The morning mist clung to the mountain peaks like a living thing, swirling through the ancient pine trees that surrounded the Midoriya Swordsmanship Academy. Four-year-old Izuku pressed his nose against the wooden railing of the observation deck, his green eyes wide with wonder as he watched the two students in the courtyard below.
"Grandpa, grandpa! That one's really fast!" Izuku bounced on his toes, pointing at a tall student with dark hair who moved like water, his blade singing through the air.
Beside him, Grandmaster Midoriya stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his weathered face serene despite the biting mountain wind. His long white hair was tied back in a traditional style, and even at his advanced age, he stood as straight and solid as the mountains themselves. The morning sun caught the hilt of the legendary blade at his hip a sword that had been in the Midoriya family for twelve generations.
"Speed without purpose is merely flailing, young Izuku," his grandfather said, his voice deep and gentle. "Watch the other student. See how he conserves his movements?"
Izuku squinted down at the courtyard, where the second student a stocky young woman with short brown hair stood in a defensive stance. Where her opponent danced and struck, she remained centered, her sword moving in tight, efficient arcs. Each block was minimal, each step calculated.
"She's barely moving," Izuku observed, tilting his head.
"Exactly." His grandfather knelt beside him, one weathered hand resting on the boy's shoulder. "A true swordsman understands that every movement carries weight. The blade is not separate from the body, nor the body from the mind. They flow as one."
Below, the fast student launched a flurry of strikes one, two, three, four each one met with a precise deflection. On the fifth strike, the defensive student shifted her weight, redirected the blade past her shoulder, and in one smooth motion, her wooden practice sword touched her opponent's chest.
"Point to Yamamoto!" called the instructor below.
Izuku gasped. "But he was winning!"
His grandfather chuckled, a sound like distant thunder. "Was he? Or was he simply moving more?" He stood, his joints creaking slightly, and gestured toward the mountains that surrounded them on all sides. "This academy sits at the roof of Japan for a reason, my boy. Here, above the clouds, away from the noise of the modern world, students learn what cannot be taught in the cities below."
"What's that, grandpa?"
"Patience. Discipline. The understanding that true strength comes not from quirks or flashy techniques, but from the harmony of body, mind, and spirit." He looked down at his grandson with eyes that seemed to hold centuries of wisdom. "Not everyone can understand this. That is why we accept only those who show true promise those who can hear the song of the blade."
Izuku turned back to watch as the two students bowed to each other, both breathing hard but smiling with mutual respect. "Grandpa... do you think I could learn? Even though I might not have a quirk?"
Grandmaster Midoriya was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a weight that made even the four-year-old understand this was important.
"Izuku, my grandson. The sword does not care about quirks. It does not care if you can breathe fire or move mountains with your mind. The sword cares only for the spirit of the one who wields it." He placed his hand on top of Izuku's wild green curls. "And you, little one, have a spirit that burns brighter than any quirk I have ever seen."
Below, more students were filing into the courtyard for morning practice, their wooden swords held with reverence. The sound of blade meeting blade began to echo through the mountain air, a rhythm as old as time itself.
Izuku watched them all, his small hands gripping the railing tight, his heart pounding with something he was too young to name but would later recognize as destiny calling to him.
"When can I start learning, grandpa?"
The old master smiled. "You already have, my boy. Every lesson begins with observation. Today, you watch. Tomorrow, you watch again. And when your hands are ready to hold a blade..." He patted the boy's head fondly. "When that time comes, I will teach you myself. Just as my father taught me, and his father before him."
As the morning sun climbed higher, burning away the mist, grandfather and grandson stood together on the observation deck of the Midoriya Swordsmanship Academy, watching the next generation of bladesmasters train in the ancient ways. And though Izuku was still years away from his first lesson, in that moment, watching those students move with grace and purpose, a seed was planted deep in his heart.
A seed that would one day grow into something extraordinary.
2 years later...
Two years had passed since that first morning on the observation deck, and the mist still clung to the mountains as faithfully as ever. But now, six-year-old Izuku Midoriya stood in the center of the training courtyard, wooden practice sword gripped firmly in both hands, facing an opponent nearly twice his size.
Takeshi was twelve, a second-year student at the academy with three years of formal training under his belt. He stood in a proper defensive stance, his practice sword held at the ready, watching the small green-haired boy with a mixture of amusement and caution. The other students had gathered around the edges of the courtyard, whispering among themselves.
"Is the Grandmaster really letting his grandson spar with Takeshi?"
"The kid's only six..."
"Yeah, but have you seen him practice? He's not normal."
Around the observation deck, Grandmaster Midoriya watched silently, his weathered face unreadable. Beside him stood Master Hayato, the head instructor, who looked decidedly more nervous.
"Grandmaster, perhaps we should"
The old man raised a hand. "Let the boy learn."
Below, Izuku took a deep breath, his green eyes focused with an intensity that seemed far too old for his young face. Then, without warning, he moved.
His small legs pumped as he rushed forward in a wide arc, circling to Takeshi's left. The older boy pivoted to track him, but Izuku was already launching himself into the air, his body spinning as he brought his wooden blade down in a cyclone slash.
The wood connected with Takeshi's shoulder with a sharp crack that echoed through the courtyard.
"Point to young Midoriya!" called Master Hayato, but Grandmaster Midoriya held up his hand again.
"Continue."
Takeshi stumbled back, eyes wide with surprise, but managed to reset his stance. Izuku landed in a crouch, and before the older boy could fully recover, he spun on his heel and sent a horizontal sweep slash toward Takeshi's exposed side.
Wood met wood as Takeshi brought his sword up just in time to block, but Izuku didn't relent. Despite his small size, he pressed forward with surprising strength, his feet planted firmly as he pushed against the block. His technique was raw but instinctive, his whole body behind the strike.
