Death was supposed to feel more profound. At least, that's what I always thought. Maybe there should have been a life flashing before my eyes, a sorrowful orchestral score, or at the very least, a sense of peace wrapping around me. But in reality, my death was anything but poetic. It came in the form of a delivery truck whose driver was probably checking his phone, a screech of tires loud enough to rupture eardrums, and a blinding flash of pain before everything faded to black. There was no time for regret, no chance to say goodbye. One moment I was walking home from my monotonous desk job, and the next, I was a stain on the asphalt. A thoroughly unremarkable end to an equally unremarkable life.
The darkness that followed felt eternal. I was no longer a body; I was just a floating consciousness adrift in an endless void. No heaven, no hell—just thick silence and the kind of time that loses all meaning. In that nothingness, I had all the time in the world to reflect. My life? Nothing special. I was born, went to school, graduated, worked for a company selling things I didn't care about, paid bills, watched anime on weekends, and then died. I never fell deeply in love, never chased an impossible dream, never really left a mark on the world. I was just a spectator, a background character in my own story. Ironically, my biggest regrets weren't the big things I never did—they were the little things: the smell of coffee in the morning, the satisfaction of beating a hard game, or the laughter from watching a favorite variety show. The trivial moments that made up a life.
I had no idea how long I drifted like that—an hour, a century, a millisecond? It all felt the same. Then, without warning, the void shattered. It felt like being yanked through the eye of a needle at the speed of light. My consciousness was squeezed, stretched, and hurled into a whirlwind of chaotic sensation. Suddenly, there was sound—muffled, like underwater, but full of emotion. There was light—blurry, unfocused, with massive moving shapes all around me. And there was feeling—warmth, softness, and a strange sense of safety as something big and plush enveloped me.
Panic surged through my fragile awareness. I tried to move, but my body wouldn't respond. I tried to scream, but all that came out was a high-pitched wail that didn't even sound like me. I tried to open my eyes wide, but my world remained a blurry watercolor painting. This helplessness was more terrifying than death itself. Amid the panic, a huge, hazy face loomed closer. I saw a pair of soft eyes and a warm smile. A voice, gentle like a lullaby, spoke in a language I recognized as Japanese.
"Look, Kenji-kun," the woman's voice said, full of wonder. "He opened his eyes. He's looking at us."
Another face, equally blurry with short black hair, appeared beside hers. The man's voice was deeper, trembling with restrained emotion. "He's perfect, Sora. Our son… Tatsumi."
Tatsumi? The name echoed in my consciousness. Son? And then, the horrifying pieces clicked into place. A body I couldn't control. A high-pitched cry from my own mouth. A blurry, oversized world. I wasn't a grown man who had died in an accident anymore. I... had been reborn. I was a baby.
The full weight of existential horror and panic was too much for a newborn brain to handle. With one last frustrated wail, my world faded to black again as I surrendered to exhaustion. This was the beginning of my second life.
The first few years were a masterclass in patience and humiliation. Imagine having the mind of an adult—with all its memories, knowledge, and sarcasm—trapped in the body of a baby who could do nothing but eat, sleep, and soil themselves uncontrollably. I spent my days observing the world from the perspective of a prisoner in a crib. My life was governed by nap schedules and feeding times, and my greatest nemesis was diaper rash.
But in the middle of all that frustration, something unexpected happened: love.
My new parents, Kenji and Sora Tatsumi, were extraordinary people. My father, Kenji, was a freelance graphic designer who worked from home. He was a calm, patient man with a soothing smile. He would often carry me while working, one hand on his tablet and the other gently patting my back. I could feel the rumble of his deep voice as he spoke to clients on the phone—a rhythm that was strangely comforting.
My mother, Sora, was a stay-at-home mom whose energy seemed limitless. She was the heart of our tiny universe. The smell of her cooking filled our modest apartment, and her off-key but cheerful singing became the soundtrack of my infancy.
They loved me with their whole hearts, unconditionally. Every little milestone—like finally rolling over or grabbing a rattle—was celebrated like I'd won an Olympic gold medal. Their love was so pure, so genuine, that it gradually wore down the cynicism I carried from my past life. For the first time, I felt truly wanted. Like I was the center of someone's world. I started returning that love in my own way—with real baby laughter when my dad made a silly face or happy cooing when my mom hugged me. I might've had an adult's mind, but my heart had been reset to that of a child.
As time went on, I began to master my new body. Learning to crawl was a major victory. Standing was monumental. And my first steps felt like landing on the moon. I also began to understand Japanese again—this time from a native perspective. Words I once knew from anime and manga now carried depth and meaning. I soaked it all in like a sponge.
