[5] Unlearning to Learn

And that's exactly what I focused on my first month in this world.

The days blurred together in a rhythm of lifting, hauling, and adapting. Each sunrise found me at the beach earlier than the day before. Each sunset left more cleared space in my wake. The old man - Gramps, as I'd taken to calling him - maintained his perch on that damn refrigerator, dispensing wisdom between sips from his thermos.

"Your center of gravity's still too high," he called out one morning as I wrestled with a rusted engine block. "Drop your hips. Let the earth support the weight."

I adjusted my stance, feeling the difference immediately. The metal groaned as I lifted it, but my back no longer strained against the load. "Better?"

"Marginally." He stroked his mustache, eyes sharp beneath bushy brows. "Though watching you fumble around is entertaining enough."

The training weights he'd brought a week ago clinked as I moved, a constant reminder of their presence. Twenty kilos distributed across my limbs and torso, worn day and night. They'd seemed laughable at first - until Gramps demonstrated their purpose by moving faster than my eyes could track while wearing twice as much.

"Keep a video log," he'd suggested after that display. "Document your progress. You'll want to see how far you've come later."

I already was. Every evening, I'd prop up my phone and record my thoughts while sorting through the day's haul.

"Day eight," I narrated to the camera. "Cleared another section near the waterline. Body's adapting faster than expected - bruises from yesterday already faded."

"Don't forget to mention your excellent teacher!" Gramps shouted from off-screen.

I rolled my eyes. "And the old man's still here. Apparently he lives on that refrigerator now."

"Respect your elders, brat!"

The camera captured our banter, preserving moments I hadn't realized would matter. Like the day Gramps arranged for industrial garbage trucks to park near our work zone, solving the disposal issue that had been slowing progress.

"Day fifteen. Six percent of the beach cleared so far. The trucks help, but there's still so much to move." I flexed my fingers before the lens. "Calluses forming nicely though. Grip strength's improving."

The physical changes became more noticeable as weeks passed. My shoulders broadened, arms thickened with lean muscle. School uniforms grew tight across the chest, pants riding high above my ankles.

But the mental shifts proved more intriguing. The line between Izuku's memories and my own began to blur. His knowledge of heroes merged with my combat experience. His analytical mind complemented my tactical training. Two sets of instincts melding into something new.

"Day twenty-three," I told the camera. "Had to buy new shoes. Old ones split at the seams during this morning's run."

Gramps wandered into frame, settling cross-legged beside me. "Tell them about the refrigerator stack."

"You mean the one you made me rebuild six times?"

"For proper form!" He grinned at the camera. "The boy's learning. Slowly."

The old man's presence had become a constant, his gruff wisdom shaping more than just my training. He never asked about my past, never questioned why a teenager would spend every free hour hauling trash. Just watched, advised, and occasionally demonstrated techniques that defied physics.

"Day thirty. Nearly finished the north section." I panned the camera across the cleared area. "Starting to see actual sand again."

"Sand that needs sweeping," Gramps called from his perch. "A proper workspace should be maintained."

I turned the camera toward him. "The master speaks. Any other wisdom to share?"

He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Youth is wasted on the young."

"That's not wisdom, that's a cliché."

"All wisdom starts as cliché." His eyes crinkled. "Until you live long enough to understand it."

The sun sank toward the horizon, painting the remaining trash heaps in shades of gold. I stopped the recording, tucking the phone away as Gramps climbed down from his refrigerator throne.

"Tell me, boy." He stretched, joints popping. "Why are you really here?"

I studied him, weighing truth against caution. "I'm training."

"Obviously." He gestured at the cleared space. "But training for what?"

"UA's entrance exam. Nine months from now."

"Ah." His expression shifted, something calculating entering his gaze. "The hero course?"

I nodded.

"Without a Quirk?"

"That's right."

He stood silent for a long moment, mustache twitching as he considered my answer. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his weathered face.

"Well then, you'll need a teacher." He dropped into a stance I'd never seen before, power radiating from his slight frame. 

"Fight me."

I laughed, turning away from the old man. "Good one, Gramps. See you tomorrow." 

"Running already?" His voice carried across the beach. "And here I thought you wanted to be a hero."

My feet stopped. Sand crunched beneath my shoes.

"Young people these days." Metal groaned as he settled back on his refrigerator. "All talk, no spine. At least your mother makes good tea."

I pivoted slowly. "What did you say?"

"Oh?" He sipped from his thermos. "The boy has ears after all. I was beginning to wonder, given how often you ignore proper form corrections."

"I don't ignore-"

"You do." His eyes locked onto mine. "Just like you're ignoring this opportunity. But that's fine. Not everyone has what it takes."

Heat rose in my chest. "I have what it takes."

"Evidence suggests otherwise." He gestured at the beach. "A month of watching you fumble around like a drunken sailor. No technique. No discipline. Just brute force and stubbornness."

"I cleared half the north section-"

"By throwing your weight around like a common thug." He set his thermos down. "I won't even need to attack. Defense alone will prove my point."

"You think you can just sit there and-"

"I know I can." That infuriating mustache twitched. "Because you're not ready. Not even close."

The training weights felt heavier suddenly. Or maybe that was my pride.

