[General POV]
In Minato—more precisely, in Roppongi Hills, a district renowned for its towering skyscrapers and vast corporate complexes—something unusual was taking place. Inside one of those dozens of stunning, glass-wrapped buildings—one of the most striking of them all—something out of the ordinary was unfolding on the third sublevel of the penthouse suite.
There, nestled within a high-tech training center where the climate is carefully controlled to simulate extreme heat and pressure conditions, a singular scene stood out. In the middle of a room lined with polished titanium panels, a child—no older than eleven—was doing push-ups with a level of discipline and focus that would make even a seasoned soldier blush with shame.
His skin bore a greenish hue, almost ethereal, catching the crisp white light from the ceiling in soft, reflective waves. His hair, the same shade, fell in unruly strands across his half-lidded eyes. Every movement he made was deliberate, methodical, unwavering. There was no sign of fatigue—only unshakable focus.
Around him, an array of sensors monitored his vitals: heart rate, oxygen levels, the precise force behind every rep. And the data projected on a nearby digital display left no doubt—this was no ordinary child.
There was no audience, no visible coach. Only the dignified silence of one of the most advanced private training facilities on Earth—and, at its center, a small, otherworldly figure, sculpting both body and mind with unwavering resolve.
[Main POV]
One… two… three… four…
I count softly under my breath, almost like a mantra, as my body lowers and rises in perfect rhythm. My clenched fists are planted firmly against the metal floor, holding up my entire body with flawless precision. The knuckles have already taken on a purplish hue, but there's no pain—only the familiar pressure running through my forearms like a taut electric wire.
Five… six… seven…
My triceps tighten in clear, rippling waves beneath the olive-green skin. Veins branch out like the limbs of an ancient tree, raised and prominent. Each push-up demands total control—of my breathing, my center of gravity. My core, braced like forged steel, stabilizes every motion, while my chest thrums with the impact of each downward force.
Eight… nine… ten.
By the tenth rep, my shoulders burn as if fire had been trapped beneath the skin. But I don't stop. Instead, I take a deep breath, press my fists harder into the ground, and with a small push, return to the starting position.
"One more set," I think.
And I mark it—ten.
Ten sets of ten reps. One hundred consecutive push-ups. No breaks. Not a single sigh of relief.
Sweat slides slowly down my forehead, tracing a crooked path toward the titanium floor. It evaporates before it touches the surface, absorbed by the room's thermal system—but not fast enough to stop a drop from running along my jawline and landing between my fingers. Still, I stay focused. Neck firm. Eyes locked on the line where the floor meets the wall, like I could shatter it with sheer willpower.
My muscles don't tremble.
They roar in silence.
Here, inside the steel-and-silicon crucible that is my personal training center, there's no room for weakness.
I was just running a simple strength routine in my home's training room. I stood up and made my way to a machine specially adapted to my size so I could work on my legs. It was a leg extension machine, but with a much smaller footpad. As soon as I sat down, a holographic screen lit up in front of me. I tapped the "plus" button until the weight read 330 pounds—and then I started lifting, exerting some serious effort.
I've been training my body and practicing different forms of martial arts since I was a kid. My parents were retired heroes, and even as a toddler, I used to tell them I wanted to be one too. So they honored my wish and built this training wing just for me. It's equipped with the highest-end tech on Earth. All my workouts have been tracked using machines that analyze everything—heart rate, cardiovascular output, muscle tension with every single move. And it's thanks to all that, that I've been able to grow and improve so much.
That old-school "train until your muscles tear" routine only works for anime protagonists—that's what I've always thought. Me? I've relied on science and logic from the start. Because I don't just want to be a hero. I want to grow old. And grow old well. Staying healthy is key to that. And one of the best ways to stay healthy is with smart, humane training. That exact thought crosses my mind just as I finish a full set—15 reps at 330 pounds.
In my world, the idea of a six-year-old doing leg extensions with over 300 pounds would be absurd. But my Quirk—well, it's changed my body a lot. Technically, I have the physique of a Martian from the DC universe, and when I enhance my cells to boost strength, the effects are even more extreme. I could probably crush steel bars with my hands when I activate that ability.
Sweat trickles down my green face. I glance around at the Right Tech machines surrounding me and silently thank Rob. I hit the jackpot with my family—loving, overprotective, incredibly strong… and extremely wealthy. I won the life lottery, plain and simple.
Thanks to that, I've been able to train and evolve far beyond what most kids could dream of. With my telekinesis alone, I can easily lift over 220 pounds—a massive achievement for any kid with a telekinetic Quirk in the world of MHA. My only complaint about training would be how reluctant my mom was at first to let me start so young.
Not because it would hurt my body. We've got massive amounts of scientific data—both from my old world and this one—showing that early training doesn't harm physical development. If anything, it's the opposite.
But my mom was more afraid I might get injured while training. Because of that, she hired a personal trainer specifically to "keep an eye on me."
And speak of the devil—I hear footsteps approaching outside my door. I walk toward it, and when it opens, I greet her immediately. She's Japanese, with crimson eyes and deep red hair. Her face is soft and rounded, and she's tall for a woman—about five-foot-nine.
"Miss Haruto," I say as I see her. "I thought you weren't coming today. I figured someone told you I was skipping today's workout. And yeah, I'm not exactly training—not the way I usually do. Today's what we call an active rest day."
"Yes, I was told," she replies. "But I came because your mother asked me to accompany you and Miss Momo. You know how she is—upping security is never a bad idea."
I listen and nod, then head to my room to take a shower.
Today, Momo and I had made plans to hang out. Ever since we started taking combat classes together, we've been talking more. She's still a little kid, obviously — only six years old — but she's a smart girl. And beyond that, I actually enjoy training with her. After fighting by her side, she really became my friend.
I'm thinking about all that as I walk to my room and step inside. I take a quick shower and then head down in the elevator with Haruto.
When we reach the ground floor, there he is: my personal driver and bodyguard, Mr. Johnson — a former British pro hero who came to Japan with my dad. These days, he's just a friendly old guy with a quirk for super speed.
I wave to Mr. Johnson, and he greets me:
"Hop in, young master Isaac. Where to today?"
As soon as he says it, I reply:
"We're heading to Musutafu to pick up Momo at her house. After that, we're going to the park to play."