Hello everyone! Well, over the past few weeks you might have noticed that the fanfic disappeared — that's because the web novel platform blocked me for spam. I spent a few days sorting things out with support and talking to Ridha, explaining the whole situation, and they finally unblocked me. In the meantime, I kept writing some chapters on Patreon, so if you're interested in early access, there are more chapters available there.
If you're interested in the motivation behind it and everything else, I can write a short blog post explaining it — honestly, it was a whole saga until they unblocked me, and I think it might actually make for a funny story.
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General POV
Morning broke over Musutafu in calm and quiet hues. The clear blue sky shimmered against the glass panels of Jimmu Academy, the most prestigious early childhood school for the children of heroes, business moguls, and politicians. Nestled in the same district as the famed U.A. High, Jimmu wasn't just about academics — it shaped legacies and wrote futures.
Inside sunlit corridors, children of the elite conversed with startling ease for their age — most of them trained since toddlerhood to follow in their family's footsteps. But the buzz of chatter came to an abrupt halt, as if silenced by magic, the moment he appeared.
The sound of deliberate footsteps cut through the air. Heads turned instinctively toward the source. Whispers scattered like leaves in the wind.
With confident strides and a near-regal bearing, Isaac Gabriel Hartford made his way down the hallway. Tall for his age — only six years old — he carried himself with a cold, calculating stare, as if everyone around him were just pieces on a chessboard. His skin held a mineral-like green sheen, and his dark green curls were immaculately in place. He wore the Jimmu Academy uniform with disarming poise: a tailored navy blazer, crisp white shirt, and a sleek black tie, like a silent seal.
Isaac had been famous long before he was born. The son of Ana Clara Silva Hartford, a Brazilian-born hero widely regarded as the most powerful in the world, and Christopher Hartford, a British billionaire in the defense sector and the highest-ranked hero in the U.K.
Ana Clara rose to international acclaim thanks to her Quirk: Molecular Matrix — the ability to restructure any material at the molecular level through direct touch. She could reduce steel to dust or regenerate living tissue in seconds. With it, she defused warzones, prevented nuclear meltdowns, and dismantled entire battlefields with a gesture. Today, she dedicates her time to the ClaraLuz Foundation, rebuilding regions ravaged by natural disasters and conflict, while also funding schools and clinics across underserved communities worldwide.
His father, Christopher, is the CEO of Hartford Industries — a tech conglomerate behind next-gen security solutions, from urban combat nanotech to S-Class villain containment systems. He's also a silent investor in several elite schools — including Jimmu itself.
But Isaac didn't attend school like the others. Every morning since he turned five, he left his parents' penthouse atop a skyscraper in Roppongi Hills, Tokyo — a fully automated home with A.I. systems, private security, and a subterranean training gym — and made the trip to Musutafu in his private car: an Excalibur Phantom X, an electric, armored vehicle equipped with military-grade technology. Outwardly sleek and unassuming, the car was worth more than an average public school building.
At school, Isaac didn't talk much. He didn't smile. No one really knew what went on in his mind. But everyone knew what he was: the quiet prodigy. The "green boy" from the tabloids who, at just six, had already awakened a rare mutant Quirk — a fusion of his parents' abilities, with effects not yet fully understood.
Behind marble columns and in the corners of the corridor, small groups of children whispered among themselves, their eyes wide with a barely restrained curiosity as they watched Isaac walk by.
"He... he looks like a lab experiment..." murmured a little girl with lilac eyes, wearing a light pink wool coat. She seemed about the same age as Isaac, though much smaller. She clung tightly to her friend's arm, her gaze locked on the subtle metallic shimmer of Isaac's ruby-red eyes — a mix of awe and fear.
Another child chimed in.
"My dad said that car he came in is worth more than the principal's house. And that only international police and actual royalty have one like it!" said a blond boy with a navy-blue cybernetic eye. He pulled a lollipop from his mouth as he spoke, as if to add weight to the importance of his claim.
"Do you think he even talks? Or just... thinks inside his head?" whispered another boy, small in stature, clearly worried Isaac might overhear. He wore thick containment gloves to suppress his electric Quirk, and furrowed his brow like he was analyzing some rare alien specimen.
"My nanny said he destroyed the floor of his room just by touching it. Like... the floor turned into sand," offered a girl with long black braids, sketchpad on her lap. She was quietly drawing Isaac from afar, her expression bordering on reverence.
"My mom said his skin has a crystalline structure... that it can't even be cut with a scalpel," added a tall boy with a deep voice, son of two surgeon-heroes. He crossed his arms, speaking with the confidence of someone holding onto a juicy scientific secret.
"But did you see how he walks? He doesn't even move like a kid. It's like he already knows everything," remarked a girl with feline features, her ears subtly twitching in Isaac's direction.
"Whatever. He's just weird. Doesn't make him better than us," scoffed a boy with sharp teeth and arched eyebrows, trying to mask his discomfort with bravado.
