It began decades ago when a glowing newborn was born in China. Doctors were baffled. Within months, more children around the world began developing strange abilities. Powers. Talents never seen before.
The world called them Quirks.
In just two generations, 80% of the human population developed these gifts. Society evolved. Superheroes became reality. So did villains. Laws changed. Cities rose, others fell. The era of heroes was born.
But this story doesn't begin in a bustling city or with the rise of a new power.
It begins on a quiet night… deep in the countryside of Japan.
Inko Midoriya sat quietly on the creaky porch of a newly built farmhouse, nestled between green fields and distant mountains. The sky above sparkled with stars. The only sounds were cicadas and the rustling of grass in the summer breeze.
Her husband, Hisashi Midoriya, joined her with two mugs of warm tea.
They sat in silence, both quietly wrestling with the same unspoken pain.
Two months ago, the doctors confirmed what they had feared—Inko couldn't conceive a child. Years of hope had quietly slipped through their fingers.
Hisashi had suggested they leave the city behind. He bought a plot of land and spent the last two years turning it into a modest farm. The fresh air, peaceful neighbors, and simpler life helped ease the pain.
A streak of light suddenly tore across the sky.
Inko squinted. "A shooting star?"
"No," Hisashi said, rising to his feet. "That was way too close—"
BOOM!
A deafening explosion erupted behind the barn. The ground trembled. Chickens squawked, dogs barked, and cows moaned in panic.
"Stay here!" Hisashi shouted, already running inside to grab his old hunting shotgun. Inko stood up, frozen in shock.
Heart pounding, he ran through the night, across the field and toward the smoke curling into the sky behind the barn.
There, in the middle of a crater, surrounded by scorched grass and scattered embers, was something impossible.
Not a meteor.
A ship.
Sleek. Metallic. Covered in alien symbols glowing faintly in hues of silver and blue. Steam hissed from its sides.
Hisashi stumbled backward and fell on the ground, accidentally releasing a small puff of flame from his mouth—his Quirk flaring out from panic.
"Inko!" he called, stunned. "I… I think you need to see this!"
She was already approaching, having ignored his earlier warning. When she saw it, her breath caught in her throat.
They stood side by side, staring into the impossible.
Inko, as if drawn by some invisible force, slowly stepped forward.
"Inko, don't—" Hisashi warned, but his voice was barely more than a whisper.
As she reached the side of the ship, it emitted a soft chime. A panel on the top hissed open.
Inside, cradled in a glowing pod of soft blue light, was a baby boy.
He looked no older than one year. Jet-black hair. Soft skin. Wrapped in a blanket adorned with a strange red-and-yellow S-shaped crest within a shield.
The baby opened his eyes.
They were brilliant blue—glowing faintly in the dark.
And then—the baby began to cry.
Not from fear. From pain.
At first it was soft, but it quickly turned into gasping wails, his tiny chest rising and falling with desperate effort. His skin, pale at first, had turned slightly red. His hands trembled. His lungs strained.
He was struggling to breathe.
Inko, still in a trance, moved without thinking—drawn by a force beyond reason. Her arms ached with a longing that had lived in her for years. Her motherly instinct, long buried under the sorrow of infertility, roared to life.
She reached down into the pod and gently lifted the crying child. He was warm. Frightened. Fragile.
She held him close.
He slowly settled against her chest, but his breathing was still erratic—like he was fighting to survive in a world he wasn't meant for.
Inko turned to Hisashi, her face pale but full of conviction. Her eyes said everything.
Hisashi shook his head immediately, already anticipating what she wanted to say.
"Inko, no. We can't. We don't know where he came from. What he is. And the government—God, the government will be here any minute if they tracked this thing."
She clutched the baby tighter. "We always wanted a child… and now… maybe this was meant to happen. Maybe we were meant to find him."
"Inko, this is not a child from an orphanage. He came in a spaceship. From the stars. We can't just—just take him in like a stray dog."
She looked up at him, pleading. "Just for now. Please. If someone comes looking, we give him up. But if no one comes... he needs us. Look at him, Hisashi. He's dying out here."
Hisashi cursed under his breath and ran a hand through his hair, glancing between the ship and the crying baby. He paced. "Fine. But we keep it secret. If anyone even sniffs around here, we hand him over. No hesitation."
Inko nodded, relief and determination shining in her eyes.
They returned to the house. Inko sat in the old rocking chair in the nursery that had been gathering dust for years. The room was plain—still unfinished, still waiting for a child that would never come.
Until now.
The child's breathing remained ragged. His body trembled with each exhale. He would cry, then fall silent for a few minutes, only to wake again in distress.
Inko stayed up with him all night, never once putting him down. She hummed lullabies she had once sung to herself, hoping she'd get to sing them to a child someday.
She didn't sleep. She barely blinked.
But by the time the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, the baby's breaths became slower… steadier. His crying stopped. His grip on her finger tightened. For the first time since arriving, the boy slept peacefully.
At the kitchen table, over lukewarm tea, Hisashi and Inko spoke in hushed tones.
"What now?" Hisashi asked. "We can't keep him in the house forever."
Inko held the child, who now looked perfectly healthy—almost radiant in the morning light.
"The ship," she said quietly. "We build a basement under the barn. Hide it. Bury it if we have to."
Hisashi leaned back, exhaling. "A hidden room under the barn. You want to build a secret lair now?"
"No," she said, brushing a lock of hair from the baby's forehead. "I want to protect our son."
That word—son—hung in the air like a silent thunderclap.
He couldn't argue. He just nodded, got up from the table, and grabbed his car keys.
"I'll head into town. I'll get the concrete, lumber, and tools. I'll tell them I'm building a root cellar."
Inko smiled, exhausted but hopeful.
"Be safe," she whispered.
As Hisashi drove away, Inko looked down at the child in her arms.
His small hand reached up to her face.
She kissed his forehead.
"Welcome home, Izuku."
