Prologue: Echoes of a Fallen Hero (堕ちた英雄の残響, Ochita Eiyū no Zankyō)

Steel heart, forged in war's rain,

Now beats in a child's fragile shell.

Can hope bloom in scars?


The acrid stench of singed metal clawed at his throat, a familiar companion in the symphony of war. Smoke choked the sky, obscuring the once-vibrant city in an ashen shroud. Groans and screams, a chilling chorus of despair, echoed through the smoldering ruins.

He gripped his rifle tighter, knuckles white against the cold metal. His comrades, mere moments ago vibrant figures charging into battle, lay scattered around him – broken dolls discarded by a cruel game. Despair, a cold serpent, coiled around his heart, squeezing tighter with each ragged breath.

This was it. This was the end.

A searing pain erupted in his shoulder, a crimson bloom blossoming across his uniform. He crumpled to the ground, the world spinning into a dizzying vortex. A metallic clang resonated nearby, followed by a sickening crunch. His vision blurred, the once-proud hero reduced to a spectator in his own demise.

Then, silence. An unnatural quiet descended, broken only by the crackling flames. Dazed, the unnamed soldier lifted his head, a single tear tracing a hot path down his soot-streaked cheek. He was alive. In this battlefield of the dead, he was a grotesque anomaly, a flicker of life amidst the ashes.

But the weight of survival was heavier than any bullet. Shame, a bitter pill, lodged in his throat. He lived, while those who had fought beside him, who had trusted him, were gone. Survivor's guilt, a suffocating cloak, settled upon him. He had failed them, failed his city, failed himself. The memory of that battlefield, a testament to his failure, would forever haunt him, a cruel reminder of a life lost and a hero broken.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the memory of his fallen comrades a searing brand on his eyelids. The silence, however, was short-lived. A rhythmic thudding echoed in the distance, growing louder with each passing heartbeat. He forced his eyes open, the world blurring back into focus.

In the distance, where the city once stood, monstrous shapes shifted against the dying light. Gone were the vaguely humanoid nightmares; replaced by a pack of hulking beasts that resembled monstrous wolves twisted by some infernal forge.

Their fur, the color of dried blood, bristled with razor-sharp spines. Glowing red eyes burned through the gloom, fixated on him like malevolent embers. These weren't soldiers, these were engines of destruction. Their elongated snouts dripped with a viscous, luminescent drool, and the ground trembled with each earth-shattering thud of their massive paws.

Panic clawed at his throat, a cold sweat slicking his skin despite the searing heat around him. He was trapped, a wounded fly caught in the web of a monstrous spider. He couldn't outrun them, couldn't fight them back. Despair, a familiar weight, threatened to crush him.

But just as quickly, the memory of his fallen comrades flickered in his mind – their bravery, their trust. A surge of defiance, a spark of rebellion, ignited within him. He wouldn't die here, whimpering on the ground. He'd take as many of these hellspawn with him as he could.

With a ragged gasp, he reached for his rifle, his fingers fumbling over the cold metal. The world narrowed to the sight of the approaching beasts and the weapon in his hand. His voice, hoarse and choked with smoke, rasped through the air, a desperate challenge in the face of annihilation.

But it wasn't a plea for help. It was a vow. A vow whispered from a battlefield of despair, a vow etched in the blood of his fallen comrades.

"If I live," he rasped, his voice raw with emotion, "I'll never be this weak again."

Adrenaline surged through the soldier, momentarily pushing past the pain throbbing in his shoulder. He fumbled with the rifle, his fingers numb with fear and cold. Aiming down the sight, he lined up the crosshairs on the closest beast, its slavering maw inches from a fallen soldier's helmet. His finger, trembling violently, squeezed the trigger.

A sickening click echoed across the desolate landscape. He slammed the trigger again – still nothing. Panic gnawed at him, replacing the fleeting defiance. He fumbled with the magazine release, a desperate prayer forming in his mind. Empty. The rifle was empty.

Disbelief morphed into a cold dread that settled deep in his gut. His last line of defense, the symbol of a soldier's resolve, was a hollow shell. He was utterly defenseless against the approaching pack of nightmares.

A guttural growl ripped through the air, followed by the gnashing of fangs as the lead beast lunged. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable. But it never came. An ear splitting shriek resonated from his left, accompanied by a sickening thud. He peeked open an eye, a sliver of hope flickering through the despair.

A monstrous form, its silhouette vaguely familiar, grappled with one of the beasts on the periphery. Claws of obsidian met luminescent drool, fur tearing against hide in a brutal dance of survival. It was another one of the creatures, but its fur was a dull grey, devoid of the horrifying red glow. Perhaps a rival pack member, drawn by the scent of battle?

The distraction was all he needed. With a burst of adrenaline, fueled by sheer desperation, the soldier scrambled back into the shattered remains of a building. Broken concrete offered meager cover, but it was better than nothing. He would not go down whimpering.

Grabbing a shard of jagged metal from the debris, the soldier gripped it like a makeshift spear. His mind raced, fueled by the knowledge of past battles, past victories. There had to be a way out, a way to survive this nightmare.

A low growl echoed from within the building, sending shivers down his spine. Had he stumbled upon another threat? He held his breath, the shard of metal digging into his palm. Then, a soft whimper. He followed the sound, his heart pounding against his ribs.

There, huddled in a corner, was a small figure. A child, no older than ten, her eyes wide with terror, clutching a ragged teddy bear. Despair threatened to engulf him again, but he forced it back. He wouldn't just be saving himself tonight.

With a reassuring smile, strained but genuine, the soldier knelt before the child. "Don't worry," he rasped, his voice raw with emotion, "I won't let them get you."

The battle raged outside, the clash of titans echoing through the broken cityscape. The soldier, even with a broken body, readied himself for the fight. He had no weapons, no hope, but he had a promise – a promise whispered from a battlefield of despair, a promise to never be helpless again.

The battle outside was a cacophony of roars, screeches, and the sickening thud of flesh meeting bone. The soldier gripped the shard of metal tighter, his knuckles white with the strain. Fear gnawed at the edges of his newfound resolve, but the terror in the child's eyes fueled the fire in his gut. He wouldn't let her die like his comrades.

He crawled closer to the opening, peering through a gap in the debris. The monstrous wolves, their red eyes glowing with a predatory hunger, tore into their grey rivals with savage ferocity. But the tide was turning. The pack of grey beasts, outnumbered and outmatched, fell one by one, their lifeless bodies adding to the macabre landscape.

His heart hammered in his chest, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. He had a window, a sliver of a chance. With a desperate glance at the girl huddled behind him, he whispered a silent prayer.

"Forgive me," he rasped, the words barely audible against the din of the battle. Then, with a guttural roar that surprised even himself, he charged out of the ruined building, the shard of metal raised high.

The pack of wolves turned as one, their glowing eyes fixating on the frail figure charging towards them. A feral snarl ripped from the alpha's throat, a challenge accepted.

Time seemed to slow. The soldier saw the flash of razor-sharp teeth, the spray of luminescent drool. He felt the searing pain erupt in his shoulder as a massive claw raked across his back, tearing his flesh.

But he didn't falter. With a final, desperate lunge, he plunged the shard of metal into the alpha's eye. A deafening screech filled the air, a sound of pure rage and pain. The creature lashed out, its claws tearing through his chest in a single, brutal motion.

The world dissolved into a red haze. The last thing he saw, etched into his dying mind, was a flash of brown fur – the little girl's teddy bear lying forgotten amidst the carnage. Then, darkness engulfed him, a cold, suffocating embrace. The battlefield of despair had claimed yet another victim, a soldier who died fighting, a promise forever unfulfilled.


oR WaS It?


