"Wake up, Clark."
A voice echoed. The fifteen-year-old boy with black hair and unremarkable features opened his eyes instantly, pulling himself from sleep. He sat up on the bed and wiped his face.
Looking around the unfamiliar room, a smile touched his lips. 'He wasn't lying,' he thought. A low chuckle escaped him. 'I really thought it was just a dream. To think he told the truth... I thought the deal was fake. I really did get transmigrated.'
Then a question surfaced in his mind.
'But why? Why give me this deal without asking for anything in return? That doesn't make a lick of sense. He even gave me a bonus, basic instructions on how to use it.'
He shook his head.
'Whatever. At least now I'm not bedridden or sick.' He smiled.
"Let's go," he whispered, swinging his legs off the mattress. A wave of excitement rushed through him. "And most importantly… I'm still alive." He stood, steadying himself on newfound strength. "And I can walk."
Tentatively, he took a few steps. Then a few more. With each movement, his happiness grew. The simple act of walking felt like a miracle.
"Let's go for a walk," he said, grinning.
He headed out of the small apartment, locked the door, and pocketed the key before stepping into the cool night air.
Standing on the balcony, he gazed at the sleeping cityscape and took a deep breath.
"This is a good day."
He descended the stairs and, fueled by pure exhilaration, broke into a jog, a smile fixed on his face.
He glanced back at his new home, a motel-style building with only two floors. Then he continued on, walking at first before breaking back into a run, smiling to himself in the quiet dark.
"This is fun!" he exclaimed to the night. "Thank you!" He pushed into a sprint, but his new body quickly tired, forcing him to slow, breathing heavily.
Noticing a swing set to his right, he made his way over and sat down, gently pushing himself into motion. A profound sense of peace settled over him.
"This is amazing," he breathed. Tears welled in his eyes and traced down his cheeks.
He wiped them away. "Getting all teary. But I have to thank whoever made this happen. Thank you."
As he swayed gently, a new thought occurred to him.
'But I do wonder… what kind of memories does this body have?'
He placed a hand over his chest and focused, establishing his first rule.
First Rule: "[I can relive the original memories of this body.]"
He concentrated, and the past began to unfold.
At first, there was only darkness and muffled sounds. Then, the perspective shifted to that of an infant, a blurry world of shapes and light. He heard voices and learned his name: Kazuraba Kouta. He learned his parents were heroes.
The memories fast-forwarded. At age four, Kouta was tested for a Quirk. The result was devastating: he was Quirkless.
From that moment, everything unraveled. Kouta was abandoned. To add to the cruelty, his parents adopted another child, one with a Quirk, even naming the kid the same as him to hide the truth. Kouta was left all alone before someone found him in the middle of the road and sent him to an orphanage.
There, he learned to rely only on himself, forced to grow up too fast. He avoided bullying by becoming a loner, never speaking of his secret dream to become a hero. He knew it would only bring mockery and pain.
But things did turn around. At the age of ten, a young woman named Izumi Rika, kind and understanding, took him in as an adopted son. She was Quirkless herself and felt a need to protect him.
Even with her kindness, Kouta refused to be a burden. He had recently found a part-time job at a convenience store.
The memories ended with a quiet, lonely exhaustion. In the end, simply worn out and with nothing left to fight for, Kazuraba Kouta died in his sleep.
The boy on the swing opened his eyes. "Wow… that's just sad." He looked down at his hands, then spoke softly to the night. "Don't worry, Kazuraba Kouta. I'll take your place from now on. I'll achieve everything you couldn't."
A determined smile spread across his face. He was Kazuraba Kouta now.
He began considering how to use his power appropriately.
'How should I approach this? New Order has limitless potential. The possibilities are endless.'
There were simply too many paths he could take.
"Tsk," he clicked his tongue in frustration. "This is harder to think through on the spot. I could go in so many directions with this."
'Do I want to focus on the brawn or the brain?' Kouta thought.
"I should do both. It would be stupid to just focus on one. First things first, I need money—" He cut the thought short, realizing that with his Quirk, he could simply create the materials he needed.
But the thought was cut short as he remembered that as soon as the rule was lifted, the materials would turn back to normal.
Because of that, he began brainstorming rules he could actually implement.
'I know for sure I can give myself a Doomsday-like adaptation, or even a weakened version of a Smart Atom-type ability. I think with those two, I've covered what I need for the brawn side. But the brain side...'
Kouta thought deeply.
