Kaito had never known a life without hospitals.
His earliest memories were not of playgrounds or scraped knees or the warmth of running under the sun. They were of antiseptic smells and white ceilings, of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead while machines breathed and beeped in steady rhythms beside his bed. He remembered the softness of his mother's hand around his, the tension she tried to hide in her smile. He remembered his father's voice, steady and reassuring, even when doctors spoke in low tones just outside the door.
He had been born sick.
The doctors had used long, clinical words that meant little to a child but everything to his parents. A rare congenital autoimmune disorder. Progressive. Unpredictable. No known cure, only management. His immune system attacked him from the inside out, as though his own body had mistaken him for an enemy.
In the beginning, they'd been hopeful.
There were treatments. There were specialists. There were clinical trials. There were long nights researching on glowing laptop screens while Kaito slept under blankets that smelled faintly of fabric softener and hospital air. His parents spared no expense, no effort, no prayer.
But hope, Kaito would later learn, could be a fragile thing.
He was eight when the doctors stopped speaking about recovery and started speaking about stability.
He didn't fully understand what that meant, not at first. Only that the hospital visits became more frequent. That the whispered arguments between his parents became sharper. That the smiles grew thinner.
His body was small for his age. Frail. Too pale. Running left him breathless. A simple cold could spiral into weeks of fever. Some days he could sit up and read. Other days even lifting his head felt like climbing a mountain.
School became something he experienced through screens and worksheets brought home in neat folders. Other children existed somewhere far away, laughing, playing, shouting on fields he would never step on.
Reality was cruel.
So he escaped it.
It started with movies.
His father would bring a small portable DVD player to the hospital room, balancing it on the metal tray. Together they would watch heroes soar through cities, villains crumble beneath dramatic monologues, worlds saved in two-hour arcs of impossible courage.
Kaito fell in love instantly.
Marvel first. The bright suits. The jokes. The larger-than-life battles.
Then DC. The darker tones. The gods walking among men. The idea that even broken people could still choose to stand up.
Superman's unwavering hope. Batman's stubborn resolve. Iron Man's brilliance. Captain America's integrity.
They were strong in ways he would never be.
And that was enough.
Books came next. His mother read to him at first, fantasy epics, adventure stories, tales of warriors and mages and starships. When he grew stronger for brief periods, he learned to read on his own, devouring stories as if they were oxygen.
Comics stacked beside his bed in colorful towers. Graphic novels filled shelves at home. Entire universes fit into his hands.
When he was eleven, a nurse; young, kind-eyed, with pink streaks in her hair. She noticed the stack of superhero comics and asked, "Have you ever watched anime?"
He hadn't.
She brought him a USB drive the next day.
That was the day everything changed.
The first opening theme blared through cheap hospital headphones, and Kaito felt something inside him ignite.
The colors were brighter. The emotions bigger. The fights grander. The music louder. Everything was heightened, intense in a way that made his heart pound and his breath catch.
He laughed harder. He cried more openly. He felt everything.
Naruto's stubborn dream of acknowledgment. Luffy's unbreakable grin. Ichigo's reluctant heroism.
And then,
My Hero Academia.
A world where almost everyone had powers. Quirks. A society built around heroes and villains. A symbol of peace who smiled in the face of danger.
All Might.
Kaito had watched the first episode three times in one day.
"You too can become a hero."
He'd clutched those words like a lifeline.
In his world, he couldn't become a hero. His body would never allow it. But in that world, on the screen, dreams were not bound by hospital charts and medical reports.
He built a world inside his mind.
When reality grew too heavy, he closed his eyes and imagined himself soaring between skyscrapers, cloak snapping in the wind. He imagined quirk battles, dramatic speeches, rivalries that ended in mutual respect.
He imagined strength.
As the years passed, his condition worsened.
Fourteen came with more bad days than good. Sixteen brought a long hospitalization that lasted months. Seventeen saw him too weak to leave his bed most days.
