Tomoya POV:
The morning light filtered through the shoji screens, soft and golden, casting lattice-like shadows across the polished tatami floor. I sat in silence, the warmth of the tea in my hands grounding me, even as my mind moved elsewhere, toward memories I rarely let surface. The steam rose in delicate curls, carrying the earthy aroma of green tea leaves that Iroh had carefully selected for me last week. Such small comforts still felt like luxuries I didn't deserve.
In my previous life, mornings like this were a rarity. Quiet was a luxury, peace a myth. I lived in the shadow of consequence, chasing redemption through bloodstained hands and sleepless nights. The weight of lives I'd taken after becoming a demon haunted me still—faces frozen in terror, bodies crumpled like discarded dolls. But that life had long since ended. And now… now I found myself in a world where power manifested as quirks and heroes carried cities on their shoulders. A world with its own dangers, yes, but also its own peculiar beauty.
A world that didn't ask me to fight—but to heal. To mend what was broken instead of breaking what was whole.
I hadn't expected purpose to follow me across worlds. Yet here I was—physician, researcher… Mother. And for the first time in years, I was building something rather than salvaging what remained. My fingers traced the rim of my teacup, feeling the subtle imperfections in the ceramic—reminders that even flawed things could be beautiful, functional, worthy.
It began with curiosity, the kind that had always pulled me forward even when survival tried to hold me back. Quirks fascinated me—not because they were flashy or formidable, but because they were unpredictable. My understanding of the body, forged in another world's crucible, gave me a foundation. But the rules had changed here. Genes didn't just dictate appearance or disease; they defined entire paradigms of ability and limitation. The scientific journals piled high in my study were testament to my obsession with understanding this new reality.
So I began again. With humble tools and humbler expectations.
With the tools this world offered—technology more advanced in some ways, more naïve in others—I set to work. I still remember the moment I isolated the first genetic marker linked to a quirk. It was like threading a needle in the dark and realizing the thread was already waiting for you on the other side. My hands had trembled then, not from exhaustion but from wonder. Mapping quirks at the molecular level opened doors I hadn't known existed. Suddenly, I could anticipate health complications before they occurred, advise heroes on how to train smarter, safer. The notebooks filled with my careful observations grew from one shelf to an entire wall.
But knowledge alone wasn't enough. It never is.
Understanding quirks was only the first step—supporting those who bore them was the true challenge. My first major success came in the form of a serum. A regenerative compound that accelerated cellular repair beyond this world's current medical boundaries. What once took weeks now took days. I spent sleepless nights perfecting the formula, testing and retesting until my eyes burned and my fingers cramped. I still remember the look in a young hero's eyes after he stood—fully healed—barely three days after a near-fatal injury. That gratitude… it stays with you. It pierces through centuries of regret and reminds you that perhaps redemption isn't as impossible as you once believed.
It drives you. It sustains you when doubt creeps in during the darkest hours before dawn.
I wasn't alone in this pursuit. I found allies—unexpected ones. Hana Fujimoto, an engineer whose passion rivaled any hero's will, partnered with me to create support gear tailored for quirk volatility. Her workshop was chaos incarnate—tools scattered across every surface, blueprints taped to walls and ceilings, prototypes in various stages of completion littering the floor. Yet from this disorder came brilliance. Together, we launched an initiative providing affordable, adaptive tools for heroes without agency sponsorship. Not everyone had the backing of the top ten. But that didn't mean they didn't deserve help. Some of our finest work went to heroes whose names would never grace magazine covers or action figures.
And then there was Dr. Kaoru Takamura. A name etched in academic prestige.
A name I had only read about in academic journals until the man himself approached me during a summit. His silver hair and weathered face belied the youthful enthusiasm in his eyes. I had prepared for polite disinterest, not keen eyes and genuine curiosity. We talked for hours—about quirk heredity, cellular elasticity, the shared weaknesses across seemingly unrelated abilities. Our conversation flowed from formal theory to wild speculation, from cautious hypothesis to bold experimentation. The paper we co-authored broke barriers in the medical field. Not because it was revolutionary—but because it was practical. It offered solutions rather than just observations, hope rather than just analysis.
But none of these milestones changed me as much as a single meeting over tea. A meeting that reminded me that connections—true ones—were still possible for someone like me.