Takeshi's eyes widened as he felt his grip weakening under the pressure. His fingers slipped, and his practice sword clattered to the stone courtyard.
Before the older boy could react, Izuku's wooden blade tapped gently against his chest.
The courtyard fell silent.
Then the students erupted into shocked murmurs and excited chatter. Master Hayato's jaw had dropped. Even some of the senior students looked impressed.
"Match to Midoriya Izuku!" Master Hayato called out, his voice betraying his astonishment.
Izuku lowered his sword and bowed formally to Takeshi, who returned the bow with a dazed expression, rubbing his shoulder where the first strike had landed.
"You... you're really good," Takeshi said, a genuine smile breaking across his face despite the loss. "For someone so young, that was incredible."
Izuku's face lit up with a bright smile, but it faltered when he heard his grandfather's voice cut through the celebration.
"Izuku. Come here."
The tone wasn't angry, but it was firm enough to make the courtyard fall silent once more. Izuku walked toward the observation deck, his wooden sword dragging slightly behind him as doubt crept into his expression.
Grandmaster Midoriya descended the steps slowly, each footfall deliberate. He stopped in front of his grandson, looking down at the boy with those ancient, knowing eyes.
"That was excellent technique," he said, and Izuku's face began to brighten. "Your form on the cyclone slash has improved greatly. Your pivot and follow-through on the sweep were textbook. You read your opponent's weaknesses and exploited them efficiently."
"Thank you, grand"
"However." The word hung in the air like a blade. The old master knelt down so he was eye-level with Izuku. "Tell me, my grandson. When you struck Takeshi's shoulder, how hard did you hit?"
Izuku blinked. "I... I hit as hard as I could?"
"And when you pressed your advantage, disarming him, were you thinking of his wellbeing? Or only of victory?"
The boy's expression fell. He looked down at his wooden sword, then back at Takeshi, who was still rubbing his shoulder. A red mark was visible even from this distance.
"I... I wanted to win," Izuku admitted quietly.
Grandmaster Midoriya placed a weathered hand on his grandson's head. "Strength without restraint is not mastery, Izuku. It is merely violence wearing a different face." He glanced toward Takeshi, then back to his grandson. "You are young, and your talent is extraordinary. But that is precisely why you must learn this lesson now, before bad habits take root."
He stood, his hand moving to the legendary blade at his side not to draw it, but simply to rest upon its hilt.
"A true sword master knows not only when to strike, but how to strike. They understand the weight of their blade and the responsibility it carries. Power without control is dangerous. Victory without honor is hollow." His voice softened slightly. "If you wish to walk the path of the blade, my grandson, you must learn to temper your strength with wisdom. Your opponent is not your enemy they are your partner in growth. You must challenge them, yes, but never seek to harm them."
Izuku's eyes were shimmering with unshed tears, but he nodded firmly. "I understand, grandpa. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize to me." The old master gestured toward Takeshi. "Apologize to your training partner."
Izuku turned and walked back to Takeshi, bowing deeply. "I'm sorry for hitting you so hard. I got too excited about winning and forgot to hold back."
Takeshi smiled and ruffled Izuku's wild green hair. "It's okay, kid. That's what training is for, right? Besides, you taught me not to underestimate someone just because they're small." He bowed back. "Thank you for the match. Let's spar again sometime, yeah?"
Izuku's face broke into a brilliant smile. "Yeah!"
As the students began to disperse for their next lessons, Grandmaster Midoriya watched his grandson chattering excitedly with Takeshi, showing him the footwork he'd used for the cyclone slash. The old master's expression remained stern, but Master Hayato, who had approached quietly, could see the hint of pride in the Grandmaster's eyes.
"He's gifted beyond measure," Hayato said quietly. "In all my years teaching here, I've never seen a child so young with such natural talent."
"Yes," Grandmaster Midoriya agreed, his voice thoughtful. "But talent alone does not make a master. It is what we do with that talent that defines us." He turned to look at his second-in-command. "Watch over him during lessons, Hayato. Push him, yes, but also guide him. He has the potential to become something truly special but only if he learns to master himself before he masters the blade."
Master Hayato bowed. "Of course, Grandmaster."
As the sun climbed higher over the Midoriya Swordsmanship Academy, Izuku Midoriya practiced his forms in the corner of the courtyard, his movements more controlled now, more mindful. Each strike was measured, each stance deliberate.
The path of the sword master was long and difficult, filled with lessons both physical and spiritual. But for the young boy with green eyes that burned with determination, it was the only path worth walking.
And high above, watching from the shadows of the observation deck, Grandmaster Midoriya allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
The dining hall of the Midoriya Swordsmanship Academy was a vast wooden structure built in traditional style, with long tables arranged in neat rows and paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling beams. Morning light filtered through the windows, casting warm rays across the students as they ate their breakfast steamed rice, miso soup, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables. Simple, nutritious fare meant to fuel a day of intensive training.
Izuku sat at one of the lower tables with several of the younger students, though at six years old, he was still the youngest person in the entire academy by far. His legs swung back and forth beneath the bench, not quite reaching the floor, as he carefully used his chopsticks to pick up rice. His grandfather had always insisted on proper manners, even during meals.
"and that's when I managed to harden my whole arm!" Kenji, a fourteen-year-old with spiky black hair, was saying enthusiastically at the table behind Izuku. "It only lasted for like three seconds, but Sensei said my quirk is finally developing enough to use in real combat!"
"That's nothing," another voice chimed in a girl named Sakura with long red hair tied back in a ponytail. "I can create sparks from my fingertips now. Imagine combining that with sword techniques! I could literally have a flaming blade!"