A couple of years would pass
One day izuku would be feeding the chicken the way his father taught him
When he noticed his dad was changing the tire on the truck and ran over to help him
As izuku grabbed the front of the truck the jack gave way and the truck started to fall when all of a sudden it stopped and then started being moved up
As Hisashi looked on he saw his four year old son holding the front of the truck about his head and started laughing
Hisashi finish putting the tire back on the truck and then to inko where the discuss what they where going to do
They discuss that he isn't human so he shouldn't have a quirk but this could be a good thing we can blend in more easily if he has quirk
A few years passed, quiet and full of wonder.
The farm thrived under Inko and Hisashi's care. The townsfolk grew fond of the Midoriyas—especially little Izuku, with his bright green eyes, boundless energy, and natural curiosity. To them, he was just an ordinary farm boy, helping with chores, chasing chickens, and drawing in the dirt.
But Inko and Hisashi knew he was anything but ordinary.
Izuku didn't get sick. He never scraped his knees. He could fall out of a tree and bounce back laughing, completely unharmed. But they never imagined what he was truly capable of—until one warm spring morning.
The sky was a gentle blue. Birds chirped as the sun poured down over the fields.
Izuku, now four years old, was scattering feed for the chickens, just as his father had taught him.
"Gotta keep 'em happy," he mumbled to himself, tossing the kernels with both hands. "Happy chickens lay happy eggs."
He looked over and saw Hisashi by the old pickup truck, crouched down and grumbling under his breath. One of the rear tires had gone flat.
"I'll help!" Izuku shouted, already dropping the feed bucket and running across the yard.
Hisashi smiled. "You can hand me the lug nuts, champ."
Just as Izuku arrived, a loud snap rang out. The jack under the truck gave way with a groan of twisting metal.
The truck began to fall.
"Izuku, back up—!" Hisashi shouted, instinctively reaching out.
But it never hit the ground.
In that split second, Izuku's tiny hands shot up—and caught the front of the truck.
Not just caught it. Lifted it.
His feet dug into the dirt. His little arms trembled, not with strain, but with surprise.
"D-Dad...?" he asked, looking up. "What do I do?!"
Hisashi stood frozen, eyes wide, staring at the impossible sight.
Then he did the only thing he could think to do.
He laughed.
A deep, relieved, terrified laugh.
"Hold it right there, buddy," he said, regaining his senses. "You're doing great."
He quickly changed the tire with practiced speed, his mind racing. When he finished, he backed away slowly.
"Okay, champ. You can put it down now."
Izuku gently lowered the truck until it settled with a thud.
"Did I do it right?" he asked nervously, wiping sweat from his brow.
"You... You did more than right."
Later that evening, after Izuku had fallen asleep watching cartoons on the couch, Hisashi stepped into the kitchen where Inko was washing dishes.
"Inko," he said quietly, "we have a problem."
She turned, concerned. "What happened?"
He sat at the table, rubbing his hands together. "The truck jack broke. Izuku caught it. With his hands. He... held up the whole front of the truck like it was nothing."
Inko dropped the sponge into the sink, stunned. "He—He what?"
"I think it's starting," Hisashi said, his voice low. "His real powers. The stuff he can really do."
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound in the kitchen being the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
Then Inko spoke softly, "He's not human… so he shouldn't have a Quirk."
"Exactly," Hisashi replied. "Quirks don't make toddlers lift vehicles. This isn't some mutation—this is something else. Something alien."
Inko's expression was thoughtful now, not fearful.
"But maybe that's a good thing," she said. "Everyone assumes people have Quirks now. If he's strong or fast… we can just say that's his Quirk. It'll help him blend in."
Hisashi nodded. "Right. A strength-type Quirk. They'll never question it."
"We'll need to teach him to hide it," Inko added. "To control it. If someone sees him doing more than a Quirk can explain... they'll come. Someone will come."
Hisashi reached across the table and took her hand. "We'll figure it out. Together."
They both glanced toward the living room, where their son—not born of Earth, but loved just the same—slept soundly under a blanket, unaware of how much he had changed the world around him.
Here's the next part of your story, expanded with stronger emotion, polished dialogue, and smoother pacing to deepen the impact of Izuku's first major display of power and how it affects Hisashi and Inko's thinking.
A few years passed, quiet and full of wonder.
The farm thrived under Inko and Hisashi's care. The townsfolk grew fond of the Midoriyas—especially little Izuku, with his bright green eyes, boundless energy, and natural curiosity. To them, he was just an ordinary farm boy, helping with chores, chasing chickens, and drawing in the dirt.
But Inko and Hisashi knew he was anything but ordinary.
Izuku didn't get sick. He never scraped his knees. He could fall out of a tree and bounce back laughing, completely unharmed. But they never imagined what he was truly capable of—until one warm spring morning.
The sky was a gentle blue. Birds chirped as the sun poured down over the fields.
Izuku, now four years old, was scattering feed for the chickens, just as his father had taught him.
"Gotta keep 'em happy," he mumbled to himself, tossing the kernels with both hands. "Happy chickens lay happy eggs."
He looked over and saw Hisashi by the old pickup truck, crouched down and grumbling under his breath. One of the rear tires had gone flat.
"I'll help!" Izuku shouted, already dropping the feed bucket and running across the yard.
Hisashi smiled. "You can hand me the lug nuts, champ."
Just as Izuku arrived, a loud snap rang out. The jack under the truck gave way with a groan of twisting metal.
The truck began to fall.
"Izuku, back up—!" Hisashi shouted, instinctively reaching out.
But it never hit the ground.
In that split second, Izuku's tiny hands shot up—and caught the front of the truck.
Not just caught it. Lifted it.
His feet dug into the dirt. His little arms trembled, not with strain, but with surprise.
"D-Dad...?" he asked, looking up. "What do I do?!"
Hisashi stood frozen, eyes wide, staring at the impossible sight.
Then he did the only thing he could think to do.
