. The usual chaos of future heroes stuffed into one room.
But near the back, next to the window, one student sat completely still.
He wore a charcoal-gray cloak draped loosely over his shoulders, its high collar framing his pale, sharp face. Strands of ash-gray hair curled above sea-glass eyes that didn't blink often. His expression was unreadable, not cold or unfriendly—just detached. Present, but elsewhere.
The school files called him Yūgami-no-Mikado.
No one said his name out loud.
Even the bold ones who had bragged about their Quirks on the way in hadn't approached him. His presence wasn't threatening. It was worse than that. It was silent. Contained. Like standing near something you instinctively knew not to wake.
Their homeroom teacher, Aizawa, walked in with his usual dead-eyed stare and an air of regret for ever taking this job.
"Introductions. Keep them short. Name. Quirk. Goal. Start from the left."
One by one, students stood and rattled off their basics. Pyrokinesis. Tail growth. Metal manipulation. No one paid full attention. They were too focused on waiting for their turn, or watching the flashier students show off.
And then it was his turn.
Yūgami-no-Mikado stood.
No sound from the chair. His cloak shifted slightly as he walked forward, eyes half-lidded but aware of every angle.
He stopped in front of the class and said calmly:
"Yūgami-no-Mikado. My Quirk is called Domain."
Nothing more.
A long pause followed. A few murmurs started, but he didn't elaborate.
"Anything else?" Aizawa asked.
"When it's active, things behave differently inside it. That's all."
The room didn't react. It wasn't dramatic enough to provoke curiosity. No glow. No transformation. Just a name and a sentence. Bland and forgettable—if not for the way his eyes lingered on empty space like it was listening.
"And your goal?"
Mikado's gaze drifted to the floor, as if searching for something beneath the surface.
"To perfect control."
He returned to his seat. The atmosphere slowly resumed its awkward rhythm. A girl behind him whispered that he sounded like a villain. Someone else shrugged and said he was probably just one of those "calm types."
Mikado didn't respond.
His fingers, resting in his lap, slowly touched—one over the other.
Right index sliding beneath left.
Not fully crossing.
Just feeling the shape.
Holding the thought of power, rather than unleashing it.
---
When school ended, he walked alone down the sun-washed sidewalk, avoiding the crowds like water around stone. No backpack. No headphones. No wasted movement.
He took the same path home every day—past the corner vending machine, across the footbridge, through the quiet backstreets of Setagaya. His apartment was on the fourth floor of a nondescript building, boxy and dim.
Inside, everything was meticulous. His shoes aligned perfectly. The sink had been wiped down that morning. The single futon in the corner hadn't been touched. The only sign of life was a half-filled notebook sitting on the desk, spine aligned with the wooden edge.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, in the center of the room.
And slowly… deliberately… crossed his fingers.
The world around him didn't react.
But he did.
He felt the pressure. The hum behind the silence. The faint distortion in the air like glass warping under invisible heat.
Not activated. Not yet.
He held it.
The gesture. The weight. The control.
Then he let go.
And exhaled.
"They won't remember me now," he said quietly.
"But when they see it…"
He closed his eyes.
"They'll never forget what follows the cross."