The entrance ceremony for Shizuoka Technical & Vocational High School was the structural and aesthetic opposite of U.A.
No high's televised, glitzy debuts. There were no news helicopters hovering overhead, no Pro-Hero alumni giving speeches about "Plus Ultra," and no flashy displays of Quirks to entertain a crowd of thousands.
Instead, the place felt like a dull, empty auditorium that reeked of old coffee and harsh cleaning products.
It was filled with three hundred teenagers, some have and quirks and other don't, who had already realized, at the age of fifteen, that life was more about paying bills and maintaining infrastructure than wearing a cape.
Kaito Arisaka stood in the back row of the "Maintenance and Logistics" department.
He was wearing the school's charcoal-gray blazer—a garment designed by a committee to be durable, stain-resistant, and entirely forgettable.
While other students were tailoring their uniforms to look cooler or more rebellious, Kaito had specifically requested a size slightly too large in the shoulders to create a slumped, unimpressive silhouette.
'Perfect,' Kaito thought, adjusting the cheap, non-prescription glasses he wore to break up the "perfect" symmetry of his face. 'The fabric is a 60/40 polyester blend. It's scratchy, it breathes poorly, and it makes me look like a middle-management trainee in a failing logistics firm. This is the peak of my highschool career.'
To Kaito, this wasn't just a school; it was a bunker.
For the next three years, while the rest of the world watched the "Golden Generation" of heroes emerge from the elite academies, Kaito would be buried in blueprints, inventory sheets, and the glorious, predictable rhythm of blue-collar labor.
By the time Kaito graduated at eighteen, he wouldn't be a hero candidate or a "witness"—he would be a certified logistics coordinator with a clean record and zero public profile.
-----
The Principal of Shizuoka Tech, a man named Goro Tanaka who looked like he had been carved out of a single block of weathered oak, approached the podium.
His speech was exactly what Kaito had prayed for: twenty minutes of dry data regarding workplace safety, the importance of punctuality, and the school's 98% employment rate in the municipal sector.
"You are here because you are the gears of society," Goro said in a gravelly voice that sounded like grinding stones.
"The world likes to look at the engine, but without the gears, the engine is just a pile of expensive, non-functional junk. Learn your trade. Be precise. Don't be a hero. Be a professional who comes home at 5:00 PM."
'Amen,' Kaito whispered internally. This was his church.
-----
The first month of high school was dedicated to what Kaito privately called "The Training for Boredom." It was a delicate, high-stakes psychological war.
To remain invisible, Kaito had to do more than just sit in the back; he had to master the mechanics of the "Background Character."
He spent hours in front of his bedroom mirror at home, practicing the "Vocational Slouch"—a posture that conveyed a mild, persistent tiredness that discouraged anyone from striking up a conversation.
Kaito learned that if he kept his chin slightly down and his eyes fixed on a point exactly three inches above the horizon, people's gazes would naturally slide off him. He was becoming a "blind spot" in the eyes of his peers.
Kaito practiced his walking speed with a metronome. If he walked too fast, he looked purposeful; if he walked too slow, he looked lazy.
He settled on a rhythmic, plodding gait that signaled he was simply moving from point A to point B because a clock told him to.
Kaito learned to control his breathing so that he never appeared winded or overly energetic. He was a powerhouse who had successfully convinced his own DNA that it was a hardware clerk, and he intended to keep it that way.
His first class, "Industrial Material Management 101," was the perfect testing ground.
The teacher, a man whose only hobby seemed to be reading aloud from a 1994 safety manual, was the ultimate obstacle to anyone with a spark of life.
Kaito fit in perfectly. He took notes with a cheap, bitten mechanical pencil, ensuring his handwriting was legible but entirely devoid of character.
"Arisaka-kun," the teacher droned, looking over his spectacles. "Explain the difference between a LIFO and FIFO inventory system."
Kaito paused for exactly three seconds—long enough to seem like he was thinking, but not so long that he looked stupid.
"Last-In, First-Out is for non-perishables that can be stacked, sensei," Kaito said, his voice a flat, soul-crushing monotone. "First-In, First-Out is for items with an expiration date or those prone to obsolescence. It ensures the oldest stock is used first to minimize waste and tax liabilities."
He delivered the answer without a single hint of enthusiasm. The teacher actually yawned before nodding and moving on to the next student.
'Phase one complete,' Kaito thought.
