Reincarnation wasn't part of the plan.
He wasn't religious. No chants, no rituals, no cosmic spreadsheets tallying karma. His temple was a gym, his gospel was anime, and his holy text? My Hero Academia.
He wasn't a hero. Just a decent guy.
Twenty-four. MMA hobbyist. Bit of a loner with strong opinions on fight choreography and noodle brands.
The kind of guy who quoted "Plus Ultra" like it was a life philosophy, inspired by All Might.
Not because he wanted to be a symbol—he just wanted to be better. Harder to knock down.
---
The rain that day wasn't dramatic. It was the kind of drizzle that made cities feel older. His hoodie was damp, his plastic grocery bag was tearing, and his mind was already halfway home. Ramen night.
Then he heard the scream.
High-pitched. Terrified. Real.
He looked up.
A kid—maybe five—dangling from a fifth-floor balcony. Little fingers clinging to rusted metal like life depended on it.
Nobody moved.
Someone gasped. Someone else reached for their phone.
He ran.
Shoes off. Bag dropped. Brain switched off.
He climbed. Fire-escape to AC unit to window ledge. One scraped knee. Two near-slips.
And then—he was there.
One arm around the kid. A twist. A grunt. And he threw him. Up and through the open window behind the railing.
The kid landed inside.
Safe.
He smiled for a second.
Then he slipped.
---
Falling.
Not poetic. Just fast. Hard.
The sky spun. Gravity roared.
But inside? Stillness.
No regret.
Just one stupid, final thought—
> "I really should've cleared my browser history..."
Then: impact.
---
Silence.
But not cold. Not painful.
Something soft. Something warm.
Cotton blankets?
He blinked. Slowly.
A ceiling fan. A beeping monitor. The scent of antiseptic and sunshine.
Tiny limbs.
Tiny fingers.
His hand floated into view—fat and wrinkled and pink.
A baby's hand.
His chest went tight. His throat made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a hiccup.
Before panic could settle, a woman appeared.
Her eyes were shining. Her cheeks flushed. She looked like someone who had cried and laughed at the same time.
"You're here," she whispered. "You made it."
He stared.
She smiled.
And behind her—faintly—a nurse's voice filtered through the door:
> "Quirk evaluations begin by age four. We'll keep him monitored until then."
His breath caught.
Quirk.
That word. That world.
It all clicked.
This wasn't Earth—not the one he knew.
The warmth. The voices. The energy in the air.
This was a world of heroes.
Of villains. Of glowing hands and symbol smiles.
This was My Hero Academia.
And him?
He was Arata Tetsuki.
Reborn.
Alive.
And this time...
He wouldn't waste a single second.