A faint, insistent pulsing echoed in the vast emptiness. It wasn't a sound, not exactly, but a pressure, a rhythm that reverberated through the inky blackness. The soldier, if that was even him anymore, drifted in the void, devoid of sensation, adrift in the formless expanse. Memories, like fragmented shards of glass, flickered at the edges of his non-existent mind – the acrid smell of burning metal, the searing pain of claws ripping through flesh, the terror-filled eyes of a child.

Then, a sudden pressure, a tightening sensation. The insistent pulse grew louder, morphing into a cacophony of sounds – rushing blood, muffled voices, the rhythmic whoosh of a heartbeat that seemed strangely familiar.

Light, harsh and blinding, flooded his senses. He squeezed his eyes shut, the wrinkled lids fighting against the assault. A high-pitched cry, both foreign and strangely comforting, pierced the air. Panic surged through him, an instinctual response devoid of context. He flailed his tiny arms, the world a blur of white and light.

A warm hand, impossibly gentle, swaddled him in a cocoon of soft fabric. A soothing voice, tinged with relief, cooed in his ear. The panic subsided, replaced by a strange sense of vulnerability. He was helpless, utterly dependent on these unknown voices, these unseen hands.

This… this wasn't a battlefield. It wasn't the cold embrace of death. He was… somewhere else. He opened his eyes, focusing on the blurry face hovering above him. A woman, her face etched with exhaustion but filled with a fierce love, smiled down at him. Her voice, soft and melodic, filled his ears with a word – a name.

"Shugo," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. She said something else, a phrase he didn't understand, and then she repeated, "Shugo."

Confusion swirled within him. The battlefield, the child, the searing pain – it felt like a lifetime ago, yet the memory resonated with a strange familiarity. Was he… dreaming?

He didn't understand.

A gentle melody washed over him, a familiar lullaby sung in a voice as soft as summer rain. It was the only world he knew, a comforting hum cradling him in a warm embrace. He didn't have eyes yet, couldn't see the gentle rise and fall of his mother's chest, the loving smile etched on her face. He only knew the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, a lullaby sung from within.

But then, a tremor. The comforting rhythm faltered, a single missed beat followed by another. Confusion, a primal sensation that predated understanding, bloomed within him. Where was the steady, reassuring pulse? Why did the familiar warmth seem to dim?

Panic, a formless, instinctual terror, clawed at him. He didn't know what fear was, but the absence of the constant warmth sparked a primal unease. The comforting lullaby, once a constant, morphed into a fragmented melody, the voice strained and thin.

Around him, the comforting hum morphed into a terrifying symphony of chaos. High-pitched wails, once a distant curiosity, now pierced his nonexistent eardrums. Voices, once soft murmurs, rose and fell in a frantic dance, their meaning lost in the torrent of sound. But the most terrifying change was the absence. The steady pulse, the very core of his world, had vanished.

He thrashed, a silent scream trapped in his undeveloped throat. The lullaby was gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness. The warmth, the only comfort he'd ever known, was fading, receding like the tide, leaving him stranded on a desolate shore. Exhaustion, heavy and suffocating, washed over him. He drifted into the abyss, clutching at the remnants of the warmth, a phantom echo in the growing darkness.

The confusion remained, a formless void where the familiar lullaby once resided. He wouldn't understand for years the finality of death, the loss he had suffered. But in that moment, on the precipice of his new life, all he knew was the terrifying absence of warmth, a chilling emptiness that marked the beginning of his haunted existence.

He thrashed, a silent scream trapped in his undeveloped throat. The lullaby was gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness. The warmth, the only comfort he'd ever known, was fading, receding like the tide, leaving him stranded on a desolate shore. Exhaustion, heavy and suffocating, washed over him. He drifted into the abyss, clutching at the remnants of the warmth, a phantom echo in the growing darkness.

The darkness, however, wasn't absolute. A new sensation, unfamiliar yet oddly comforting, brushed against his cheek. A rough texture, calloused yet gentle, replaced the smooth warmth of before. A muffled voice, different from the frantic chorus, rumbled nearby, a low hum that resonated deep within him. It wasn't the same lullaby, but the sound carried a soothing weight, a promise of safety.

He blinked, though sight was still a fuzzy notion. A blurry figure loomed above, shrouded in the dim light. Slowly, the figure resolved into a young man, his face etched with worry but his eyes holding a fierce determination. A hand, bigger and rougher than his mother's, reached down and scooped him up. The warmth wasn't the same – it was less a steady furnace and more a crackling fire, wild and unpredictable. Yet, it was warmth nonetheless, and in his confused state, it offered a fragile anchor.

The young man spoke again, his voice thicker with emotion than the lullaby ever was.

"Hey there, little guy," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly. "Looks like it's just you and me now."

Though he didn't understand the words, the raw vulnerability in the voice calmed a sliver of the terror gnawing at him.

He settled into the rough embrace, the confusion a dull ache in the face of this new, unfamiliar comfort. The world had been ripped apart, the comforting rhythm of his past life replaced by a terrifying symphony of chaos. Yet, in the midst of the storm, a new presence had emerged, a lifeline thrown across the wreckage.

His older brother, Taiga, would be the only constant he knew in this strange, new world, a beacon of warmth in the face of his haunting memories and the emptiness that followed his mother's absence.

Exhaustion, a heavy wave, crashed over him. The frantic symphony of the outside world faded into a distant hum. He clung to the rough warmth against his cheek, the unfamiliar texture a grounding presence amidst the chaos. Though confusion lingered, a dull ache throbbing in his tiny mind, a sliver of comfort bloomed. This new warmth, this steady rumble of a voice – it promised safety, a fragile haven in the storm.

His eyelids, heavy and unfamiliar, fluttered shut. Sleep, a mercifully dark oblivion, claimed him. He wouldn't remember the frantic voices, the chilling absence of his mother's embrace. The fragmented memories would remain, a haunting echo in the years to come. But for now, nestled against his older brother, Taiga, a sense of security, however fragile, lulled him to sleep.

Taiga, his name a comforting rumble against the edge of his dreams, would become his anchor. The world might be a confusing, frightening place, but with Taiga by his side, he wouldn't have to face it alone. He drifted deeper into sleep, a single, primal thought anchoring him – this young man would take care of everything.


The world unfurled before Shugo like a fantastical storybook, a stark contrast to the fragmented memories of war that gnawed at his tiny mind. Gone were the battlescapes of screaming metal and choked whispers; replaced by a kaleidoscope of vibrant heroes defying gravity and children levitating objects in playgrounds. Confusion mingled with a flicker of awe, but the echoes of his past never truly faded.

Taiga, his older brother and sole guardian, became his rock. The rough, calloused hand that brushed against his was a constant source of comfort. Days bled into weeks, then months, and with each passing day, Shugo learned more about this world – a world where extraordinary abilities called Quirks were as commonplace as hair color. Unlike the constant threat of violence that had haunted his past life, this one pulsed with a sense of wonder and possibility. A spark of curiosity ignited within him, pushing past the lingering fear of the unknown.

However, the shadows of his past cast a long one. Although drawn to the vibrant world around him, Shugo found himself drawn even more to the comfort of his brightly colored books. The weight of them in his small hands felt reassuring, the smooth pages a stark contrast to the rough terrain of his memories. He devoured fantastical stories, tales of brave heroes and faraway lands, each adventure transporting him far from the battlefield echoes that haunted his dreams.

