The morning after the exams, I wasn't woken by an alarm or the persistent whispers in my head, but by an unfamiliar silence. The city's hum, the constant backdrop of my existence, was gone. In its place, birds chirped outside, and the leaves of some large trees rustled softly.
I lay there, eyes open, listening to this silence, and only then did it hit me. The exams. They were over. All that was left was waiting. And that waiting hung in the air like a heavy, sticky weight, ready to crash down on me with a fresh wave of anxiety at any moment.
But my parents' plans turned out to be an unexpected salvation. At breakfast, my father, usually so reserved, seemed unusually animated.
"Listen, Arashi," he said, setting aside his newspaper. "We got a good contract, finished it ahead of schedule. Your mom and I decided to visit Grandpa for a couple of days. To the village. Fresh air, peace… it'll do you good to clear your head before the school year starts."
Mom chimed in, her eyes gleaming with hope. They were worried about me. They saw my tension and came up with this escape so I wouldn't be trapped in four walls, tormenting myself with thoughts of the results.
I didn't resist. The idea of leaving the city, this apartment where every corner reminded me of months of grueling training and that bone-chilling terror during the exam, felt like paradise.
The drive to Fukushima Prefecture took a few hours. The urban landscape outside the window gradually gave way to green hills, rice paddies, and neat houses nestled in greenery. The air I breathed when stepping out of the car at a gas station was different—fresh, damp, filled with the scents of earth and plants.
The village where my grandfather lived was tiny. A few streets, a couple of small shops, a post office, and an old school that looked more like a museum. Time here seemed to move slower, or perhaps it had stopped altogether thirty years ago.
Grandpa's house was large, old, wooden, with a sloped tiled roof and a veranda cluttered with flowerpots. It was well-maintained—the paint was fresh, the yard swept — but an air of ancient, unshakable permanence emanated from the building itself, from every cracked beam.
Grandpa greeted us at the door. He was a short, wiry old man with short-cropped gray hair and a face etched with deep wrinkles. His eyes, gray like mine, were attentive and calm. He didn't rush to hug us, just nodded to Dad, patted Mom on the shoulder, and fixed his gaze on me.
"You've shot up," he said in a hoarse, smoke-roughened voice. "Practically a man. Come in, lunch is ready."
The house smelled of old wood, tobacco, and something delicious simmering on the stove. The furnishings were simple, almost austere, but there was a sense of comfort and order. Grandpa was one of the few relatives who never looked at me with caution. Not that he was particularly affectionate — he was a man of few words and restrained demeanor — but there was a kind of… understanding firmness in how he treated me. Perhaps because he himself was no ordinary man.
I knew that in his youth, he'd been part of the local militia when the world descended into chaos after quirks emerged. His quirk, "Shadow Dominion," allowed him to control others' shadows and paralyze enemies. It wasn't as destructive as mine, but it was far from the harmless abilities of my parents (Dad's sharpshooting eye and Mom's absent shadow). Grandpa understood what it meant to wield a power that frightened others.
After lunch, I decided to take a walk. I needed to stretch my legs, stiff from the drive, and have some time alone. The village was quiet and deserted. Occasionally, I passed locals—mostly elderly people — who glanced at me, the unfamiliar boy, with curiosity.
I walked down the main street, stopped by a small shop that smelled of old wood and salted seaweed, and bought a bottle of water. That's where I saw them.
Three guys. Young, but with rough, hardened faces. One had an intimidating tattoo peeking out from under his shirt collar. The other two were just burly, with empty eyes. They stood at the counter, buying something, but their postures and gazes screamed one thing — they didn't belong here. Not locals. Shady types. Maybe just petty thugs, or maybe something more serious. Low-level yakuza, perhaps, stranded in this backwater.
I tried not to look their way, paid for my water, and left, hoping they hadn't noticed me. But luck wasn't on my side today. I heard coarse laughter behind me, followed by quick footsteps.
"Hey, you! Stop, let's talk!"
I sped up, not turning around. My heart pounded in my throat. The last thing I needed right now was trouble with some village drunks, especially just before my U.A. enrollment.
"What's the rush, city boy?" one of them overtook me, blocking my path. The others flanked me, cutting off any escape. They reeked of cheap cigarette smoke and alcohol. "Who are you? Related to that old weirdo Satoshi?"
I stayed silent, assessing the situation. Three of them. I was in good shape, but not a fighter. My quirk… the thought of it sent a chill through me. No. Absolutely not. I wouldn't use it here, not for something this trivial.
"Back off," I said quietly but firmly, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm just visiting. I don't want trouble."
