It had been just over three months since I woke up in this world.
Since I became Izuku Midoriya.
The early days had been chaos—mentally, emotionally, and physically. But now? Now I have structure. Focus.
I didn't have a Quirk, but I had knowledge, discipline, and a fire in my chest that didn't go out, no matter how many times I was reminded that I wasn't supposed to matter in this world.
People might've thought I was too young to train. Too young to think the way I did. But I wasn't planning on waiting until someone handed me power. I'd carve my own out of effort and repetition.
And it all began at dawn. Every day.
---
The sun hadn't even climbed over the rooftops when I was already up and stretching in my room.
I'd started with the basics weeks ago—simple flexibility routines I found in books and videos. But now I'd refined it. My body still wasn't ready for intense strength training, but that didn't mean I couldn't prepare it.
My routine had become a ritual : five minutes of deep breathing, slow muscle activation from neck to toes, and long, deliberate stretches that taught me how to feel every movement in my body. I'd memorized sequences from yoga flows, martial arts warmups, and even old gymnast drills I'd found in a dusty school library book.
I stood in a wide horse stance, arms stretched to the sides. My eyes were closed. My breathing slowly. I imagined myself standing on the edge of a cliff, wind howling in my ears, steadying my soul against it.
"Flow like water," I whispered. "Still the mind. Empty the thought. Become—"
And then I lost my balance.
One foot slid slightly on the smooth wooden floor, and I tried to correct it with what I. thought. was going to be a graceful one-legged transition into a crane pose.
It wasn't.
My foot clipped the edge of my laundry basket, my arm flailed trying to compensate, and I collapsed sideways into the desk, knocking over two books, a pen holder, and myself. I hit the floor with a loud thump and groaned.
The door opened two seconds later.
"Incoming villain attack?" Mom asked, peeking in with a tired but amused look.
I rolled over, still on the floor. "False alarm. I just got betrayed by gravity again."
She shook her head and chuckled. "Well, at least let gravity buy you dinner first next time."
Despite the occasional slapstick failure, the training was working.
My balance had improved. My awareness of space, my posture, even the way I moved through the house all felt more intentional. I didn't trip over my own feet anymore. My hands were steadier. I could hold a stretch for longer than most adults now.
It wasn't glamorous. No flashy power-ups. No transformation scenes. Just sweat, soreness, and slow, methodical improvement.
But I liked it that way.
Because every inch of progress was mine.
---
After stretching, I moved into mobility drills: walking heel-to-toe with my eyes closed to sharpen my inner balance, and tracing figures in the air with my hands to train coordination.
I'd even started doing basic reaction drills. I tied a tennis ball to the ceiling with a piece of string and practiced dodging it as it swung unpredictably. It wasn't much—but it helped.
Then came the memory and focus work.
I had index cards taped to my wall with phrases like:
- Threat direction: scan left to right, twice.
- Footing > force. Position ends fights.
- Never let emotion dictate tempo.
It was stuff pulled from military guidebooks, martial arts philosophy, and mental training exercises I'd stitched together like a homemade combat doctrine.
I didn't just want to be stronger.
I wanted to be sharp.
---
I'd built this entire system by piecing together scraps from books in the local library and low-res martial arts videos. It wasn't elegant, but it was mine. A weird fusion of tactical combat prep, yoga, and anime-inspired mental rewiring.
I even had theme music. Kind of.
Sometimes I played old hero soundtracks in the background. Other times, I just muttered things to myself like a battle strategist narrating a fight:
"If I'm ambushed from the left, pivot on the rear foot. Distance over force. Create the angle. Redirect. Reset. Disarm."
Out of context, it probably sounded like I was prepping to join a special forces unit at age five.
But to me?
It was necessary.
---
There was one moment every morning I cherished: right after I finished my exercises, I'd sit down cross-legged in front of my little window. The sky would just be turning gold. The city is still sleepy. No cars. No voices.
Just me and quiet.
And at that moment, I let myself dream.
Not the childish dream of "maybe someday I'll get a Quirk."
But the solid, grounded vision of what I wanted to build a version of myself that could act when others froze. Who could think fast, move smart, and protect people not because he was strong… but because he was ready.
I wasn't a warrior.
Not yet.
But every morning, I took one more step in that direction.
---
By the time Mom called me for breakfast, I was already showered and back in my civilian disguise: a five-year-old in a T-shirt with cartoon robots on it, pretending to be normal.
