Takiomi Kessei awoke with a sharp gasp, the remnants of a nightmare still lingering in his mind. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, and beads of cold sweat traced down his face as he struggled to breathe. The dream had been vivid—too vivid.
He had seen himself, but it wasn’t the Takiomi he knew. This version of him was… different. Stronger, darker, and surrounded by a sea of people chanting his name. OMEN, OMEN, OMEN… The word echoed in his mind like a cursed mantra, resonating with something deep within his soul. He had been on the battlefield, standing over the broken bodies of countless enemies. They had called him a hero, a savior, but in the dream, it felt hollow. The people around him, once cheering, now turned into shadows, their faces twisted in fear.
Takiomi shot upright, his breathing still ragged as his surroundings slowly came into focus. His room was dark, the moonlight streaming through the window casting eerie shadows on the walls. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and glanced at the clock on the nightstand—it was already past midnight. The nightmare had felt so real, so tangible, like it was pulling him into a past life he couldn’t fully understand.
The nightmares had become more frequent. He had always felt something inside him stirring, something that had never quite belonged to the life he had led. His memories were fragmented, bits and pieces of a past he couldn’t remember. But the whispers—the ones that echoed in his mind during the dream—were something else entirely. The feeling of power, of overwhelming strength, was undeniable.
Takiomi stood from his bed, his limbs stiff and sore as if they were not his own. The phantom weight of a sword seemed to hang in the air, invisible but unmistakable. He could almost feel it, like a distant memory, just out of reach.
With a frustrated growl, he clenched his fists. Why can’t I remember? The question burned in his mind, gnawing at him. But no answer came.
Then it happened.
A voice, deep and almost mocking, reverberated inside his head. "You don’t remember, do you?"
Takiomi froze, his heart pounding. It wasn’t his voice. It was something—someone—else.
"I remember everything, child," the voice continued, its tone dripping with arrogance and power. "I remember the wars, the bloodshed, the betrayals. You are nothing but a shadow of what you once were. But don’t worry, I’ll guide you. I always have."
Takiomi staggered back, his breath catching in his throat. The voice felt like a foreign presence, something ancient and consuming. It had come from inside him, yet it didn’t feel like it was truly his own. He couldn’t even recall the last time he had heard it, but somehow, it felt... familiar.
"You are Taki Omen," the voice continued, as if mocking him. "Your past self. A man who tore through nations, who slaughtered without hesitation. And now… now you are nothing but a ghost of that man. A hollow vessel waiting to be filled."
Takiomi stumbled backward, his mind spinning. He couldn’t—he couldn’t be Taki Omen. He couldn’t be the man from the dream—the one who had massacred so many without remorse. That wasn’t him. Or was it?
Suddenly, a surge of energy coursed through his body. His senses flared to life, and his muscles clenched as if preparing for battle. He felt his body responding to the voice’s call—his strength building, his senses sharpening, his body becoming more in tune with the power that had been dormant inside him.
"This power," the voice taunted. "It’s yours. It always has been. The blade, the darkness, the power to shape your destiny. But you must decide what to do with it."
Takiomi gritted his teeth as the strange sensation of power continued to surge through him, rippling in waves beneath his skin. The pressure in his chest built, but instead of fear, something darker awoke inside him. What had happened to him? He wasn’t sure. But the desire for strength—the need to prove himself—was undeniable.
The voice was right. He had been weak. He had been overlooked. But no longer.
He slammed his fist into the wall, the impact sending a shockwave of energy through the room. His breath was steady now, his mind focused. He could feel it—the connection to something greater, something he had been blind to until now.
His thoughts drifted to the massacre he had been part of, to the blood on his hands. Was it a test? A mistake? Or was it his destiny?
Takiomi didn’t have answers yet, but he knew one thing for sure—he couldn’t go back. He would never be the same again. And that darkness within him? He would embrace it.
# The Sword and the Path
Takiomi didn’t know how long he stood there, but when he finally moved, it was with purpose. The voice in his head still lingered, its mocking tone echoing in his thoughts. He could feel the presence of the sword, urging him forward, guiding him toward something—toward an answer.
He headed toward the door, his steps heavy but determined. The night air was cool against his skin, but it did little to calm the heat that burned in his chest. The sword, the power—it called to him.
Mount Fujimoto.
That was where the voice had told him to go. The place where everything would begin.