'I should have no limits on the science side. I remember that one student who could raise her IQ to 400, if I'm not wrong.'
He looked up at the sky.
"I should get ready for tomorrow. I have all the time to myself now," Kouta said as he got off the swing.
Kouta walked back home, still smiling because he could walk. Seeing his legs work made him profoundly happy.
'I'm glad I took that deal, after all. But I do feel like I knew the guy. I can't seem to remember his face, though. Did he have some type of aura covering it?'
He questioned whether what he saw in the past was true or not.
"Probably," Kouta muttered.
. . . .
An alarm was going off.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Kouta was sleeping on the bed, his legs splayed out. He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling, then consciously moved his leg just to make sure.
Kouta sighed in relief. "I'm not dreaming. I'm glad."
Before getting up, he flexed each of his limbs, his body shaking slightly. With that out of the way, he sat up and deactivated the alarm on his phone.
"7:30?"
He got out of bed with a yawn, walked over to the window, and opened the curtains.
As sunlight hit his eyes, he made a little sound.
"Argh, too bright," Kouta muttered.
He headed straight to the bathroom to shower and get ready. Once finished, dressed in fresh clothes, he did the few chores he needed to do.
'I need to head downstairs. I'm sure Rika-san made something for me,' Kouta thought.
He left his apartment and headed down the stairs, making his way to Rika's door. He knocked.
The door opened to reveal Rika, a kind, beautiful woman with long red hair.
"Come in, Kouta-kun," Rika said.
Kouta entered the home, which was about twice the size of his studio apartment.
"What did you make?" Kouta asked, heading toward the kitchen.
"Omelette," Rika said, taking a seat on the couch to continue folding her laundry.
Kouta lifted the cover on the stove to find a perfectly cooked omelette waiting. He grabbed a spoon and began to eat.
'Damn, this is delicious,' Kouta thought.
As soon as he finished, he cleaned his dish. On his way out, Kouta said, "I'm going to the library."
"Okay, take care," Rika said, her eyes on the TV as she folded.
With that, Kouta retrieved his phone from his room and headed for the nearest library, arriving about thirty minutes later by foot.
It was a medium-sized building.
Kouta headed inside and walked straight to the science section.
'What kind of rule should I implement to make this easier?'
He considered the problem, then found his solution. With his palms pressed together, he replaced his first rule.
First Rule: "[Any written material I touch instantly transfers its complete information into my mind with perfect memorization and full comprehension.]"
But, wanting to be cautious, he also activated a second rule.
Second Rule: "[My mind is protected from information overload, integrating only the data that matches my current intent.]"
With the rules set, he placed his hand on a book's spine. He felt the information flow into his mind smoothly, without any overwhelming pressure. He began moving his hand along the shelves, touching every book.
Kouta repeated this process for the sections he needed: mathematics, science, and engineering.
People noticed what he was doing, but since he wasn't bothering anyone, they didn't comment on his strange behavior.
This method of gathering information took him around two hours.
He was getting tired, but he pushed through.
Now, seated in a chair, he rested his arms for a moment. His next step was to safely consolidate all the information in his mind. He removed his first rule and replaced it with a new one.
First Rule: "[My mind will integrate all currently held information into my long-term memory at a rate my brain can safely process.]"
As soon as the rule was set, he focused his intent. The raw data he had absorbed began to transfer into his permanent memory, the sensation akin to a smooth copy-and-paste operation.
Feeling the mental effort, he checked his phone and searched for a place to eat. One spot caught his interest: a cake shop popular for its tiramisu.
He headed there, bought a slice, and ate it alone at a small table. With nothing else to do, he opened his phone and began doomscrolling through social media.
"Not bad," Kouta murmured, watching the stream of content.
The platform he used was the equivalent of nstgr*m. It was predictably saturated with hero news. One thing that made him chuckle was a meme video about a "fraud check" on heroes, currently targeting a flamboyant hero named Captain Celebrity.
The comments were just as entertaining, filled with reaction GIFs. One user commented, "Potential Man." Another wrote, "The Skycrawler is better," to which someone immediately replied, "But he's racist though." A follow-up shot back, "Are you on something? That was before he learned English, bruh. He even said he was anxious and didn't understand. Some people need to get their brains checked."
The response to that was a classic: "I'm not reading that." And below it, another succinctly added: "American ✅"
"Different world, same interactions," Kouta muttered to himself, shaking his head with a faint smile.