Early February—warblers in the grass, willow branches heavy with spring mist.
The sunlight was warm, the sky washed clean and blue.
Lock inhaled deeply, catching the faint fragrance of early spring carried on the air.
Students in the standard-issue uniforms of their public junior high walked past him, chatting and laughing.
It gave him a strange sense of dislocation—not the otherworldly shock he felt when he first transmigrated, but…
More like, "Oh right… I'm a student too."
A pair of boys spotted him, froze for half a second, then tapped their friends and pointed.
Phones came up immediately.
"You're famous," Lock muttered to himself.
His popularity had surged—reflected clearly in the system's numbers:
From seven thousand points… to twenty thousand.
If Jirō Kyōka hadn't sent him a furious email, he would've completely forgotten school existed.
Even the school administration had long given up on enforcing his attendance.
He missed exams, yet mysteriously passed anyway—nobody wanted the "pro hero student" to repeat a year.
To them, Lock was a walking advertisement.
"Worried about which junior high to choose?
At our school, second-year students become Pro Heroes!"
Lock rolled his eyes and continued the walk to campus.
It was February—one year until the original MHA plot began.
If One For All's inheritance hasn't changed,
He should be meeting a certain green-haired broccoli boy soon.
The bell rang. Students filtered into the classroom.
As a strict public junior high, the school cracked down on tardiness and truancy—
except in one special case.
Jirō Kyōka glanced behind her.
The seat by the window, last row… empty.
Of course it was.
Back when they were promoted to third year, Lock's seat ended up by the window, almost by cliché. Kyōkas was in the row in front of him.
"Figures… He becomes a Hero and never shows up anymore."
Kyōka mumbled, cheeks puffing, eyes stinging with grievance.
She knew she had no right to expect anything—everyone would ditch class if they became a pro so young.
Still… she couldn't help herself.
The teacher took out the roll sheet.
"Jirō Kyōka."
"Here."
"Lock."
The teacher barely paused, already prepared to move on—
No one expected that student to appear.
But then—
"Here."
The voice wasn't loud.
But the classroom froze instantly.
Lock stood in the doorway.
Students erupted.
"LOCK CAME TO SCHOOL!?"
"Take a picture—take a picture—!!"
"I'm posting this online!"
"He doesn't even look our age—he looks like he walked out of TV!"
"No kidding, he's a pro hero! What are we?"
Lock sighed and walked to his seat. Being famous was fun… for five minutes.
Then he reached Kyōka's desk.
"Kyōka. Long time no see."
She stared at him like he was a hallucination.
"…Are you sick?" Lock chuckled and placed a hand on her forehead to check her temperature.
She froze—face going scarlet.
"H-hurry up and go sit down! Class is starting!"
Lock smirked lightly and returned to his seat.
Kyōka pressed both palms to her burning face.
Her temperature was definitely no longer normal.
"Ahem. Quiet down, class is in session," the teacher snapped.
The room went silent—
Though everyone kept stealing glances at the back row.
Lock, meanwhile, was content.
School ended at four, much earlier than his previous life.
Studying might as well be free EXP.
Math class began. The teacher's voice had that old-fashioned strictness typical of a past generation.
"Who can solve this problem?"
No one raised a hand.
Everyone was too busy sneaking looks at Lock.
Lock glanced at the blackboard.
Though he'd been absent forever, knowledge from his previous life made it trivial.
After a quick mental calculation, he raised his hand.
"L-Lock? You'll… solve it?"
The teacher nearly trembled.
When Lock nodded and walked to the board, the teacher hurriedly offered him a new piece of chalk—
With both hands.
Honorifics.
Reverence.
As if Lock were the teacher instead.
Lock let it pass, solved the problem cleanly, and sat back down as the bell rang.
Lunch break.
Lock stretched, ignoring the stares around him.
"It's noon. Want to eat together?"
"Eh!?"
Kyōka blinked at the lunchbox he held out.
Lock never made bento before—he always bought bread at lunch.
This lunch felt… carefully prepared.
Suspiciously so.
Kyōka's feminine intuition screamed:
A woman made that.
A woman made that!
A woman made that!!
She accepted anyway.
On the rooftop, the moment Lock opened the bento, Kyōka gaped.
It was beautifully arranged—balanced vegetables, well-seasoned meats, perfectly packed.
Her cheeks puffed even harder.
It's like he's cheating behind my back… !!
No—calm down.
Be elegant.
Be reserved.
Do not get jealous. Do NOT—
"…Lock," she asked casually, trying to sound indifferent.
"Who made your bento?"
Lock froze midsentence.
A chill ran down his spine.
He could practically feel the murderous aura radiating off Kyōka.
There was no doubt—
This was a trap question.
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A/N: Advanced Chapters Have Been Uploaded On My Patreon
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