The path to the mountain was long and treacherous, but he didn’t hesitate. There was something within him now—something that refused to let him turn back.
As he ventured deeper into the forest surrounding the mountain, the air grew denser, the trees seeming to close in around him. It was eerily silent, save for the sound of his footsteps crunching against the underbrush. And then, as if guided by an unseen hand, he found it.
An old, weathered house stood before him, its walls cracked and fading with time. The door hung slightly ajar, as though it had been waiting for him. Takiomi pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest.
Inside, the house was empty. Dust clung to the old furniture, and the faint smell of decay lingered in the air. But there was something else—something that called to him, deep inside the house. He moved forward, following the instinct that drove him.
In the basement, he found it. A katana, resting on an altar, covered in dust. It seemed ordinary, but something about it felt... wrong.
The Dream and the Awakening (Continued)
Takiomi descended deeper into the basement, the air growing colder and more suffocating with each step. The faint smell of damp wood and mold filled his nostrils, yet something else lingered—a sharp, almost metallic scent that made his skin prickle. His heart pounded as the darkness enveloped him, leaving him with only the sound of his boots scraping against the wooden steps.
At the bottom of the stairs, a faint, eerie light flickered from an unseen source. The basement was unlike anything he had imagined. It was vast, stretching farther than the small house should have allowed. There were no windows, and the walls were lined with shelves of ancient books and scrolls. The air felt thick with forgotten knowledge, whispering of things better left unspoken.
Takiomi’s eyes narrowed as they settled on the far corner of the room. There, on a pedestal, was an object draped in dust. It seemed almost insignificant at first—a simple katana, its hilt wrapped in aged leather, the blade sheathed in an old, dark cloth. But something about it called to him, an undeniable pull that surged deep within his chest.
He felt the urge to approach, his feet moving before he could even think to stop them. As he reached the pedestal, his hands trembling slightly, Takiomi slowly reached out to touch the sword. The instant his fingers brushed against the hilt, the air around him shifted, thickening, as though the very atmosphere was alive.
A chill ran down his spine, and a strange sensation crept up his arms, pooling in his chest. He recoiled instinctively, but his fingers remained locked on the katana, drawn to it as if by some unholy magnetism. The moment he gripped the sword fully, a surge of energy coursed through him, unlike anything he had ever felt. It was as if the sword had been waiting for him, calling to him.
Before he could make sense of it, the energy exploded through his body. Pain. Unrelenting pain shot through every fiber of his being, like molten fire burning through his veins. He gasped, stumbling back, but his grip on the sword never loosened.
The energy intensified, flooding his body with heat and power. His muscles convulsed, expanding with unnatural speed, growing stronger, sharper. The air around him crackled with force. Takiomi could feel it—a powerful, ancient presence awakening inside him, buried deep within the core of his being. His skin stretched tight over his bulging muscles, his senses heightening with every passing second.
Then came the voice.
"Yes, child. Embrace it. The power of Taki Omen is yours."
Takiomi's body twisted as the voice spoke to him, a dark and sinister presence flooding his thoughts. He screamed, the pain almost unbearable as something inside him broke free, a part of him that had been dormant for so long.
"You are nothing but a shell now. A vessel for what you were meant to be," the voice continued, its tone full of arrogance and cold amusement. "Embrace your fate, child. Accept the darkness. Accept the OMEN."
Takiomi felt his bones strain under the immense power, his body reshaping itself as his skin tightened further, revealing muscles that were sharper, more defined. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, the overwhelming sensation of power and pain blurring together.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pain stopped. A silence settled over him, thick and heavy, as though the world had paused for a breath. His body, now transformed, stood at the center of the basement, the katana still gripped tightly in his hands.
He could feel it—the change. The weight of the sword was now nothing. The raw power he had tapped into filled him completely. It was no longer just a physical transformation. It was as if his very soul had shifted, aligned with something darker, something primal.
He staggered forward, glancing at the reflection in the cracked mirror across the room. The man who stared back at him was not the Takiomi he had known. His body had become a weapon—muscles rippling beneath his skin, veins visible like roads of energy running across his form. His face was hardened, eyes cold, no trace of the boy he used to be.
But it was the mark on his back that caught his attention.
Turning slowly, Takiomi’s eyes locked onto the mark—OMEN, etched in Japanese kanji across his shoulder blades. The symbol glowed faintly, like a brand, an insignia that linked him to the power now coursing through his veins. The word OMEN was familiar. He had heard it before in his dreams, whispered in the dark recesses of his mind. It was his past self, Taki Omen, calling out to him. The very essence of that being now lived within him, awakening a force that he could neither fully comprehend nor control.