He laughed.
A deep, relieved, terrified laugh.
"Hold it right there, buddy," he said, regaining his senses. "You're doing great."
He quickly changed the tire with practiced speed, his mind racing. When he finished, he backed away slowly.
"Okay, champ. You can put it down now."
Izuku gently lowered the truck until it settled with a thud.
"Did I do it right?" he asked nervously, wiping sweat from his brow.
"You... You did more than right."
Later that evening, after Izuku had fallen asleep watching cartoons on the couch, Hisashi stepped into the kitchen where Inko was washing dishes.
"Inko," he said quietly, "we have a problem."
She turned, concerned. "What happened?"
He sat at the table, rubbing his hands together. "The truck jack broke. Izuku caught it. With his hands. He... held up the whole front of the truck like it was nothing."
Inko dropped the sponge into the sink, stunned. "He—He what?"
"I think it's starting," Hisashi said, his voice low. "His real powers. The stuff he can really do."
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound in the kitchen being the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
Then Inko spoke softly, "He's not human… so he shouldn't have a Quirk."
"Exactly," Hisashi replied. "Quirks don't make toddlers lift vehicles. This isn't some mutation—this is something else. Something alien."
Inko's expression was thoughtful now, not fearful.
"But maybe that's a good thing," she said. "Everyone assumes people have Quirks now. If he's strong or fast… we can just say that's his Quirk. It'll help him blend in."
Hisashi nodded. "Right. A strength-type Quirk. They'll never question it."
"We'll need to teach him to hide it," Inko added. "To control it. If someone sees him doing more than a Quirk can explain... they'll come. Someone will come."
Hisashi reached across the table and took her hand. "We'll figure it out. Together."
They both glanced toward the living room, where their son—not born of Earth, but loved just the same—slept soundly under a blanket, unaware of how much he had changed the world around him.
The next day they went to the doctors where they told the doctor about his strength and asked to register his quirk
The doctor said he would run some test and update his quirks registry
The doctor spent the next couple of hour running all kinds of test
When the doctor was finished he asked for both of them to sit in his office
They were worried but went in anyway
In the office the doctor explained that he has two toe joint Wich would normally mean he doesn't have a quirk but the boy has super strength and as we continued to x-ray his body we found another organ Wich seems to help him metabolize radiation and in doing so gives him his super strength
By the time Izuku was six years old, life on the Midoriya farm had settled into a quiet routine. He was still as cheerful and helpful as ever—always smiling, always asking questions, always wanting to help his father fix something or help his mother cook.
To anyone else in town, he was just another energetic little boy with a strong Quirk.
But Inko and Hisashi knew better.
He was faster than any child they'd ever seen. Stronger, of course—but lately, he was also becoming more perceptive. He could hear things from far away, notice details even they missed. And worst of all, his eyes sometimes glowed faintly when he concentrated too hard.
They hoped it would stabilize. That he could make it through elementary school without incident.
They were wrong.
It started on a rainy Wednesday.
Izuku sat quietly at his desk in the back of Class 1-A at Musutafu Elementary. He was doodling in his notebook—sketches of pro heroes, mostly All Might flying through the air, saving people. He was smiling softly to himself when it happened.
A piercing high-pitched whine.
Like a dog whistle—but sharper, more constant.
He clutched his ears, gasping as the sound intensified.
"Make it stop… please make it stop...!"
The other kids turned to look at him, confused.
"Midoriya? Are you okay?" the teacher asked, but her voice—her voice—was like nails scraping against glass now, painfully loud and distorted.
Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made things worse.
He could see through the walls.
He saw the teacher's skeleton, the pulsing of her heart, the wireframe of desks, the water pipes running underground, the fluttering wings of a bird outside mid-flap. He saw everything.
Too much.
His breath quickened.
His vision blurred with heat.
He screamed
The classroom erupted into chaos.
Children screamed.
The teacher called for help.
But Izuku didn't hear any of it—not in the way they intended. Every voice was like a thunderclap. Every movement was a blur. He bolted from the room, arms covering his ears, eyes wide in blind panic.
He ran blindly until he found a supply closet and locked himself inside.
He curled into a ball, crying, whispering to himself.
"Too loud... too bright... too much... make it stop…"
And then—a voice.
Soft.
Familiar.
"Zuzu," said Inko, using the nickname she hadn't used since he was a toddler.
He peeked out. Her face was calm, eyes warm and steady. She didn't scream. Didn't panic.
She opened her arms.
He ran into them.
After the terrifying incident at school, Inko and Hisashi knew there was no going back.
That evening, once Izuku was asleep, still shaking from the overload of his senses, they sat together in the kitchen. The only sound was the soft ticking of the clock on the wall—barely audible to them, but likely a deafening drumbeat to their son.
"We can't send him back," Inko whispered, her eyes still puffy from crying. "He's not ready."
Hisashi nodded. "We'll teach him here. Everything he needs to know. But this—these senses—we need help understanding it. The doctor needs to know."
"But what do we even say?" she asked. "That his quirk suddenly developed into... what? Ultra-hearing and X-ray vision?"
Hisashi exhaled. "We tell the truth. As much as we can without sounding crazy."
The next morning, they bundled Izuku into the car and drove to the city, returning to the same doctor who had evaluated Izuku's strength years ago.
Doctor Sakamoto was an older man now, his hair grayer, but his eyes sharp and kind.
"Mr. and Mrs. Midoriya," he said as he reviewed the original file. "Back again, huh? I remember this little guy. Stronger than any child I'd ever seen." He smiled at Izuku, who hid slightly behind Inko's coat.
"We believe… his quirk is developing further," Hisashi said cautiously. "New abilities. Things we don't fully understand."
"Oh?" Sakamoto raised a brow. "What kind of things?"
Inko held her son's hand gently. "He's started hearing things—far away things. Conversations in other rooms. Machines humming. He... he saw through walls. He said it was like seeing everyone's bones."