Izuku's ears perked up. He'd heard the older students talk about quirks before, but usually they were too focused on training to discuss them much. His grandfather always said that the academy was a place where the blade came first, quirks second. But lately, more and more of the students seemed excited about something else.
"How much longer do you guys have here?" asked another student, Takeshi—the same boy Izuku had sparred with just twenty minutes ago. He was sitting with the older group, his shoulder still slightly sore from where Izuku's cyclone slash had connected.
"Just two more years for me," Kenji said, grinning widely. "Then I'm sixteen and I can apply to hero schools! U.A. if I'm lucky, but there are other good ones too."
"Hero schools?" Izuku turned around on his bench, his green eyes wide with curiosity. "Like... heroes from the fairytales? The ones grandpa tells stories about?"
The older students looked down at him, some smiling at his innocence, others looking slightly uncomfortable.
Sakura laughed, not unkindly. "Not exactly, little Midoriya. Real heroes! You know, the ones you see on TV? The pros who fight villains and save people with their quirks?"
Izuku tilted his head, confused. "But... how are you going to do that? You're training to be sword masters, right? That's what everyone here does."
An awkward silence fell over the table. Several students exchanged glances.
Kenji rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, yeah, we're learning swordsmanship. But... that's more like a skill, you know? Something to make us better fighters. The real career is being a hero. Using our quirks to help people, getting ranked, doing rescue operations, fighting bad guys..."
"Most of us are only here to get an edge in combat training," another student added, a tall boy named Hiroshi. "Swordsmanship is a dying art, but it's still super useful for hero work. Imagine quirk powers plus master-level sword skills? We'd be unstoppable!"
Takeshi looked uncomfortable, glancing toward the head table where the instructors sat. "I don't know if we should be talking about this in front of"
"In front of the Grandmaster's grandson?" Sakura finished, following his gaze. "Come on, Takeshi. It's not like it's a secret. The old master knows most of us aren't staying here forever. This isn't the feudal era. Swordsmanship alone isn't going to pay the bills or save lives. Not when you can have heroes like All Might punching through buildings."
Izuku's expression had grown troubled. He looked down at his rice bowl, his appetite suddenly gone. "So... you're all going to leave? After you finish training?"
"That's the plan," Kenji said, his voice gentler now. "Look, little guy, don't get me wrong this place is amazing. Your grandfather is a legend, and the training here is incredible. But the world has changed. Heroes are where it's at now. They get to help people every day, they're famous, they make good money... It's just a better path, you know?"
"Plus," Hiroshi added, "not everyone can dedicate their whole life to just swinging a sword around. What are you going to do, challenge villains to honorable duels?" He laughed, and a few others joined in.
Takeshi shot them a warning look. "Hey, that's not cool. Show some respect."
"I'm just being realistic," Hiroshi shrugged. "The kid should know the truth. Swordsmanship is a great supplement to hero work, but on its own? It's just... outdated."
Izuku felt a strange tightness in his chest. He thought about his grandfather, standing tall on the observation deck, about the centuries of tradition held in the blade at his hip. He thought about the stories of ancient sword masters who could cut through anything, who moved like the wind and stood firm as mountains.
"But grandpa says the sword is"
"Your grandpa is from a different time, kid," Sakura said, not unkindly. "Things are different now. We have quirks! Actual superpowers! Why limit yourself to just a sword when you could be so much more?"
"I think," Takeshi interjected firmly, "that you're all forgetting where you are. This academy teaches us discipline, focus, and technique that most hero schools can't match. Maybe some of you only see it as a stepping stone, but that doesn't mean you should disrespect what's being offered here."
Kenji held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, no disrespect meant! We all appreciate the training. I'm just saying, heroes are the future. That's all."
Izuku turned back to his rice, his mind churning. He'd never really watched much TV—his grandfather didn't keep one in his personal quarters, and when Izuku wasn't training or studying, he was usually watching the older students practice or reading books about legendary swordsmen. But now he was curious.
Were heroes really better than sword masters? Was everything his grandfather taught him... outdated?
"Don't look so sad, little Midoriya," Sakura said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "You've still got years before you need to worry about any of this. Who knows? Maybe you'll have an amazing quirk that makes you the greatest hero-swordsman ever!"
The other students laughed and went back to their breakfast, their conversation shifting to which hero schools had the best acceptance rates and which pro heroes used weapons in their fighting styles.
But Izuku barely heard them. He was thinking about his grandfather's words from yesterday: "The sword does not care about quirks. It cares only for the spirit of the one who wields it."
If that was true, then why did it seem like everyone else cared so much about quirks? Why were all these students, who had trained for years in the way of the blade, so eager to leave it behind?
From across the dining hall, Grandmaster Midoriya sat at the head table, sipping his tea slowly. His eyes were on his grandson, watching the boy's troubled expression with the patient observation of someone who had seen this moment coming for a long time.
Master Hayato leaned over slightly. "The older students have been talking more about hero careers lately. Should we address it?"
The old master was quiet for a long moment. "No," he finally said. "Let them talk. Let Izuku hear. He must learn that the path of the sword is not for everyone. That many will abandon it for what they perceive as greater glory." He set down his teacup with gentle precision. "Only then can he choose his own path with true understanding."
"And if he chooses to leave as well? To pursue heroics over the blade?"
Grandmaster Midoriya's expression was unreadable. "Then I will support him, as any grandfather should. But..." A small, knowing smile touched his weathered face. "I do not think that will be his choice. That boy has something the others lack. Something that cannot be taught, only recognized."
"What is that, Grandmaster?"
The old man's eyes never left his grandson. "An old soul. One that remembers what it means to walk the true path, even when the world has forgotten its value."