Through it all, his parents stayed.
His mother's hair slowly streaked with gray. His father's shoulders bent under invisible weight. But they never stopped smiling for him.
"I'm sorry," Kaito had whispered once, voice thin, after overhearing the cost of a new treatment.
His mother had kissed his forehead.
"You are never something to apologize for."
At eighteen, the doctors spoke carefully. Gently. They mentioned palliative care.
Kaito understood.
He wasn't afraid.
Strangely, he felt… tired.
Tired of needles. Tired of fighting a battle he had never chosen. Tired of watching the world move on without him.
One evening, near his nineteenth birthday, he asked his father to turn on the television.
A My Hero Academia rerun flickered to life.
All Might stood tall, golden hair blazing, cape flowing.
"I am here!"
Kaito smiled.
He imagined what it would be like, to live in a world like that. To be born there instead. To have a chance.
To have a body that didn't betray him.
His chest hurt that night.
More than usual.
His mother held one hand. His father held the other.
The machines beeped in steady rhythm.
"I'm not scared," he whispered.
His mother's grip tightened.
"Good," his father said softly, voice trembling despite himself. "Heroes aren't scared."
Kaito's lips curved faintly.
The pain receded.
The beeping slowed.
For someone who had known nothing but struggle, death was not a monster.
It was quiet.
It was gentle.
It was release.
So this is how it ends, he thought.
Darkness folded over him like a blanket.
—
Light returned.
Soft. Warm.
He frowned.
He had expected nothingness.
Instead, he felt…
Warmth.
Not the sterile warmth of hospital sheets. Not the prickling discomfort of fever.
Real warmth.
He tried to move.
His limbs responded.
Effortlessly.
His eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was wooden. Sunlight filtered through paper-paneled windows. The air smelled faintly of tatami and something sweet, rice, maybe.
His heart pounded.
He pushed himself upright...
...and nearly toppled forward.
His body was wrong.
Smaller.
Shorter arms. Stubby fingers. His perspective barely cleared the low table in front of him.
What…?
A voice drifted in from another room.
"Kaito? Are you awake?"
The language was Japanese.
Fluent. Natural. He understood it perfectly.
His breath hitched.
Footsteps approached.
A woman appeared in the doorway.
She looked to be in her early thirties. Long, dark hair tied into a low ponytail. Soft brown eyes. She wore a simple cardigan over a light blouse.
She smiled.
"There you are."
Behind her, a man stepped into view, tall, broad-shouldered, sharp but kind features. His hair was a deep navy, neatly combed back. He wore glasses and held a folded newspaper in one hand.
"You slept in today, champ," he said lightly.
Kaito stared.
His mind raced.
This wasn't a dream. Dreams didn't feel like this. He could feel the texture of the tatami under his palms. He could smell the faint aroma of miso soup drifting from the kitchen.
"Kaito?" the woman asked gently, kneeling in front of him. "Are you feeling okay?"
Her hand pressed to his forehead.
No hospital gloves.
No latex.
Just skin.
He flinched instinctively.
She withdrew slightly, concern flickering across her face.
"It's okay," she murmured.
He looked down at himself.
Tiny hands.
Small body.
Three, maybe four years old.
Panic surged.
Am I—
He tried to speak.
"M—"
His voice came out high. Childish.
The man chuckled softly. "Still half asleep, huh?"
Kaito's breathing quickened.
This wasn't possible.
He had died.
He remembered dying.
The machines. The darkness. The peace.
So why—
Reincarnation.
The word struck him like lightning.
No.
That was fiction. Anime. Fantasy.
Except—
He could feel his pulse. Steady. Strong.
Strong.
Tentatively, he clenched his fist.
There was no trembling.
No weakness.
He pushed himself fully to his feet.
His legs held.
Effortlessly.
His heart hammered in his chest, not from strain, but from shock.
The woman's eyes softened with relief. "See? You're fine."