As I sat at the table, she placed a plate of rice, tamagoyaki, and miso soup in front of me. The smell was amazing. Like safety.
"Eat up, sweetie," she said, ruffling my still-damp hair. "No use saving the world on an empty stomach."
I smiled, then bowed my head slightly toward the food.
"Mom's Gourmet No-Quirk Hero Fuel," I declared. "S-class tier."
She rolled her eyes. "Flattery will get you extra bacon."
I grinned.
And just like that, the war room faded. The strategist stepped aside.
And for a moment, I was just a kid again.
But not for long.
---
Because while I was sharpening my body, something else was taking root too.
Something sparked by a random book, hidden in the adult section of the library that would challenge everything I thought I knew about being a hero.
And that's where the real shift began.
---
It started with a book.
Not a flashy one. Not some hero autobiography filled with dramatic flair and self-congratulations. This one was wedged awkwardly between a dusty copy of "Hero Law for Beginners" and a half-ripped emergency preparedness manual in the library's lesser-used adult section. The title was blunt, boring even: "Situational Threat Analysis and Urban Response."
But the subtitle caught me.
"On-the-ground tactics for rapid conflict resolution."
That sounded useful.
I flipped it open right there on the floor, sitting cross-legged beneath a flickering overhead light. The pages weren't colorful. No illustrations of capes flapping in the wind. Just bullet points, boxed diagrams, and densely packed text. And yet, I was hooked within minutes.
This wasn't a book about looking heroic.
It was about being effective.
---
The first section talked about how most untrained combatants—even trained heroes—tended to react emotionally when facing immediate threats. The adrenaline. The panic. The assumptions.
"Panic kills precision," one line said.
"Uncontrolled emotion leads to wasted movement, poor risk assessment, and mission failure."
That line hit me in the gut.
Heroes on the news always looked calm and flashy, but I remembered some of their fights from the anime. Long, drawn-out battles that caused insane damage to the environment, bystanders getting hurt, even other heroes injured from friendly fire. And I'd thought they were cool.
Now? I saw the gaps.
---
As I read more, I realized something.
This kind of thinking—strategic, cold, exact—it wasn't about being ruthless. It was about being prepared. Getting in, neutralizing the threat, and getting out before things escalated.
A hero didn't need to be flashy.
They needed to be decisive.
And that's what this book was teaching.
It wasn't telling me to fight like a soldier, it was showing me how to think like one. And maybe…
Maybe that's what most heroes lacks.
---
By the third chapter, I was scribbling notes into my Hero Notebook v2.0:
- Zone Control > Raw Power.
- Movement efficiency reduces injury risk.
- Create options before engagement.
- If you hesitate, civilians pay the price.
It changed the way I watched everything. Hero videos. News clips. Even playground scuffles.
I started analyzing everything:
- What angles would give a better line of sight?
- How many seconds did that hero waste jumping off a rooftop with flair instead of acting?
- How long did it take to subdue the villain, versus how long they talked?
The book said a trained operator could disable a target in three movements. Most heroes used twelve.
It wasn't about showmanship.
It was about results.
---
Back at home, I reorganized my training schedule.
I added short, sharp drills with limited time frames. A mental metronome beat in my head as I practiced:
- "Five seconds to reach target."
- "Two seconds to redirect force."
- "No wasted steps."
It felt strange at first—robotic, almost. But with each repetition, it became smoother. More instinctive. I wasn't imagining myself as a superpowered fighter anymore. I was something else.
Someone calculating.
Someone efficient.
Someone who would win not because of brute force, but because he thought six moves ahead.
---
One line in the book refused to leave my head:
"Most threats don't come at you screaming. They creep in through the cracks."
I wrote it down on a sticky note and put it above my desk.
I wasn't preparing for dramatic villains with maniacal laughter and theme music. I was preparing for the subtle threats—the unstable Quirks, the desperate criminals, the overlooked chaos that could explode in an instant.
If I could stop a disaster before it started, that would be heroism too.
---
Inko noticed the change.
One night while she folded laundry, she looked over and said, "You've been writing a lot more these days. You're so focused lately.
I paused, then shrugged. "I just want to be ready."
"For what?" she asked.
I didn't answer right away. How could I tell her I was preparing for a world that didn't even realize it was starting to break apart?
