The One-Point Wonder

Have you ever had a dream? Not the kind you have when you’re asleep, but a dream of becoming more. More than you are now.

For Yugo, that dream was currently hitting a brick wall. Specifically, a wall made of paper and bad ink.

"A one? Is it even possible to get a one!?"

His mother’s voice echoed through the house, sounding more confused than angry.

Yugo, fourteen and fresh out of middle school, didn't look bothered. He just stood there with his hands behind his head, sporting a grin so wide it looked like it hurt.

"Yugo, what am I going to do with you? Maybe your father was right..."

She trailed off, her eyes drifting to the family photo by the door. Incense curled in the air beside it.

In the picture, a younger Yugo sat perched on his father’s shoulders. His mom was beaming, but his father’s army uniform was the real standout—it was weighed down by far too many badges for a "normal" soldier.

"Alright, Mum! I’m heading out!" Yugo shouted, his grin never wavering.

"Please be careful. Tokyo is a huge city," she called out, her voice softening.

"You bet! Dad’s gonna be proud of me!"

As he marched toward the train station, a headline on a digital newsstand caught his eye:

CRIME UP 10% THIS YEAR. IS POWER THE CULPRIT?

Yugo didn't stop to read the details.

On the train, he leaned his head against the window. His obsidian eyes reflected the clear blue sky, but as he closed them, the world changed.

There it is again.

That feeling.

It was like he could "see" the passengers without looking. He felt their warmth, their flickering energy, a buzzing static that most people ignored. It was too much to handle sometimes—like trying to listen to a hundred radio stations at once.

It was the reason he couldn't sit still in class. The reason he couldn't focus on a test.

"The Tokyo train will shortly arrive on Track 7. For your safety, please step behind the yellow braille blocks."

He had arrived.

Power Tokyo Academy. PT Academy for short—better known as "The Outcast Academy."

It was his only shot at the army. His dad had taught him the basics of Power when he was a kid, right before he died a hero's death.

"This is it! I’m finally here! Hahahaha!"

Yugo’s shout was so loud that half the entrance plaza turned to stare.

"Look at the lens! Get ready for the flash!" the staff member called out.

Even in his official ID photo, Yugo’s grin went ear-to-ear, his midnight-black hair as messy and defiant as ever.

He was officially enrolled.

The Academy was massive—a sprawling fortress of glass and steel—yet there were only a few hundred students in his year.

As they were led toward the dormitories, Yugo found himself standing in the courtyard. The boys’ dorms were on one side, the girls’ on the other.

Lost in his own world, Yugo looked toward the horizon, as he imagined himself as a war hero. He clenched a fist in front of him, his eyes literally sparkling like stars.

“AHAHAHA”

From across the courtyard, a group of girls caught sight of him.

"Pfft, look at that guy. What is he doing?" one giggled.

"Is he... posing? He looks so goofy!"

They assumed he was trying to show off for them, but a group of three boys nearby wasn't laughing. They were scowling.

"Look at that goofball," the leader muttered, cracking his knuckles. "I heard he’s the 'One-Point' kid. Only got in because of his old man’s reputation." the second one rumoured.

"The army doesn't need dead weight," the third added.

"Maybe I should teach him how to be a soldier," the leader sneered, stepping toward Yugo.

The air was thick with typical school-yard tension—until a voice sliced through it.

It wasn't loud, but it was heavy.

“Alright, boys and girls. Listen up, because I’m only saying this once.”

An older man shuffled into the courtyard. He looked less like a soldier and more like a man who had been awake since the previous century. His eyes were half-dead, his posture was crooked, and his long, matted hair framed a face that screamed I’d rather be sleeping. His uniform was ragged, hanging off his frame like he’d found it in a dumpster.

“We aren’t your friends,” he exhaled, the sound like a tire leaking air. “We aren’t your parents. This isn’t recess. And despite what your mothers told you... you’re not special.”

The students went dead quiet. Even the trio of bullies froze mid-step.

This was Mr. Numbers.

“Captain! Please, wait!” A panicked female assistant scurried behind him, clutching a clipboard to her chest. “I don’t think this is the right batch! The elite recruits are in Block A—”

Mr. Numbers didn't listen.

