…
The facility doors sealed behind us, and I stepped into Musutafu for the first time. The difference hit immediately—not gradual, not subtle, but a shock of contrast that made me stop on the sidewalk.
Heroes were everywhere.
Not the occasional Avenger sighting in Manhattan, not the rare commercial for hero agencies. Here, they walked the streets in full costume—spandex in every color, mutation-types with visible alterations treated as mundane, pro heroes stopping for coffee at corner shops like it was normal. Because here, it was normal.
The streets were brighter, more saturated, like someone had adjusted the color settings on reality. And not gonna lie—some of the female heroes made me wish I was older. Significantly older.
My mother pressed a button on her keys. The BMW M4 G80 purred to life from a nearby parking space, familiar and grounding.
"Looks different, right?" she asked as I buckled in.
"Yeah… you don't usually see this many heroes out in Manhattan."
She nodded, pulling into traffic with the smooth confidence of someone who'd driven in too many countries to count. "There's a reason for that."
I glanced at her. "All Might?"
A small smile. "Exactly. Ever since he came back to Japan, the balance shifted. Crime's been rising in America—more villains crossing borders, more chaos where the Symbol of Peace isn't watching."
Her phone rang before I could respond. She answered in rapid Japanese, business voice, leaving me to the window and my own thoughts.
Heroes passed in blur—different fighting styles, different Quirks, different approaches to the same fundamental problem. I cataloged them automatically, the way I'd learned to catalog threats: Could I beat that? How? What would it cost?
The gaps in my own capabilities stood out sharper here. I needed hand-to-hand training. Weapons proficiency. Tactical thinking beyond "hit it until it stops moving." My Quirk and raw strength had carried me so far, but I was hitting limits I couldn't punch through.
When would she hire a trainer? Tony had mentioned something weeks ago, some connection through Stark Industries' security division. But waiting meant stagnation, and stagnation meant death when Hydra found us again.
"It doesn't matter," I muttered to myself. "I can start on my own. Boxing works—broke man's sport, rich man's sport. And I'm obviously on the rich side."
"We're here."
The BMW settled into a driveway. I looked up at a two-story house, black exterior, clean lines, utterly unremarkable by the standards I'd grown up with.
"Yeah, it's not a mansion," my mother said, reading my expression. "But it'll do for now."
I nodded. "Yeah." Then, before she could exit: "Mom… can I start training? I want to get as strong as possible before U.A."
Her expression shifted—the business mask dropping, something more complicated underneath. "You can. But I'm monitoring you. I'm not letting you get hurt."
"Mom… I've trained before. I never came home seriously injured."
She froze. The keys hung in her hand, forgotten. "You've… what?"
Her eyes narrowed, and I saw the calculation—how, when, where I'd found time and space she hadn't controlled. "Oh, you little—why are you keeping secrets from your own mother!?"
I sighed. The truth, then, or enough of it. "Because if I told you, you'd keep me locked in the house saying it's 'for my own good.' That I'm too young."
She flinched. Not much, but I caught it—the recognition that I wasn't wrong, that she'd done exactly that in other contexts, that her protectiveness had boundaries she'd never acknowledged.
"…I still don't like it," she muttered. "I'm your mother. You should tell me these things first."
"Yeah… I know. Sorry." I exited the car, ended the conversation before it could become confrontation.
The interior was functional, sparsely furnished, clearly selected for speed of acquisition rather than aesthetic coherence. I found the stairs, found my room—second door on the right, as directed.
I stepped inside, closed the door, and activated my Quirk.
Gold spread instantly, covering walls, floor, ceiling, furniture. Not transmutation this time—generation, pure metal forming from nothing, shaped by will. I let out a breath, felt the rightness of it, the environment finally matching my nature.
"…Better."
I adjusted the bed—density manipulation, making it firm enough for support but soft enough for actual rest. Sat down, felt it give precisely the right amount.
Not bad.
I pulled out my phone, opened YouTube, searched: boxing fundamentals, stance, footwork.
The video loaded—a former champion, broken down basics for beginners. I stood, imitated: orthodox stance, right-handed, left foot forward. Weight distribution. Guard position.
Awkward at first. The body knew power, knew speed, didn't know technique.
Then, after minutes rather than hours—
Click.
The stance settled into place. Natural. Balanced. I threw a jab, felt the hip rotation, the extension, the recoil. It felt correct in a way that shouldn't have been possible.
"…What?"
I studied the video more carefully. Every punch—hip rotation, weight transfer, kinetic chain from floor to fist. Slips, pivots, angles of attack. Everything had purpose, structure, optimization.
I copied it. Again. Again.
Each repetition improved. Not gradually—significantly, the learning curve vertical rather than diagonal.
Three hours passed. I was no longer a beginner. That description didn't cover what I'd become—someone who moved with technical proficiency that should have required years.
I was shadowboxing now, combinations flowing without conscious thought. Slip, jab, cross. Slip, lead uppercut, hook. Everything connected, everything balanced, everything efficient.
I stopped. Breathing steady despite the exertion, a grin forming.
"My learning speed is monstrous…"
It felt like cheating. Like exploiting a bug in reality's code.
"…But it makes sense," I muttered. "Denser bones, stronger muscles… higher brain activity since birth. Neural optimization. My body learns movement patterns faster because it can process them faster, integrate them deeper."
I threw another hook, faster, committed—
The air distorted. Shockwave visible, pressure sufficient to crack the golden walls I'd constructed. The room began to collapse, structural integrity failing—
I reacted instantly. Mental command, gold reforming, damage reversing, everything restored in seconds.
"Oops." I checked the door, listening for footsteps. "Way too much force. Hopefully Mom didn't feel that."
My phone rang. Tony's ID.
I answered, still breathing slightly hard. "What do you want, nerd?"
"Is that how you talk to someone you begged to build a gravity chamber for you?"
I paused. The gravity chamber. The request I'd made months ago, theoretical, half-joking because the engineering seemed impossible.
"…Wait. You're serious? It's already done?"
"Maybe," he said, and I could hear the smugness through the connection.
I sighed. Recalculated tone, approach, leverage. "Alright, my bad. I didn't mean to offend you, the great Anthony Stark."
I heard the cringe—audible, physical, transmitted perfectly. "Don't ever say my full name like that again."
"No promises." I smirked, alone in my golden room. "So that's it? Because I've got training to do. If it's finished, I'll be there early tomorrow."
"You better not—"
I hung up.
Well. That solved equipment.
No more forests. No more improvised training spots, no more making do with what I could find. Just gravity training, calisthenics, shadowboxing—like the Z Fighters, like every shonen protagonist who'd ever mattered.
I laid back on my golden bed, felt the metal soften around me, conforming to my weight.
"At least I won't be weak in the future…"
I stared at the ceiling, at the gold that caught light and threw it back warm.
"If I keep this up…"
"…I'll be the strongest."
To be continued…
Hey guys i want you guys opinion on about doing a time skip or not. because honestly. I want to get to were its a year before the AU exams.
But I dont want it to feel like Midas just aged up in a instant. But writing kid Midas is starting to feel tiring to me honestly.
Ill do a poll so.
Timeskip <—-
or
No Timeskip <—-