A brief silence fell as Isaac turned his eyes in their direction — just for a moment. But that one look was enough to shut them all up for a few more paces.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't need to.
[Main POV]
Over time, it honestly started to get annoying. Ever since I began going out more and started preschool, every day has felt the same: people either fawning over me, being jealous, or giving me that disgusted look because of how I look. Dealing daily with these pampered, trust-fund brats has been miserable. It's like they're trained from birth to be unbearable. At this point, I think what they really need is a crash course in Marx.
Which is exactly why, even after spending more than a year at this school, I've barely spoken a word to any of them. Feels like a total waste of time. And, like I said, a good chunk of them think I'm "ugly"—which I find ridiculous, because, honestly, I'm adorable. I like how I look. I know I could change my skin to match its natural tone—like my mom's, a young Black woman's—but the truth is, I like the way I am. I think it looks good.
Plus, let's be real, I'd have to actively use my quirk for that. That would mean constantly manipulating my appearance using my power. And I've only had my quirk for two years. Sure, that might sound like a lot, and yeah, I've made some big strides with it since then, but not to the point where I can keep my entire molecular structure—melanin, cartilage in my ears, the whole deal—altered for more than three hours straight. It's draining as hell.
Maybe someday, not too far off, I'll be able to spend most of my time looking like a "normal" human. But that's a conversation for the future.
Right now, there are more pressing matters—like the fact that I can officially do something I've always thought was really cool: I can read minds. Not as easily as my dad, but I can catch some thoughts, emotions, impressions from people around me. And the funny thing is, the younger they are, the easier it gets. That's how I know exactly what all these kids really think of me—even the ones who try to kiss up.
And the dominant emotions? Always the same: fear and envy.
I finally reach the door to my classroom, snapping out of my internal monologue.
I walk slowly toward the classic "main character" seat—the center desk in the middle row, the one with the best view of the whole classroom. I slouch into my chair with practiced boredom, arms crossed over the desk like I've seen it all before. It's a strangely grown-up posture for a six-year-old, especially in a room that's supposed to be full of colorful, fun distractions for kids.
The classroom itself is spacious, with an unexpectedly mature vibe for a preschool setting. Large windows let in plenty of natural morning light that spilled across the polished tile floor. The individual desks were made of a sleek polymer with a metallic finish—way more high-end than any regular school. Some kids had custom notebooks with their family crests on them; others showed off designer backpacks with built-in tech. The air smelled like artificial cleanliness with a faint trace of electronic chalk.
That's when I heard the automatic door slide open, and the teacher stepped in with light footsteps—followed by a small, silent figure. I looked up, and a slight smile slipped onto my face—a rare thing for me in this place.
She looked to be my age, maybe a bit younger based on her size. Like all six-year-olds, her face still had that baby-roundness, but her eyes… her eyes were sharp, dark, intelligent. Her black hair was tied up in a perfectly neat bun, unlike most of the other kids with uneven bangs or messy, last-minute hairdos. There was something about her—her upright posture, her curious but composed gaze, even the way she clutched her backpack with both hands—that radiated discipline and a strange sense of early responsibility. That kind of thing isn't unusual around here… but with her, it felt different.
Even before the teacher said a word, her face felt familiar to me. Like a visual echo from some long-lost memory... or maybe not that long ago, considering I've only been alive for six years.
The teacher—middle-aged, hair tied in a loose bun, wearing a mildly formal outfit with the school's crest pinned to her chest—paused next to the girl and addressed the class in a kind voice with a firm undertone:
"Class, please welcome your new classmate. She's transferring here from Suizei Academy. Her name is Momo Yaoyorozu. Be kind to her."
The moment she said the name, something snapped in my brain—like a mental jolt. That's when I realized where I knew her from. She was from the anime. That Momo Yaoyorozu. I always knew I'd run into her eventually, given that we're the same age and both come from wealthy families.
I was still thinking about that as I stood up with the rest of the class. And then, I did something I never do when a new student shows up: I greeted her along with everyone else.
"Hi, Momo."
Just a simple line, short and to the point—but in that moment, it felt like a silent explosion. The entire class was stunned. I'd done something completely out of character. And, as expected, all eyes immediately turned toward me.
I could feel the weight of their curiosity—some suspicious, some just flat-out shocked. I glanced at the boy seated beside me and didn't even have to try hard to read him: pure jealousy. A small, stinging kind of resentment, but very real. Just the fact that I'd acknowledged Momo already got under his skin. These rich kids really are pathetic. Everything's drama to them.
Without another word, I sat back down. I folded my arms on the desk and turned my attention to the lesson, though one eye stayed on Momo, quietly observing. There was something about her that held my interest—and the truth is, she'd go on to play a major role in the events to come.
And so the day continued, right up until our final class: the long-awaited Quirk Evaluation session.
To be continued…
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[A/N] If you've read this far, thank you! And since I'm terrible at handling compliments, please, insult me instead!