My Hero Academia: Heavenly Restriction

The morning air bit at my exposed skin as I made my way across the beach. Stars still dotted the sky, their light competing with the first hints of dawn. Two protein shakes and a gallon of water sloshed in my backpack - one shake for me, one for Gramps. He'd earned that much after yesterday's lesson in humility.

Gramps perched on his usual refrigerator, a dark silhouette against the lightening horizon. Steam rose from his ever-present thermos.

"You're late." 

I checked my phone. "It's 5:03."

"Exactly." He took a long sip. "Three minutes of daylight wasted."

The protein shake made a soft thud as I set it beside him. "Peace offering?"

His mustache twitched as he examined the bottle. "Acceptable. Now get moving - that washing machine won't move itself."

I spent the next three hours in constant motion. The training weights felt heavier than yesterday, each movement requiring conscious effort. But there was a rhythm to it now - lift, carry, sort, repeat. The pile of scrap metal grew steadily larger.

Gramps watched from his perch, occasionally barking corrections to my form.

"Lower your center!"

"Watch that back foot!"

"Are you lifting with your ego again?"

By eight, sweat soaked through my shirt despite the morning chill. Another section of beach had emerged from beneath years of neglect. Actual sand gleamed in the early sunlight.

"Time." Gramps hopped down from his refrigerator. "Clear enough space for practice."

I dragged the last piece of scrap metal aside, creating a rough circle perhaps ten meters across. Sand shifted under my feet as I moved to the center.

"Now then." Gramps circled me slowly, eyes sharp. "Show me what you remember from yesterday."

I settled into the stance he'd taught me - or tried to. Something felt off about the positioning.

"Hmm." He adjusted my rear foot slightly. "Not terrible. But not good either." 

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Confidence has nothing to do with it." He completed his circle. "You've got too much baggage."

"Baggage?"

"Combat experience. Training. Muscle memory." Each word carried weight. "Makes my job harder."

"Isn't experience good?"

"For fighting? Yes." He dropped into his own stance - fluid, perfect. "For learning? No. Blank slates absorb new forms easier than marked ones."

I shifted my weight, feeling the wrongness in my position. "So my training is actually holding me back?"

"Your training is trying to kill people." He moved, power rippling through his slight frame. "Water Stream flows around obstacles. Redirects force. Protects life." 

"I can adapt-"

"Can you?" His movement became a strike - not at me, but at the air itself. "Show me the first form again. Without your instincts."

I tried. Each motion felt clumsy, my body fighting against years of ingrained responses. Where Gramps flowed like water, I moved like rusted machinery.

"Stop." He shook his head. "You're still thinking like a killer."

"I'm trying not to-"

"That's the problem." He stepped closer, adjusting my arm position. "You can't suppress those instincts. You have to transform them."

"How?"

"Watch." He settled into the stance again. "When force comes, don't block. Don't counter. Flow."

His demonstration was beautiful - a continuous motion that seemed to bend space itself. Power radiated from each gesture, but it wasn't the destructive force I was used to. This was something else entirely.

"Your turn."

I moved through the form again, trying to mimic his fluidity. My body resisted, wanting to turn each motion into an attack.

"Better." He circled again. "But you're still fighting yourself. Tell me - why do you want to be a hero?"

The question caught me off guard. "To help people."

"By killing villains?"

"No, I-" 

"Then what?" He stopped in front of me. "What does being a hero mean to you?"

I considered my answer carefully. "Protection. Saving people who can't save themselves."

"Good." His stance shifted slightly. "Now put that into your movement. Don't think about attacking or defending. Think about protecting."

We spent the next hour working through basic forms. Each time I slipped into old habits, Gramps would stop and correct - not just my physical position, but my mental approach.

"Feel the difference?" He guided my arm through a circular motion. "This isn't about dominating an opponent. It's about harmony."

"It feels... strange."

"Of course it does." He stepped back. "You're learning to speak a new language with your body. The old one keeps trying to translate."

Sweat dripped from my chin as I moved through another form. The training weights made every motion a conscious effort, but something was changing. Moments of flow appeared between the awkward transitions.

"There." Gramps nodded. "For just a second, you had it."

"Had what?"

"The essence of Water Stream." He demonstrated the motion again. "Complete control without dominance. Power without destruction."

The sun climbed higher as we worked. Each form built on the last, creating patterns that seemed to echo through my muscles. The soldier's instincts didn't fade, but they began to shift - less about ending threats, more about redirecting them.

"Enough." Gramps returned to his refrigerator. "Same time tomorrow."

I rolled my shoulders, feeling new kinds of soreness. "More unlearning?"

"More transformation." He retrieved his thermos. "You can't erase your past training. But you can change how you use it."

"Into something heroic?"

"Into something worthy." His eyes met mine. "Now go home. Rest. Tomorrow we'll see if any of this stuck."

I gathered my things, muscles protesting every movement. The training weights felt like they'd doubled in mass during the session.

"Oh, and boy?"

I turned back.

"Bring more of that protein shake." His mustache twitched. "Teaching's hungry work."

The next seven months reshaped everything - my body, my relationships, my understanding of what it meant to be a hero. Each day brought new challenges as Gramps pushed me further into the philosophy of Water Stream, while my own training transformed Izuku's frame into something unrecognizable.