"Oh, we do!" the tattooed one grinned. "It's boring here. Entertain us, city boy. Show us how much cash you brought."
He stepped toward me, reaching for my jacket. I jerked back, but someone shoved me hard from behind, and I slammed into the wall of a nearby house. The air rushed out of my lungs. My head rang. They stirred behind the wall, sensing my fear, my anger.
"Let us out. We'll make them crawl at your feet. Just one word…"
"No," I whispered to myself, clenching my fists. I won't let it happen. I won't become what they want me to be.
At that moment, a car appeared on the road. Long, black, executive-class, gleaming with chrome. It was so out of place on this village street that everyone, including my attackers, froze, staring at it.
The car glided to a stop right beside us. The tinted rear window slid down silently. A face looked out from the dark interior. Elderly, with neatly trimmed gray hair, wearing thin-framed glasses. A face I knew.
"Mr… Shinoda?" I blurted out. He was an old friend of my grandfather's. Someone I often saw as a kid when we visited. He always brought Grandpa expensive whiskey and had long, quiet conversations with him on the veranda.
Mr. Shinoda looked at me, then at the guys cornering me. His gaze wasn't angry or surprised. It was… appraising. Cold and precise, like a scalpel.
"Do you have business with my young friend?" His voice was soft, calm, but carried a steel edge that wiped the smirks off the thugs' faces instantly.
The tattooed one tried to hold onto his bravado.
"We were just… talking. None of your business, old man."
Mr. Shinoda didn't raise his voice. He simply turned his head slowly and looked at the speaker. He said nothing. Just looked. Within seconds, the guy paled, stepped back, and lowered his eyes.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "We didn't know. We're leaving."
All three, suddenly meek and submissive, scurried off, avoiding looking at the car.
I stood there, leaning against the wall, trying to catch my breath. My heart was still racing.
Mr. Shinoda turned his gaze to me. His face softened, a faint, almost imperceptible smile appearing.
"Arashi-kun, right? You've grown. Not the best choice for a walk."
I could only nod, unable to find words. What was that? No threats, no display of power. Just a look. And who was this man, that his mere presence was enough to scatter those rough types?
"Get in, I'll give you a ride," Mr. Shinoda said, and the front door of the car opened silently. "Unpleasant situation. Best not to stay here alone."
Still stunned, I climbed into the car almost mechanically. The door closed, shutting out the outside world. The interior smelled of expensive leather and a spicy, masculine cologne. The car started moving, gliding down the street toward Grandpa's house.
Mr. Shinoda didn't ask me anything. He sat looking straight ahead, his hands resting calmly on his lap. But I felt his attention, like he was studying me without asking questions.
We pulled up to the house. The car stopped.
"Tell Satoshi I'll drop by tonight," Mr. Shinoda said. "Good to see you, Arashi-kun. Be careful."
I thanked him, stumbling over my words, and got out. The car silently pulled away and disappeared around the corner.
I stood in front of Grandpa's house, trying to process what had happened. Who was this man, really? Just a successful businessman, Grandpa's friend? Or something more? And why did his appearance have such an immediate effect on those guys?
Questions swirled in my mind, but there were no answers. I looked at the quiet, sunlit village street. It no longer seemed as harmless as before.
That evening, Grandpa Satoshi and I sat on the veranda. The smoke from his pipe curled in the cool air, mingling with the scent of damp earth. We sat in silence, but it was a heavy silence, full of unspoken thoughts.
"Shinoda called," Grandpa said finally, not looking at me. "Said some outsiders from the sawmill were hassling you."
"It worked out," I muttered, staring at my hands.
"It won't always work out," he said, tapping his pipe against its stand. "You think U.A. heroes always show up in time? No. They act preemptively. Or in a way that makes the problem visible from a mile away, and no one dares come close." He turned his weathered face to me. "Your power… it's not for flashy poses or loud explosions. It's quiet. Like mine. But no less strong. You need to feel it. Not as a curse. As… an extension of yourself. Like the shadow of your body. It's always with you. Sometimes the light just falls in a way that makes it invisible."
His words sank deep into my mind. An extension of myself. Not a curse. I'd always fought Them, tried to lock them away, suppress them. But what if Grandpa was right? What if the answer wasn't to fight but… to understand?
Grandpa's words lingered in my mind all night, heavy and undeniable, like they were carved in stone. "Power is an extension of yourself. Like a shadow from your body." A simple, terrifying truth that turned everything I thought about my nature upside down. Fighting, resisting, trying to lock the door—it had all been futile. The only way forward was through acceptance. Through willingly stepping into the darkness that slumbered within.