He stopped right in front of Yugo.

Silence fell over the dorm area.

Mr. Numbers began to circle Yugo like a primate inspecting a strange new fruit. He bent down, squinting at Yugo’s arms, then reached out and unceremoniously yanked up Yugo’s shirt to poke at his stomach.

Yugo just stood there, his goofy grin replaced by a look of pure confusion. The three boys who were about to jump him stared with wide eyes, completely forgotten.

“You don’t scream anything special,” Mr. Numbers muttered, his voice raspy. He leaned in close, his half-dead eyes suddenly sharpening for a split second. “But you’re definitely the one.”

He stood up straight, or as straight as his back would allow, and sighed.

“That’s it. I’m taking this batch.”

“But sir!” the assistant stammered, her pen hovering over her notebook. “That’s not how this works! There’s a protocol, a sorting ceremony, the rankings—”

Mr. Numbers didn’t argue. He just turned his head and gave her a single, lingering gaze. It wasn't a glare—it was something colder.

The assistant’s words died in her throat. Without another word, she began scribbling furiously in her notebook, her hand trembling slightly.

Before Yugo could even get a word out, Mr. Numbers turned on his heel and shuffled away, his trembling assistant trailing behind like a ghost.

“Ah—”

Yugo’s grin faltered, replaced by an expression of pure disbelief. He stood there for a moment, mouth half-open, watching the ragged Captain disappear into the shadows of the distance.

Suddenly, the heavy dormitory doors swung open with a bang!

“HEYYYY!! Welcome to the dorms!”

A girl with hair like spun gold and vibrant green highlights literally leaped into the doorway. She was a bolt of lightning in human form.

“Boys to the left! Girls to the right! Don’t get confused and don’t waste time! Hahahaha!”

She threw her head back and laughed, a bright, infectious sound.

Without skipping a beat, Yugo joined her at the top of the stairs and threw his head back too.

“HAHAHAHA!”

The two of them stood there, laughing in perfect sync for no reason at all.

The other fifteen students—nine boys and eight girls—stood frozen in the courtyard. To them, it looked like a mental asylum had just opened its doors.

---

As the group finally began to move, a shoulder slammed hard into Yugo’s.

“Move it, goofball.”

It was Jin.

Up close, he looked like a street brawler who had accidentally wandered into a school. His hair was a wild mess of yellow-orange that looked like flickering flames, and when he spoke, he flashed sharp, predatory teeth. His eyes were narrow, burning with a permanent irritation.

Yugo didn’t get angry. He didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he snapped his heels together and delivered a crisp, rigid salute—straight out of an old military manual.

“My name is Yugo! It is a pleasure to meet you, comrade!”

He said it with the stiff, formal energy of someone reading from a script. It was so earnest it was almost painful.

Jin’s face twisted in disgust.

“Humph.”

He shoved past, his two lackeys following close behind like shadows.

Yugo’s smile dimmed just a fraction as he watched them go, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.

Was that not how you make friends?

He didn't let it keep him down for long.

As the rest of the students filed past, he stayed at his post, greeting every single one of them with the same scripted, high-voltage energy.

“I’m Yugo. Nice to meet you, comrade!”

“I'm Yugo. Good morning, comrade!”

As everyone finished making their way into the dormitories.

---

The blonde girl beamed at him, with mustard eyes full of interest. She was up close as Yugo stayed still just saluting like a statue.

“You’re Yugo, right? Nice to meet you! I’m Rita!”

Yugo didn’t miss a beat. He snapped back to his scripted words.

“I’m Yugo! Pleased to meet you!”

Rita let out a genuine, bubbly laugh.

“Man, you’re fun!”

Yugo’s eyes practically turned into stars. He pumped a fist toward the ceiling in a silent victory pose.

Finally! Someone who didn't think he was a total weirdo.

“Alright, I’ve gotta go sort my belongings,” Rita said, waving as she backed away. “As a second-year, I’ve been assigned as your Dorm Patron. If you need anything, I’m your girl! See ya!”

Yugo watched her go, feeling like he’d just gained his first ally.

With renewed energy, he marched into the boys' wing.

He followed the numbers to the very end of the corridor until he found the plate fixed to the final door:

JIN / YUGO.

