Fire. And ash.
That's what I remember from that night — that dreadful night when my world went up in smoke.
It had been a quiet Sunday. Same routine as always: harsh training from midday until evening. My father, in his unrelenting fashion, made me sweat every drop I could, so I would one day take his mantle. As a hero, people had great expectations for him… but he had even greater ones for me. My quirk held far more potential than his after all.
I was meant to be his masterpiece.
My only solace was my mother's embrace, the only thing that could wash away his expectations. At least training was over for the day. We were packing up, heading home from our private gym. "Home"… More of a castle than a house. Perk of being part of a renowned hero family in France.
The rocky trail was quiet, as always. At least for me. My father was tense, eyes scanning our surroundings.
As we approached the castle, he stopped dead in his tracks.
"Something's wrong. Stay put." His voice was low, hunched, dangerous.
Discipline was non-negotiable with my father, so I obeyed.
Without another word, he rushed toward the castle, leaving me alone on the path, wondering what was wrong.
A few seconds later, I smelled it — the foul odor of burned wood.
And then I saw the first flames.
I tried to follow his order, I really did… but my family was inside. My grandmother, my mother, my uncles.
I had to go.
I bolted toward the entrance. Ignoring the smoke clawing at my throat, I stepped into the hall — and what I saw froze me to the bone.
Fire. Everywhere.
Floor to ceiling, tapestries turning into perfect fuel for the flames.
I activated my quirk — Metamorph. It allows me to transform into beasts. Not just animals… monsters.
My first transformation, Dodogama, was fire-resistant. I managed a slow partial shift, just enough to endure the ambient heat.
Enhanced senses guiding me, I headed toward the sounds of battle — my father's grunts in his beast form… and another sound I would never forget:
A mechanical hiss.
Sharp, rhythmic.
Like a breathing device.
As I approached, horror settled in my stomach. Every corridor was ablaze. No sign of my family. Bodies? Ash? I couldn't tell.
When I finally reached the courtyard, I saw him.
A figure in a cold, metallic gas mask, straight from an old pre-quirk war documentary.
His breathing echoed through the flames: hsshhh… tschk… hsshhh…
And on the ground, kneeling, was my father.
A thick blade had pierced straight through his torso — through the iron hide his "Bête du Gévaudan" quirk granted him. Even with his monstrous endurance… he wouldn't survive.
The blade was not held.
It grew out of the killer's arm.
The masked figure raised his head slowly, as if analyzing a new specimen.
Those empty silver lenses locked onto me.
His stare rooted me in place.
His mechanical breathing carved itself into my soul.
"You're next."