Doctor Sakamoto's pen stopped moving.
"I see," he said slowly. "And how did he react?"
"He panicked. Screamed. Ran out of class," Inko said softly. "We've withdrawn him. We're homeschooling now."
The doctor leaned back in his chair. "Let's run a full set of scans. Auditory, visual, neurological. And I want a radiation profile as well. If his quirk really is metabolizing solar energy like before… it may be causing secondary effects."
The testing took most of the day.
Izuku sat in specially shielded rooms. Audiology tests showed he could hear sound frequencies well beyond human capacity, down to the vibration of insect wings. His eyes responded to multiple spectrums of light—including infrared and ultraviolet—and faint signs of X-ray resonance were detected when he focused too long.
Even his brain scans were extraordinary—an overactive hippocampus, a highly adapted visual cortex, and neurological activity that spiked under sunlight.
Finally, Doctor Sakamoto called them back into his office.
"I don't think this is a traditional 'quirk' anymore," he said carefully. "There's no genetic mutation in the Quirk Factor that would explain this. I believe your son is... adapting."
"Adapting how?" Hisashi asked warily.
"His body is taking in solar radiation—lots of it—and using that energy to evolve. His strength, his senses, maybe even more. I've never seen anything like it. This isn't just super strength anymore. This is biological enhancement at a level far beyond human limits."
Izuku sat quietly on Inko's lap, playing with a stress ball the nurse gave him. He didn't quite understand all the words—but he knew the doctor was talking about him.
"So what do we do?" Inko asked.
Doctor Sakamoto leaned forward. "Teach him control. Teach him discipline. He has potential unlike anything we've seen. But if his powers keep growing like this—he'll be something entirely new."
On the drive home, Izuku looked out the window in silence. He could hear everything—the humming of the tires, the wind outside, the buzz of the electric poles. But it didn't hurt anymore. He was learning to filter.
"Mom?" he asked softly. "Am I... a monster?"
Inko pulled the car over and turned to face him, tears brimming in her eyes. "No, baby. You're a miracle. You came to us when we needed you most. You're our son. No matter what."
Hisashi nodded from the front seat. "No matter how powerful you get. You're still you. And we'll help you figure it out, together."
And with that promise, they drove back to the farm.
Izuku's days fell into a steady rhythm.
Each morning, after breakfast and a quick set of chores, he logged into his online classes. Inko had designed a flexible homeschooling schedule that allowed him to move at his own pace, and as always, Izuku rushed through his lessons with laser focus—not because he didn't enjoy learning, but because the fields outside were calling.
He longed for the sun on his face, the grass beneath his feet, and the sound of chickens clucking and the family dog barking joyfully as they played their usual game of "chase the stick." For a boy with super strength and super senses, it was these quiet, simple moments that made him feel most human.
One particularly windy afternoon, Izuku stood in the front yard flying his favorite red kite. The wind was strong that day—so strong that it yanked the kite high into the air, looping and diving with wild energy. A sharp gust tore it from his grip, and the kite spiraled upward before getting tangled in the tall, gnarled branches of the old oak tree that stood like a guardian beside their house.
"Aw, come on!" Izuku muttered.
He tried jumping a few times to reach it. His feet left the ground higher than any normal kid's could, but still not enough. The kite fluttered teasingly above him, just out of reach.
That's when he heard it—a car coming fast down the nearby road.
His ears perked up. Something didn't feel right. He turned his head just slightly and could hear the engine rattling, tires skimming the pavement too fast. Then he heard voices—faint but sharp.
A woman in the front seat. A child crying in the back.
Izuku sprinted to the edge of the property just in time to see the car racing toward the massive pothole that had formed after last month's storm. He waved his arms frantically, trying to get the driver's attention.
"Hey! Watch out!"
But the woman wasn't looking. She had turned toward the back seat, reaching for her crying child. The front tire slammed into the pothole. The car jolted violently, skidded, and began to spin, completely out of control—sliding sideways, tires screaming against asphalt. It was headed straight for the tree across the road.
Without thinking, Izuku ran.
Not like a normal child. Not even like a normal hero. He moved faster than he ever had in his life. The world around him blurred. Time slowed.
Before he even realized what he was doing, he was behind the car.
His hands shot out and grabbed the back bumper.
The metal groaned, tires lifted slightly off the ground as Izuku dug his heels into the earth. The force nearly knocked him over, but he held on, slowing the car just enough. It skidded to a stop—barely a foot from the tree.
The woman inside was panting, wide-eyed, clutching her child. She never even saw the boy who'd saved them.
Izuku stared, chest heaving, heart pounding.
"I… I stopped it," he whispered. "I really stopped it."
Suddenly remembering his kite, he turned and ran back toward the oak tree, needing to feel normal again—to anchor himself. He crouched low and jumped toward the kite, this time putting all of his power into it.
His hands closed around the string. The fabric flapped in the wind.
But the ground didn't rush up to meet him.
Instead, it drifted farther and farther away.
Izuku's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat.
He wasn't falling.
He was floating.
He looked down and saw the barn, the oak tree, the road, even the car he had just saved—all growing smaller.
"I… I'm flying," he whispered, stunned.
The wind tugged gently at his hair. The sun warmed his face. He felt weightless. Alive.
Free.
Back on the ground, Inko had come rushing outside after seeing the near-accident. She spotted Izuku high above, suspended in the air like a dream.
Tears welled in her eyes. "Oh my god… Hisashi! He's flying!"
Hisashi came running, mouth open in awe. "Our boy… he's actually flying."
That night, Izuku could hardly sleep. The sensation of flying—of being weightless and free—danced in his thoughts like a melody he didn't want to forget. When morning came, he bolted out the door before breakfast, rising into the air with ease like it was second nature. He spent the entire day soaring above the farm: weaving through clouds, racing birds, and tracing loops across the open sky.
From below, Hisashi stood by the fence, shielding his eyes against the sun and watching his son with a quiet smile.