-----
However, the "World" refused to be as boring as Kaito's curriculum. Even in a bottom-tier vocational school, the shadow of the Hero Society loomed large.
During lunch breaks, the cafeteria was filled with students huddled over their phones, watching grainy re-uploads of the Musutafu fire.
The public didn't know Kaito. They didn't know he liked miso soup or that he wanted a pension. Instead, they had built a myth.
Because the silhouette in the video was so pristine and the "Snap" was so absolute, the collective unconscious of Japan had decided that Hero X was a "Perfect Entity."
They imagined him as a being of pure light, a silent god who judged the world and found it lacking.
Kaito felt this belief as a physical pressure.
Every time a new "Hero X" fan-site went live, or a "witness" claimed to have seen a white glow in the sky, Kaito's skin would begin to feel tight.
His "Indestructible" update wanted to refine his pores; his "Senses" update wanted to show him the heartbeat of a bird three miles away.
He countered this "Aesthetic Growth" with extreme boredom. He spent his evenings reading the fine print on insurance contracts.
Kaito memorized the weight limits for every bridge in Shizuoka. He focused on the most tedious, gritty, 3D aspects of existence to ground his body.
If the world wanted a God, he would give them a guy who spent forty minutes debating which brand of industrial grease was the most cost-effective.
-----
His only real interaction came from a boy named Saito, who sat next to him in "Structural Logistics."
Saito had a minor Quirk called "Static Grip"—he could make small objects like pens or erasers stick to his palms.
It was a Quirk designed for a life of manual labor, and Sato seemed perfectly content with that.
"Hey, Arisaka," Saito said, leaning back in his chair as the bell rang for the final period.
"You're at the hardware store in the Ashita district, right? You ever see any of those 'Cult of X' freaks? I heard they're camping out near the fire site, waiting for a 'Sign' or something."
Kaito packed his bag with deliberate, slow movements, ensuring his books were perfectly aligned.
"I see a lot of people buying spray paint and candles, Sato," Kaito replied. "I don't ask questions. I just ring up the sale and hope they don't block the entrance for the delivery trucks. Pilgrims don't pay for the inventory they knock over."
Sato chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a weirdly chill guy, you know that? Most kids our age are obsessed with who's winning the U.A. mock battles or what All Might's favorite brand of protein is. You're just... there. Like a rock."
"Rocks don't get targeted by villains," Kaito said, standing up. "Rocks don't have to worry about Hero Rankings. Being 'just there' is the most sustainable career path in Japan. And also I could say the same to you."
"Fair point," Sato said, waving a hand as Kaito walked away. "See you tomorrow, 'Standard-kun.'
-----
Kaito walked out of the school gates, the charcoal blazer feeling like a suit of armor against the world's expectations. He was successfully building his wall of anonymity.
Every boring conversation, every mediocre test score, and every slumped shoulder was a brick in that wall.
Kaito wasn't fighting villains. He wasn't saving the city. He was doing something much harder: he was convincing the world that Kaito Arisaka was a person who didn't matter.
He was a ghost in a polyester blazer, moving through the crowd like a drop of water in the ocean.
As Kaito walked toward the hardware store for his afternoon shift, he passed a billboard.
It showed All Might, smiling and grand, promising a bright future for the next generation of heroes.
Kaito didn't even look up. He had years of this grind ahead of him. Three years of vocational school, and the remaining years of job-hopping in the blue-collar sector.
By the time he turned thirties, he would be a total non-entity. And then, and only then, would he apply for that desk job at large sectors, governments or even UA staff.
He would be the guy who handled the payroll, the guy who made sure the toilets worked, the guy who was completely, utterly safe.
'Wait for me, administrative stability,' Kaito thought, his eyes fixed on the pavement as he dodged a group of excited hero fans.
'I'm coming for you, one inventory count at a time.'
Kaito reached the hardware store, pulled off his blazer, and donned his worn work vest. Kimiko-san pointed toward a stack of lumber that needed to be moved to the basement.
"You're late by two minutes," she grunted.
"The bus was behind schedule," Kaito lied smoothly.
Kaito picked up a heavy timber, his body barely registering the weight, and headed into the dark, quiet basement.
Here, surrounded by the smell of dust and the silence of the mundane, he was finally at peace.
The "Update" dimmed, the "Noise" faded, and for a few glorious hours, he was exactly what he wanted to be: a guy with a job.