The world around me seemed normal, eerily similar to modern-day Japan as I remembered it. Our apartment was in a bustling city full of tall buildings, packed commuter trains, and familiar convenience stores. Everything felt so ordinary that I started to wonder if I'd simply reincarnated into another version of Earth. Maybe this was my second chance to live a normal life, to get it right this time. I clung to that thought. It was comforting.
But that comfort didn't last.
The moment of revelation came when I was four years old. I was sitting in front of the television with my mother, eating breakfast—miso soup and rice—while the morning news played. A reporter was broadcasting live from the scene of a bank robbery that had just been foiled. And there he was. A Pro Hero I didn't recognize—a big man with stone-like skin—waving at the camera as the police led the robbers away. A bold caption flashed across the screen: "Pro Hero Death Arms Secures the Scene!"
My spoon froze halfway to my mouth.
Pro Hero?
That term sounded both strange and familiar.
"Sugoi ne, Tacchan," my mother said with a smile. "Death Arms-san is so strong. He has a great Kosei."
Kosei.
That one word hit me like lightning.
Quirk.
I stared at the TV screen, wide-eyed. The background buildings, the fashion, and—most importantly—the existence of superpowered people known as "Heroes," treated as normal parts of society. This couldn't be real. I tried to rationalize it. Maybe this was just a TV show? Maybe I misheard?
But a few days later, I saw it for myself.
-------------
A few days later, I saw it with my own eyes.
I was walking through the park with my father when chaos broke out on the main road. A villain with a gigantification Quirk was rampaging—flipping cars like toys and roaring like a beast. People screamed and scattered in panic. Before fear could even take hold of me, a figure shot through the sky and landed between the villain and the civilians. She wasn't very tall, but her presence filled the entire street. A woman with long blonde hair tied into twin horns and a purple-and-white costume.
"Leave it to the pros, everyone!" she shouted with a confident grin. "Mt. Lady is on the scene!"
I knew that name. I knew that costume.
A chill ran down my spine.
This was real. All of it was real.
But the final nail in the coffin of my denial came a week later. My dad bought me my first action figure. He handed it to me with a proud smile. It was a muscular figure in a vibrant red, white, and blue costume, with two iconic hair tufts and an unshakable smile.
It was All Might.
I stared at the toy, then at my father, then back at the toy.
My entire world tilted.
I hadn't just reincarnated. I had been thrown into one of the most dangerous fictional worlds ever created. I was in the world of My Hero Academia—a world where battles between heroes and villains could level entire cities. A world where monsters like All For One and Shigaraki Tomura existed. A world with a future filled with war, death, and destruction.
The excitement of an otaku finding themselves in their favorite anime world lasted about five seconds before being replaced by pure, unfiltered terror.
I was just a child. What could I possibly do in a world like this?
When a child in Japan turns four, they're taken to the doctor for a Quirk examination. It's a rite of passage. Of course, my parents took me too.
I sat on an oversized chair in a brightly decorated clinic, surrounded by posters of Pro Heroes, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and dread. I knew how this worked. The doctor would take an X-ray of my foot to check for an extra joint in my pinky toe. The lack of that joint meant the person had a Quirk—a sign of human evolution.
"Alright, Tatsumi-kun," said the friendly old doctor, placing the X-ray film on the lightboard. "Let's take a look."
I held my breath. My parents stood behind me, their hands on my shoulders. The doctor squinted, then let out a small sigh.
"Just as I thought," he said, pointing to the skeletal image. "See here? Only one joint in the pinky toe. He should have a Quirk."
My mother clapped her hands softly. "So he has one, Doctor?"
The doctor removed his glasses. "In theory, yes. But... there are no signs of manifestation. No Quirk factor detected in his blood. It's unusual. Some Quirks appear late, but there are usually early signs. For now," he looked at me with a sympathetic expression, "we'll consider it a 'latent manifestation' or... perhaps a Quirk that's very subtle and hard to detect. It's difficult to say."
The ride home was quiet.
I knew what that look meant. It was the doctor's polite way of saying, "Your child might be Quirkless."
In this world, that was a sentence.
It meant being second-class. A bystander. Forever watching from the sidelines while others flew.
"Tacchan," my mother said gently from the front seat, her voice breaking the silence, "no matter what. No matter if your Kosei is strong, weak, or never shows up…"
My father added, looking at me through the rearview mirror, "You are our son, Tatsumi. And we love you more than anything in this world. That will never change."
Their words were genuine, and they warmed my heart. I knew they meant it. I had a good family. A solid foundation. But I also knew the harsh truth of this world. Without power, I couldn't protect anyone.