At dawn, as the first rays of sunlight began to gild the village rooftops, I headed to a grove on the outskirts. The air was crisp and cool, smelling of wet earth and pine needles. This place, hidden from prying eyes, felt like the perfect sanctuary for what lay ahead. No random witnesses, just silence and ancient trees holding a thousand secrets.
My heart beat faster than usual—not from fear, but from anticipation and nervous tension. Sitting on a moss-covered boulder in the center of a small clearing, I could feel the pulse of this place, its slow, measured rhythm. I closed my eyes, steadied my breathing, trying to quiet the growing inner hum.
Instead of raising the usual icy wall, I turned my mental gaze inward. To the door I'd always kept locked. My hand didn't unlock it but simply touched its surface, feeling the trembling cold radiating from beyond. An invitation, not a command. A request, not a demand.
And They responded.
The air in the clearing changed first. From light and fresh, it grew heavy, stifling, filled with the scent of cold ash, old dust, and something metallic, like blood on a blade. The sounds of the forest—birdsong, rustling leaves—fell silent, swallowed by an abrupt, deafening quiet. The light filtering through the treetops dimmed, as if a thick haze had veiled the sun. The world's colors faded, turning gray and washed out.
From the shadows cast by the ancient cedars, figures began to form. Not one, not two. Three. Their materialization was slow, as if reality itself resisted their presence. First came the Witch-King, his familiar billowing silhouette hovering above the ground, pale pinpoints in his hood glowing with cold, indifferent light. Beside him, two more entities took shape—one radiating waves of unbearable, all-consuming grief that tightened my throat, and another whose silent, focused rage made the air hum.
They didn't attack. They didn't whisper tempting promises. They simply watched. Their silent attention was heavier than any physical pressure. Under their gaze, my mind began to crack. Images, not mine but imposed, flooded in.
Visions flashed, one after another. Not a child hiding under a counter, but a commanding figure in black armor, seated on a throne of twisted bodies. A hand raised in a commanding gesture, and armies falling to their knees—not out of fear, but in complete, willing submission, their eyes empty yet filled with adoration. Cities, not destroyed but frozen in absolute obedience, their inhabitants lifeless puppets carrying out every command. Power. Absolute, undeniable, capable of breaking the will of an entire world. And this future felt so… easy. So inevitable.
Something in my chest tightened, resisting this alluring nightmare. No. Not for this. Not for that.
In response to my resistance, the pressure intensified. The three dark figures, without moving, seemed to draw closer, filling all space, all consciousness. The cold became physical, burning from within. I glanced at my hand, and my heart skipped a beat—my skin had taken on a deathly pale, almost gray hue, like a corpse. In my eyes, reflecting the dark silhouettes, black shadows danced, threatening to consume the last remnants of myself.
They stood almost within reach now. Silent, relentless, eternal. The final boundary, beyond which lay complete dissolution. My hand instinctively gripped the old, bent nail in my pocket, and the pain of its sharp edge digging into my palm became an anchor.
A mental scream, full of desperation and final resolve, tore through me. NO!
And in that moment, at the very bottom of the abyss, other images flared to life. Not images of power and enslavement. My father's warm, slightly sad gaze. My mother's trembling hands preparing breakfast. Grandpa's proud, understanding smirk on the veranda. Rumi's words: "Be it. Don't ask permission." Simple, fragile, human moments. The things worth fighting for. The things this darkness threatened to erase forever.
Will, fueled not by fear but by something else — responsibility, love, hope — coiled into a tight, searing knot. Not to push back, but to command. A command born from the heart, not from fear.
"Back. You're not the masters here. I am."
For a moment, nothing happened. The world froze. Then a sound — like an icy wind escaping from the depths of existence. The three dark figures stepped back. They didn't vanish immediately but retreated, their forms growing less solid, more blurred. The unearthly cold began to fade, replaced by the piercing freshness of morning. Light danced through the leaves again, and hesitant birdsong returned.
They dissolved. Not with protest, but with a sense of… respect? Or simply acknowledgment.
My strength left me, my back slumped, and my gaze lifted to the sky, where sunlight filtered through the foliage. My trembling hands rose before my face — my skin was normal, alive, save for the bruise from the nail in my palm. My breath caught in a sudden, overwhelming relief. It worked. For the first time, not just holding on, but stepping back from the edge. Remaining myself.
The exhaustion was total, but it lacked the usual bitterness of defeat. There was only a quiet, hard-won victory. A small step. But in the right direction. The path ahead was still long, but now it felt less like a route of escape and more like a road to true control. To making the shadow just a shadow, not something that consumes the one who casts it.