Kenji Takahashi was not a hero. He wasn't powerful or special. He was just… ordinary. A quiet man with tired eyes and a heart that had long forgotten how to dream. Every morning, he awoke to the cold buzz of an alarm clock in his tiny apartment, its walls faded and bare, and every night, he fell asleep to the pale glow of an old television screen replaying old anime episodes.
His life was a rhythm of routine—a job he didn't love, people he barely knew, and a city that never stopped moving. He wasn't unhappy, not exactly. But he wasn't fulfilled either. He existed. He passed through days like a ghost. Invisible. Forgettable.
There was only one place where he felt alive—his imagination. The world of heroes, of quirks, of hope. My Hero Academia wasn't just a show to him. It was a lifeline. A world where strength wasn't defined by birth but by choice. Where even the weak could become symbols of peace.
He admired All Might—not just for his strength, but for his smile. That bright, unwavering smile that told people everything would be okay. That no matter how dark things got, someone would stand tall against the tide.
Kenji used to smile like that too, once. When he was a boy. Before life wore him down.
One rainy night, Kenji found himself walking home later than usual. The city was quiet, wrapped in a curtain of drizzle and neon lights. He walked slowly, his thoughts heavy with questions he had no answers to.
"Would I have been different," he whispered to no one, "if I was born in that world? Would I have been strong?"
The question lingered in the air like fog. And then—
A flash of headlights.
A horn blared.
A scream that never left his throat.
And then, silence.
When Kenji opened his eyes, there was no pain. No sound. Just a deep, endless quiet.
He floated, weightless in a place that felt too still, too vast to comprehend. Light and darkness danced around him. Time lost meaning. And then, a voice.
"You desired purpose."
Kenji turned, but there was no one there.
"You wished for strength. Not to destroy… but to protect. That wish has been heard."
A warm light surrounded him, gentle but firm, like a guiding hand.
"Go. Live again. In the world you admired. But understand this—power will not be given. You must forge it. With your hands. With your pain. With your will."
Kenji wanted to speak, to ask, to beg for clarity, but the light surged, and everything faded again.
When he woke again, it wasn't as Kenji.
He was small. Too small. His limbs were weak, his cries involuntary. A woman in white held him gently, cooing softly.
"Welcome to the world, little one," she said. "Yujiro. Yujiro Hanama."
His new name.
Yujiro.
He couldn't speak, but inside, he was screaming.
He remembered everything—Tokyo, his quiet life, his death. And the promise.
This world was familiar. The chatter of quirks, the murmurs of heroes. He had been reborn in that world.
He spent his early years in a modest orphanage tucked away in a less-busy ward of Musutafu. The caretakers were kind, though overworked, and the children—curious, excited—often chattered about the day they would discover their quirks.
It was around the age of four when the first signs appeared in the others. One girl could float her toys. Another boy accidentally set his blanket on fire during nap time. Whispers grew, and eyes turned toward Yujiro.
"Maybe his quirk is just late," one caretaker said gently, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
But he knew better.
He remembered the show. He remembered how children were evaluated by the age of four. And more than anything, he remembered the strange silence within his own body—like an empty vessel.
At the age of five, the orphanage arranged a visit to the local pediatric quirk specialist. It was routine.
"Don't worry," the doctor smiled, scanning the X-rays of his toe joints. "We'll see what's going on."
Minutes later, the doctor returned, the smile gone.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, kneeling in front of him. "Yujiro doesn't have a quirk. It's… just the way he was born."
The room felt colder. The voices around him blurred. He wasn't surprised. Not really. But hearing it—confirmed, final—was like a door slamming shut.
The other children were polite at first. But kids can be cruel, and whispers turned to teasing. "Quirkless." "Useless." "Why are you even here?"
But Yujiro didn't cry.
He clenched his fists under his blanket at night. He stared at his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror every morning and whispered a single promise:
"I will not be weak. Not again."
This world had given him nothing. No family. No power. No path.
Good.
He would carve one himself.