And the knowledge of the future—of what was coming—weighed on my small shoulders like a crushing burden.
Life went on.
I started preschool—a chaotic, colorful environment where kids proudly showed off their newly awakened Quirks. One girl could make her fingertips glow like fireflies. A boy could stretch his tongue over a meter. Some had minor mutant traits—cat ears, scaly skin, tails. It was a daily reminder of where I stood.
I, Tatsumi, was the "normal" kid in an extraordinary world.
That's where I first "met" her.
I was trying to build the tallest block tower in class when someone bumped into my back, sending the whole thing tumbling down. I turned around, ready to complain—but there was no one there.
Just a pink ribbon, hovering midair.
"Ow," a small, embarrassed voice came from where the ribbon floated. "S-sorry…"
The other kids didn't even look. They were used to it.
But I wasn't.
With my adult mind, my curiosity was piqued. I crouched down. "Are you okay?" I asked, speaking toward the ribbon.
It flinched. "Eh? Y-you're talking to me?"
"Of course," I said. "You're the one who bumped into me, right? I'm Tatsumi."
A pause. Then: "I… I'm Hagakure Toru," said the voice hesitantly. "Sorry about your tower."
"It's fine," I said, already picking up the blocks. "We can rebuild it. Want to help?"
That was the beginning of our friendship.
Toru Hagakure—the invisible girl.
I quickly learned that her Quirk made life more difficult than it seemed. She was often overlooked, forgotten, or accidentally bumped into. The teachers had to attach little bells to her shoes just so they knew where she was.
But I never treated her that way.
To me, she was just Toru.
I talked to her as if she were physically there. I saved her a seat at lunch. I recognized her presence from the way her ribbon fluttered in the air. Maybe it was because I, too, felt like an outsider—but we quickly became inseparable.
She was the only one who knew my secret—that I might be Quirkless.
And I was the only one who didn't seem to care that she was invisible.
Time passed. I turned five.
I had accepted my fate. I would live a normal life. Study hard. Get a stable job. Stay as far away from hero-villain battles as possible. I would use my knowledge of the future to stay safe, to keep those I loved safe.
It was a sound plan. A safe one.
Then, one afternoon, Toru and I were playing at the neighborhood park. It was a bright, warm day. We were on the swings when three older boys approached. Their leader, a kid named Kenta, had a minor Quirk that gave him a slight strength boost. He often used it to bully smaller kids.
"Hey, look," Kenta sneered, pointing at the empty swing next to me. "Tatsumi the weirdo's talking to his imaginary friend again."
I sighed. "She's not imaginary, Kenta. She's right here. Her name is Toru."
Kenta laughed. "Sure. Then I want her swing. Move it, fake friend!"
He shoved the swing Toru was on. She let out a small yelp and fell into the sand.
Something inside me snapped.
Until then, I had avoided confrontation. I used my adult mind to de-escalate or avoid trouble entirely. But seeing Toru—my only friend—pushed like that?
That was different.
I got off my swing and stood between Kenta and Toru.
"Apologize to her," I said, my voice colder than I expected.
Kenta raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Or what? Gonna cry to your mom? You don't even have a Quirk, loser."
He shoved my shoulder, hard.
I stumbled—but didn't fall.
And at that moment, when his palm touched me, I felt it for the first time.
It wasn't the shock of an emitter-type Quirk, or a transformation Quirk altering my body. It was something deeper, older.
A heat flared in my chest—like a furnace being lit.
A latent power… a protective instinct that felt ancient, primal.
It didn't manifest physically. There was no fire, no armor, no explosion.
But it changed me.
My fear evaporated, replaced by a chilling, dangerous calm.
I stared into Kenta's eyes—and what he saw wasn't the gaze of a five-year-old.
It was the gaze of a grown man filled with seriousness… and something else.Something darker.Older.
Kenta, expecting me to cry or run, took a step back. He saw something in my eyes that made him uncomfortable—something that didn't belong in a child.
He muttered something about me being weird and motioned for his friends to leave. They turned and ran.
I stood there for a while, the heat in my chest slowly fading, leaving behind a lingering warmth.
Toru—visible only by her floating gloves and shoes—rushed to my side.
"Tatsumi-kun, are you okay? Your eyes… just now…"
I looked down at my hands.
Small hands. The hands of a child.
But for the first time since coming to this world, they didn't feel powerless.
My plan to live a quiet, safe life began to feel like a lie.I might not have a flashy Quirk.But I wasn't empty.
Deep within me, in the depths of my soul…A dragon was sleeping.
And I had a feeling—
Soon, it would awaken.