I am now fifteen years old, It's strange how time slips through your fingers when you're not paying attention—when your life follows a rhythm, a structure, a purpose. My thoughts have grown clearer, more refined. My emotions still run deep, but I've learned to tame them like a river channeled through stone.
And I have Sebastian to thank for that.
For the past ten years, he's honed me—not just physically, but mentally. We've trained in Krav Maga, Systema, Wing Chun, Bājíquán, and more. I used to think martial arts were about violence. Now, I understand they're about control—about making decisions with your body before your mind has the chance to falter.
Of course, control only gets you so far when you're a living battery of celestial power. My Quirk—or rather, what the world insists on calling a Quirk—is evolving steadily. At this stage, I have to seriously hold back during training with Sebastian, or it turns less into practice for me and more into a beatdown for my dear friend. It's different from a few years ago, when I was always the one bruised at the end of the day. Now, I can't even remember the last time I was truly exhausted after a full day of training.
"Straighten your stance, Elijah. Don't force the breath—feel it."
Sebastian's voice cut through the morning air like a chime, pulling me back from my thoughts. He stood across from me in our private dojo, posture perfect, hands clasped behind his back. His black training suit was immaculate despite the years.
I shifted my footing and aligned my shoulders, following his instruction.
He nodded. "Better. Again."
We moved in rhythm—strike, parry, twist, release. Each technique more complex than the last. Every morning was the same, and I loved it. The repetition, the subtle corrections—they refined me day by day.
When we finished, Sebastian commented on my performance.
"Your balance is improving," he said. "You're no longer overcommitting. I'm proud of your progress."
"I had a good teacher."
Sebastian smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting, but I could see the warmth in his eyes. It meant everything to me.
Later that day, I sat with my mother in the sunlit parlor. The air smelled faintly of jasmine, and the soft tinkling of the courtyard fountain drifted through the open windows. Evelyn Darkheart—the most elegant and terrifying woman in the country—sipped her tea with her usual grace.
"You've been quiet today," she said without looking up.
"I've been thinking."
She glanced at me over the rim of her porcelain cup, eyes narrowing slightly.
"About?"
"U.A. High."
Her hand stilled. For a moment, the world seemed to pause with it.
"You're serious."
"I am."
She set the cup down, the soft clink sounding louder than it should've.
"You don't need to be a hero, Elijah. You already carry the Darkheart name. You have wealth, legacy, power—"
"That's exactly why I need to go."
She blinked.
"I've been given everything," I continued. "Resources, training, love. But none of that means anything if I don't use at least some of it to help others. I want to protect people. I want to be tested—not by privilege, but by challenge."
Silence stretched between us.
Then she stood, walked to me, and placed a hand on my cheek. Her eyes glistened.
"You sound just like your father," she whispered. "And that terrifies me."
"You don't talk about Dad a lot," I said softly.
"Because it still hurts. Even after fifteen years, I still love him. I know how heroes are… and how foolishly many of them die."
As I looked at her, I saw the vulnerability she rarely showed. I placed my hand over hers, still on my cheek.
"I'm not like other heroes. Not only am I stronger, but I would never sacrifice my life for people I don't know. So don't worry too much—if there's ever someone I can't defeat, I'll run away. But no matter what, I will always return home alive."
"You promise?" she asked.
I nodded and whispered,
"Always."
She sat back down across from me, and after a few moments, we continued our conversation—this time about less serious things.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Somewhere beyond the estate walls, the steady chirp of crickets filled the air, mingling with distant conversations echoing across the city. But none of it disturbed me anymore. Instead, my gaze settled on the translucent blue screen hovering in the corner of my vision:
Name: Elijah Darkheart
Age: 15
Power Level: 8-A (without Aetherion)
7-B (with Aetherion)
Yes, I have finally managed to awaken Aetherion. As I suspected, it simply took time—and about a year ago, I succeeded in summoning it for the first time. The armor appeared as a radiant white-silver shell, intricately etched with gold accents that shimmered softly. When I wear it, I can enter what I call Solar Overload, a state that boosts my power level from 8-A to 7-B. Beyond the obvious strength increase, it serves as incredibly durable armor—at least for now. Like me, it's constantly absorbing solar energy, growing stronger and more resilient with every passing day.
But enough about me.
My friendship with Momo has been progressing quietly but steadily. She often comes over after school, and we spend those afternoons either studying or training together. It's rare to find someone who shares my drive and understands the burdens that come with it. Honestly, I'm grateful to have her as a friend.
Those were my last thoughts as I drifted to sleep.
It had been a few weeks since I told my mother about my decision to apply to U.A. High. The days passed in a blur of training, studying, and quiet anticipation. And now, as I stepped out of the shower, I found myself staring at my reflection in the fogged mirror.
I had to admit—I liked what I saw.
I stood tall at 188 centimeters—just over 6'2"—my physique lean and honed. My muscles weren't bulky, but defined and built for speed and precision. Still, I knew the raw power behind them was more than enough to bring a building down like a house of cards if I didn't hold back. On the left side of my chest, etched over my pectoral muscle, was a tattoo: a pentagram encircled by a sun—an old symbol from a life long past. A quiet reminder.
My hair had grown out slightly, tousled and unruly now, framing my sharp features. Crimson eyes stared back at me—familiar, unwavering. There was a quiet intensity behind them that hadn't been there years ago.
I dressed quickly: a short-sleeved, button-up black shirt worn open over a fitted black T-shirt. Black pants and matching sneakers completed the outfit. Functional. Sleek. Me.
Leaving my room, I made my way toward the dining room, where Sebastian was already waiting—ever the dutiful sentinel of my mornings.
"Good morning, Sebastian," I greeted as I entered.
"Good morning, young master. I've prepared your breakfast just how you like it," he said with a respectful nod.
"Thank you. Honestly, I don't know what I'd do without you."
As I sat down, he poured tea into my cup with practiced grace.
"You'd probably starve at some point," he replied dryly.
I chuckled—because he was absolutely right.
"Is Mother still overseas?" I asked between bites.
"Yes, but she should be back by the time you return," he answered calmly.
I gave a small nod of understanding. The morning continued in comfortable silence. A few minutes later, after finishing the last bite of toast and sipping the final drops of tea, I stood and made my way outside.
My motorcycle waited for me like a beast eager to run.
The CFMoto SR-C21 gleamed under the morning sun—sleek, dark, and humming with suppressed energy. I pulled on the custom helmet I had designed and built myself, then mounted the bike, gripping the handles.
"Good luck, young master," Sebastian called after me from the front steps.
I didn't need luck—but I appreciated the sentiment.
With a single nod, I started the engine. The deep, throaty growl of the bike filled the air, and a moment later, I was gone—cutting through the streets like a streak of shadow and light.
And where was I heading?
The U.A. High Entrance Exam.