Instead, I said softly, "In case someone needs help. When no one else is ready."
She smiled at that, gently. But her eyes lingered on me longer than usual.
---
The more I read, the more I understood something critical:
Heroes weren't failing because they weren't powerful enough.
They were failing because they didn't think like defenders. They thought they were like performers.
They were trained to beat the villain.
Not to protect the most lives in the shortest time possible.
That would be my goal.
That would be my edge.
I wasn't a soldier. I wasn't a killer. But I was done fantasizing about flashy punches and heroic poses.
Give me calm.
Give me control.
Give me a way to win before anyone gets hurt.
And I'll become the kind of hero this world didn't even know it needed.
---
The notebook wasn't just a journal anymore.
It had become a command center.
At first, it was a basic tool—simple sketches of heroes, Quirk notes, maybe a page or two of copied All Might quotes. But that was before I started thinking like a tactician. Before I understood the difference between watching heroes… and analyzing them.
Now, the notebook had tabs, color-coded stickers, rough diagrams, and flowcharts that took up entire foldout pages. It had evolved into a full-blown personal strategy manual.
And it was still growing.
---
One section was dedicated entirely to Quirk Countermeasures. Not just how to dodge them, but how to redirect, outthink, and neutralize.
Let's take Katsuki for an example.
- Quirk: Explosion (High-Impact, Close-Range)
- Response: Wide lateral movement. Bait detonation. Force cooldown. Exploit post-blast vulnerability.
- Environment: Avoid enclosed spaces. Use reflective surfaces. Disrupt visual tracking.
Another section broke down battlefield conditions. How a single alley or park could dictate the outcome of a fight. I practiced visualizing an area and assigning battlefield values:
- Cover?
- Elevation?
- Escape routes?
- Civilian presence?
- Collateral risk?
I didn't just want to know how to win. I wanted to know how to win without losing anyone else.
---
There was a section I titled
"Hero Failures: Why They Matter."
It was harsh. Critical.
I wasn't trying to drag anyone down, I respected heroes. But I needed to know where they slipped. Because I couldn't afford to do the same.
Case Study #1:
- Pro Hero was caught up in a flashy fight with a villain in a crowded shopping district.
- Time to subdue: 9 minutes.
- Civilian injuries: 5 (minor to moderate).
- Alternate strategy proposed: Corner, isolate, disrupt escape and subdue in under 2 minutes.
It wasn't arrogance, it was preparation. I had no power to fall back on. So, I needed to sharpen my decision-making to a razor's edge.
---
Simulation became my favorite part.
I'd clear a space on the floor and set up mini layouts using toys, blocks, string, or even cereal boxes. I'd act out scenarios:
- "Villain enters from north. Hostage in center. No Quirk. What's the optimal path to rescue?"
- "Two Quirk-users clashing. How do I minimize destruction while assisting escape?"
Sometimes I'd run through the same scenario three or four times, each with a slightly different decision tree. I'd time myself, grade myself, and adjust strategies based on the outcome.
It became almost like a game. But the stakes? The stakes were always real in my head.
---
There was a new addition I'd created recently: a section titled "Psych Profiles."
I'd started tracking common behaviors of villains. Not just their powers, but their emotional triggers, patterns, and egos.
Some wanted chaos. Like the Joker from DC universe.
Some wanted power. Like Thanos and the Vultrimites.
Some just wanted attention. Like Homelander.
Understanding motive helped predict behavior. If I could anticipate the next move, I could reduce the need for confrontation entirely.
I didn't want to fight every villain.
I wanted to know which ones I could disarm with words before it came to fists.
---
One night, I fell asleep with my notebook open across my chest.
When I woke up, Mom was standing in the doorway, holding a blanket.
She smiled softly and covered me without a word.
I think she understood now.
This wasn't a phase.
This was my way of surviving in a world that had written me off before I could even write my name.
---
My latest entry that morning was a full two-page spread titled:
"No Quirk. No Margin for Error."
I underlined it three times.
Then I flipped to the back cover and stared at a blank space I'd been saving.
One day, when I was strong enough, when I'd earned it, that space would hold my hero's name.
But for now?
It was just a reminder.
Preparation is power.
And I was ready to keep sharpening.
---
Katsuki's POV
For the past few months, Deku's acting weird.
He doesn't call me Kacchan anymore.
He doesn't follow me around.
He doesn't even talk to me.