Down at the lower tables, Izuku picked up his chopsticks again and took a small bite of rice, his young mind grappling with questions too large for his years. But somewhere deep inside, beneath the confusion and doubt, a small flame of determination continued to burn.
The sword had been his dream before he even understood what dreams were. And no amount of talk about heroes or quirks could extinguish that.
The afternoon sun hung low over the mountains, casting long shadows across the private training ground behind the Grandmaster's quarters. This was a place few students ever saw a small courtyard surrounded by ancient stone walls, with a single cherry tree growing in the corner. The ground was packed earth, worn smooth by generations of Midoriya feet practicing the family techniques.
Izuku stood in the center, his small wooden practice sword held loosely at his side. The morning's conversation still echoed in his mind, making his thoughts feel heavy and tangled. His grandfather had summoned him here after the midday lessons, saying simply, "It is time."
Time for what, Izuku hadn't been sure. But when Grandmaster Midoriya wanted to teach, you didn't ask questions you listened.
The old master emerged from the sliding door of his quarters, and Izuku's eyes widened. His grandfather was carrying something wrapped in cloth something long and slender. The legendary blade that usually rested at his hip was gone, replaced by this mysterious bundle.
"Izuku," his grandfather said, his voice carrying that particular weight it held when something important was about to happen. "Come. Sit."
Izuku hurried over to where his grandfather had settled beneath the cherry tree, kneeling formally on the ground as he'd been taught. The old master sat across from him, the wrapped object placed carefully on his lap.
"You did well in your match this morning," Grandmaster Midoriya began. "Your technique was excellent, your instincts sharp. But I also saw the fear in your eyes when I corrected you. Do you know why I gave you that lesson about restraint?"
Izuku nodded quickly. "Because a sword master has to control their power, not just use it."
"Correct. But there is more to it than that." The old man's weathered fingers began to unwrap the cloth, revealing what lay beneath. It was a wooden sword, but unlike any practice blade Izuku had ever seen. It was smaller, sized perfectly for a child, but carved with incredible detail. Intricate patterns ran along its length waves and mountains and symbols Izuku didn't recognize.
"This," his grandfather said softly, "was carved by my grandfather for my father when he was your age. And my father used it to learn the same technique I am about to teach you."
Izuku's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Is that... is that really for me?"
"It is now." Grandmaster Midoriya handed the blade to his grandson, watching as the boy took it with trembling hands. "Feel its weight. Understand its balance. This blade will be your companion as you learn the first technique of the Midoriya family swordsmanship."
The sword was heavier than Izuku's regular practice blade, but it felt... right. Like it had been waiting for him. He stood and gave it a few experimental swings, marveling at how smoothly it moved through the air.
"What's it called, grandpa? The technique?"
The old master rose to his feet with a soft grunt, his joints creaking. He moved to the center of the courtyard and assumed a stance Izuku had never seen him use before. It was different from the aggressive forms they taught the other students, different from the defensive positions Master Hayato demonstrated. This stance was... protective. One foot forward, the body angled slightly, the sword held diagonally across the body with the point aimed toward the ground.
"It is called the Protector's Blade," Grandmaster Midoriya said, his voice taking on a reverent tone. "And it is the foundation upon which all Midoriya swordsmanship is built. Every technique you will ever learn, every form you will ever master, begins with this principle."
He gestured for Izuku to stand beside him. "Take the stance. Left foot forward, knee bent. Right foot back, providing your base. The blade crosses your centerline, held at a forty-five degree angle. Your left hand near the guard, your right hand at the base of the hilt."
Izuku mimicked the position, his small body struggling to match his grandfather's perfect form. The old master moved around him, adjusting his feet, correcting his grip, straightening his back.
"The name tells you everything you need to know about this technique," the Grandmaster continued. "It is not the Destroyer's Blade. Not the Conqueror's Blade. It is the Protector's Blade. Do you understand the difference?"
Izuku thought about it, his face scrunched up in concentration. "It's... for protecting people?"
"Yes. But more than that." His grandfather returned to his own stance. "This morning, you fought Takeshi with aggression. You sought victory, and you achieved it. But what were you protecting in that moment?"
The question caught Izuku off guard. "I... I wasn't protecting anything. I was just trying to win."
"Exactly." The old man's voice was gentle but firm. "And that is why you struck too hard. That is why you needed to be corrected. A sword without purpose is a dangerous thing, Izuku. It becomes a tool of pride, of ego, of conquest. But a sword wielded with the intent to protect..." He shifted his stance slightly, and suddenly the defensive position seemed to radiate an unshakeable strength. "That sword becomes something sacred."
Grandmaster Midoriya raised his practice blade his own, worn smooth by decades of use and held it in the Protector's Blade stance. "This technique teaches you to read your opponent, to understand their intent. From this position, you can defend against strikes from any direction. You can deflect, redirect, or counter as the situation demands. But most importantly..." His ancient eyes locked onto Izuku's. "It teaches you to ask yourself: What am I fighting for?"
He moved through a slow demonstration, his body flowing like water despite his advanced age. From the Protector's Blade stance, he showed how to deflect a high strike, how to redirect a low sweep, how to step forward into a counter when an opening appeared. Each movement was economical, precise, and somehow beautiful.
"The first lesson of the Protector's Blade is this: You do not draw your sword to prove you are strong. You draw it because someone weaker needs your strength. You do not strike to show your skill. You strike to shield those who cannot shield themselves."
Izuku watched, mesmerized. This was different from anything he'd learned before. The other instructors taught technique and form, speed and power. But his grandfather was teaching him something deeper something that made his chest feel tight and warm all at once.
"Now you try," the Grandmaster said, stepping back. "Take the stance, and show me your Protector's Blade."
