"You were never one of us."
The words came from everywhere. From the wind. From the sand. From the silence pressing in.
I blinked.
A vast desert stretched in every direction, endless, shifting, golden. The sky above was wrong—too dim, too still. A haze blurred the horizon, swallowing the edges of the world.
And then there were the figures.
Countless shadows surrounded me, their features indistinct, blending into the mirage-like air. They did not move, yet their presence was suffocating.
But four stood apart.
Four silhouettes, just clear enough to be real.
The first, standing directly ahead, was clad in heavy armor. A massive shield rested against his back, his dark cape swaying with the wind.
To my left, a swordsman, his blade held loosely at his side. His stance was relaxed, but his presence was sharp, unwavering.
To my right, a figure in black. A cloak, twin daggers, unreadable eyes. A shadow that breathed.
And behind me—
I could not turn.
I tried, but my body did not move the way I wanted it to.
Something shifted. A presence. A weight.
Magic.
"You were never one of us."
The words came again.
Not an accusation. Not rejection.
Something else.
My gaze lowered.
And I understood.
Weapons.
Swords, spears, arrows.
My body was pierced, torn, broken. The marks of battle covered me—burns, bruises, cuts layered upon cuts. Wounds that should have left nothing of me standing.
But I stood.
Pain pulsed, but it did not crush me. It simply was. A fact, like the sand, like the sky.
'A nightmare.'
That was the only explanation.
Not the first time I had felt pain in a dream.
I exhaled slowly. If it was a dream, I only needed to endure.
The four figures watched.
The wind howled.
"You bled beside us."
The swordsman spoke this time. His voice was steady, neither warm nor cold.
"You fought with us."
The assassin's whisper, edged with something unreadable.
A shift in the air.
A pulse at my back.
"And yet."
The mage's voice.
I couldn't turn.
The desert rippled beneath my feet. The distant figures blurred, as though the world itself was unsteady.
'A dream.'
Yes.
Then why—
Why did it feel like something was waiting?
Like I had forgotten something that had never been mine to remember?
The Tanker stepped forward. Just a single step. His presence pressed against me like a weight.
The swordsman followed. The assassin.
The mage behind me.
Close now.
Too close.
"You were never one of us."
Not rejection.
Not an answer.
A statement.
A reminder.
A warning.
The world cracked.
I woke up.
The remnants of the desert clung to my mind—sand, wind, voices. But they faded, dissolving like mist under sunlight.
Instead, I was met with something different. Something real.
A ceiling. White. Unfamiliar.
The soft weight of a blanket covered me, warmth sinking into my skin. The scent of something sterile lingered in the air, mingled with something faintly sweet. Fabric softener, maybe.
I blinked, slowly.
The world felt... wrong. Not in the way the dream had, but in a way I couldn't name. A dull, heavy silence pressed against me, stretching out, filling every space.
My fingers curled against the sheets. Smaller than they should have been.
My breath hitched.
I sat up. Too fast. The world spun, my limbs sluggish, unfamiliar. The weight of my body was off—lighter, shorter. My hands trembled as I raised them to my face.
Tiny.
A child's hands.
My heart pounded. My mind fought against the obvious, against the impossible.
I twisted, scanning the room. Wooden flooring. A window, sunlight filtering through. A desk pushed against the wall, stacked with scattered papers and toys. The walls—painted blue—held posters I didn't recognize.
And a mirror.
I stumbled out of bed. My legs wobbled, the sensation foreign. Each step was a battle against my own balance, but I made it.
The reflection stopped me cold.
A boy.
Dark hair, wide eyes—my eyes, but younger. Four, maybe five years old.
I stared.
The dream. The voices. The desert.
None of it mattered anymore.
Because this wasn't my body.
And this wasn't my world.
I breathed.
In.
Out.
The panic had passed.
It had taken time—minutes, maybe hours, I wasn't sure—but I had forced myself to calm down. There was no other choice.
Now, there was only quiet.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands curled loosely over my knees. My fingers had stopped shaking. My heartbeat had settled into something steady, something normal.
My mind, however, was anything but.
'This life…'
Memories sat at the edge of my thoughts, waiting. The moment I let my guard down, they surged forward, dragging me under.
A name.
A house.
A family.
This wasn't my first time waking up in this body.
This wasn't my first time living in this world.
I had been here before. For four years.
I just hadn't remembered.
Until now.
I exhaled sharply and let the memories come.
—
My parents.
They were the first thing I saw. The first voices I heard. The first people I had known in this world.