The characters became his companions, their victories offering a sliver of hope, their friendships a balm to his burgeoning loneliness. Yet, a bittersweet pang often lingered. The stories, filled with laughter and camaraderie, emphasized the starkness of his own isolation. He yearned for a connection that mirrored what he read, a camaraderie forged through shared experiences and laughter. But his quiet nature and the weight of his past kept him at arm's length from other children.

The nights offered little solace. The darkness, once familiar and filled with the lullaby of battle, now morphed into a terrifying canvas. Shrill alarms replaced gunshots, and the metallic scent of blood lingered in his dreams. He'd wake up gasping, tears clinging to his lashes, a primal fear clawing at his throat. Taiga would be there, his presence a soothing anchor in the storm, his voice a gentle rumble that calmed the tremors in Shugo's small body.

Despite the nightmares and the gnawing loneliness, a flicker of hope remained within him. Perhaps, within the pages of his beloved books and the world of these real-life heroes, he could find the tools he needed to navigate his own reality. Maybe, someday, he could bridge the gap between the fantastical worlds of stories, the vibrant world of Quirks, and the world of heroes, finding a place where his love for knowledge, his yearning for connection, and the echoes of his past could all coexist. It wouldn't erase the scars, but in this world of Quirks and wonder, a small part of him dared to believe he could rewrite his story.

At four years old, Shugo was a complex web of contradictions. He devoured books with an almost preternatural hunger, soaking up knowledge like a sponge. He could identify different hero costumes from a single glimpse, recite detailed strategies from historical battles (learned from his beloved war stories), and even sketch surprisingly intricate diagrams of Quirks he saw on television. Taiga marveled at his little brother's intellect, a stark contrast to the quiet, withdrawn child he often saw.

However, the shadows of his past life still loomed large. Nightmares remained a constant torment. The darkness would morph into a battlefield he barely understood, filled with the metallic tang of blood and the deafening roar of explosions. He'd wake up screaming, clinging to Taiga, his tiny body wracked with sobs. Taiga, despite being only a teenager himself, held him close, whispering reassurances and singing lullabies that spoke of peace and a brighter future.

The disconnect between Shugo's intellectual brilliance and his emotional vulnerability was stark. He yearned for the camaraderie depicted in his stories, but his social interactions remained awkward and hesitant. Playground games felt chaotic, filled with a cacophony of shouts and laughter he found overwhelming. Other children, sensing his unease, kept their distance. The books offered comfort, a predictable world where heroes always triumphed and battles followed clear rules. Real life, however, held no such guarantees.

One sunny afternoon, while nestled in a corner of the library, Shugo stumbled upon a different kind of story – a biography of a hero known as Eraserhead. The man in the picture looked tired, his eyes crinkled with experience. Unlike flashy heroes with dazzling Quirks, Eraserhead relied on strategy and analysis to subdue villains. A spark ignited within Shugo. Perhaps, within the realm of heroes, there was a place for someone like him – someone who observed, analyzed, and strategized, not just someone who wielded flashy powers.

The book became his latest obsession. He devoured it, meticulously studying Eraserhead's tactics, his victories, and his losses. A newfound determination flickered in his eyes. He wouldn't let the darkness of his past define him. He would become a hero, not of war, but of strategy and knowledge, using the nightmares of his past to forge a brighter future, not just for himself, but for the world around him. The path wouldn't be easy, but with every page turned and every hero analyzed, Shugo took another small step towards bridging the gap between the fantastical worlds of stories, the vibrant world of Quirks, and the world of heroes. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a place where his book smarts, his lingering fear, and his unwavering spirit could all coexist and create a hero unlike any other.

And it was with this thought, that his own Quirk manifested for the first time.


The morning light slipped through the gaps in the blinds, tracing a path of muted gold across Shugo's face, coaxing his eyes open to a brand new day. Except this day began not with the usual serenity but with discomfort that caught Shugo off guard — a searing pain in his throat that seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart.

He lay there for a moment, hoping it was just a remnant of a bad dream, but each attempt at swallowing confirmed the reality. His past, with its shadows and echoes of another self, often felt like an ache in his soul. But this was different. This was physical and acute.

From the adjacent room, Taiga burst in with the suddenness of a summer storm, his features pinned with concern. Somehow, the muscled red-haired man (barely in his twenties, really) always seemed to have an instinct whenever his younger brother needed his help.

"You okay?" he asked, golden eyes sweeping over Shugo's huddled form, stepping closer and kneeling beside the bed.

Shugo opened his mouth to respond, but the raspy whisper that escaped his lips betrayed the state he was in. The look in Taiga's eyes shifted; protective instincts that had always been there, ever since they were left to lean only on each other, flared to life.

"Don't try to speak. Nod if it hurts a lot," Taiga instructed, his own voice steady but slicing through the tension with urgency. Shugo managed a weak nod, gingerly touching his neck.

Without another word, Taiga swept into action. He gathered their necessary belongings with a well-practiced efficiency that spoke volumes of the times he'd been a caretaker. Taiga was always the shield, the protector, the one who pieced things back together. Today was no exception.

Taiga helped Shugo dress, supporting him cautiously, as if he were made of the most fragile glass. There were no protests from Shugo; the pain was enough to curb his usual insistence on handling things alone. With one arm securing Shugo, Taiga guided them both out of their sanctuary and into the brightness of the day.

The ride to the hospital was a tense one. Their old car's engine grumbled and coughed as if in symphony with Shugo's silent grimaces. Every bump in the road seemed magnified, each stoplight an eternity as Shugo felt the warmth of the morning sun turn his discomfort to a stifled inferno.

Upon reaching the hospital, Taiga's voice was calm and measured as he spoke to the receptionist, explaining the situation with a few concise words. Nurses whisked Shugo away into a stark white examination room, while Taiga paced back and forth, waiting. He fished out his phone to call his workplace, explaining he would not make it in today due to a medical emergency. His thumb lingered over the end call button before he slipped the device back into his pocket and resumed his vigil by the door.

Minutes stretched within the sterile walls of the waiting area. Taiga's palms were balled into fists, knuckles white, his mind racing with possibilities he couldn't mute. Despite the gnawing worry, he kept a facade of composure for Shugo's sake; he'd always been the pillar for his younger brother to lean on.

Back in the examination room, medical professionals murmured around Shugo as they inspected his throat, palpated gently, and asked questions he could only answer with a nod or a painful attempt at speech. The harsh white light above seemed to spotlight his vulnerability.

Eventually, the doctor offered a diagnosis: acute laryngitis, likely exacerbated by overuse. A result of something more than just a cold—a consequence, perhaps, of a simple cold. Rest, they said, was imperative, coupled with medication to soothe and heal.

When Taiga was allowed back to see Shugo, the slew of emotions was clear in his gaze, though he kept his voice level for his brother's comfort.

"You're going to be alright," Taiga reassured, reading the doctor's instructions as Shugo listened, a blanket of relief beginning to smother the flames of pain.

The ride home was quieter than the one to the hospital. Taiga's glances were frequent and full of unspoken words of comfort. Shugo, in turn, offered a small smile, the kind that in their world said more than a hundred words.

Back home, Shugo took to his bed with Taiga's help, medications lined up on the nightstand and instructions pinned to the fridge. The relief of being home manifested in a silent exhale from Shugo as he sank deeper into the pillows, Taiga's presence a reassuring constant at the door, watching over him.

This pain, though new and unexpected, had not come with the force of a life-or-death battle. It was something manageable, a test of their bond in the face of everyday adversity. And as Taiga sat by his side, reading out the doctor's instructions in a gentle cadence, Shugo knew that no matter the challenges his voice might wield, he would never face them alone — not with Taiga there as his unwavering protector.