He just sits there, always writing in that dumb notebook with too many pages. It looks like a grown-up notebook. Not fun at all.
IT DOES'NT HAVE ANY COLOURFUL DRAWINGS AND IMAGES.
I don't get it.
He used to ask me stuff all the time. Like, "Kacchan, what's your favorite move?" or "Kacchan, did you see that hero fight yesterday?"
And I'd tell him, because I know all the cool stuff.
But now? He just nods when I talk. Sometimes he doesn't even look up.
It's like… he doesn't care.
And I hate that.
---
I tried making a little boom at lunch to get his attention.
Not a big one, just a cool one. Some kids jumped and laughed.
But Deku didn't even blink.
He just kept writing.
What's he even writing about?
He's not a hero. He doesn't even have a Quirk.
What does he think he's doing?
---
Next day at recess, I bumped into that weird horn kid. Just a little.
He talks funny and walks funny. Easy target. What a loser.
Deku saw that.
He walked over, but not to fight. Not crying.
He just looked at me with that face.
The one adult makes when they say they're not mad, just disappointed.
"You still hurting people to feel strong? Grow up Katsuki!" he said.
And then he helped the kid up.
And walked away.
Didn't run. Didn't even look back.
Like I wasn't even there.
---
My chest felt tight. Not like scared-tight. Just... weird-tight.
I'm the one who's supposed to be ahead. Deku's supposed to be chasing me.
That's how it's always been.
Why's he acting like he doesn't need me?
Why's he acting like I'm the one who's behind?
---
So, I followed him after school. Just once.
He didn't go play anywhere. He didn't go home.
He went to the library.
Ugh. The library.
He went to the park with the big shelves. The boring part. Grown-up books with no pictures. He picked one and sat down and read it for; like, a long time.
No cartoons. No games. Just pages and pages of words.
I don't even know what it was about.
But he looked serious. Like it mattered. Like he was getting stronger, but not with punches. With thinking.
That made my stomach feel even weirder.
He wasn't chasing me anymore.
He was going somewhere else.
And I didn't know how to follow.
---
Back to Izuku's POV
Bakugo's words, or rather the lack of them, didn't linger.
Not because I wasn't aware of them—but because I had stopped giving them space in my head.
I had bigger things to worry about.
Bigger questions. Ones that couldn't be answered by the playground pecking order or who had the flashiest Quirk.
I needed answers. And when I needed answers, I went to the only place that always delivered.
The bookstore.
It wasn't a huge place. Just a narrow little shop tucked between a stationery store and a laundromat, its windows foggy and its sign faded from sun.
But it was quiet.
And in that quiet, I found clarity.
The old man behind the counter didn't greet customers with a loud "Welcome!" like the chain stores. He just gave you a nod and went back to reading, unless you needed help. Which I usually do.
This time, I approached the counter with a small stack of books, most of them about urban defense, non-lethal disarmament, crowd protection planning, and rescue operations.
He raised his eyebrow as he scanned the titles.
"You are studying for something?" he asked, voice gravelly but kind.
I nodded. "I winna be a hero."
"Then you're going to need to be smart," he said simply, placing the books in a bag. "The world's not kind to guys like us."
That should've been the end of it. But as I turned to leave, he added quietly, "You know, people love Quirks—but only when they look cool."
I paused.
He kept speaking.
"The moment someone's born looking different—horns, claws, tails—people start whispering. It's not just kids. It's their parents too. Teachers. Heroes, even."
I turned to face him again. There was no bitterness in his voice. Just tired truth.
"You'd think it'd be better now," he went on, shrugging. "But I've seen it. Been on the wrong end of it.
It doesn't matter how gentle someone is. If they don't look right or shine the right way, society brushes them aside."
I clenched the paper bag in my hands.
I've seen it too.
Mutation-type kids being left out. Teachers skipping over the quiet ones. Bakugo laughing at anyone who didn't fit in.
And even me—dismissed before I even got a chance.
"Then what do you do?" I asked. "If the world's broken like that?"
The old man leaned back in his chair and looked at me like I'd just asked the oldest question in the book.
"You fix what you can. You protect who you can. And when the time comes—" he tapped one of the books I was holding, "—you make sure you're ready to act. Not think. Act."
He didn't mean act recklessly. I knew that.
He meant decisively.