Izuku moved into position, the special wooden sword held carefully across his body. He tried to remember every correction his grandfather had made left foot forward, knee bent, back straight, blade at forty-five degrees.
"Good. Now, I want you to imagine something." His grandfather's voice became softer. "Imagine that behind you stands someone precious. Perhaps your mother. Perhaps a friend. Perhaps a stranger who cannot defend themselves. And before you stands a threat someone who wishes to harm them. What do you do?"
Izuku's grip on the sword tightened. His expression became serious, focused. "I protect them."
"How?"
"I... I stand between them and the threat. I don't let anyone past me."
"Show me."
A stone came flying toward Izuku not hard, his grandfather had merely tossed it but instinct took over. Izuku's blade moved, deflecting the stone harmlessly to the side, his body shifting to maintain the protective stance. He hadn't thought about it. His body had simply known what to do.
"Excellent!" For the first time that day, Grandmaster Midoriya's stern expression broke into a genuine smile. "You felt it, didn't you? The purpose behind the technique?"
Izuku nodded, slightly breathless. "I felt like... like the sword was stronger because I was protecting something."
"Because it was. And you were." The old master placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "This is what those students at breakfast do not understand. They speak of quirks and power and glory, but they have forgotten the most fundamental truth of combat: strength means nothing without purpose. A hero who fights only for fame is no hero at all. But a swordsman who stands between danger and the innocent..." He smiled. "That is someone worth becoming."
The weight of his grandfather's words settled over Izuku like a warm blanket. The confusion from breakfast began to fade, replaced by something clearer, stronger.
"Grandpa," Izuku said quietly, "even if I don't have a quirk... can I still protect people with the sword?"
Grandmaster Midoriya knelt down so he was eye-level with his grandson, his weathered hands resting on the boy's small shoulders. "Izuku, my boy. The sword has protected people for thousands of years long before quirks ever existed. Warriors stood against tyrants. Samurai defended the helpless. Blade masters safeguarded their villages. They did not need superpowers. They needed only skill, courage, and a heart determined to protect others."
He tapped the practice sword Izuku held. "This technique, the Protector's Blade, has been passed down through our family for twelve generations. Each generation has used it to shield the weak from the strong, to stand firm when others could not. Quirk or no quirk, you carry that legacy in your blood. The question is not whether you can protect others. The question is: will you?"
Izuku's green eyes burned with determination, all traces of doubt swept away. "I will! I'll learn the Protector's Blade! I'll become strong enough to protect everyone who needs it!"
The old master chuckled, standing up with a soft grunt. "Such conviction! Good. But remember this is only the first step on a very long path. The Protector's Blade is the foundation, but there are many more techniques in the Midoriya style. Each one builds upon this principle, each one serves the same purpose." He returned to his stance. "Now, we will practice until sundown. I will throw stones, and you will deflect them. You will learn to protect not with force, but with precision. Not with aggression, but with purpose."
For the next two hours, as the sun painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, Izuku practiced. Stones came from different angles high, low, left, right and each time, he had to deflect them while maintaining the Protector's Blade stance. His arms grew tired, his legs trembled, sweat dripped down his face. But he didn't stop.
Because behind him, in his imagination, stood all the people he wanted to protect. His mother. His grandfather. Takeshi and the other students. Even strangers he'd never met.
And with each stone he deflected, with each minute he held the stance, the Protector's Blade became less of a technique and more of a promise.
I will be strong enough, Izuku thought with each movement. I will protect them. All of them.
As the sun finally dipped below the mountain peaks and his grandfather called an end to the training, Izuku lowered his sword and bowed deeply, his entire body aching but his spirit soaring.
"You did well today," Grandmaster Midoriya said, placing a hand on his grandson's head. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we will practice again. And the day after that, and the day after that, until the Protector's Blade becomes as natural to you as breathing."
"Yes, grandpa!" Izuku beamed, hugging the special wooden sword to his chest. "Thank you for teaching me! Thank you for this sword!"
As they walked back toward the main building together, the old master glanced down at his grandson, seeing not the six-year-old child everyone else saw, but the warrior he would one day become. A protector who would stand firm when others faltered. A blade that would shield the innocent when darkness came.
Quirk or no quirk, Izuku Midoriya was walking the path of a true sword master.
Five Years Later
The first rays of dawn had barely touched the mountain peaks when Izuku's blade cut through the cold morning air. The mist hung thick around the private training ground, his breath visible in short clouds as he moved through his forms with mechanical precision.
Slash.
The weighted practice sword descended in a perfect vertical arc, the metal weights on his wrists adding resistance to every movement. Two kilograms on each wrist, another five secured to the blade itself. What would have been impossible for him at six years old was now simply his morning routine.
Slash.
Sweat already beaded on his forehead despite the cold. His green hair, slightly longer now but still impossibly wild, clung to his temples. At eleven years old, Izuku had grown not tall by any means, but lean and wiry with muscle earned through five years of relentless training. His arms no longer trembled under the weight. His stance no longer wavered.
Slash.
One thousand downward strikes before breakfast. That was the rule he'd set for himself three years ago. Master Hayato had called him obsessed. His mother had worried. But his grandfather had simply nodded and said, "The blade rewards dedication."
Slash. Slash. Slash.
"Nine hundred ninety-seven... nine hundred ninety-eight... nine hundred ninety-nine..." Izuku's voice was steady despite the burning in his shoulders. "One thousand!"
The final strike split the morning silence with a sharp crack as the weighted blade completed its arc. Izuku held the finishing position for a three-count, then straightened, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. He carefully removed the weights from his wrists and blade, setting them aside with the reverence his grandfather had taught him to show all training equipment.