"He looks so happy up there," Inko said, stepping beside him.
"He's never looked more himself," Hisashi replied. "I think it's time we help him do more with it. He's not just flying for fun anymore—he's meant to be up there."
That evening, after doing some research, Hisashi found a week-long youth flight development program offered in the city. It was meant for kids with quirks that involved air mobility—winged students, jet-propelled, levitators, and gravity benders—but the fundamentals were universal. Controlled takeoff. Speed management. Emergency landings. Spatial awareness.
"Think of it as flying with a seatbelt," Hisashi told Izuku. "Just a little training to make sure you stay safe up there."
Izuku's eyes lit up. "I get to go to a class… for flying?"
Hisashi chuckled. "Yeah. And I'll be driving you every day. We'll make it a little adventure."
The next morning, the drive into the city was filled with excitement. Izuku had never really been outside their small town before, and the towering buildings and bustling streets were overwhelming and fascinating all at once. But the moment he walked into the flight class, all his nerves melted away.
The training center was like something out of a futuristic movie—spacious, bright, and buzzing with kids launching into the air under the watchful eyes of pro instructors.
Izuku's first few exercises felt clumsy—his landings were too rough, and he overshot his turns—but he was learning fast. His raw power and natural instincts made him stand out quickly, drawing the curiosity of others.
During a break, as he sat sipping juice on the bleachers, a boy with wind-blown hair and small wings on his ankles plopped down beside him.
"You're pretty good," the boy said. "I've never seen anyone just… hover like that."
Izuku smiled, cheeks a little red. "Thanks. I just figured out I could fly a few days ago."
The boy raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You're a natural! I'm Kaito, by the way."
"I'm Izuku," he replied, shaking his hand.
"So," Kaito asked, "you planning on going to a hero school after this?"
Izuku nodded eagerly. "Yeah! I want to go to U.A. High. I've wanted to be a hero for as long as I can remember."
Kaito grinned. "Same. My dad went there. You'll love it. It's tough, but they teach you everything."
Izuku's heart beat faster with excitement. For the first time, he wasn't just dreaming about U.A.—he was talking about it with someone who believed it was possible. Who expected to get there. Who saw him as just another kid with a powerful quirk.
Here's an improved and expanded version of your story, enhancing pacing, emotion, and clarity while smoothly leading into the reveal of the ship
The final day of flight class arrived faster than Izuku expected. After a week of intense drills, guidance, and new friendships, he stood proudly as the instructor handed him a laminated card with his picture and official registry.
"This is your provisional flight license," the instructor explained. "If any heroes or law enforcement stop you mid-air, show them this. You're cleared for flight in non-restricted zones under daylight hours. Good work, kid."
Izuku turned the card over in his hands, his heart swelling. It wasn't just a card—it was proof. Proof that he belonged in the sky. That he was finally being recognized not just as someone with a "quirk," but as someone capable.
"I think… I'm going to fly home," Izuku said, grinning.
"You sure?" Kaito asked. "It's, like, a couple hundred miles."
Izuku grinned. "I want to see what I can do."
He stepped out of the building, took a deep breath, and launched himself skyward. The wind howled past his ears as he accelerated. He pushed harder—faster. The air around him rippled. Then boom—a sonic shockwave split the sky.
Below, people looked up in awe and confusion as a green streak tore through the clouds.
At home, it only took thirty seconds.
Inko sat on the porch, sipping tea, her eyes scanning the open sky. When she heard the sonic boom, her cup froze halfway to her lips.
Then—thud.
Izuku landed gently in front of the house, his hair tousled by wind, cheeks flushed with exhilaration.
"I'm home!" he called.
Inko stood, stunned. "Where's your father?"
"He had to finish talking with the instructors," Izuku said with a wide smile. "I figured… I can fly now. Why not use it?"
Inko's hand covered her heart. "You broke the sound barrier…"
He laughed. "I guess I did."
It was a couple of hours later when Hisashi's truck finally pulled into the driveway. Dust swirled around the tires as he parked beside the barn.
He stepped out, surprised to see Izuku calmly feeding the chickens like nothing had happened. Inko was on the porch, just where he left her, calmly sipping her tea.
Hisashi tilted his head, suspicious. "What did I miss?"
Inko stood up and wordlessly walked toward the barn. Hisashi met her halfway, and she whispered in his ear. His eyes flicked to Izuku, who was laughing as the dog chased a feather. He gave a small nod.
"Inko," he said, "are you sure he's ready?"
She looked up at him. "He's flying at the speed of sound, Hisashi. I think it's time."
Hisashi exhaled slowly. "Alright. Let's do it."
That evening, as the sun began to dip below the hills, they called Izuku into the barn. The space smelled of hay and old wood, filled with the golden glow of twilight slipping through the slats.
"Come on," Hisashi said, pulling aside a large, weathered rug that lay beneath a pile of farm tools. Beneath it, a heavy steel hatch rested in the floor.
Izuku blinked. "What's that?"
"A storm cellar," Inko said. "But not the usual kind."
Hisashi grunted as he pulled the latch, revealing a stairway leading down into darkness.
Izuku followed, his heart pounding, the air growing colder as they descended.
At the bottom, Inko flicked on the lights. Fluorescent bulbs hummed to life, illuminating a chamber unlike anything Izuku had ever seen. The walls were reinforced with concrete. At the center of the room, resting like a sleeping beast, was a ship—sleek, metallic, and glowing faintly with alien blue circuitry.
Izuku's jaw dropped. "W-What is that?"
Hisashi stepped beside him. "That, Izuku… is how you came to us."
Inko walked over and gently placed her hand on the ship. "We found you inside. You were just a baby. There was no note. No explanation. Just you the ship and the red blanket you were wrapped in."
The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ship.
"You mean… I'm not…" Izuku's voice caught. "I'm not your real son?"
