The day had started like any other. Overcast skies, lazy traffic, and the soft chatter of pedestrians bouncing off the sidewalks. Arata walked with his bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie drawn halfway over his head. Another school day done. Another evening ahead, likely quiet and gray.
He wasn't in a rush. Lately, he never was. The thrill of challenge, the warmth of growth—they had all been buried with his mother. Since that day, he had been a passenger in his own life. The only movement came from the world around him. His own world stood still.
As he turned onto a familiar street, a faint commotion stirred ahead. People clustered near the intersection. Someone was shouting. Others backed away. Phones were out. Some were filming. Others just stood still, faces frozen in disbelief.
Arata drifted forward slowly, curiosity piqued more by habit than interest. Until he saw it.
A massive blob of sludge, writhing and sneering, held a boy hostage in its body. Explosive hair. Furious red eyes, wide with panic. The kid was suffocating, unable to move.
Bakugo.
Arata recognized him instantly.
No one was doing anything.
Not the heroes nearby, trapped behind bureaucracy and hesitation. Not the police, unsure of how to move without making it worse. Not the crowd, frozen in uncertainty.
No one moved.
Until he did.
A blur of limbs. A green-haired boy burst through the crowd, charging headfirst toward the villain.
Arata froze.
It hit him like a punch to the chest.
He'd seen this before.
Not in this life. In another. On a screen, once, in a quiet room with a bowl of ramen and a heart full of wonder.
Izuku Midoriya. Quirkless. Brave. Stupid. Beautifully reckless.
The boy who ran first.
Arata's heart slammed in his chest. A tremble ran through his spine. That scene, that very moment, had once made him believe. Made him want to be better. Made him whisper "Plus Ultra" into the mirror with trembling fists.
And now it was real.
This was that world.
This was that moment.
Something surged through his veins. Hot. Electric. Old and new at once. It was like watching the opening scene of a dream he'd forgotten, only to realize he was standing in the middle of it.
His legs moved.
Before he could think, he was running. Pushing past the onlookers. Sprinting straight into the chaos. His muscles screamed, but his body felt lighter than it had in years.
The sludge villain turned, distracted by the green-haired boy clawing at its edges. Its grip loosened for half a second.
That was enough.
Arata leapt.
Air cracked beneath his foot.
One step.
A single, midair kick that found invisible purchase. It didn't make sense. There was no ground. No platform. But he moved anyway, as though the air itself welcomed him.
The world slowed.
He remembered it like yesterday. His balloon caught in a tree. His mother, laughing, leaping, stepping on air as if it were solid. Once. Twice. Three times. Floating with grace, with confidence, with belief.
He couldn't match that. He hadn't practiced. He hadn't even tried.
But he didn't need to.
One was enough.
His hand latched onto Bakugo's collar, yanking hard.
"Blast him!" he shouted, voice raw.
Bakugo didn't even think. His arm flared. Explosion.
A blast of heat and light ruptured through the sludge. It recoiled, hissing in agony.
Midoriya tumbled backward, coughing, arms flailing.
And then—a thunderclap.
Wind crushed the villain. A fist followed.
"I AM HERE!"
All Might.
The Symbol of Peace descended like a storm, tearing the villain apart in a single, godlike motion.
Sludge exploded outward, harmless. Bakugo was freed. Midoriya shielded his eyes. Arata landed hard, skidding on the pavement and rolling onto his back.
Silence followed.
Arata lay still, chest heaving. Bakugo rolled beside him, spitting curses between gulps of air. Midoriya knelt on trembling knees.
No one said anything for a long moment.
Then the cheers started. The crowd erupted. Cameras flashed.
But Arata didn't hear any of it.
He felt his chest.
Right where the locket lay, under his hoodie, against his heart.
Warm.
And deeper inside—a flicker.
A flame he hadn't felt since she died.
Dim. Small.
But bright.
The step he had taken wasn't just muscle. It wasn't instinct alone. It was memory. Connection. A remnant of trust.
His mother had believed in him.
With every laugh, every hug, every late-night story and whispered word. She had poured her belief into him like kindling into a fire.
And in that moment, when instinct reached where reason couldn't—the flame had responded.
He didn't understand it yet.
Not the full scope.
But it had felt right.
Like he wasn't alone.
He sat up slowly, ignoring the crowd, the reporters, the blinding lights. His hands trembled.
Midoriya was being scolded by a pro hero for his reckless charge. Bakugo was yelling at everyone,and trying to find me ig thank God iam surrounded by people who's attention is all on All Might , the beacon of safety.
Arata watched him and the kids, not with awe—but with a quiet smile.
He hadn't saved the day.
He hadn't been the first to run.
But he ran.
And that was enough to start again.
He stood up, brushing off his clothes. No one paid him much attention. He preferred it that way.
He walked away from the scene as the chaos began to settle. People would forget his face. Maybe they hadn't even seen him clearly.
But inside him—something had changed.
The world had moved. And this time, he had moved with it.
His journey wasn't over. It was just beginning.
With a flicker.
With a flame.
With a single step into the sky.