A flicker of something crossed his mind—memories. Faces, voices, bloodshed, and a war-torn world. He saw himself, standing in a field of corpses, his katana dripping with blood. He saw the people chanting his name—OMEN, OMEN, OMEN… It was all so surreal, like fragments of a life he hadn’t lived but had somehow already lived.
"You were once a king," the voice continued, mocking him. "A god of war. And now, you are reborn. You carry the legacy of Taki Omen. The question is, will you accept it?"
Takiomi clenched his fists, staring at the mark on his back. He didn’t understand. The man in his dreams—the one who had massacred so many, who had been worshipped by others—was that him? Could that truly be his past? Could he accept it?
But as he stood there, the weight of the katana in his hands felt right. The power, the responsibility—it was all heavy, but it was his. It’s mine. The thought echoed in his mind.
Suddenly, the whispers of the past stopped, replaced by a chilling silence. The house around him seemed to hold its breath, the weight of the transformation settling in. He could feel the presence of the sword, the power within it, calling him, urging him to continue forward.
Takiomi closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then, without another word, he sheathed the katana.
As he made his way back through the basement, the darkness of the house no longer seemed as oppressive. The silence no longer unnerved him. He was different now. Stronger, more certain of his purpose. The path ahead, however uncertain, was now clear.
Takiomi emerged from the house, the night air cool against his skin. He could feel the power of Taki Omen coursing through him, but more than that, he could feel the weight of the choice that lay ahead. What kind of man would he become? The hero of his dreams? Or would he follow the path laid by his past?
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the distant sound of voices. The path was his to choose, but for now, one thing was clear.
He was no longer the boy who had been lost. He was someone else now. Someone stronger.
Takiomi stepped into the family hall, and the moment his foot crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted. It was as if the air itself became heavy, oppressive, pressing down on everyone in the room. His presence—his overwhelming aura—was palpable, like a suffocating weight pushing the air out of their lungs.
His family felt it immediately. His father, brother, and sister could hardly breathe as the pressure grew more intense with every step Takiomi took. They were forced to shift uncomfortably in their seats, as if the sheer force of his energy was pulling them down, making them bow in silent submission.
His father, unable to hide his unease, cleared his throat, trying to stand but finding himself almost weighed down by the crushing energy in the room. His younger brother fidgeted in his seat, his face pale, while his sister looked like she was about to collapse under the pressure.
But his mother, the only one who was unaffected, sat still, her eyes locked on him with a calm, steady gaze. She was the only one who remained at ease, the only one who was allowed to share a connection with him.
"Takiomi..." his father finally managed, his voice strained, eyes wide with both concern and confusion. "What is happening to you? This—this energy... it's suffocating."
Takiomi didn’t respond immediately. His gaze flickered over his father, then his brother, and finally to his sister. They couldn’t stand under the weight of his ki, the same ki that he had struggled with for years, the same energy they had all dismissed as weak and unstable.
The resentment surged through him. They had never believed in him. They had never understood what it felt like to be neglected, to be ridiculed for something beyond his control—his failed awakening, his inability to meet their expectations.
His brother coughed, struggling to catch his breath, his body tense and trembling. "Takiomi, what's going on? Why... why are you doing this?"
Takiomi’s eyes narrowed at the question. "Why?" he repeated, his voice flat, cold. "Because I’ve been invisible to you all for years."
His father’s face hardened, a frown tugging at his lips. "What are you talking about? We’ve always been here for you—"
"You were never here," Takiomi cut him off, his voice gaining a sharp edge. "You never cared. You never cared that I wasn’t like you or anyone else. I was weak. Unworthy of your attention. But now, look at me."
He stepped forward, the weight of his presence pulling the others down even more, suffocating them with every step he took.
"I’m not the failure you thought I was. I’m not the weakling who couldn’t awaken properly." He was practically snarling now. "But none of you ever cared about that. All you ever did was look at me like I was nothing."
His father looked taken aback, but there was no immediate apology. No understanding. "Takiomi, that’s not—"
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Takiomi’s sister, barely able to speak through the pressure, whimpered, her voice cracking. "Please... we just want to help. We love you, Takiomi."