"You're our son," Inko said firmly, walking over and taking his hand. "Biology doesn't change that. We raised you. We love you."
Hisashi nodded. "But we always knew this day would come. When you'd start showing signs of what you really are. And now… you're flying. You're strong beyond reason. We thought you should know the truth."
Izuku's eyes stayed locked on the ship. "Then what am I?"
"We don't know," Inko said honestly. "But whatever you are, you're good. You saved people before you could even fly. You've never once used your powers to hurt anyone."
Izuku slowly walked to the ship, placing his hand against the hull. It was warm beneath his fingers—almost alive.
"I want to find out," he said softly.
"We'll help you," Hisashi promised. "Every step of the way."
That night, Izuku couldn't sleep.
The truth swirled in his mind like a storm—alien, impossible, real. He had flown. Broken the sound barrier. And now… this ship. His parents—no, his family—had always been there for him. But there were questions they couldn't answer.
So, when the house fell quiet and the stars took their places in the sky, Izuku got up. He padded silently across the wooden floorboards, careful not to wake his parents, and slipped into the barn.
The hatch to the storm cellar groaned quietly open.
Downstairs, the ship still hummed—its glow brighter now, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Izuku stepped toward it, drawn in as if the very metal recognized him. When he placed his hand against the side again, this time the lights shifted. A circular panel opened with a hiss, revealing a small crystalline device the size of a finger.
It floated up into the air and hovered in front of him.
Suddenly—FLASH.
A beam of light struck the far wall. A holographic image flickered into existence, grainy at first, then sharpening until it revealed a tall man in ceremonial robes, bearing the same S-shaped crest that now glowed on the ship's console.
The man spoke.
"If you are seeing this, my son… then our world is gone. I am Jor-El, of the House of El. You were born Kal-El, last son of Krypton."
Izuku's breath caught in his throat. "Kal… El?"
"You were sent to Earth to survive what Krypton could not. Our planet was dying—our people blind to the truth. I could not save Krypton… but I could save you."
Images filled the projection—of Krypton's towering cities, its red sun, scientists scrambling, massive energy waves erupting from its core. Then the vision of a small pod being launched into space… carrying a baby.
"You will have powers on Earth… strength, speed, flight, senses beyond human comprehension. But these powers are not what make you special. What makes you great, Kal-El, is your heart. Use your gifts to help others… always. You carry the legacy of our House—of hope."
The crest shimmered again. Izuku instinctively touched it, feeling warmth flow into his palm.
"You are not alone, Kal-El. And you are not just Kryptonian. You are more—because Earth is your home now. Find your way, and remember: you are the bridge between two worlds."
Absolutely! Here's the improved and expanded version of that powerful scene—now including the iconic Superman suit reveal and more emotional depth to match Izuku's growing understanding of his destiny.
As the hologram of Jor-El faded into starlight, Izuku stood frozen. His chest rose and fell as if something heavy had just been lifted—and replaced—with something far heavier.
The glow of the ship pulsed once more. A second crystal floated up from the console and slotted into place, triggering another projection.
But this one was different.
It began as a schematic—lines and shapes forming a humanoid figure, then layering with textures, materials, and energy channels. Bit by bit, a suit took shape: a body-hugging design of deep blue, etched with red and gold accents. A long crimson cape billowed behind it in a simulated wind, and on the chest, the same glowing symbol he'd seen on the ship—bold, bright, unmistakable:
The S-Shield.
Not just a letter, but a symbol.
The hologram shimmered and then shifted again. A new figure stood in the projection: Superman. Towering. Cloaked in majesty and humility all at once.
Jor-El's voice returned, softer this time—more personal.
"The crest on your chest is not an 'S.' On Krypton, it stands for 'El.' It means hope."
"Wear it when you are ready—not to separate yourself from humanity, but to show them who you choose to be."
"Let them see that even in their darkest hour… someone will rise."
The suit shimmered again and rotated slowly, highlighting key aspects. The cape was weighted at the ends, the fabric resilient yet fluid. The boots built to endure sonic flight. The material could absorb solar energy to aid healing. And the entire design was optimized for atmospheric pressure shifts, speed, and durability.
Izuku's eyes widened. "This is… for me?"
The hologram finally faded, but the ship started to do something and when it was done there lay the suit that he was just looking at.
Izuku stood there for a long time, staring at it.
Later that night, Izuku sat on the barn roof, knees pulled to his chest, looking up at the stars. The wind ruffled his hair, and the stars twinkled like they were winking at him.
He was no longer just a farm boy with unusual powers.
He was Kal-El of Krypton.
But also Izuku Midoriya, the boy who loved helping people, who fed chickens and flew kites and once cried when a dog got lost in the rain.
He was both. And someday, he would need to choose how the world saw him.
The morning sun spilled through the windows of the Midoriya farmhouse, golden and gentle. Izuku, still buzzing with excitement from the night before, carried something carefully wrapped in a cloth bundle down the stairs.
Inko and Hisashi were sitting at the breakfast table when he entered. Without saying a word, Izuku laid the bundle on the table and unwrapped it.
The Kryptonian suit gleamed in the soft light.
Both parents stared.
Inko gasped softly. Hisashi leaned forward, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
"It made this for you?" Inko asked, her voice reverent.
Izuku nodded. "The ship did. After the message. It's… mine."
A quiet pause followed, thick with awe.
"Well?" Inko said suddenly, clapping her hands together with a bright smile. "Try it on!"
A few minutes later, Izuku emerged from his room. He walked into the living room in the suit—blue body, gold belt, flowing red cape, and the bold S-shield on his chest.
He stood a little taller, a little straighter.
Inko's eyes lit up. "You look incredible!"
But then she tilted her head.
"Hmm… it's missing something," she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. Then she turned and trotted upstairs. "Hold on!"
Izuku blinked. "Missing something?"
Hisashi chuckled and gestured to the couch. "Come sit down, hero."
Izuku sat, the cape brushing the floor behind him.