As Shugo settled into the soft nest of blankets, the midday daylight bathing the room in a serene glow, Taiga moved closer. He placed a reassuring hand on Shugo's shoulder, his grip both firm and gentle—a silent promise of security.

"Take it easy, okay? Just focus on getting better," Taiga spoke softly, his voice imbued with a strength that defied the chaos of the day. "Rest your voice... I'm here for you. Always."

Shugo nodded, the pain in his throat a stark contrast to the warmth spreading in his chest from Taiga's words. As Taiga stepped out to prepare some tea, Shugo's gaze wandered to the window, the world outside bursting with life and noise. The room, however, was filled with a silence that beckoned memories of another time, of another life. The solemn echo of boots on the ground, a firm pat on the back before a mission, the muted conversations in the bunk at night—ghosts of camaraderie that stretched across lifetimes.

Each memory brought forth the faces of his comrades-in-arms, brave and resolute—soldiers who had fought and laughed and bled beside him. They were the brothers of his past life, etched into the fabric of his being, shadows that never quite receded in the light of his current existence. In them, he had found a bond forged in the crucible of war, a brotherhood that had sustained him until fate intervened, and all was lost.

But there was Taiga. His brother— not by blood, history nor the battlefield—but through the shared tears and laughter of a life that had been unkind yet beautiful in its giving of each other. Taiga was the embodiment of the loyalty and strength of Shugo's past comrades, yet he was so much more. Where the soldiers of his past life had been his shield in the face of external adversaries, Taiga was his anchor in the turbulence of existence. He was the calm in the storm, the steady hand in a world that never stopped turning.

Taiga returned with a tray, the scent of herbal tea filling the small room, carrying a subtle promise of healing and renewed strength. He set it down and, like those soldiers who would've done the same, ensured Shugo was comfortable: the pillow adjusted, the blanket pulled up just right, the mug placed within easy reach.

"Anything else you need?" Taiga asked, though his actions had already spoken volumes.

"No," Shugo attempted, his voice a harsh whisper, but he offered a small shake of his head to ease his brother's concern. The word was a brittle sound, strained and barely there, but Taiga understood.

Shugo watched as Taiga nodded, accepting the silence, and took a seat beside the bed. Shugo's eyes closed as he allowed the warmth from the mug and the presence of his brother to envelop him, and his mind cascaded back into the reverie of comrades long gone.

There was a certain comfort in this comparison, like matching pieces of different puzzles that somehow fit together. His past life's comrades had given him a foundation of bravery and selflessness he'd carried through reincarnation, the essence of which he saw reflected in Taiga's every action.

As slumber crept upon him, whisking him away from the quiet room and into the realm of dreams, Shugo held onto a single thought—a thread connecting his past and present: 'Brothers in arms, brothers by chance, brothers by choice—In every life, you've been my protector.'

In the quiet comfort of the room, Taiga pulled a well-worn book from the shelf, the spine cracked from years of being held and read. The calm of the moment was pierced only by the faint sounds of life from the city outside, drifting through the open window with the occasional cool breeze of the passing day.

"Hey, I found this," Taiga said, handing the book to Shugo. "Remember how you used to love this one? Think it might help to pass the time, even if you can't read it aloud right now."

Shugo's eyes lit up with a spark of gratitude and nostalgia. He ran his fingers over the cover, remembering the escapades and adventures locked within the pages. Even if he couldn't use his voice without causing further strain, the words themselves were a balm to his spirit.

Taiga pulled up a chair and sat beside Shugo's bed, picking up another book for himself.

"I'll stay here and read with you. You need the company anyway," he dismissed Shugo's concerns about his work responsibilities with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "They'll manage without me for a day or two. Besides," he glanced at Shugo with a slight smirk, "who else is going to make sure you actually rest and drink your tea?"

They settled into a comfortable silence, each lost within their own literary worlds. Shugo's gaze occasionally strayed from his book to watch Taiga. Despite his protests, he admired Taiga's unwavering dedication to family, always placing Shugo's wellbeing above his own. The thought warmed him, dissolving the worry that had knotted in his chest.

The afternoon drifted lazily into evening, signaled by the shifting light and the deepening shadows that played across the walls. The pile of consumed tea cups on the nightstand grew as the hours passed, each a testament to Taiga's vigilant care.

Taiga looked up from his book and noticed the transition of light, how the room had grown dim with the setting sun. He bookmarked his page and stood, stretching his limbs before moving to switch on the lamp. The soft light cast a cozy glow over the pair, cocooning them in its warmth as the city beyond their small apartment began to twinkle to life with the night's first stars.

"You should've gone to work," Shugo whispered hoarsely, a frown creasing his brow with concern.

Taiga shook his head, dismissing Shugo's worries once more. "Taking care of you is my priority," he replied firmly. "Work will always be there, but we've only got one shot at this brother thing, and I want to make sure I do it right."

Shugo's resistance waned under the truth in Taiga's words, the sincerity in his voice acting as a soothing balm, just as comforting as the tea that had been warming his hands and throat. With a grateful smile and a nod, Shugo accepted the care his brother offered, finding peace in the truth that their familial bond took precedence over the humdrum concerns of daily life.

As twilight blended into the deep blue of a night sky, the two brothers found solace in each other's quiet company. The world outside continued on, oblivious to the small sanctuary of brotherhood within the four walls of their shared space. No more words were needed; their presence was a language unto itself.

Shugo would occasionally glance up from his book to find Taiga's eyes on him, a silent check-in that needed no vocalization. And every time, Shugo would nod or give a small smile, assurances that he was alright, that Taiga's efforts weren't in vain.

Though the pain in his throat was a stark reminder of his current vulnerability, the pain of his past seemed distant, dulled by the care and love dealt by Taiga's diligent hands. They spent the day, afternoon, and evening together, a quiet affirmation of their unspoken vows to always be there for one another.

As they turned the pages of their respective books, they also turned a page in their lives—each moment spent together strengthening the bond forged by choice, a brotherhood that ran deeper than blood or battle, defined by shared memories and the quiet, steadfast care that Taiga showed without reservation. It was a bond that Shugo knew would endure, a constant presence in a life filled with uncertainties.

And when sleep claimed them, books laid aside and the stillness of night surrounding them, Shugo slept with the comforting knowledge that when dawn broke, Taiga would still be there—just as he always had been, just as he always would be.

The silence of the night was a curtain over the world, muffling the sounds of the living city until it seemed a universe distant. Within the fragile tranquility of his room, Shugo's breathing was steady, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign of the storm that brewed within his dreams.

Dreams. No, not dreams—nightmares; vivid, violent, unyielding. They descended upon him like a shroud, smothering every vestige of peace that daylight and brotherhood had promised. His mind, a treacherous vault of bygone sorrow, unraveled images steeped in fear and failure.

There was the girl, her eyes wide with terror, reaching out for a salvation he could not give. His feet were rooted to the spot, helplessly watching as shadowy beings snatched the light from her eyes, leaving behind a hollowness that echoed through his bones. Then, his comrades—fearless, indomitable spirits—embattled and overwhelmed, their bodies twisted in grotesque forms, faces distorted by an agony no mortal should endure. Beasts, not of this world, rending flesh and spirit alike, gnashing teeth painted with the crimson of those he held dear.

Shugo jerked awake, a silent scream lodged in his aching throat. Sweat beaded his forehead, chilling rapidly against the nocturnal air as he scrambled to untangle himself from the suffocating confines of his bed sheets.

Alone, and scared.