But Takiomi felt nothing. There was nothing left inside him for them. No love. No guilt. No care. All he felt was anger—anger that had been building for so long, and now it was exploding.
He looked down at his father and siblings, his expression cold and emotionless. "You never loved me. You never understood me. You only cared about your perfect little family and your expectations of me."
With a sharp movement, he turned his back on them, walking toward the door, still surrounded by the heavy pressure of his aura.
"But I don’t need any of you anymore." His voice was cold, final.
His mother, though still unmoved by the pressure in the room, watched him closely. "Takiomi…" Her voice was full of quiet sadness, the only sign of emotion left. "We’re your family. We can help you through this. Please, don’t shut us out."
Takiomi didn’t turn around, but his mouth curled into something almost like a smirk—but it wasn’t kind. It was empty. "I don’t need you," he said again, his voice flat. "I never did."
With that, he opened the door and stepped out, leaving behind a family that could only watch in despair as the door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
The Aftermath
As the door clicked shut, the pressure lifted from the room. The air was no longer suffocating, but the damage was done. His family sat in stunned silence, unable to speak. They had seen it in his eyes—the distance, the coldness that now defined him. He was gone.
His mother sat still, her eyes filled with a quiet, unspoken pain, as though she was holding onto the last remnants of the son she once knew. She wanted to reach him, but she knew—she couldn’t anymore.
His father, his brother, and his sister sat, breathing heavily, still trying to recover from the pressure that had nearly crushed them.
Takiomi was no longer the boy they had raised.
The Officer’s Arrival
As Takiomi stepped out of the family home, the air around him still charged with his overwhelming aura, he didn’t look back. His mind was a storm, a mixture of rage, resentment, and an emptiness that made him feel detached from everything. He didn’t care about what happened next—he had already shut himself off from everything and everyone.
But as he walked down the quiet street, the sound of approaching footsteps broke through his thoughts. A shadow appeared at the end of the road, growing larger with each step.
It was Officer Igarashi.
The officer had been a persistent figure in Takiomi’s life since the massacre. He had followed his case closely, trying to figure out what had happened and why Takiomi had killed without remorse. Though Igarashi had no concrete proof, he had a feeling—something in Takiomi had shifted. The boy he had spoken to before was gone, replaced by something else.
As Igarashi approached, the weight of Takiomi’s presence was undeniable. The officer could feel it in the air—the oppressive force that seemed to cling to Takiomi like a second skin. It was the same feeling he had gotten when he had interrogated him, only now it was amplified.
"Takiomi," Igarashi’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and direct. "We need to talk."
Takiomi didn’t stop walking. He didn’t even turn his head, but his voice was cold, sharp, like ice.
"Talk? About what?" Takiomi’s words felt like daggers, each one coated with indifference. "Do you really think there’s anything left to discuss?"
Igarashi’s eyes narrowed. "There is something different about you. I can feel it. Ever since that day…" He trailed off, his gaze studying Takiomi’s back. The boy’s presence was unnatural now—his aura, his energy—it was too much for a normal person. The officer could sense the transformation, the change, and he wasn’t sure if it was something Takiomi had done to himself, or if it was something far darker.
"I want answers," Igarashi continued, his tone firmer now. "You’re not the same person I spoke to before. What happened to you?"
Takiomi stopped walking then, standing perfectly still, the aura around him palpable as ever. He slowly turned his head to face the officer, his eyes cold and unreadable. For a moment, there was silence, just the sound of the wind brushing through the trees.
"What happened to me?" Takiomi repeated, his voice soft but dripping with contempt. "What happened to me is that I’ve finally realized the truth. All this time, I’ve been wasting my energy—my life—on people who never cared. They never believed in me. But now, I’m done."
Igarashi stepped forward, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun at his side. He had no idea what kind of power Takiomi had unlocked, but he felt it—felt the darkness that was crawling under Takiomi’s skin. There was a dangerous presence now, something terrifying that lingered in his aura.
"What truth?" Igarashi asked, his voice quieter now, filled with suspicion and a hint of concern. "You’ve changed, Takiomi. You’re not the same person I interviewed."
Takiomi turned fully to face him, his expression now one of cold detachment. "Maybe I’m exactly who I was always meant to be."
Igarashi’s eyes flickered to the engraved “OMEN” on Takiomi’s back for a split second—a detail he had missed in their previous encounters. He didn’t know what it meant, but it made him uneasy. He could feel the dark energy radiating off of Takiomi, like a predator that had finally found its prey.