The Yaoyorozu estate was everything you'd expect from a family with legacy carved into both politics and philanthropy. Manicured gardens stretched beyond the windows, cherry trees standing sentinel along stone pathways. The tea service alone probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. I had been invited under the guise of partnership, but I knew the truth—they were evaluating me. Not just my work, but me. My intentions. My past. The weight of their scrutiny should have been uncomfortable, but after centuries of existence, few things truly unnerved me anymore.
Surprisingly, I didn't feel the need to hide it. Not the important parts, at least.
Mrs. Yaoyorozu's demeanor was elegant, but her questions were sincere. Her kimono rustled softly as she leaned forward, genuine interest lighting her features. When I spoke of my son—of our small family that had grown from ash and memory—her eyes softened. The porcelain mask of formality cracked just enough to reveal the mother beneath the matriarch.
"How old is he?" she asked, pouring more tea with practiced grace.
"Four," I replied, accepting the cup with a slight bow of my head. "Though sometimes he speaks as if he's lived several lifetimes." The irony wasn't lost on me.
She laughed, bright and genuine. "What a coincidence. My daughter's the same. Perhaps they could meet. Momo could use more friends who challenge her intellectually." Her eyes twinkled with maternal pride.
What began as a professional exchange unfolded into something far more personal. They didn't just offer funding—they offered support. Real, meaningful backing that came with influence, reach, and intention. By the end of the meeting, we were no longer just collaborators—we were allies. Maybe even something closer to friends. The thought both warmed and terrified me. Attachment was dangerous for someone with my past, my secrets. Yet I couldn't deny how desperately I wanted that connection—for myself, and for Raiden.
There were still days I doubted. Moments I sat in the garden, tea in hand, watching Raiden train beneath the cherry trees as his uncle guided him through kata and breathing exercises. The petals would fall like pink snow around them, catching in Raiden's dark hair as he moved through stances with preternatural grace. I would feel that old ache—that uncertainty. The fear that no matter how far I'd come, I could never truly escape who I had been. That the blood on my hands would someday stain his future.
But then Raiden would rise, steady and resolute, his eyes reflecting determination beyond his years, and I'd remember why I kept moving forward. Why I continued this charade of mortality in a world that would never understand what we truly were.
He was my reason. My son. My hope. My anchor. The one pure thing I'd managed to create in centuries of existence.
Everything I built in this world—every discovery, every partnership, every sleepless night spent chasing the next advancement—was for him. And perhaps, in some quiet, unspoken way, for the version of me that once thought he'd never deserve this kind of life. The woman I was before darkness claimed me, before I became something that fed on others to survive. Before I learned to control that hunger and channel it into purpose.
I wasn't naïve enough to believe the work was done. The world of quirks was vast—beautiful, chaotic, and often cruel. For every problem I solved, more emerged. Heroes fell. Villains rose. Children discovered powers they couldn't control, powers that sometimes destroyed everything they loved. But that was the point. That was why I stayed in the lab, why I kept writing, building, collaborating. Why I pushed myself beyond exhaustion, beyond the limitations of what this world thought possible.
Because I'd been given another chance. Another lifetime to atone for the one before.
And this time, I would build something worthy of it. Something that might, in some small way, balance the scales of what I'd once destroyed.
As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows through the courtyard, I turned my gaze back toward the mansion. Raiden's laughter rang faintly through the air as he sparred with his clone under Iroh's watchful eye. Their movements, synchronized yet fluid, were poetry in motion. Iroh called out gentle corrections, his voice carrying the patience of a man who understood that true strength came from discipline, not just power. The bond between them—between uncle and nephew, master and student—had grown stronger than I could have hoped.
A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips, softening features that had once been frozen in eternal youth. Now, I allowed subtle lines to form—around my eyes, at the corners of my mouth. Small concessions to the passage of time that I didn't actually feel.
This was our legacy—not in blood, but in intention. In the choices we made each day. In the lives we touched and the knowledge we shared. In the quiet moments between battles when we remembered what we were fighting for.
And in that quiet, unwavering promise we carried together:
To heal what was broken. To protect what was precious.
And to forge a future better than the one we'd left behind—a future where perhaps, someday, I might finally forgive myself for the monster I once was.