The mediator between day and night, reality and reminiscence, had shattered, leaving him stranded amidst the fragments of a life once lived. His pulse hammered in his ears, a maddening rhythm that threatened to push his senses back into the abyss from which he'd just emerged.

He reached out, fumbling for the lamp, craving the sanctuary of light—but his questing hand found only the void. Panic threatened to slip its skeletal fingers around his heart as the darkness pressed in, impenetrable and mocking.

"Taiga..." he rasped, a whisper-thin plea to the emptiness.

But Taiga was not there—he had slipped away to his own room after ensuring Shugo had fallen asleep, confident that his brother was settled for the night.

With an effort that belied his trembling limbs, Shugo swung his legs out of bed. The cool floorboards beneath his feet anchored him to the present, to the safety of his home, a lifeline amidst the roiling sea of his mind.

Laboriously, he pushed himself upright, the room tilting disorientingly around him as he placed one foot in front of the other, an unsteady trek towards the sanctuary of light he knew resided just outside his bedroom door.

The hallway was a tunnel, an ethereal passage that stretched before him, dimly lit by the faint glow of the city lights filtering in through the windows. The darkness was a tangible force, pooling in the corners and threatening to spill back over him, but he pressed forward, driven by the primal need for the comfort of his brother's presence.

He found Taiga's door ajar, the same streaks of ambient light casting long, slanted shadows across the room within. Taiga lay there, oblivious to the turmoil that had seized Shugo, his breath even in sleep's embrace. The sight was a stark contrast to the chaos that lingered in Shugo's mind, grounding in its normalcy.

Shugo's heart was a restless drummer setting a fierce beat against his chest, his breath catching in the aftermath of the nightmare. The pull towards Taiga's room, where he knew solace waited in the form of his brother's steady presence, was a strong one. But he hesitated, a stubborn flicker of independence sparking within him. He did not want to drag Taiga down with the weight of his own haunted past, not when his brother had already shouldered so much on his behalf.

Shivering under the residue of his dread, he willed his body to move—not towards the sanctuary of familial comfort, but towards the shelf where his mind could find refuge in other ways. His fingers trailed along the spines of countless books before they gripped onto the familiar texture of the volume he sought—a book of Eastern mythology, its pages filled with gods and warriors, creatures of legend and tales of valor.

The decision to face his fears alone was a quiet declaration of his own resolve, a testament to the belief that he could wrestle his demons into submission just as the heroes of old had grappled with their fates.

With the book clutched tight, as if it were a shield against the night, Shugo returned to his bed. The lamp on the nightstand cast away the lingering shadows as he opened the volume to a passage he had read many times before—an epic where heroes overcame the impossible, where their strength and courage turned the tides of their battles.

The words leaped from the pages and began to weave a spell around him. Mythic battles unfolded behind his eyes, the trials of deities and the valor of mythical beasts acting as a balm to soothe the raw edges of his psyche. These stories, while vast and fantastical, held within them a core of human struggle and triumph that Shugo connected with on a visceral level.

Each line he read was a stepping stone away from the grip of his nightmare, dragging him back from the edge of his own darkness. In place of the girl he could not save, he envisioned tenacious goddesses wielding power with wisdom and grace. In place of his fallen comrades' mutilated forms, he saw undying spirits rising anew to fight another day. In place of the beasts of his night terrors, he encountered dragons that were majestic and wise, symbols of strength and good fortune rather than heralds of destruction.

He immersed himself into these ancient stories until the constricting fear that had stolen his breath began to wane, replaced by a calming sense of perspective. The mythical figures in his book had faced their own demons, both literal and metaphorical, and through cunning, bravery, and determination, they had emerged victorious. These were the archetypes of resilience and fortitude—qualities that Shugo aspired to embody amid the chaos of both his past and present lives.

The words he read seemed to resonate with a deeper truth, each character's journey echoing the path he himself walked. Just as these mythical heroes had reached within to find the strength to conquer their adversaries, Shugo, too, sought to muster the courage to overcome the specters of his own memories.

Shugo's trembling fingers paged clumsily through the heavy tome, the whisper of old paper seeming extraordinarily loud in the dead of night. The detailed ink illustrations and dense text spoke of heroes and deities, creatures, and legends that spanned the width and breadth of ancient Eastern mythology. With each character's tale, he felt a gradual return of composure, the words a reassuring mantra against the darkness that loomed both within and without.

As he settled into his rhythm, the lamp's glow embracing him like a sentinel warding off the remnants of his shaken state, his eyes fell upon an extensively detailed paragraph about Zhulong—the Dragon of Light, a magnificent deity whose body was said to usher in the day and whose eyes reflected the brightness of the sun itself.

Drawn by a blend of reverence and a burgeoning curiosity, Shugo traced the lines about this majestic mythological figure. Each description of Zhulong's omnipotence and command over light and day offered a stark contrast to the gloom that clung to the corners of his room and the shadows of his mind.

The temptation tugged at Shugo, a dangerous and thrilling urge. His past reluctance when it came to his quirk was always there, a constant hum at the back of his mind, a reminder of the responsibility that power entailed. But the allure of the story before him, of the magnificent creature it described, felt different. It beckoned not just to the power of his quirk but also to the craving for light that his nightmare had birthed.

Delicately, almost reverently, Shugo began to read aloud, the pain in his throat completely forgotten. The words felt foreign on his tongue, cracked and hoarse from disuse and the vestiges of his illness. Yet with each syllable spoken, a new warmth seemed to enter the room, the lamp appearing to burn brighter, the shadows to shrink back in awe.

Eyes wide in disbelief and wonder, Shugo continued, his voice gaining strength, sounding out the ancient text that described Zhulong in vivid detail. And then, as the last word hung in the air, it happened.

As Shugo uttered the last syllable, a silence filled the room—a deep, expectant stillness that seemed to press against his ears. He watched, his heart hammering in his chest, as the shimmering air took on a more ominous quality. It twisted and writhed, an incandescent whirlwind that cast the room into a stark contrast of light and darkness.

The temperature rose rapidly, heat radiating from the epicenter of the distortion as if the air itself were set ablaze. Shugo's eyes were locked onto the phenomena, his mind racing to comprehend the consequences of the words he'd so boldly spoken. The warning remnants of his earlier fear crept back with a vengeance, flooding his senses with a chilling premonition.

The form that appeared before Shugo, smaller than expected due to the size of the room, was not the benevolent Dragon of Light from the sacred texts. Instead, he had summoned a manifestation of Zhulong twisted by the fear that still lingered in the depths of his soul—a dangerous, unpredictable entity that bore the fury of an ancient, celestial force.

Its eyes were not the luminous, life-giving orbs he had read about, but rather the turbulent red of smoldering coals, glaring down at Shugo with fierce, otherworldly malevolence. The walls shook as the room was filled with a deafening roar, a sound that resonated with the primal power of creation and destruction intertwined.

Shugo tried to back away, terror rooting him to the spot as the dragon's maw gaped open, revealing depths that seemed to shimmer with the ferocity of the sun. With a force that seemed to warp the very fabric of reality, the creature lunged for him, a wild, untamed being of legend born from his voice, yet beyond his control.

In a desperate scramble, Shugo's mind worked furiously. His quirk, his unique ability to manifest the written word, had never before twisted so terrifyingly out of his grasp. But in summoning Zhulong with the shadow of his nightmares imprinted upon his heart, he had inadvertently imbued the creature with an aggressive will of its own.

The room was awash in the eerie, violent light of the dragon's being. Its form, a chaotic blend of ethereal and solid, slithered and surged through the restricted space, a living storm of mythic rage seeking to consume him. Furniture was tossed aside with the careless force of its thrashing movements, the tranquility of the night shattered by its presence.