"You think you can just walk around like this and no one will notice?" Igarashi’s voice hardened. "You’ve killed before. And I can tell you’re not done."
Takiomi didn’t flinch. "Done?" He scoffed, his lips curling into a twisted grin. "You don’t get it. I’m just beginning. You don’t have the power to stop me."
Igarashi took a step back, his hand still hovering near his weapon. There was fear in his eyes now, but it was a fear mixed with determination. "I won’t let you become a monster, Takiomi. You may have awakened some power, but that doesn’t mean you’re invincible."
The words hung in the air between them, like a challenge thrown in the face of a storm. Takiomi’s grin faded, his eyes narrowing as he took a step forward. The officer’s instincts screamed at him, but he didn’t move—he couldn’t. Takiomi’s aura had him trapped, frozen.
"You think you can stop me? You think you can change me?" Takiomi’s voice was low, almost a whisper now. "I’m already past the point of no return. But if you think you can try…" He paused, the cold smile returning. "I’ll let you. You’re welcome to try."
Igarashi could feel the heat rising in his chest, the pressure of Takiomi’s power tightening around him like a noose. His heart raced, his fingers twitching toward his gun.
But just as it seemed Takiomi might take the first step toward an inevitable clash, a strange calm settled over the scene. The officer remained on high alert, but he knew that something had fundamentally changed about Takiomi—something that went beyond what he could see, something deep within.
The silence between them stretched.
Takiomi finally spoke again, his voice quieter now, but still tinged with the same darkness that had marked him ever since his awakening.
"You’re not ready for me, Igarashi. No one is."
With that, Takiomi turned away and walked off into the distance, leaving the officer standing there, stunned and uncertain. The air around him still felt thick, suffocating. The warning was clear: Takiomi had transformed into something no one could control.
In this scene, Igarashi’s arrival serves to challenge Takiomi’s transformation. Igarashi is deeply unsettled by what he senses, knowing that Takiomi’s power and presence have become a threat. However, Takiomi has become so detached that he doesn’t see Igarashi’s concerns as anything more than an obstacle.
The air was thick with tension. The oppressive force of Takiomi's newfound power hung in the atmosphere like a storm about to break, and Igarashi, though visibly shaken, stood his ground. He wasn’t intimidated—not fully, anyway. He knew something had changed in Takiomi, something dangerous, but there was still the flicker of the boy he had once spoken to—the boy who had dreams of becoming a hero.
Takiomi’s back was turned, his steps echoing through the street as he moved away, but Igarashi wasn’t finished.
"Takiomi," Igarashi called out, his voice firm now, though the words still carried a weight of caution. "You wanted to be a hero once. Do you remember that?"
Takiomi paused but didn’t turn around. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides. The words stung more than he cared to admit, but he didn’t let it show. He didn’t want to acknowledge the boy he used to be, the one who was foolish enough to believe in things like justice and hope. That boy was gone. In his place stood someone who knew better than to care about such things.
"A hero? Please," Takiomi muttered, his voice laced with scorn. "I’ve learned the hard way that heroism is just a lie."
Igarashi remained silent for a moment, then stepped forward, the sound of his footsteps firm on the ground as he handed Takiomi a familiar letter—a thick envelope sealed with the emblem of the Hero Academy, emblazoned with the word “JUSTICE”.
Takiomi didn’t take it at first. He just stared at it, his eyes narrowing as he recognized it.
"This was for you, remember?" Igarashi’s voice softened, a flicker of compassion breaking through his usual professionalism. "You applied to the Hero Academy. You wanted to become a hero, to make a difference. Don’t tell me you’ve completely forgotten that."
Takiomi’s eyes flickered down at the letter, his fingers itching to tear it open, to read the words that might have once filled him with excitement and hope. But that hope had died long ago, crushed under the weight of his awakening, his transformation, and the realization that he was no longer the person who had dreamed of being a hero.
"It’s just a letter," Takiomi said coldly, his voice almost emotionless. "It doesn’t mean anything anymore."
But Igarashi wasn’t done. He smiled softly, though it was tinged with sadness, and leaned in just a bit closer.
"Happy Birthday, Takiomi."
Takiomi flinched, his breath catching in his throat as the words hit him harder than expected. "Birthday?" He repeated, as if the concept was foreign to him. He hadn’t even remembered.