Roommates with the fire-haired guy. Alright!

Yugo grabbed the handle and turned.

It didn't budge.

He pulled. He pushed. He even tried a polite "soldierly" knock.

Silence.

The door was either jammed or—more likely—bolted from the inside.

Any other kid would have pounded on the door or gone to find Rita.

But Yugo?

He just looked at the small cleaning cupboard across the hall.

"Tactical reassessment," he muttered to himself.

---

The next morning, the 6:00 AM assembly bell screamed through the hallways like a siren.

Inside the cramped cleaning cupboard, Yugo’s eyes snapped open.

He was curled up between a mop bucket and a stack of industrial floor wax. His oversized uniform was wrinkled, and he’d been using his bulging backpack as a pillow, but he looked as refreshed as if he’d spent the night in a five-star hotel.

He kicked the cupboard door open, stretched his arms until his joints popped, and adjusted his messy hair.

"Reporting for duty!" he chirped to the empty hallway.

He waited for a reply, but the only sound was his voice echoing back.

A small slip of paper sat on the floor, fluttering in the draft.

“I had to check on everyone. You slept like a baby, so I couldn't bring myself to wake you up! Meet us by the training grounds. It starts at 6 AM. Don't be late! Hahahaha! — Rita”

“Hahahaha!” Yugo struck a heroic pose, laughing at the ceiling.

Then, the words finally registered.

“Wait… six o'clock?”

He checked the time.

6:01.

“AHHHH!”

Yugo transformed into a blur of motion, dashing down the hall as if his life depended on it.

---

By the time he skidded into the training grounds, the transformation of the other recruits was startling.

Gone were the messy hoodies and civilian clothes; the batch stood in crisp formation, wearing PT Academy training suits—dark tank tops, navy trousers, and boots polished to a lethal shine.

As Yugo stumbled into the light, every head turned.

At that exact moment, the class snapped into a rigid salute.

“Sir! Good morning, sir!” they shouted in unison.

Yugo, caught in the moment, stood tall and saluted back with a proud chest.

Wow, they’re all saluting me? I guess I really look like a soldier!

But his pride lasted only a second.

A shadow passed right behind him.

Mr. Numbers walked past, looking as if he hadn't slept in a decade, his presence alone commanding the silence.

“Start your day with a hundred push-ups,” Mr. Numbers rasped.

“SIR, YES SIR!” the class roared, dropping to the gravel.

Yugo was about to drop down with them, but a hand caught his shoulder.

Mr. Numbers was looking at him, his gaze unreadable.

“Follow me,” the Captain said, turning back toward the main building.

---

Yugo’s massive grin returned as he followed the Captain through the hallowed halls of the Academy.

He assumed he was being led to a special training room—maybe a secret weapon?

Instead, they stopped in front of the Trophy Stand.

It was a wall of history.

Names, dates, and black-and-white photos of men and women who had built the world.

In the very center was a special display.

A group of five soldiers stood under a plaque that held five-star medals.

SACRIFICE OVER HONOR. HONOR OVER SACRIFICE.

Yugo’s eyes widened.

There, in the middle of the photo, was a man with a grin so wide it looked identical to his own.

It was his father.

His eyes drifted to the four figures standing beside him.

One was tall, one was scarred, but the man on the far left was unmistakable.

Even in the old photo, he had that same half-dead, heavy-lidded gaze.

Yugo looked from the photo to the man standing next to him.

Mr. Numbers didn't say a word.

He didn't offer a speech about duty or friendship.

He simply reached out and placed a heavy, calloused hand on top of Yugo’s messy hair.

“Show your dad what you’ve got,” he said quietly.

The grin finally left Yugo’s face.

He wasn't sad, but he wasn't joking anymore.

A strange mix of confusion and quiet happiness washed over him.

The "feeling"—that hum of Power—seemed to steady itself in his chest.

“And don’t think you’re off the hook,” Mr. Numbers added, his voice returning to its usual tired rasp as he turned back toward the exit. “You didn’t even change into your gear. That tells me you were late. Two hundred push-ups for you instead.”

Yugo snapped back to attention, his eyes burning with a new kind of fire.

“SIR, YES SIR!”