"Day sixty," I narrated to the camera. "Growth spurt hit hard. Had to buy new training weights - the old ones didn't fit anymore."

The phone's screen showed a different person than that first recording. My shoulders had broadened, chest deepened. Even my face had changed, baby fat melting away to reveal sharper angles.

"The boy's getting taller," Gramps called from behind the camera. "Soon he'll have to duck under doorways."

"You're exaggerating." But I had to admit, the growth was dramatic. 165 centimeters had become 175 in just two months, with no signs of slowing.

Mom noticed too. I caught her measuring my height against the kitchen doorframe one morning, tears in her eyes.

"You're growing so fast," she whispered. "Just like your father did."

Something in her voice made me pause. "Tell me about him?"

She did, over breakfast. Stories of a man who towered over others, whose smile could light up rooms. Who vanished overseas when I was four, leaving only memories and a height chart on the door.

"You have his build," she said, touching the highest mark. 

The conversation shifted something between us. Mom started asking more questions about my training, even joining me for morning runs.

"Day ninety," I told the camera. "Mom's keeping pace better than I expected. We did five kilometers today."

The screen showed us both, sweating but smiling. Her green hair pulled back in a ponytail, determination bright in eyes so like my own.

"Your mother's got spirit," Gramps commented during that day's training. "Unlike some students I could name."

I rolled under his sweep, finally managing to maintain Water Stream's flow. "I learned it from her."

Months passed. The beach transformed as steadily as my body. Local news picked up the story - "Mystery Teen plans to clean Beach Solo." Reporters tried getting interviews, but I kept to my schedule. I'd like to wait for an interview until it's almost fully clean.

"Day one-twenty." The camera panned across newly exposed sand. "Halfway done with the cleanup. Also hit 180 centimeters today."

"Show them the new move," Gramps directed from behind the lens.

I dropped into stance, letting power flow through the forms he'd drilled into muscle memory. Water Stream's movements felt natural now, lethal efficiency transformed into fluid protection.

"Better," he admitted. "Almost worthy of the style."

Bakugo cornered me after class the next week. His crimson eyes burned with questions as he blocked my path.

"What the fuck happened to you, Deku?"

I stood straight, no longer feeling small in his presence. "Training."

"Bullshit. You're..." His gaze traced my height, now several centimeters above his own. "Different."

"People change, Kacchan." I stepped past him, maintaining Water Stream's mental flow. "Even Quirkless ones."

His explosions followed me down the hall, but he didn't pursue. Maybe he sensed the difference in my stance, the confidence that had replaced old fears. Or maybe he just couldn't reconcile this new version of "Deku" with his memories.

"Day one-eighty." I held the camera myself now, documenting another growth spurt. "185 centimeters. Had to replace the uniform again."

The screen showed definition that would have seemed impossible months ago. Lean muscle wrapped my frame, built by countless hours of hauling scrap metal and practicing forms.

Mom's transformation proved equally dramatic. Our morning runs had become daily bonding time, her own fitness improving steadily. She even joined weekend training sessions, learning basic forms from Gramps.

"Your mother has natural talent," he told me after one such session. "Unlike her stubborn son."

But even his criticism had grown softer, tempered by months of shared effort. He'd become more than just a teacher - though I'd never tell him that.

"Day two-forty." The camera captured pre-dawn darkness, waves crashing against newly cleaned shore. "Almost there. Beach is about eighty percent clear."

Local media attention intensified as the transformation became impossible to ignore. A kilometer of coastline rescued from years of neglect, all by one teenager's stubborn effort.

The reporter caught me during a water break, microphone thrust forward eagerly.

"What inspired you to take on this project alone?"

I wiped sweat from my brow, considering my answer. "The beach needed cleaning. Simple as that."

"But surely there were easier ways? Community service groups, government programs..."

"Probably." I lifted another engine block. "But this was something I could do myself. Sometimes that's enough."

The story ran that evening - "Local Teen's Solo Mission to Save Takoba Beach." They'd caught good footage of the cleanup process, even got a few quotes from impressed locals. Mom recorded it all, beaming with pride.

"Day three-hundred." Gramps held the camera this time, his gravelly voice providing commentary. "Show them the difference, boy."

I pulled up the first video on my phone, propping it beside the camera. Past and present played side by side - scrawny kid versus transformed warrior.

"Take off your shirt," Gramps directed. "Let them see what real training does."

I complied, revealing the results of ten months' brutal effort. Muscle rippled beneath scarred skin, telling stories of countless falls and failures overcome.

"A proper student," Gramps admitted. "Finally."

The beach gleamed behind me, nearly restored to its former glory. Just a few more weeks of work remained.

"I'm going to do it," I told the camera. "UA's exam is two months away. Time to show the world what a Quirkless hero can do."

Gramps' mustache twitched. "Still got lots to learn, boy."

"Always," I agreed. "But I'm ready for the next step."

The camera captured his nod - slight, but full of meaning. We'd come far from that first day of fumbling forms and frustrated falls.

I stood at my full height now - 188 centimeters of transformed purpose. Water Stream flowed through every movement, lethal instincts channeled into protection rather than destruction.

A hero's power, not a soldier's.