The afternoon sun spilled across the cracked pavement of the schoolyard, long shadows stretching as kids scattered home for the day. Most were laughing, backpacks slung carelessly over their shoulders, their world simple and safe. But for Seigi, the world was never just that.
Since he was old enough to hold a comic book, Seigi had been obsessed with heroes. His shelves at home overflowed with manga volumes, superhero comics, and DVDs of anime series he'd watched so many times he could quote entire episodes word for word.
To his classmates, he was "Hero Boy"—sometimes as a tease, sometimes with genuine affection. He wore the nickname like armour, smiling proudly, because what they didn't understand was that Seigi truly believed. He believed heroes weren't just drawings on paper or flickering images on a screen. They were possibilities. If he trained hard enough, if he studied the stories deeply enough, maybe—just maybe—he could become one himself.
It started with his grandmother's stories. She'd sit by the paper screen at night, her voice low and dramatic, spinning tales of the Sengoku period—but not the way school textbooks told them. For her, samurai weren't just soldiers; they were heroes and villains, locked in a secret war of ideals. Some carried swords that glowed with starlight. Others could shatter walls with their fists. When she spoke of generals, she called them shadows and giants, forces of will so strong the world bent around them.
"You carry their blood too, Seigi," she'd whisper, tapping his chest. "One day, you'll have to decide—hero or villain."
He took her words literally.
Sometimes Seigi tested himself in secret, leaping from low tree branches in the park, arms spread wide, praying he might just keep floating. He hit the ground hard every time, rolling in the dirt, groaning—but always getting up and trying again.
Other days, he'd stand in the alley behind his grandmother's house, legs braced, palms out, whispering the names of energy attacks he'd memorized from anime. He would thrust his hands forward, convinced that if he believed hard enough, blue light would finally spark from his fingertips.
Once, a pair of neighbourhood kids peeked over the fence and caught him mid-"Hadouken." They laughed so hard one nearly fell into the bushes. Seigi flushed crimson, but instead of hiding, he planted his feet firmer and shouted, "Laugh now—but when this works, you'll be the first ones vaporized!"
That only made them laugh harder. But later, when he was alone, Seigi smirked. Because one day, they wouldn't be laughing. One day, he'd prove it.
But belief had a cost.
That day, the cost came in the form of three older boys cornering him by the chain-link fence. They were bigger, meaner, the type who thrived on finding cracks in others.
"Still pretending to be some kind of anime superhero, Hero Boy?" the leader sneered, shoving Seigi's shoulder hard enough to rattle him against the fence.
Seigi straightened, clutching the strap of his backpack. "I'm not pretending. Heroes are real. Someday, you'll see."
The punch came fast, harder than Seigi expected. His cheek exploded with pain as he staggered back, nearly toppling. The other kids nearby didn't intervene—they never did.
Blood welled in his mouth. He spat it onto the ground, the copper taste sharp on his tongue. His knees wobbled, but he forced himself upright again.
The bullies laughed. "Sit down before we put you down, Hero Boy."
Another strike hit his stomach, folding him to his knees. Air rushed from his lungs. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
"Heroes don't stay down," he whispered to himself. His voice trembled, but the words were iron.
He rose. Again.
A fist cracked across his jaw, sending him sprawling into the dirt. The world tilted, blurred. His body screamed to give up, to stay down where it was safe.
But Seigi believed. More than he feared pain, more than he feared humiliation, he believed in the dream that had carried him this far.
He dragged himself up, legs shaking, blood trickling down his chin. The bullies exchanged uneasy looks now, their fun souring.
And then, it happened.
The moment Seigi straightened his spine and refused to bend, the world slowed. The laughter around him stretched into echoes. The fists coming his way blurred, moving sluggishly, as if the air itself had thickened. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, yet his body felt light.
For a fleeting instant, he knew. He could see the punch before it landed. He could step aside. He could move faster than he should have.
A swing cut toward him. Seigi's body reacted, shifting just enough for the blow to whistle past his cheek. Dust lifted from the ground as though stirred by unseen hands. The fence behind him rattled though no one touched it.
The moment snapped like a rubber band, reality crashing back in. The next strike caught him on the shoulder, spinning him. The slowing, the power, it was gone—like a dream fading at dawn.
Seigi stumbled, braced himself on the fence, and grinned through the blood staining his teeth.
"See? Even the world wants me to be a hero."
The bullies faltered. For the first time, they weren't laughing. Something about the look in his eyes unsettled them—the sheer, stubborn refusal to break.
With muttered curses, they shoved past and left him standing there, battered but unbowed.
Seigi wiped his mouth, winced, and straightened his uniform. He hurt everywhere, but deep inside, something burned hotter than pain. A seed. A possibility.
Walking home that evening, bruised and sore, he carried his books tight to his chest. His reflection in the shop windows was pitiful: a scrawny boy with a split lip and dirt on his face. But Seigi saw something else.
A future.
If he trained harder, believed harder, maybe he could pull that moment back. Maybe he could turn a flicker into a flame.
And so the name "Hero Boy" stuck—not as mockery, but as prophecy.