She smiled at him the way his old mother used to.
Something inside him cracked.
Without thinking, he stepped forward and wrapped his small arms around her.
She froze.
Then gently returned the hug.
The man laughed quietly. "What's this? Morning affection?"
Kaito buried his face against her.
She was warm.
Alive.
Real.
Tears stung his eyes, though he didn't understand why.
If this was a second life…
Then these were his new parents.
He pulled back slightly, studying them.
"What's your name?" he blurted suddenly.
They both blinked.
The man crouched down to eye level. "That's a strange question, buddy. You know us."
Kaito swallowed.
The woman smiled gently. "I'm your mother, Akari Amamiya."
The man tapped his chest. "And I'm your father, Daigo Amamiya."
Amamiya.
The name settled into his mind.
Kaito Amamiya.
Only child.
A flicker of unfamiliar memories stirred faintly, birthday candles, park visits, bedtime stories. Fragments not from his first life.
They were his.
This body's memories.
Slowly, carefully, he began to piece things together.
He was three years old.
He lived in a quiet suburban neighborhood in Japan.
He had been healthy since birth.
Healthy.
He tested it cautiously over the next few days.
Running down the hallway.
Jumping from the couch.
Spinning until dizzy.
No weakness. No pain. No breathlessness.
He laughed.
The sound startled even him.
It was bright. Unburdened.
At night, when he lay in bed, memories of his first life drifted through his mind like old films.
Hospital ceilings.
Comic books.
All Might.
His chest tightened at the thought.
Was this really a second chance?
Days turned into weeks.
The shock dulled, replaced by cautious acceptance.
He had reincarnated.
He didn't know why.
He didn't know how.
But he had.
There were differences in this world, subtle ones he began to notice.
People occasionally referenced "quirks" in passing conversation.
A neighbor's dog floating briefly above the ground before settling back down.
A delivery man with skin faintly tinged blue.
Kaito frowned at that.
Quirks?
The word tugged at something in his memory.
But he was too young. Too new. Too overwhelmed by simply existing in a body that worked.
He pushed the thought aside.
One afternoon, while his mother prepared lunch, the television hummed quietly in the living room.
Kaito sat cross-legged on the floor, stacking wooden blocks.
The news anchor's voice shifted in tone, urgent.
"We're receiving live footage from downtown Musutafu—"
The name barely registered.
The screen cut to chaos.
Smoke billowed between tall buildings.
Civilians screamed, scattering.
A grotesque figure rampaged through the street, huge, monstrous, tendrils lashing.
Kaito's hands froze.
His breath hitched.
He knew that animation style.
Except—
This wasn't animated.
It was real.
The camera shook violently.
A reporter shouted.
And then—
A gust of wind tore through the smoke.
The screen filled with gold.
A towering figure landed between the monster and the civilians.
Broad shoulders.
Impossible grin.
Blonde hair swept back like twin antennae.
Blue, red, and white costume gleaming in the sun.
Kaito's heart stopped.
No.
No, no, no—
The figure threw back his head and laughed.
"Never fear!"
His voice boomed through the speakers.
"For I am here!"
The world tilted.
All Might.
Not a cartoon.
Not a drawing.
Not pixels on a hospital TV.
Real.
Breathing.
Moving.
The punch that followed split the air itself. The villain flew backward, crashing into debris.
Cheers erupted.
The camera zoomed in on that brilliant, blinding smile.
Kaito's wooden blocks toppled unnoticed.
Cold realization crept up his spine.
The neighbor's floating dog.
The word "quirk."
Musutafu.
All Might.
His mouth went dry.
His small hands trembled, not from illness, but from shock.
He stared at the screen as the news anchor praised the Symbol of Peace.
His mind raced.
Reincarnation.
A healthy body.
A world with quirks.
All Might.
There was only one conclusion.
A single, disbelieving whisper escaped his lips.
"…Fuck."
He was in the world of My Hero Academia.