Igarashi’s smile faded, and his tone grew more serious. "I know you’ve changed. But you can still make a choice. You don’t have to follow this path. You can choose to make a difference."
Takiomi held the letter in his hands now, his fingers trembling slightly. He wanted to throw it away, to tear it apart, to distance himself from everything that letter represented. But something inside him—a flicker of his past self—resisted.
For the briefest of moments, he hesitated, the weight of Igarashi’s words pulling at him. He glanced down at the letter again, the name of the academy boldly printed on the front. The letter was a reminder of a time when he believed he could still change the world for the better.
But then the darkness inside him stirred. The aura flared up once again, and that flicker of hope was snuffed out. The realization hit him harder than ever: he didn’t need to be a hero. He didn’t need anyone’s approval or validation.
"It’s too late," Takiomi said, his voice cold and final. "The world doesn’t need another hero. It needs someone who can control the chaos."
With a swift motion, he stuffed the letter into his pocket, his eyes hardening once again. He walked past Igarashi without another word, the officer’s presence barely even registering.
Igarashi stood there, watching as Takiomi walked away, his heart heavy. "You still have a choice," Igarashi murmured to himself. But deep down, he knew that Takiomi had already made his decision.
Takiomi was no longer the boy who wanted to be a hero. He had become something else entirely—something far more dangerous.
And that was a path Igarashi couldn’t follow.
This moment is a powerful one for Igarashi, as he reminds Takiomi of the boy he used to be and offers him a chance to turn back. However, Takiomi’s internal conflict and his embrace of darkness are too strong, and his decision to move forward on his new path is made clear. The letter is a symbol of the lost potential, but also of the last tie to the boy he once was.
A New Path
Takiomi stood still, the night air cold against his skin as he looked down at the letter in his hands. The words “Hero Academy” seemed like a cruel joke now, a reminder of the boy who had once dreamed of changing the world. That boy was gone—replaced by something far more complex, far darker. But still, a part of him refused to completely let go of what he used to want.
He thought about what Igarashi had said, the words gnawing at the edges of his mind. “You wanted to be a hero.” The officer’s voice echoed in his ears, persistent, like a ghost haunting him.
Takiomi’s grip tightened around the letter, the crinkling of the paper breaking the silence. For a long moment, he simply stared at the emblem on the front—the academy’s logo, its meaning unclear to him now. He had already rejected the idea of heroism, but... what about proving something? What if it wasn’t about being a hero? What if it was about showing the world that they had all misjudged him? That he wasn’t weak, that he didn’t need their approval. That he could stand alone and conquer everything.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “They think I’m unworthy, huh?” he muttered under his breath. **“Fine. I’ll show them what it means to be worthy.”
He turned the letter over in his hand, the cold reality of the situation setting in. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to be a hero anymore. He wasn’t even doing it because he had some noble cause to fight for. No, this was about proving the world wrong, about crushing those who had laughed at him, ignored him, ridiculed him.
“I’ll take the exam,” Takiomi finally said aloud, his voice low but filled with resolve. “And when I pass, they’ll all see. They’ll all see what I’m truly capable of.”
The weight of his decision settled over him, a mix of defiance and power. It wasn’t about the academy or its ideals. It was about himself, about reclaiming what he had lost—and showing everyone, including his own family, that he was worthy of respect. He was worthy of power.
As he stood there in the moonlight, the echoes of the past—the whispers of the old Taki Omen, the man he had once been—began to stir within him. A strange feeling washed over him, a sensation that perhaps, deep down, he wasn’t entirely sure about everything. But one thing was clear: he wasn’t going to back down.
Takiomi turned back to the house, his eyes colder than before. The battle that awaited him in the Hero Academy wasn’t going to be easy, but he would embrace it. He would fight, and when he emerged victorious, the world would know his name. They would know that he was no longer the boy they dismissed.
He would be more than they ever expected. He would be the one to break the world’s limits.
The Path Ahead
The next day, Takiomi filled out the application form, his hand moving with a steady, almost mechanical motion. He wrote down the standard responses, answered the questions, and then reached the final question.
“Why do you want to become a hero?”
He paused for a moment, thinking. The boy he once was would have written about justice, about protecting the innocent, about the ideals that had once burned so brightly within him. But now, all he could feel was a fire that burned with something darker, something raw.
He scribbled down his answer with no hesitation.
“To prove them all wrong.”
End of Chapter 2