"I Reincarnated in Boku no Hero but They Forgot to Give Me a System"

Chapter 6 — The Invisible Weight 

Three months had passed.

At the Todoroki household, all attention remained on Shoto. Endeavor had imposed a relentless and unforgiving training regimen on his prodigy son—thermal control, cold resistance, heat mastery, dodging, hand-to-hand combat. Every moment was a drill. Every second accounted for. Again and again. No breaks. No rest. No room to breathe.

"You have the perfect gift. You can't waste a single second!"

"Again, Shoto. You're going to surpass All Might, remember that."

"You are my legacy!"

The words came like thunder, echoing in the courtyard. Rei watched from a distance, hidden behind a curtain in the hallway, her fingers curling slightly as if they could squeeze the stress out of the moment. Her stomach tightened with every one of Enji's commands. Shoto was still just a child—a boy barely tall enough to reach the doorknob without effort. And unlike Aoi, he had no healing factor, no enhanced resilience. Every fall scraped his knees raw. Every punch left bruises that lasted for days. Every session drained more of his light.

Each day, she saw a little more of his innocence crumble under the weight of expectations he never asked for. Enji was pushing too hard… and Shoto didn't even realize what was being taken from him. He obeyed not out of passion, but out of duty—out of fear.

Meanwhile, far from the harsh voice and unforgiving eyes, the backyard belonged to someone else entirely.

There, Aoi trained in silence. His world had no shouting, no lectures, no orders barked at every breath. There was no audience applauding, no eyes judging. Only the soft rustling of leaves, the crunch of gravel under his feet, and the sound of his own breath—controlled, steady, alive.

Each day, he pushed his limits further. Push-ups with bricks strapped to his back until his arms trembled. Sprints with a backpack full of stones that slammed into him with every step. Squats under sacks of rice balanced across his shoulders like a farmer carrying the weight of a harvest. His training didn't come from a curriculum. It came from instinct. From hunger. From quiet resolve.

Today, he tried something new. Something bigger.

One hundred kilos.

The barbell sat like a monument before him. Cold metal. Heavy silence. His hands wrapped around the bar. Calloused fingers clenched tight. The iron groaned as he lifted. Veins bulged across his neck. His face tightened. His legs trembled, muscles shaking like overstretched cords threatening to snap. Sweat poured from his brow, dripping into his eyes and stinging them with salt.

But he didn't stop.

Every part of him screamed for relief. Every fiber of muscle begged to drop the weight. And still, he clenched his teeth and drove upward, breath caught in his throat until the final rep came—and he dropped to his knees.

The ground beneath him felt both real and distant. Cold. Solid. His body pulsed with pain, fire in his joints, lightning in his back. But he smiled anyway.

"Hahaha… I did it."

There was no applause. No witness. No validation.

And yet, he felt victorious.

He looked down at his arms—firm now, defined, the work of months carved into muscle. Not the grotesque bulk of pro heroes with arms like tree trunks, but something leaner, sharper. Strong. His strength wasn't flashy, but it was real. It was earned.

"Three months ago, I could barely lift my own weight... Now it's a hundred kilos. Might not be much, but it's mine. All mine."

As if in response to the pride swelling in his chest, blue flames began to flicker around him. They came without command—pure reflex. They curled and danced over his skin, not burning, but soothing. Not aggressive, but alive. His body responded, pain dulled, tension eased. The warmth was intimate. Gentle. Like the touch of someone who cared.

He pressed a hand over his chest and felt the pounding heartbeat beneath. It beat hard. Strong. Fast. He was alive—and he knew it. Every ache, every drop of sweat, every moment alone in the dirt meant something.

He was growing. Quietly. Steadily. No cameras. No praise. But still, he rose.

Inside, Rei finished drying the dishes, the sound of running water replaced now by silence and thoughts she couldn't push away. Enji's voice from the front yard was still echoing in her head, every word like a hammer pounding on steel. But from the back of the house, softer and subtler, came another sound. A rhythm. The soft thuds of Aoi moving, lifting, pushing himself beyond his limits—not to please anyone, not to meet a quota, but simply… to become better.

She closed her eyes, leaning lightly on the counter.

Shoto was being dragged into a future he didn't choose.

Aoi was building his own, step by step, brick by brick.

But both boys were carrying invisible weights—burdens no one else could truly see.

She walked slowly to the window at the back, wiping her hands on a towel. The view outside opened to a modest training area. Aoi stood tall, drenched in sweat, his clothes soaked and clinging to his skin. His face was flushed red with exertion, hair stuck to his forehead. But he was smiling. Genuinely. With pride that came from within.

He wasn't training to impress anyone. He wasn't trying to fulfill someone else's dream or prove his worth to a family name. He trained for himself—for the future he wanted, for the people he hadn't met yet, but already wanted to protect. For something no one had given him, but he intended to build anyway.

Her chest ached—not from sorrow this time, but from something warmer. Something hopeful.

Shoto was steel, hammered into shape by force and fire.

Aoi… was a flame, quietly growing stronger every day.

Maybe, just maybe… the blue fire that flickered in the backyard today would one day light up the entire world.

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