Can We Be Heroes?

Chapter 48• Early Tales of Future Heroes VI

If there was ever a person who looked like he already had life figured out at fifteen, it was Mashirao Ojiro.

The boy radiated enlightenment and discipline. He walked with purpose. Spoke only when he had something to say. Trained more than anyone.
Never slacked, never snapped, never slouched.

Discipline wasn’t just a habit,it was in his blood.

A black belt by thirteen. Three years into a strict martial arts program inherited from his grandfather—a war vet turned dojo master, Mashirao’s mornings began at five and his nights ended with meditation.

Other students might’ve rolled their eyes, but they respected him non the less because of his dedication and will to improve.

“Ojiro’s the reliable one.”
“The calm one.”
“The balanced one.”

And that was the problem. He’d become an open book and his life even though loved was turning stale.

Mashirao was tired of being predictable. He liked peace, he liked hard work and wasn’t loud, reckless, or edgy like so many others. But that didn’t mean he lacked fire.

It just burned inward.

His grandfather rarely praised him. But when he did, it was sharp and conditional.

“You’re a real man when your name speaks before you do.”
“Honor is in silence, not showboating.”
“Confidence is earned through bruises and breath control.”

Mashirao never argued and simply bowed then moving on to working harder.

But sometimes—when he sat alone after class, hands bandaged from a training match, or when he saw the louder boys laugh without restraint—
he wondered what it would be like to be seen, not just respected.

And though he would never say it aloud, Mashirao Ojiro wanted more than a quiet life. He wanted to fight for something that wasn’t tradition. To carve out a path that wasn’t already paved for him in stone.

Because even the most disciplined student sometimes wants to be wild. Even the quietest boy wants to feel loud and a bit reckless inside.

Ojiro Residence — Saturday Evening

It was never easy talking to Grandfather.

Not because the old man yelled or punished harshly. No, Mashirao's grandfather rarely raised his voice. But his silence? Now that was punishment enough.

Mashirao sat stiffly across the low table, hands folded over his knees, eyes locked on the cooling cup of green tea in front of him.

The walls of the old-style dojo-style home were lined with scrolls, martial awards, faded photographs of soldiers and young black belts. The smell of incense clung to the paper walls like time itself.

And opposite him sat Souta Ojiro. He was a man carved from hardship and memory. His eyes were like cracked steel, shoulders broad, even at his age.
Back never once hunched.

“You want to go to U.A.”

It wasn’t a question but a statement laced with challenge.

Mashirao nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Souta sipped his tea once before setting the cup down with precision.

“They churn out idols, not warriors.”Another statement.

Mashirao’s throat tightened. “They train real heroes. Some of the best in the country.”

“Hmph.”