The special wooden sword his grandfather had given him five years ago rested on its stand nearby, its intricate carvings worn smooth in places from constant use. Beside it lay his training uniform the standard hakama and gi worn by all students, but his bore a small detail the others' didn't: a green thread embroidered along the collar in the shape of a blade, the mark of the Midoriya family.
Izuku changed quickly, the morning routine as natural as breathing. Hakama tied properly, gi secured, hair... well, his hair did what it wanted regardless of how much he tried to tame it. He picked up his practice sword and made his way toward the main courtyard where morning sparring sessions were about to begin.
The academy had changed in five years, yet remained the same. New students came and went. Older students graduated and left for hero schools, just as they'd said they would. But the rhythm of training, the discipline, the pursuit of mastery that never changed.
And neither had Takeshi.
Now eighteen and in his final year at the academy, Takeshi had become one of the school's top students. His hardening quirk had fully developed, allowing him to turn his entire body into a substance like stone for short periods. Combined with his sword skills, he'd already received acceptance letters from three hero schools. But he'd chosen to stay and complete his training, much to everyone's surprise.
"Midoriya!" Takeshi's voice called out as Izuku entered the courtyard. The older boy was stretching near the center, his practice sword already in hand. "You're early. Again."
"So are you," Izuku replied with a small smile. "Again."
Their morning sparring sessions had become tradition over the years. What had started as a senior student helping a talented child had evolved into genuine friendship and genuine competition. Takeshi had lost count of how many times Izuku had beaten him over the past few years.
"You ready?" Takeshi asked, moving into his starting stance. His expression was serious, focused. "Because I've been working on something new. Combining my quirk with the third form of the Mountain Style. You're not going to get an easy win today."
Izuku's eyes gleamed with excitement as he took his own position the Protector's Blade stance, left foot forward, sword held diagonally across his body. It had become as natural to him as standing. "I never expect easy wins from you, Takeshi-san. That's why I like sparring with you."
Other students began filing into the courtyard for morning practice, many stopping to watch. Sparring matches between Izuku and Takeshi had become something of a spectator event at the academy. The prodigy versus the senior star.
Master Hayato emerged from the instructor's building, taking note of the gathering crowd. He sighed but didn't intervene. The Grandmaster had made it clear years ago: let the boy test himself against everyone. It was how he would grow.
"Begin!" Hayato called out.
Takeshi moved first, closing the distance with a powerful thrust aimed at Izuku's center. Fast, direct, the kind of opening strike meant to test reflexes.
Izuku's response was instantaneous the First Movement of the Protector's Blade.
His sword swept up from its diagonal position in a smooth arc, deflecting Takeshi's thrust to the left while his body pivoted, maintaining the protective stance. The deflection wasn't forceful it used Takeshi's own momentum against him, redirecting the attack harmlessly past Izuku's shoulder. His feet shifted only inches, his center of gravity never compromising.
"Guardian's Deflection," someone in the crowd whispered. "Still perfect."
Takeshi recovered quickly, spinning into a horizontal slash aimed at Izuku's midsection. But Izuku was already moving into the Second Movement.
Instead of backing away, Izuku stepped forward and into the strike, his blade rising to meet Takeshi's at an angle. The swords connected with a sharp crack, but rather than blocking directly, Izuku's blade slid along Takeshi's, redirecting its path upward and over his head. At the same time, Izuku's body turned, positioning himself at Takeshi's exposed flank.
"Redirecting Counter," another student murmured. "He's barely using any force just precision."
Takeshi's eyes widened as he felt his blade pulled off-course by Izuku's technique. The younger boy was now positioned perfectly for a counter-strike, but Takeshi had been in this position before. His skin rippled and hardened, turning grey and stone-like as his quirk activated.
He spun low, sweeping his hardened leg at Izuku's ankles a move that combined swordsmanship with quirk-enhanced combat. The kind of technique that was becoming common among students planning to enter hero schools.
But Izuku had trained with Takeshi for five years. He knew this combination.
The Third Movement of the Protector's Blade Shield Step.
Izuku's back foot lifted and moved in a tight circle, his body rotating around his front leg like a compass point. The sweep passed harmlessly through the space where his ankle had been a split-second before. But rather than simply dodging, Izuku's sword descended as he moved, the flat of his blade pressing down on Takeshi's extended leg, pinning it briefly to the ground.
For one heartbeat, Takeshi was off-balance, his leg trapped, his body exposed.
Izuku's practice sword touched gently against Takeshi's hardened shoulder.
"Point to Midoriya!" Master Hayato called out.
The courtyard erupted in murmurs and whispers. Several students shook their heads in disbelief. Takeshi's hardening quirk made him nearly invulnerable to most attacks, yet Izuku had won without needing to break through that defense he'd simply used technique to create an opening where defense didn't matter.
Takeshi's quirk faded, his skin returning to normal as he sat back with a rueful laugh. "The Protector's Blade style is cheating, you know that? You're not even trying to overpower me. You're just... making my attacks work against me."
Izuku offered his hand, pulling Takeshi to his feet. "That's what Grandpa says it's supposed to do. A protector doesn't need to be the strongest. They just need to be immovable when it matters."
"Immovable," Takeshi repeated, dusting off his hakama. "Yeah, that's definitely you. I don't think I've seen you lose your footing in three years."
"You got close that time," Izuku said earnestly. "If your sweep had been two inches higher, you would have caught me."
"Two inches higher and you probably would have done that spinning thing you do that makes me dizzy." Takeshi grinned and clapped Izuku on the shoulder. "You're something else, kid. Eleven years old and already better than half the graduating class."
"I just train hard"
"You train harder than anyone I've ever met," Takeshi interrupted. "I saw you this morning, doing your thousand strikes with the weighted blade. Again. How long have you been doing that?"