Fear churned in Shugo's mind, parts of his vision darkened amidst the blinding glare of confusion as Zakuro charged at him, its form both ethereal and horrifyingly tangible. The dragon, an ancient entity of myth, now pulsed with a malevolent intent foreign to the tales that had spoken of its enlightenment and dignity.

In a desperate act of defense, Shugo threw up his arms, words from the book still etched in his mind, words he thought would calm and appease the great beast he had so recklessly conjured. But the creature from the depths of Eastern mythology was not to be soothed by mere fragments of spoken incantations. Its cosmic anger, unwittingly skewed by the darkness lingering in Shugo's waking nightmare, lashed out, the air cracking with the energy that surged from its mighty jaws.

Heat blistered around him as if the very oxygen were aflame. The constriction of danger, the impulse of survival, screamed at Shugo to act. His voice, strained and damaged from previous strain and the remnants of his illness, was a feeble weapon against the onslaught.

In this moment of terror, with the unleashed harbinger of an ancient era bearing down upon him, thoughts of Taiga—his protector, his unwavering anchor—flashed across his frenzied mind. The bond they shared, the countless times Taiga had stepped in to shield him from the fallout of his own power, now seemed an insurmountable distance away.

"Taiga!" he choked out, although it was less a call for help and more a word of warning, his voice barely rising above a whisper. His thoughts were a maelstrom, yet amidst the unfurling chaos, a kernel of understanding began to dawn. This nightmare of his creation was bound to the same force that had brought it forth—his quirk.

Shugo knew that he had to reassert control, to somehow reach within himself and find the words capable of unmaking what he had inadvertently wrought. Summoning all the focus and determination that had previously seen him through the dangers of his past life, he strained to remember a passage, a counter-incantation, any series of words that might undo the horror he had summoned.

But as the images of his comrades—fallen and fading—flashed across his vision, and as the inhuman roar of Zhulong filled his ears, Shugo realized with a sinking heart that there were no words at his disposal. No written appeals or verbal commands potent enough to reel in the vengeful spirit of a deity made manifest by his own latent and unmastered abilities.

Zhulong's form seemed to swell with each pulse of its celestial heart, the energy radiating from the dragon threatening to tear the very seams of reality. In its eyes flickered a reflection of Shugo's deepest fears, the agony of past loss, and the horrors that bound the creature to his psyche.

The dragon reared back, the heat of its breath like the surface of the sun, preparing to unleash a maelstrom upon the room, upon Shugo, the summoner who had inadvertently crossed the boundaries of human and divine. Time seemed to suspend, each second stretching into a small eternity, fate poised on the edge of a knife.

And then, as the dragon lunged forward, the door to Shugo's room flew open with a crashing force.

"Shugo!"

The familiar voice of Taiga, laced with panic and brotherly fear, sliced through the chaos. With a speed born of countless emergencies, Taiga assessed and reacted, his instincts driving his actions. Shugo's desperation had given way to numb shock, his body rigid and unresponsive to the primitive urge to flee or to fight.

Taiga, with eyes wide at the realization of what Shugo had somehow managed to bring forth, dove toward his brother. He wrapped his arms around Shugo, pulling him away from the path of Zhulong's wrath, the two of them tumbling to the floor just as a gout of incandescent flame washed over the spot where Shugo had stood moments before.

The dragon roared in fury, the sound reverberating against the walls, a tangible force that threatened to shatter bone and burst eardrums. But the intervention had shifted something, the introduction of Taiga's living, breathing presence disrupting the connection between Shugo and the creature of myth.

"Shugo, you need to unsummon this thing!" Taiga yelled over the din, his voice a lifeline in the tempest as he sheltered his brother's body with his own.

How, Shugo's mind cried out in despair, when he could barely comprehend the force he had called into being, let alone command it? But Taiga's words, his presence, sparked a resurgence of will in Shugo—a deep-seated need to protect as fervently as he was protected.

Beneath Taiga's solid frame, Shugo reached inward, groping through the panic and pain for the essence of his quirk, for the power he had so recklessly wielded. His lips moved soundlessly, shaping words of retraction, of abjuration, anything that would reverse the summoning of the malevolent Zhulong before them.

Taiga understood; his brother was attempting to rescind the call, but nothing was happening. Zhulong's form seethed with barely contained fury, the room growing hotter, the very air vibrating with the dragon's wrath. It was clear that trying to voice another command was futile—Shugo's raspy whispers lost in the cacophony.

Without thought, Taiga acted on instinct again, his hands finding Shugo's, anchoring him with a touch that had always been his guide in darker times.

"Focus, Shugo!" Taiga implored. "You can do this. I'm with you. I'm here."

Shugo's erratic breaths hitched. He was Shugo, yes, but he was also someone who had seen battlefields dissolve into torment, someone who had felt the biting sting of loss, and through all of it, Taiga had been his constant, his compass in the storm. Now, as reality frayed at the edges, Taiga's voice was the thread he clung to, his lifeline through the flames.

The book that had catalyzed this disaster lay discarded, its pages fluttering in the heat-wind. Shugo turned inward, mining the depths of his memory for anything that could remedy his dire mistake. The myths he knew so well, the incantations and lore, danced at the edge of his consciousness.

He needed something to sever the link, to break the chain that now bound Zhulong to his world. Words had power—this much he knew. Even unspoken, they held weight.

In a desperate bid, Shugo closed his eyes, Taiga's grip like a vice upon his hands, and he concentrated on the image of Zhulong, not as the beast of destruction before him, but as the majestic and benign deity of Eastern mythology. He focused on the need to unmake, to return the creature to the realm of stories and legends whence it came.

His mind's voice, silent but potent, recited the earliest lines of the book, the words that had described a cosmos of order and harmony, where beings such as Zhulong were guardians, not destroyers. He poured every ounce of will into the mental incantation, envisioning the dragon receding, diminishing, unraveling. The words of the incantation swirled in Shugo's consciousness, a mental whirlwind that clashed with the palpable fury of the Zhulong he had summoned. Taiga's hands anchored him to reality, to the here and now, as the dragon before them reared in an outraged howl, its form flickering unstably. The menacing glare in its eyes seemed to penetrate into the very soul, seeking out the defiance that challenged its existence.

Shugo's silent recitation grew more fervent, the scenes of peaceful sovereignties and respectful deities flowing through his internal monologue. He envisioned Zhulong not as a creature of wrath, but as one of regal bearing, narrating its purpose and place within the pantheon of benevolent gods, protectors of mankind.

The room trembled with the force of two opposing powers, volatility against serenity. Taiga's voice cut through once more, a clear note of authority that had often directed Shugo out of harm's way. "Let it go, Shugo. Let it all go!"

In that moment of absolute scrutiny, Shugo relinquished the hold his fear had upon him. He released the burdens of his past life, the failures, and the losses that had inadvertently manifested into the violent facsimile of Zhulong. His mind reached for the mythical essence of the dragon, the tale of light and rebirth.

With a crescendo of unseen might, the room darkened momentarily as if to gather all remnants of light, before releasing them in an explosive radiance. There was a sensation of compression, then release — and where Zhulong had once roiled with anger, there was a sudden absence.

Shugo's silent words had found their mark, severing the bond between his quirk and the manifested creature. The unsummoning was complete. The heat dissipated as quickly as it had risen, leaving behind only the soft, ambient glow of the lamp, which palely illuminated the disheveled room, now silent but for the brothers' labored breathing.