"How does it feel?" Hisashi asked, giving the suit a once-over with an approving nod.
"It was a little big at first," Izuku said, stretching out his arms, "but as soon as I zipped it up… it sort of adjusted. Shrunk to fit me perfectly."
"Advanced Kryptonian fabric," Hisashi said. "That's something else."
Just then, they heard Inko's footsteps on the stairs. She rounded the corner, holding something red and bright in both hands like a prize.
Boxer shorts.
Or at least, that's what they looked like.
"Mom?" Izuku blinked in surprise.
Inko grinned, unbothered by their reactions. "These were part of your dad's old wrestling costume from high school. I think they'd be perfect over the suit—bright red, just like in those old American comics. Adds a classic flair."
Hisashi burst into laughter, shaking his head. "Oh no… you're trying to bring back the underwear-on-the-outside look."
"Don't knock it," Inko said with a wink. "It worked for your father."
Izuku turned beet red. "Do I… have to?"
Inko handed them over with a playful smile. "Just try it. Humor your mom."
Minutes later, Izuku stepped back out. The red trunks completed the look in a way he hadn't expected. It felt more… balanced. Like a nod to something greater. Something older.
He looked in the mirror.
And for the first time, he saw it.
Not just a boy from a farm. Not just Kal-El of Krypton.
But a symbol.
A figure of hope.
"Now," Inko said proudly, wiping away a tear, "you really look like a hero."
Hisashi clapped him on the back. "You're going to do great things, son."
Izuku looked at his reflection, heart swelling with the weight of it all.
"I hope so," he whispered.
Years passed, and Izuku grew not just in size and strength, but in wisdom and control. By the time he was fourteen teen, he had mastered most of his abilities—super strength, flight, enhanced senses, cold breath, even his terrifying heat vision—but it was restraint he valued most.
He could bend steel with a touch, but he spent countless hours learning how to gently turn the pages of a book without tearing them, how to hold an egg without cracking it, and how to hug his mom without bruising her.
Every day was practice. Every action, intentional.
One warm morning, the sun poured through the kitchen windows, casting golden light on the old wooden table where the Midoriyas sat eating breakfast. The smell of grilled fish and steamed rice filled the room.
Inko wiped her hands on a dish towel and sat down. "Izuku," she said casually as she reached for her tea, "you know the deadline to apply to U.A. is coming up soon, right?"
Izuku, mid-bite with toast hanging from his mouth, blinked. "Mm-hmm! Gonna mail it today," he mumbled.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Inko scolded gently. "Now swallow and say it again."
Izuku gulped, cleared his throat, and repeated, "I'm going to send in my application today. I promise."
Hisashi looked up from his newspaper with a chuckle. "Better not wait too long. You're not exactly an 'under the radar' type."
Izuku grinned sheepishly. "I'll fly it straight to the post office if I have to."
After breakfast, Izuku threw on a hoodie, slipped on his boots, and headed out to the barn to do his chores. The chickens greeted him with a mix of clucks and flapping wings, and he scattered feed with practiced ease.
Even chores were a form of training—gentle hands, precise movement. Holding a shovel was more about not accidentally launching it into orbit.
Once everything was done, Izuku walked out into the open field, looked to the sky, and took off with a whoosh that sent dandelions flying in all directions.
Flying never got old.
The wind in his face, the clouds rushing past, the freedom of the open sky—it was like dreaming while awake. Sometimes, he soared over mountains or skimmed across the ocean, pushing his speed just a little more each time.
On that particular day, while cruising along the coastline of Japan, something caught his eye—a sprawling, ugly stretch of beach.
Takoba Municipal Beach Park, the sign read.
But it looked more like a junkyard than a park.
Rusting appliances, broken furniture, rotting tires, and mountains of trash were piled along the sand. Old washing machines, televisions, even pieces of smashed cars.
Izuku hovered for a long moment, heart sinking.
"People used to swim here," he whispered to himself.
He could see it—families laughing, kids splashing, kites flying. But now, it was abandoned, forgotten.
No one was coming to clean it.
So maybe… he would.
A few minutes later, Izuku landed at the nearest city waste management center. The workers looked up in surprise as a teenager descended from the sky and approached them with a polite smile.
"Excuse me," he said, "I'd like to borrow some large industrial dumpsters. Maybe ten or twenty, if possible."
One of the workers blinked. "Uh… kid, what are you—wait, aren't you that flying guy from the news?"
Izuku rubbed the back of his neck. "Probably. But today, I'm just a volunteer. I found a beach—Takoba Park—it's a mess. I want to clean it. I figure if I move the trash, you can help haul it away?"
There was a long pause.
Then one of the older workers stood up, smiled, and said, "You want 'em at the beach? We'll have them there by this afternoon."
Izuku beamed. "Thank you. I'll get started right away."
While he waited for the industrial trash bins to arrive, Izuku figured he had time for one more important errand.
He rocketed into the sky, wind howling in his ears, and headed straight for the Musutafu Post Office. There, tucked under his arm, was a large envelope—the application to U.A. High.
As he landed discreetly in a nearby alley and stepped into the post office through the front like a regular customer, he smiled to himself. For once, he wasn't running from something. He was running toward the future.
The woman at the counter glanced at the envelope and raised an eyebrow. "U.A. High, huh? Hope you're fast."
Izuku grinned. "I'm working on it."
By the time he returned to Takoba Beach, the workers from the waste management center had finished positioning the massive bins. There were twenty in total, stretching along the edge of the sand like a row of metal sentinels. The crew was just packing up their gear when Izuku descended from the sky.
"Hey, wait!" he called, waving as he landed.
The foreman—a burly man in a hard hat—turned. "Everything okay, kid?"
Izuku jogged over. "Yeah, but if you give me just a few minutes… all those bins? They'll be full."
The workers exchanged skeptical glances.
"You serious?" one of them asked, crossing his arms. "That'd take a crew of ten a whole day."