---
Later that night, I copied a new section into my notebook:
"People judge what they see. So be what they can't. ignore."
Then beneath that:
"If you have to choose, then protect first. Fight if you must. But finish fast."
And finally:
"A good hero saves people. A great one stops them from needing saving at all."
---
I stared at the words for a long time.
Then I opened a clean page and titled it:
"The Cost of Mercy."
Because in this world, even the right decision could look wrong.
And I needed to be ready for that too.
---
The playground wasn't supposed to be dangerous.
At least, not in the serious way. Sure, kids ran too fast and fell sometimes. Someone might get a scraped knee or cry if they lose a game. But this? This was different.
I saw it unfolding before most of the teachers even noticed.
Hiroto—the boy with the glowing veins and misty breath—his Quirk had always been unstable. He couldn't control the way energy pulsed through his body. Normally it just made his skin light up and his breath foggy. But that day, it started pulsing harder. Faster.
His breathing got louder. His fingers were twitching.
Kids near him started backing up.
The teacher on duty looked confused but didn't move.
I moved.
"Hiroto!" I said, walking up slowly, arms raised a little to show I wasn't a threat. "Hey. Can you hear me?"
He looked up, and his eyes were glowing faintly too now.
"I—I can't stop it," he whimpered. "It's burning. It's too much."
"Okay," I said, calmly but quickly. "We're going to fix it. But first, I need you to sit down, alright?"
He shook his head, energy crackling through his sleeves. A ripple of force burst from his palms and knocked a plastic bucket halfway across the playground.
That was enough to make the rest of the kids scream.
"Everyone gets behind the wall!" I shouted. "Stay low!"
Some listened. Some froze. I ran to the closest ones, a pair of girls who had been drawing with chalk and herded them behind the metal play structure.
Then I turned back.
Hiroto was panicking now. Breathing fast. Holding his arms close, trying not to let them go off again.
I knew what this was.
Not just a Quirkmalfunction.
A panicattack wrapped in power.
"Look at me, Hiroto," I said, standing a few feet in front of him. "Breathe in through your nose. Like this."
I did it first slowly, loud enough for him to hear. He tried to copy. Failed. Try again.
"Good," I said. "Now sit. Not all the way, just on your knees."
He dropped to his knees, shaking.
"Put your hands on the ground," I guided. "Let the energy go down, not out."
It wasn't perfect. But it worked. The pulses slowed. The sparks faded. And his eyes stopped glowing.
One of the teachers finally ran over then, all panicked and out of breath.
But by the time they got there, it was already over.
Hiroto collapsed into a quiet sob, and I sat beside and hugged him.
"It's okay," I said quietly. "You did good. You stopped it."
He looked up, confused. "But I almost hurt people…"
I shook my head. "But you didn't. That's what matters."
The teacher started gathering kids and checking on them. Some of them were still scared.
One girl looked at me with wide eyes and whispered, "Are you a hero?"
I didn't know what to say to that.
---
Back in the classroom, things were quieter.
The teacher didn't say anything directly to me, but I noticed the way she looked at me differently.
Like I wasn't just some Quirkless kid scribbling in a notebook.
She saw something.
She saw me act.
---
That night, I didn't add a page to the notebook.
I just stared at the ceiling, replaying everything.
It wasn't about winning. It wasn't about cool moves or looking brave.
It was about knowing what to do. Before anyone else did.
And doing it.
Because at that moment, no one else had.
And maybe… maybe that was what being a hero really meant.
The school incident stayed with me for a while.
Not in a scary way—there were no injuries, no real damage—but in the silence that came after. In the way people looked at me differently. Like they'd seen something they weren't expecting.
I didn't brag about it.
Didn't even talk about it.
Because in my mind, that wasn't a win.
It was a warning.
A small taste of how fragile this world really was.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that fragility wasn't just in the kids or their Quirks.
It was everywhere.
So, I started paying closer attention.
---
The news had become part of my routine.
Every evening, after dinner and before I reviewed my notes, I'd sit with Mom in front of the TV and watch the hero broadcasts.
Not the flashy Pro Hero spotlights—I skipped those.
I paid attention to the real reports. The gaps between the smiles.
"Mount Lady makes another dramatic debut downtown," the anchor said one night. "She brought down a building-sized villain, but critics point to the collateral damage: three injured, twelve displaced, and a city block shut down."
The screen showed her waving and posing in front of a half-crushed overpass.