Taiga and Shugo remained locked in their embrace, both stunned by the event's abrupt conclusion. They were battered, sweat-soaked, and wide-eyed, gazing at the space where Zhulong had once been, now vacant and harmless. The danger had passed, but the adrenaline that coursed through their bodies was yet to ebb away.

Only slowly did they begin to disentangle from one another, Taiga's expression an intricate web of relief and concern "Shugo, talk to me," Taiga urged, his voice gentle now—free of the command that had driven them through the tempest of Shugo's nightmare-made-real. He scanned his brother's features for signs of the ordeal, the emotional and physical toll it had taken.

Shugo, still halfway lost in a daze, forced his thoughts to reorder themselves, to return to the mundane reality of his bedroom, now disrupted and bearing the marks of the chaos that he had, unwittingly, invited in. "I'm... I'm here," he managed to stammer out, his voice a raw whisper. The room and everything within it seemed unreal after the existential struggle they had just endured.

Together, the brothers sat amidst the upheaval—the remnants of Shugo's personal mythology scattered about, evidence of the power that words, conjured from the right voice, could wield. It left a hollow echo within Shugo, a reminder of the responsibility he bore for his ability and its potential consequences.

They were quiet for a moment, catching their breaths, the stillness punctuated by Shugo's soft coughs and the distant hum of life from outside their window. It was Taiga who broke the silence first, the concern in his voice clear and sharp. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. We need to figure out how to control it, Shugo. Before it..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken ending lingering between them like a specter.

Shugo knew the weight of Taiga's words, the gravity of what had almost come to pass. "I know," he concurred, his voice barely above a murmur, battling the tightness in his chest and the tremor in his limbs. "I never meant... I thought I was just reading, not..."

"It's okay," Taiga reassured, though the night's event was anything but. He helped Shugo to his feet, steadying his trembling form. "We'll work through this, just like we always do. Together."

The 'together' was a balm to Shugo's rattled psyche. In his brother's support, he found an anchor amidst the storm of aftermath. Together, they began the slow process of tidying the room—a grounding activity, restoring order to their personal world even as the balance within Shugo continued to waver.

The aftermath of the encounter with Zhulong left the room in shambles, a stark testament to the power that had ravaged their home. Books strewn across the floor, furniture overturned or shattered, the walls scored by the wild fury of energy that had been loosed within their once-secure haven. It was a scene of destruction that mirrored the tumult within Shugo himself.

As Taiga held his brother, offering what comfort he could amidst the chaos, the signs of Shugo's deterioration were impossible to ignore. Shugo's hands flew to his throat, enveloping it in a feeble attempt to soothe the raw and burning pain that surged every time he swallowed. With a grimace etched deep into his youthful features, he doubled over, a hacking cough wrenching through his body.

Taiga's eyes widened in alarm as Shugo jerked away, a fresh bout of coughing taking hold. A droplet of blood splattered onto the debris-littered floor, a vivid splash of crimson that confirmed the gravity of Shugo's condition. More blood followed, dotting the remnants of the room with stark markers of Shugo's suffering.

"Shugo!" Taiga called out, his voice laced with panic. He reached out, his hands trembling as he grasped Shugo's shoulders, steadying his quaking form. "We need to get you to a hospital, now!"

The quiet of predawn was shattered by the urgency of the moment. Looking around, Taiga realized with a sinking heart that they couldn't stay in their ruined home, not with Shugo in such a dire state. Ignoring the devastation around them, Taiga acted with the decisiveness that had always defined him in times of crisis. Carefully, he wrapped an arm around Shugo's waist, bracing his brother's weight against his side.

As they shuffled through the remnants of their life, stepping over scattered memories and the detritus of their trauma, the early morning air greeted them with an indifferent chill. Shugo leaned heavily on Taiga, his breaths labored, the sound grating and wet—a portent of the damage that his vocal outburst had wrought.

Adrenaline fueled Taiga's steps, the hospital's image fixed firmly in his mind as he half-carried, half-guided Shugo down the stairs and into the quiet street. Each breath Shugo took was punctuated with a soft whimper of pain, the blood a stark reminder of his quirk's brutal cost when pushed beyond its limit.

With each step towards help, Taiga's mind raced with fear and regret. He cradled his brother closer to his side, whispering words of comfort that felt woefully inadequate in the face of Shugo's plight. They needed assistance—and fast.

The pre-dawn stillness of the street gave way to the first stirrings of life as the neighborhood began to awaken, unaware of the crisis unfolding. Taiga's focus remained sharp, each step driven by the need to get Shugo medical attention. The weight of his brother's body against his own was a constant reminder of the urgency.

As they approached the street, Taiga glanced at Shugo, whose pallor had deepened, his lips tinged with a worrying shade of blue. The sight spurred Taiga into action. He flagged down the first car he saw, desperation clear in his voice as he called for help.

The driver, startled by the spectacle of the two brothers—one supporting the other as blood dribbled down his chin—immediately recognized the severity of the situation. They offered their vehicle without hesitation, and Taiga eased Shugo into the backseat with great care, his grateful thanks murmured absently as his entire focus remained on his brother.

With the car speeding towards the nearest hospital, Taiga held Shugo's hand tightly, urging him to hang on. "Stay with me, Shugo. Just hold on a little longer," he implored, his voice hitching with emotion.

Shugo's eyes, clouded with pain and fading consciousness, locked onto Taiga's. In them, Taiga saw the fear and uncertainty that had overtaken his brother's usual quiet resolve. But he also saw trust—a depthless trust that Taiga would see him through this.

As the vehicle neared the hospital, the driver's urgent calls had ensured that medical staff were ready and waiting. The car screeched to a halt at the emergency entrance, and almost instantly, Shugo was swarmed by a team of professionals. They moved with practiced speed, transferring him onto a gurney and wheeling him inside as Taiga followed closely behind, his heart thudding with a mixture of fear and hope.

The crossover threshold into the antiseptic environment of the hospital was a blur for Taiga. He was dimly aware of signing forms, of voices asking him questions about insurance and next of kin, but his answers were automatic, the words pouring from him without thought. His mind and heart were in the room with Shugo, where doctors were already working to stabilize his condition.

Taiga watched helplessly as the medical team assessed Shugo, their hands swift and practiced as they inserted an IV line, attached monitoring equipment, and assessed his airway. Words like "laryngeal trauma" and "potential hemorrhage" filtered through the flurry of activity, amplifying Taiga's dread.

One of the doctors, clad in scrubs that seemed too pristine for the gravity of the situation, finally turned to address him. "We may need to intubate to secure his airway," she explained, her voice projecting a calm that Taiga found both reassuring and unnervingly detached. "He's lost a significant amount of blood, and we need to determine the extent of the damage to his throat." Her eyes, though kind, bore the weight of responsibility and the acknowledgment of the critical situation at hand.

Taiga nodded, his own voice locked behind a wall of concern so thick that words seemed insufficient to breach it. He stayed close, his presence a silent vow that echoed the one he had made countless times before: to never leave Shugo's side, especially not in his darkest hour.

As Shugo disappeared behind the swinging doors of the operating room, Taiga sank into the hard plastic of the waiting room chairs. The sterility of the hospital was a stark contrast to the domestic battlefield they'd left behind. His thoughts churned—a chaotic mixture of what-ifs and if-onlys, each one a sharp jab of guilt and fear.

Time trickled past at a mercilessly sluggish pace, each tick of the clock stretching into an eon as Taiga waited for news. Family members and friends began to trickle in, drawn by the urgency of his calls or texts, their faces etched with concern and questions that Taiga couldn't answer.

Finally, after an agonizing eternity, a surgeon emerged. The look on her face was carefully measured, and Taiga felt his entire world narrow down to the words that would fall from her lips.