"Three years."
"Three years of a thousand weighted strikes every morning before anyone else is even awake." Takeshi shook his head in amazement. "And you still have all your regular classes, afternoon training sessions, and those private lessons with the Grandmaster. When do you even sleep?"
Izuku shrugged, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "Sleep is important too. Grandpa says rest is part of training."
"Match two, begin!" Master Hayato called out, and the two took their positions again.
This time, Takeshi activated his quirk from the start, his entire body hardening before he even moved. He came in aggressively, using his enhanced durability to trade blows more freely. But Izuku didn't flinch. The Protector's Blade wasn't about avoiding all attacks it was about ensuring the ones that landed didn't matter while creating openings that did.
The match lasted longer this time, both fighters pushing each other, testing new combinations and strategies. But the outcome was inevitable. Izuku's footwork was too clean, his deflections too precise, his understanding of distance and timing too refined.
When Master Hayato finally called the match, Izuku had won again three touches to one.
As the regular morning training began and other students paired off for their own sparring sessions, Takeshi sat beside Izuku at the edge of the courtyard, both catching their breath.
"You know," Takeshi said quietly, "I'm leaving in three months. U.A. accepted me into their hero course."
Izuku looked at him, genuine happiness in his eyes. "That's amazing, Takeshi-san! You'll be a great hero."
"Maybe." Takeshi was quiet for a moment. "What about you? You've got four more years before you could apply to hero schools, but... are you going to? With your skills, even without a quirk, you could probably"
"I don't know," Izuku said honestly, looking down at his practice sword. "Right now, I just... the sword will always be my thing, you know? It's never leaving me. That's something I'm sure about." He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "But something about being a hero always sounds fun. Helping people, saving them when they need it most..." His eyes lit up slightly. "Maybe I could do both? Be a hero who uses the sword?"
"A sword-wielding hero," Takeshi mused. "That would be pretty unique. Most heroes rely entirely on their quirks."
"Exactly." Izuku's grip tightened on his practice sword. "And maybe that's okay. I don't need to decide right now, right? I've still got four years. Four years to keep training, keep getting stronger, and figure out what kind of protector I want to be." He smiled. "Whether it's here at the academy or out there in the world as a hero... either way, I'll have the sword. And either way, I'll protect people."
Takeshi studied his young friend for a long moment, then smiled. "You know what? I believe you. And honestly? The world might need that more than another hero with a flashy quirk." He stood, offering his hand to Izuku. "When I'm out there being a pro hero, you keep training here. Get stronger. Because someday, I want to see what a true sword master can do in the modern world."
Izuku took his hand, standing up with a determined grin. "It's a promise."
From the observation deck high above, Grandmaster Midoriya watched the exchange between his grandson and the graduating student. Master Hayato stood beside him, arms crossed.
"The boy has mastered the first three movements of the Protector's Blade perfectly," Hayato observed. "His foundation is flawless. When will you teach him the fourth movement? The Warding Counter?"
"Soon," the old master replied. "But first, he must learn something else."
"What's that?"
Grandmaster Midoriya's weathered face was thoughtful as he watched Izuku return to practice, immediately starting a new training routine without being prompted. "He must learn that the world will not always understand his path. That choosing the sword in an age of quirks will invite doubt, mockery, and challenge. He must learn to stand firm not just in body, but in spirit."
"You think he can handle that?"
The old master smiled, a rare expression that made him look years younger. "I think, Hayato, that my grandson has already proven he is unshakable. He trains while others sleep. He perfects his craft while others chase glory. He has chosen his path with full knowledge that it is the harder road." His eyes gleamed with pride. "Yes. He can handle it. And when he does, the Protector's Blade will become something even greater in his hands than it was in mine."
In the courtyard below, Izuku moved through his forms with quiet intensity, each movement a prayer, each strike a promise. The morning sun climbed higher, burning away the mist, and the sound of wooden swords meeting in practice echoed through the mountains like a heartbeat ancient, steady, and eternal.
The afternoon training sessions had just concluded when Master Hayato found Izuku practicing his footwork in the corner of the main courtyard. The boy was so focused on perfecting the pivot angle of the Shield Step that he didn't notice the instructor's approach until Hayato cleared his throat.
"Midoriya. Your grandfather requests your presence in his quarters. Immediately."
Izuku straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. Being summoned to his grandfather's private quarters outside of scheduled training time was unusual. "Is something wrong, Master Hayato?"
"You'll see when you get there. Go on, don't keep him waiting."
The walk to his grandfather's quarters took Izuku through the familiar corridors of the academy's main building, past the dining hall where dinner preparations were already beginning, and finally to the separate building where the Grandmaster lived. Izuku had been living in these quarters himself for the past two years, ever since he'd turned nine and his grandfather had invited him to stay permanently to focus more intensely on his training.
He slid open the door to the main living area and froze.
"Izuku!"
His mother sat at the low table across from his grandfather, a cup of tea steaming in her hands. Inko Midoriya looked the same as always soft features, gentle eyes, and that warm smile that made everything feel safer. But there was something else in her expression today. Something that looked like longing mixed with determination.
"Mom?" Izuku quickly removed his training sandals and entered properly, kneeling at the table. "I didn't know you were coming today. Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine, sweetie." Inko reached across the table and took his hand, her thumb rubbing gentle circles on his knuckles. "I just... we need to talk. Your grandfather and I have been discussing something important."
Izuku glanced at his grandfather, who sat with his usual composed expression, sipping his own tea. The old master gave nothing away, merely nodding for Inko to continue.