"Fine." I dropped into a fighting stance. "Let's see how well you defend."

"At least try to make it interesting." He didn't move from his perch. "I'd hate to fall asleep up here."

I launched forward, sand spraying behind me. A straight punch - simple, direct, meant to test his guard. He tilted his head slightly. My fist passed through empty air.

"Telegraphed." He hadn't shifted position. "You might as well have sent a letter announcing that attack."

I spun, throwing a roundhouse kick at his midsection. Again, a minimal movement. Again, nothing but air.

"Better angle, worse execution." He picked up his thermos. "Your center's still too high."

Frustration built with each miss. Hook, cross, uppercut - combinations that had won fights in my old world met nothing but space. The old man sipped his tea, offering critique between dodges.

"Foot placement's sloppy."

"Watch your elbow."

"Are you aiming for me or the ocean?"

My strikes grew faster, harder. The training weights sang as I moved, but they couldn't match the fluid grace of his evasions. He read my attacks like a children's book, always a step ahead.

"Interesting." His tone shifted. "Those aren't hero moves."

I threw another combination. Throat, temple, solar plexus - vital points that would end a fight permanently.

"You're not trying to subdue." He set his thermos down again. "You're trying to kill."

"Shut up and fight!"

"No." His voice cracked like a whip. "This stops now."

I lunged. His hand moved - the first real motion I'd seen. My world tilted. Sky replaced sand in my vision. Impact drove the air from my lungs.

He stood over me, no longer the playful old man. Power radiated from his frame, an almost visible force that pressed against my chest.

"Who trained you?"

I stayed silent.

"Your form is military. Special forces, maybe black ops. But the killing intent?" He shook his head. "That's something else entirely."

"You don't know anything."

"I know enough." He extended a hand. "Get up. We're starting over."

I stared at his offered hand. "Starting what?"

"Your real training." His eyes held mine. "Unless you'd rather keep pretending those moves will work at UA."

"They're effective-"

"They're lethal. And that's not what heroes do." He wiggled his fingers. "So? Ready to learn, or should I go back to my tea?"

I grabbed his hand. He pulled me up with surprising strength, nodding as I brushed sand from my clothes.

"First lesson." He dropped into that strange stance again. "A hero's strength protects. Watch closely."

His movements flowed like water, power without violence. Each step kicked up tiny spirals of sand, each gesture contained perfect control. This was what I'd glimpsed in his dodges - not just evasion, but an entire philosophy of movement.

"Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist." Pride filled his voice. "My life's work. And now, your new headache."

"You're going to teach me?"

"Someone has to." He gestured at my stance. "Can't let you go around trying to assassinate villains. Bad for public relations."

"I don't-"

"You do. But we'll fix that." His mustache twitched again. "Assuming you can keep up with an old man's training."

The sun had fully set now, stars appearing above the ocean. In the growing darkness, Gramps' outline seemed to shift, power bleeding into the air around him.

"Well?" Challenge sparked in his eyes. "Still want to be a hero?"

I mirrored his stance, feeling the wrongness in my form even as I tried to match his flow. "Yes."

"Good answer." He moved, faster than thought. "Let's begin."

The next hour redefined my understanding of pain. Every motion brought correction, each attempt met failure. Gramps dismantled my techniques piece by piece, replacing lethal strikes with flowing redirections.

"Power isn't about destruction." He caught my punch, turning it aside. "It's about control."

My back hit sand again. I'd lost count of how many times.

"Up." He never seemed to tire. "Again."

We moved through basic forms until my muscles screamed. The training weights doubled the torture, but he wouldn't let me remove them.

"They're part of your training now." His foot swept mine. Another fall. "Just like these lessons."

"Every day?"

"Every day." He helped me up again. "Before and after your beach work. We'll rebuild your foundation properly."

I rotated my shoulder, feeling new bruises form. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because someone has to." He settled into a ready stance. "And because you remind me of someone. Now, show me that first form again. This time, feel the flow."

Hours later, I stumbled home. Every muscle ached. Sand had worked its way into places sand had no business being. But something had changed.

My phone buzzed - a message from Gramps.

"5 AM tomorrow. Don't be late."

I saved his number, adding a contact photo from one of our training videos. The old man on his refrigerator throne, dispensing wisdom between tea sips.

Another buzz.

"And bring breakfast. Teaching works up an appetite."

I smiled despite the pain. "Yes, sensei."

"Don't get cocky." Three dots appeared as he typed. "You've got nine months to unlearn those killing habits. Better hope you're a fast study."

Nine months to transform lethal efficiency into heroic power. Nine months to master an art that Gramps had spent decades perfecting.

"I'll learn."

"We'll see." A final message appeared. "Sleep well. Tomorrow will be worse."

I collapsed onto my bed, uniform still covered in sand. Tomorrow would bring more pain, more failures, more lessons in humility. But for the first time since arriving in this world, I felt something close to purpose.

The old man was right - I had to change even more. Had to turn these soldier's instincts into something heroic. Something worthy of the path I'd chosen.

Sleep came quickly, dreams filled with flowing movements and the sound of waves. Tomorrow would bring pain, but also progress. One step closer to becoming something new.

A hero, not a soldier. A protector, not a killer.

The transformation had begun.