By age ten, Kaito Arisaka was a man possessed by the logic of a world that didn't exist yet. The "Sovereign" phase had been a humiliating failure, but Kaito had a backup plan. If he couldn't rule reality with a look, he would force it to bend through the sheer, unadulterated grit of a shonen training arc.
He sat on the dusty floor of the Arisaka Hardware Shop, the air thick with the smell of motor oil and old wood. He was done with the "King" act. If he couldn't rule the world, he would build a body that the world couldn't ignore.
"If I can't be a God, I'll be a monster," Kaito thought, staring at a rusted 10kg dumbbell like it was a holy relic. "Saitama didn't have a 'System.' He didn't have a legendary bloodline. He just had a training plan that would kill a normal man. Stress leads to evolution. If I break my limits, the Quirk factor has to respond right."
He had the math written in a notebook hidden under a stack of sandpaper. 100 push-ups. 100 sit-ups. 100 squats. And a 10km run. Every. Single. Day.
He dropped into a push-up position behind a crate of PVC elbows.
One. His elbows clicked like dry twigs.
Two. His chest hit the concrete with a pathetic thud.
Three. He felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulder that definitely wasn't "power awakening." It was just a ten-year-old's joint screaming for mercy.
"The brain is willing, but this body is a cheap knock-off," Kaito wheezed, his face pressed against the cold, dusty floor. He looked less like a monster in training and more like a beetle that had been stepped on by a passing toddler.
He managed to grind out twelve more before his arms turned into lukewarm noodles. He rolled over, gasping, staring up at the ceiling fans. In his head, he could hear the legendary advice: "If you want to be strong, you have to do it until your hair falls out." He reached up and yanked on a strand of his hair. It stayed firmly in place.
"Not even a receding hairline," he muttered bitterly. "I'm a failure at being a failure"
"No, I need to maintain this exercise for a while" Kaito lightened up his mood and decided to try this method for a while.
Then he stood up, his legs shaking, and decided to pivot. If the physical route was still blocked and unavailable, maybe the "Internal" method was the key. He had seen many anime that uses this power.
He knew that even a "loser" could become a legend if they tapped into their inner energy. He didn't need muscle; he needed Chakra, Ki or something similar.
He retreated to the darkest corner of the lumber aisle, sitting cross-legged. He closed his eyes and began to visualize the "coil" of energy located just below his navel. He imagined a swirling pool of blue light, a torrent of spiritual pressure that just needed a spark to ignite.
"Feel the flow," he commanded himself. "Circulate the energy from the core to the extremities. Bridge the gap between the physical and the spiritual."
He raised his hands, fingers stiff and trembling with focus. He formed the iconic cross-shaped hand sign, the Shadow Clone Jutsu. His index and middle fingers of both hands overlapped perfectly. He poured every ounce of his reincarnated willpower into that single point of contact.
"Kage Bunshin no Jutsu!" he screamed in his mind. "Manifest, Give me a clone to help me stack these damn buckets!"
He concentrated so hard his ears started to ring. He visualized the energy rushing from his gut, spiraling up his spine, and exploding through his fingers into the air. He felt a sudden, intense warmth spreading through his chest. It was hot. It was heavy. It was the "hidden ability" finally booting up.
'This is it!' he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. 'I can feel the flow! The Quirk factor is responding to the call!'
But
"Kaito? Why are you sitting in the dark making a cross with your fingers at the plywood? And why are you sweating so much? Are you having an allergic reaction to the cedar?"
The voice of Grandma Saki was like a bucket of ice water.
Kaito's eyes snapped open. There was no smoke. No duplicate Kaito. No blue emergy. Just the smell of old wood and a very confused grandmother leaning on a broom.
The "warmth" he'd felt was just a massive sunbeam that had moved through the warehouse window and was currently roasting his chest through his T-shirt.
"I was... I was connecting with my inner self, Grandma!" Kaito shouted, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled a ripe tomato. "It's... it's a mental exercise! To increase productivity!"
Saki sighed, the sound of a woman who was one weird incident away from calling a priest. "The only thing you need to produce is a clean floor in Aisle 2. A customer spilled a box of washers, and if someone trips, they aren't going to care about your 'inner self.' They're going to care about their broken hip."
"Yes, Grandma," Kaito muttered, his "Shinobi" dreams dying a quiet, undignified death.
As he swept the floor, his mind drifted back to his Earth memories. He felt like a total fraud. He knew how the world worked, he knew the "plot" of the future, yet he couldn't even manage fifteen push-ups or a single spark of energy.
He was stuck in the "Testicle Era" the boring gap where nothing happened but manual labor and school lunches.
"The difference between a master and a beginner is that the master has failed more times than the beginner has tried," Kaito muttered while quoting something keep himself from walking into traffic.
"What was that?" Saki called out.
"Nothing! Just... internalizing master to beginner dynamics!"
He pushed the broom with a renewed, cynical vigor. He didn't have Chakra. He didn't have Saitama's strength. He was just a kid in a hardware store. But as he worked, the neighbors kept stopping by. They brought him snacks. They waved.
"You're a good lad, Kaito," Mr. Yamamoto said, patting his head. "Most kids are out there causing trouble with their new Quirks, but you're here, helping your Grandma. You're the real deal."
Kaito gave him a polite, hollow smile. 'I'm not the 'real deal', Mr. Yamamoto. I'm a frustrated powerhouse waiting for a 'DING' that's ten years late.'
.....
At night, he collapsed onto his futon, his body aching from the failed workout and the very successful sweeping. He looked at his "Hero Toe" and wondered if the doctor had just been being polite.
"Maybe there is no software," he whispered to the ceiling. "Maybe I'm just a high-end computer being used as a paperweight."
He tried to do one last sit-up, but his core gave out halfway up. He fell back onto his pillow with a groan.
"I'll try again tomorrow," he thought, his eyes drifting shut. "Tomorrow, I'll find the secret. Tomorrow, the 'System' will definitely wake up."
He fell asleep on a pile of laundry, dreaming of power levels, completely unaware that every 'thank you and belief' from a neighbor was a drop of fuel in a tank that was slowly, silently filling. He was a ten-year-old "Dud," and the path to his cynical teenage years was just beginning.