I frowned.
Strength without control. Image over execution.
---
Another night: "Villain activity is up 14% in major prefectures, with under-trained civilians caught in the crossfire."
Underneath that headline, a scrolling ticker read: "Multiple Pro Heroes hospitalized in Tokyo after coordinated Quirk ambush. Authorities remain silent."
Even the happy clips felt strange.
One clip that featured Endeavor, arms crossed, scowling as always, saying: "What we need is order. Discipline. Not showmanship."
The hosts laughed it off.So did the audience presented there. But I didn't.
Because he wasn't wrong about it.
---
The more I watched these kind of news reports, the more I saw it.
The system was breaking—slowly, subtly, but it was happening.
Villains weren't just thugs anymore. They were thinking.
Hitting soft targets.
Avoiding camera angles.
Coordinating in ways the older heroes weren't prepared for.
I also started writing new sections in my notebook:
- "Unseen Threats" — patterns of villain tactics, taken from the news.
- "Blind Spots" — where heroes consistently failed: hostage control, environmental risk, team sync.
- "Hero Fatigue Markers" — a page of freeze-frames showing moments when even pros hesitated or looked overwhelmed.
I didn't point fingers.
I just paid attention.
Because I remembered the canon timeline.
I remembered what was coming.
And this world was already starting to tip.
The more people leaned on heroes; the more cracks started to show. The more they smiled on camera, the more they bled off screen.
And I knew…
If I wanted to make it through what's ahead, I had to be ready before it got bad.
Before the fall really started.
Before hope wasn't enough anymore.
---
The apartment was quiet that night.
Outside, the city hummed like usual—distant car engines, muffled voices from apartment balconies, the soft whirr of a passing train. But in my room, it was just me, my desk lamp, and the worn pages of my notebook.
I flipped through them slowly.
Tactic drills. Emergency strategies. Quirk counterplans. Notes from the bookstore. Case studies pulled from news reports. All of it, written in my small, careful handwriting.
Some of the pages were wrinkled at the corners. Others had coffee rings or smudges from food. But they were real. Honest. Proof that I had been working—not just training my body but sharpening my thoughts.
No Quirk. No powers. But I was building something.
Something better.
Something that couldn't be taken away.
---
I picked up a pencil and turned it on a fresh page.
At the top, I wrote:
"What kind of hero do I want to be?"
I paused.
Not the kind who punches hardest. Not the one with the best costume. Not the one who smiles the widest for the cameras.
I wrote beneath it:
"I want to be the one who shows up first… and thinks fastest." Like MUMEN RIDER and SPIDER-MAN.
"The one who's already ten steps ahead before the villain even moves." Like BATMAN.
"The one people don't see coming—until it's too late to stop me." Like THE PUNISHER.
I underlined that last sentence.
Not because it sounded cool.
Because it was the truth.
I stood up and walked to the mirror.
My reflection stared back—still short, still freckled, still not what the world expected from someone aiming to be a hero.
But I saw something else now too.
Discipline.
Clarity.
Resolve.
I didn't have flashy powers. But I had directions. I had a purpose. And I had something this world was starting to lose:
Urgency.
The sense that action was needed not tomorrow, not when you're ready—but now.
---
I turned off the light, crawled into bed, and let my eyes adjust to the dark.
Somewhere out there, the canon timeline was moving forward.
Heroes were climbing in rank.
Villains were gathering in shadows.
The audience was watching with blind faith.
But I wasn't waiting for the story to begin.
I was already in it.
And I was writing my own part.
Not just to survive.
Not just to prove I could.
But to become the kind of hero this world didn't see coming.
One who didn't need a Quirk to make a difference.
Just a plan.
And they will follow through.
-------------------------
Author's thoughts:-
Phew, it was hard to write. I was trying to write this chapter for a while. Maybe I was procrastinating. Maybe I was busy but somehow I wrote this chapter. There might be some flaws in it and there might be some structural mistakes in it I hope that you can remind me about it.
Next chapter might get a time skip for some years so suggest me about that.
Also I want you to give me a lot and lot of power stones so that I can remain motivated for writing again and again and also for the fast updates. Also I want you to give me an early review in the book review section so that it remain in the ranked section of webnovel. Also give me some suggestions about where you can drop the ideas related to this novel or well I might start a new forum for it. Anyways I hope you have a good day and peace out.