"We've managed to stabilize him," she began, her voice steady and professional. "The hemorrhage in his throat was significant, but we've controlled the bleeding. We had to perform a tracheotomy to ensure his airway remained open. Inoue-kun will not be able to talk for some time, but he is strong, and with proper care and rest, recovery is possible. It's still too early to predict the long-term impact on his vocal cords, but we'll do everything we can. We'll continue to monitor him closely in the ICU."

Taiga let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, relief mingling with the lingering shroud of worry. The road ahead would be fraught with challenges, both for Shugo's physical recovery and the psychological toll of his quirk's drawbacks. The sense of helplessness that clung to Taiga was an uncomfortable cloak—far too heavy and far too tight.

He thought about the tracheotomy, an invasive procedure that would, for the time being, rob Shugo of his voice entirely. The inability to speak, to express even the simplest needs or desires, would be a trial all its own. And there was the bigger concern: Shugo's quirk depended on his ability to speak, to give voice to the words that activated its power.

How would his brother cope with this new reality? Would Shugo retreat into himself, or would he find a way to emerge from this ordeal with a new sense of purpose? The future was a murky landscape, obscured by too many unknowns.

"Can I see him?" Taiga asked, his voice unsteady with emotion.

The surgeon nodded. "Yes, but only for a few minutes. He's still under sedation. You can talk to him, though. Hearing a familiar voice could be beneficial."

Taiga followed her through the labyrinthine hallways of the hospital to the ICU, where Shugo lay in a quiet room, surrounded by the soft beeps and hums of medical equipment. Seeing his brother so pale and still, a bandage at his throat, was like a physical blow to Taiga.

He sat beside the bed, taking Shugo's hand gently into his own. "Hey," he whispered, throat tight with a torrent of unshed tears. "You're going to be okay. Just get some rest, and we'll figure things out when you wake up. You hear me? I'm here for you. Always."

He stayed with Shugo until a nurse gently touched his shoulder, indicating it was time to let his brother rest. With a final squeeze of Shugo's hand, Taiga rose, stepping back into the waiting room.


Days had passed since the incident with Zhulong, allowing both Shugo and Taiga some respite and time to process the harrowing events. Shugo, now in a more stable condition, was strong enough for conversation, though the tracheostomy meant that his 'voice' was now manifested through the subtle movements of lips and the scribbled notes on a pad of paper that Taiga read with care.

The doctors and specialists had been monitoring Shugo's recovery closely, understanding the unique situation his abilities presented. They had conducted several evaluations and consultations, piecing together a clearer picture of the implications of his quirk and the strain it put upon his physical body.

One afternoon, when the quiet of the hospital room felt particularly pronounced, the doctor who had been closely following Shugo's case stopped by for a visit. Her expression was a mix of professional concern and gentle empathy as she addressed the brothers.

Taiga, ever the guardian, moved closer to Shugo's bedside, an unspoken promise of support evident in his proximity. The doctor pulled up a chair, meeting the eyes of both brothers before she spoke.

"I've been reviewing your case thoroughly, Inoue-kun," she said, her tone conveying the seriousness of the conversation to come. "Your quirk is extraordinary, but as with any potent ability, it comes with its own set of risks. I can't stress enough the importance of moderation."

She glanced down at the notes she held, a detailed list of observations and medical recommendations. "We've identified two main drawbacks related to your quirk: vocal strain and literal interpretation. Both are significant and can have serious repercussions on your health."

Shugo's fingers tightened slightly on the sheets. He was all too aware of the first drawback, the Vocal Strain, having experienced its debilitating effects firsthand. He picked up his pad of paper and scribbled something quickly.

"I'm aware of the strain... painfully so," he wrote, a faint trace of wry humor in the wording.

The doctor gave a small, understanding nod. "Vocal strain is not something to be taken lightly. Extensive use of your quirk can rapidly harm your voice. Even short, powerful commands have left you hoarse, and what happened recently is a stark indicator of how dangerous overuse can be."

Shugo scribbled another note, asking a question he feared the answer to: "Will I recover fully?"

"We're hopeful," the doctor replied after reading his written words. "You're young, and your body has remarkable resilience. But there are no guarantees when it comes to healing, especially when the vocal cords are involved. We'll do everything we can to support your recovery, but you'll need to follow a strict regimen and avoid using your quirk until we're sure it's safe to do so."

The brothers exchanged a look, a mixture of relief and lingering apprehension passing between them.

"As for the literal interpretation," the doctor continued, "it's clear that your quirk requires precise language. Words are your tools, and the ambiguity can lead to unintended and dangerous outcomes. It's imperative to consider the ramifications of each word you utter when your quirk is active."

Taiga leaned forward, his protective instincts in full display. "So what's the long-term plan?" he asked. "How do we prevent something like this from happening again?"

The doctor took a deep breath, her eyes compassionate yet unwavering. "My first piece of advice is simple but crucial: refrain from using your quirk unless it's absolutely necessary. Your safety and the safety of those around you is the priority. And when you do use it, be meticulous with your language. Each word, each phrase, matters more than you might realize."

Shugo's quiet acceptance was palpable as he jotted down another note, showing it to the doctor and Taiga.

"I understand. I'll be careful," he wrote, the stark words betraying none of the complex emotions he must have been feeling.

"Good. I'm relieved to hear that," the doctor said. "We'll schedule regular check-ups to monitor your recovery and discuss your quirk in more detail. For now, rest is what you need."

With that, she stood, offering the brothers a final, reaffirming nod before exiting the room, leaving Taiga and Shugo to the silence once again.

Taiga reached for Shugo's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "We'll get through this," he said firmly. "Just like we always do."

Shugo nodded, squeezing back, the bond between the brothers as strong as ever. He knew that the path ahead would be a challenging one, with many obstacles and adjustments. But with Taiga by his side and the doctor's advice etched in his mind, he felt a renewed determination to navigate the complex relationship between his quirk and the life he wanted to lead.

In the stillness of the hospital room, Taiga and Shugo sat together—united in their resolve and in the knowledge that the profound power Shugo possessed was tempered by vulnerability and the necessity of restraint. The road to recovery would be one they traversed together, steps marked by understanding, care, and the unspoken promise to face whatever the future held, side by side.


A/N: Hello everyone, and welcome to Whispers of Fate, my new fanfic in My Hero Academia universe. This will be kind of a new try pretty similar to Unwanted Second Chance, which will be shortly deleted as I had no inspiration with that story.

Honestly, I'm much happier with this character. I have so many ideas with his Quirk (I already know how to name it), as it's a power that I've always wanted to have.

His past life will have some significance in the future, if only because it influences how he behaves around people and how he reacts to the new world he has in front of him. He'll face situations he's never faced before and react maybe in a different way than you'd expect. And maybe, just maybe, it'll come back to bite him in the arse… sooner or later. Oh, and despite having a past life, he does NOT know the My Hero Academia plot… if only because his past life makes it difficult to even know about manga at all.

Before you ask: there's no romance in this fic, like in my previous ones. There'd be lots of bromance, but little else. Angst, of course, given his background. Maybe some descriptive violence, but nothing too graphic. Of course, Bakugo's potty mouth forces me to put a T rating on this fanfic.

Apologies if the first part of the chapter feels rushed: I didn't find any reason to prolong the first four years of Shugo's life when he was just a baby and could do little to influence the environment around him. So I just went ahead and jumped to when he was four, and awakened his (maybe a bit overpowered) Quirk.

Anyways, I hope you liked this chapter, please let me know in the reviews what you think of it, please give constructive criticism.

And without further ado, I bid you adieu.