I remembered my mother's arms, warm but distant. I remembered my father's voice, quiet but cold. I remembered how they held me, fed me, dressed me, but never once looked at me the way parents should.
They did what they had to. The bare minimum.
And nothing more.
I hadn't understood it at first. As a baby, I had only known warmth and hunger, comfort and discomfort. But as I grew, as my mind developed, the pieces began to fall into place.
They didn't want me.
It wasn't a guess.
I had overheard them once—voices low, sharp, pressed together in the dead of night.
"I told you. We should've just—"
"You know we couldn't."
"Because of your father."
"Because of my father."
A mistake.
That was what I was to them. An unplanned child. A burden they hadn't wanted but had been forced to keep.
Because of my grandfather.
A man I had never met.
A man they never spoke of unless they thought I couldn't hear.
—
And then, there was my brother.
Two years younger.
The golden child.
I remembered the day he was born. I had been two—too young to fully understand, but not too young to notice the difference.
The way my mother held him. The way my father smiled at him. The way their voices softened, warm and full in a way they had never been with me.
It was a contrast so sharp, so absolute, that even as a toddler, I had understood.
He was wanted.
I was not.
I had no memories of being hugged just because. No memories of laughter shared between meals. No memories of hands ruffling my hair with affection.
But my brother had them all.
I watched, silent, unnoticed, as they showered him with love. As they held him, comforted him, praised him.
And me?
I was there.
That was all.
I existed in the same space, but I did not belong.
—
I wasn't abused.
I wasn't starved.
I wasn't neglected in the way some children were.
But I was ignored.
An afterthought.
An obligation, nothing more.
And the thing about being ignored?
It gives you time to think.
To observe.
To understand.
I had understood far earlier than most children.
I had realized the truth, not because they had told me, but because they had shown me.
Every look.
Every word.
Every choice.
They had never wanted me.
And they never would.
—
I stared at the mirror again.
The boy in the reflection was small. His body unfamiliar but no longer alien.
Because it was mine.
Because this life was mine.
I let out a slow breath.
'Alright.'
This was real.
This was happening.
And there was no changing that.
I turned away from the mirror.
I had spent four years in this world. I had spent four years as him.
Now, I remembered everything.
But the question remained.
What now?
I exhaled.
The memories had settled now, no longer flooding my mind all at once. They sat quietly at the back of my thoughts, their presence constant but no longer overwhelming.
And with them came an understanding.
I had been living as him for four years.
Even without my past life's memories, I hadn't been a normal child.
There had always been something… off about me.
Detached.
Distant.
It wasn't that I couldn't feel. It wasn't that I was emotionless.
I simply didn't react the way I was supposed to.
Maybe it was because I had retained some of my mental maturity, even without remembering why. Maybe it was because, deep down, I had always known that something wasn't quite right.
Either way, I had understood things no child should.
I had realized the truth of my situation far earlier than I should have.
And it hadn't broken me.
Did it hurt? Maybe. Probably.
But I had endured.
Because what other choice was there?
—
The only reason I had been able to keep moving forward—despite the lack of warmth, despite the loneliness—was because I wasn't completely helpless.
Even as a child, I had been capable.
I had been aware.
I had been able to do things most kids my age couldn't.
Reading, writing, speaking—it had all come naturally.
Not because I was a genius.
But because I had already known how.
I had known Japanese.
I hadn't struggled to understand. I hadn't fumbled through words or sentences like most children did. I had been able to read books far beyond my supposed age level. I had been able to learn at a pace that didn't match my peers.
And even though my parents hadn't cared, even though they hadn't paid attention, my ability had been a small comfort.
Because at least I had something.
Something that was mine.
—
And now, I had something else.
I knew what this world was.
The realization settled in my chest, heavy but not suffocating.
This wasn't just any modern world.
This was Boku no Hero Academia.
This was a world where superpowers—Quirks—were real. A world where heroes and villains weren't just fiction, but reality.
And above them all…
All Might.
The Symbol of Peace.
The world's Superman.
I lowered my gaze, staring at my small hands.
I was four.
That meant it was time.
Time for my Quirk to awaken.
Every child in this world manifested their Quirk around this age.
Some earlier. Some later.
But four was the average.
Four was when it happened.
And I was about to find out if I would be someone in this world…
Or if I would be nothing.
I exhaled, my fists clenching slightly.
If I had a Quirk… then that was a path forward.
A way to gain strength.
A way to make something of myself.
And if I didn't…
Then I would find another way.
Because this world was unforgiving to the weak.
And I refused to be weak.
Not in this life.
Not ever again.