"Izuku, you've been living here with your grandfather for two years now," Inko began, her voice soft but carrying an edge of emotion. "And I understand why. The training, the dedication, being surrounded by students and masters every day it's helped you grow so much. I can see it every time you come home to visit. You're stronger, more focused, more... capable."
"But?" Izuku could hear the word coming.
Inko's grip on his hand tightened slightly. "But you're still my baby, Izuku. You're only eleven years old. And I... I miss you. So much." Her eyes were starting to glisten. "I miss making you breakfast in the morning. I miss hearing about your day over dinner. I miss tucking you in at night, even though you always insist you're too old for that now."
"Mom..." Izuku felt his chest tighten.
"I know the training here is important to you," she continued quickly. "I would never ask you to give that up. Your grandfather has been wonderful for you, teaching you things I never could. But sweetie... I want you to come back home. At least for a little while. Just... just so we can be a family again. A proper family, under one roof."
The silence that followed felt heavy. Izuku looked down at his mother's hand holding his, then at his grandfather, who remained impassive, waiting.
"I..." Izuku's voice was small. "I don't want to leave the academy. The training"
"You wouldn't have to leave the academy entirely," Inko said, and there was a note of hope in her voice. "Your grandfather and I discussed it. You could train here during the day, attend all your classes and lessons just like you do now. But at night, you'd come home. Down the mountain to our house. It's only an hour's trip."
"Two hours round trip every day," Izuku said quietly. "That's two hours less training time."
"It's two hours with your mother," Inko replied, and now her voice carried a firmness that Izuku rarely heard from her. "Izuku, I love that you're passionate about swordsmanship. I love that you've found something that drives you, that gives you purpose. But you're still a child. You're my child. And for the past two years, I've watched you grow up through monthly visits and occasional phone calls. I've missed your tenth birthday party because you were too deep in training to come home. I've missed teaching you how to cook, missed our movie nights, missed just... being your mom."
Tears were starting to fall down her cheeks now, and Izuku felt his own eyes burning.
"I'm not trying to take away your dream," Inko said, her voice breaking slightly. "I just want to be part of your life while you chase it. Is that too much to ask?"
Izuku looked at his grandfather, silently pleading for guidance. The old master set down his teacup with deliberate care.
"Izuku," Grandmaster Midoriya said, his voice measured. "You have been an exemplary student. Your dedication is unmatched, your progress remarkable. Living here has indeed accelerated your training significantly." He paused, his ancient eyes meeting his grandson's. "But your mother is not wrong. The path of the sword is not merely about technique and discipline. It is about balance. Balance between strength and restraint. Between dedication and connection. Between the warrior you are becoming and the person you must remain."
"But Grandpa, if I leave every evening, I'll lose training time. I won't be able to do my evening forms, or the meditation sessions, or"
"You will adapt," his grandfather said simply. "A true swordsman does not require perfect conditions to grow. They find ways to train regardless of circumstances." He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, my grandson. When you take the Protector's Blade stance, what are you protecting?"
The question caught Izuku off guard. "I... people who can't protect themselves. The innocent. Those who need"
"Your mother," Grandmaster Midoriya interrupted gently. "Is she not among those you wish to protect? And yet, in your dedication to becoming strong enough to protect others, have you considered that you might be hurting the one person who has protected you your entire life?"
The words hit Izuku like a physical blow. He looked at his mother, really looked at her, and saw the exhaustion around her eyes, the way her smile didn't quite reach them anymore, the subtle sadness that had been there during every visit for months.
"Mom..." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I didn't... I wasn't trying to hurt you."
"I know, baby. I know." Inko reached out and cupped his face with both hands. "You were following your dream. That's what you're supposed to do. But dreams shouldn't come at the cost of the people who love you. And I... I just want my son back home. Even if it's just for dinners and bedtime. Even if you spend every other moment thinking about swords and training. I just want to be there for those small moments."
Izuku felt torn in two directions. Everything in him wanted to stay at the academy, to maximize every second of training, to pursue mastery with single-minded focus. But looking at his mother's tearful face, he realized his grandfather was right. What good was becoming a protector if he couldn't even protect his mother's happiness?
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, Mom. I'll come home."
Inko's face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. She pulled Izuku into a tight hug, and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling smaller than he had in years.
"Thank you, sweetie. Thank you so much." She kissed the top of his wild green hair. "I promise I won't get in the way of your training. You can still practice at home in the evenings if you want. I'll even clear out the garage so you have space. And we can wake up early together, so you can still do your morning routines before coming up the mountain. We'll make it work. I just... I just need you home."
Over his mother's shoulder, Izuku met his grandfather's eyes. The old master nodded once, a gesture of approval.
"When do you want me to move back?" Izuku asked, his voice muffled against his mother's shoulder.
"This weekend, if that's alright," Inko said, pulling back to look at him. "I've already prepared your room. It's exactly how you left it, except I added a sword rack for your practice blades. And I got some books on sword techniques from the library in town I don't know if they're any good, but I thought maybe you'd like them."
Despite everything, Izuku smiled. His mother trying to learn about swords so she could connect with his passion that was so perfectly her. "Thanks, Mom. That sounds really nice."
"You'll need to pack your things," Grandmaster Midoriya said, standing up with a soft grunt. "I'll have Master Hayato arrange for someone to help you carry your belongings. Your training will continue as before during the day. The evening routines you'll adjust as necessary."
"Yes, Grandmaster." Izuku bowed formally, then hesitated. "Grandpa... am I disappointing you? By leaving?"
The old master placed a weathered hand on his grandson's head. "Disappointing me? No, my boy. You are learning one of the most important lessons a sword master must know: that true strength includes knowing when to yield. Your mother asked for you to come home, and you chose to honor that request. That is not weakness. That is wisdom."