Reincarnation wasn't part of the plan.
He wasn't religious. No chants. No rituals. No cosmic spreadsheets tallying karma or life points. His temple was a gym. His gospel was anime. And his holy text was My Hero Academia.
He wasn't a hero. Just a decent guy.
Twenty-four. MMA hobbyist. A bit of a loner with strong opinions on fight choreography, loyalty, and instant ramen brands. The kind of guy who quoted "Plus Ultra" like it was a personal mantra, not a catchphrase.
Not because he wanted to be a symbol.
He just wanted to be better. Harder to knock down. Strong enough to protect what mattered—if anything ever did.
The rain that day wasn't dramatic. No thunderclap. No tragic music. Just that soft, annoying drizzle that made cities feel old and bones feel older. His hoodie clung to his arms. His plastic grocery bag had started tearing, handles stretched thin by cheap packaging and soaked noodles.
His mind was already halfway home. Ramen night.
Then he heard it.
A scream. High-pitched. Raw. Real.
He looked up.
A kid—maybe five—dangling from a fifth-floor balcony. Tiny hands clinging to rusted metal. Kicking. Crying. Slipping.
Nobody moved.
Someone gasped.
Someone else raised a phone.
No one ran.
He didn't think. Didn't plan.
He moved.
Shoes off. Bag dropped. Brain switched off.
Up the fire escape. Onto the AC unit. Then to the window ledge.
One scraped knee. Two near-slips.
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. Arms he couldn't see grabbed the boy from inside.
The child landed.
Safe.
He smiled for just a second.
Then his foot slipped.
Thump.
Crack.
Crash.
Falling.
It wasn't poetic. Just fast. Brutal.
The sky spun. Gravity roared in his ears.
But inside? Stillness.
There was no panic.
No regret.
Just one stupid, final thought—
"I really should've cleared my browser history..."
Then:
Impact.
Silence.
But not cold. Not pain.
Warmth.
Soft sheets. Clean air. The scent of antiseptic and sunshine.
A cotton blanket.
He blinked. Slowly.
A ceiling fan. A beeping monitor. Muffled voices.
Tiny limbs. Tiny fingers.
His hand drifted into view—small. Pink. Wrinkled.
A baby's hand.
His breath hitched. His throat made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a hiccup.
Before panic could settle, a woman appeared. Young, vibrant, and crying—but smiling. The kind of smile people have after both heartbreak and joy.
"You're here," she whispered, holding his tiny hand in hers. "You made it."
He stared.
She laughed softly, eyes shining with a warmth no hospital light could match.
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 voices. The warmth. The energy in the air.
This was a world of heroes.
Of villains. Of glowing hands and smiles that saved lives.
This was My Hero Academia.
And him?
He was Arata Tetsuki.
Reborn.
Alive.
And this time, he wouldn't waste a single second.