"Just watch," Izuku said, brushing sand off his hoodie sleeves.
He took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and then—boom.
To the workers, it was almost impossible to follow. A green blur zipped across the beach, vanishing and reappearing with every blink. Piles of rusted junk, broken furniture, shattered electronics—all vanished from the sand and reappeared, packed neatly into the dumpsters.
The wind kicked up. Sand swirled. The beach transformed before their eyes.
In less than five minutes, the shore was almost spotless.
Izuku touched down, wiping sweat from his brow and breathing a little heavier than usual.
The workers stood in stunned silence.
The foreman finally spoke. "I... I don't even know what to say."
Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "Just—please, don't tell anyone. I'm technically only licensed for flight. Super speed in public like that—it's considered illegal Quirk use."
The older man nodded slowly, then gave a small smile. "Kid, I don't know what kind of Quirk you've got... but if this was illegal, we could use a lot more lawbreakers like you."
The others nodded in agreement.
"We'll keep it between us," another worker said. "Thanks for what you did here. That beach's been a dump for years."
Izuku grinned. "Thank you. Really."
He glanced back at the now-clean beach, imagining what it could become—families returning, children building sandcastles, people laughing again.
It was just one beach.
But maybe… it was the first of many.
The sun was dipping below the horizon when Izuku returned home, the scent of grilled vegetables and steaming rice drifting from the house.
As he stepped through the front door, still feeling the breeze of flight in his hair, he heard the familiar sound of the TV playing in the living room.
His mother and father were sitting side by side on the couch, eyes glued to the evening news.
"I'm home," Izuku called, slipping off his shoes.
"In here, sweetie," Inko said without looking away from the screen.
Izuku wandered in and froze as he saw what was on the TV.
There, on the screen, was Takoba Municipal Beach Park—completely clean. No more mounds of garbage. No rusted appliances. Just golden sand stretching into the distance, waves lapping gently at the shore.
A reporter in a bright blue blazer stood in front of the camera, microphone in hand.
> "We're here live at Takoba Beach, where something extraordinary happened today," she said. "A location once buried in mountains of trash is now completely spotless—within minutes, according to eyewitnesses."
The feed cut to a man in a reflective vest and hard hat. Izuku immediately recognized him—it was the foreman he'd spoken to earlier.
> "Yeah, some kid came into our office this morning," the man said. "Said he wanted to clean the beach and asked for a few bins. Next thing we know, he's there when we drop them off, and before we can even finish our coffee, bam, the whole place is clean."
The camera zoomed in slightly.
> "It was like something out of a comic book. One second he's standing there, the next he's a blur. And then? Done. Just like that."
The reporter raised an eyebrow. "And... the legality of that? Using a Quirk in public?"
> "We asked him the same thing," the man replied. "But the kid showed us a permit. Said he had special authorization to use his Quirk for cleanup in that area only. Honestly, I don't know who signed off on it, but I'm glad they did. That beach hasn't looked that good in decades."
The screen returned to the reporter, smiling brightly. "Whoever this mystery cleaner is—we thank you. You've given the people of Musutafu a place to be proud of again."
Izuku blinked. "...They really put it on the news?"
Inko turned to look at him, a proud smile spreading across her face. "Of course they did. You did something amazing, Izuku."
Hisashi chuckled from beside her. "You might've kept your name out of it, but anyone who knows you would've figured it out."
Izuku scratched the back of his head, cheeks flushing. "I just didn't want to cause trouble. It wasn't about the attention. It just... felt right."
Inko stood up and pulled him into a hug. "That's what makes you special. You don't help people because you have to—you help them because you want to."
Hisashi raised his glass of iced tea. "To the hero of Takoba Beach."
Izuku laughed and clinked his water glass against it. "To more beaches."
It had been a few days since the beach cleanup, and word had spread further than Izuku expected. Though he kept a low profile, rumors of the "blazing blur" began circulating through various news outlets and online forums. Most chalked it up to an overpowered quirk user doing community service—no one suspected it was the quiet farm boy from Musutafu.
But heroes were starting to take notice.
One of them was Sir Nighteye.
Though no longer All Might's sidekick, Nighteye remained one of the sharpest minds in hero society. His work was quiet, calculating, and always precise. He had a particular interest in rare, unregistered Quirks—or anything resembling something beyond typical human capability.
That led him to Takoba Beach.
As Nighteye surveyed the immaculate sands with silent reverence, he felt a disturbance—a breeze, subtle but sharp, like the ripple of a force moving too fast to see.
He turned.
And there was Izuku.
They almost collided, the green-haired teen trying to land as gently as possible but still stirring up a whirlwind of sand. Izuku was startled to see someone there. Nighteye adjusted his glasses.
"Apologies," Izuku said, brushing off his pants. "Didn't know anyone would be here…"
Nighteye studied him. "What's your name?"
"Izuku Midoriya," he said, instinctively polite but cautious.
There was a beat of silence.
Without thinking, perhaps driven by curiosity—or an unconscious tug of fate—Nighteye activated his Quirk.
Foresight.
His eyes glowed faintly.
And then… the world around him melted away.
Light.
Blinding, endless light.
Nighteye squinted against it, barely able to make out the outline of a figure.
A young man, tall and strong, floated above a city skyline bathed in golden sunlight. His red cape fluttered in the wind. His suit shimmered with deep blue and crimson—a perfect blend of alien nobility and heroic design.
But the sun behind him was so powerful that it completely obscured his face.
No matter how hard Nighteye tried, he couldn't see it. It was as if the universe itself refused to reveal the boy's true identity.
Around him, the air shimmered with heat. People stood below in awe, pointing toward the sky. Some cried. Others whispered prayers. All of them looked up as if witnessing the return of a god.
And then…
BOOM.
A sonic crack echoed across the sky, and the boy shot upward, beyond clouds, beyond sound itself.
And the vision ended.
Nighteye staggered, blinking as if waking from a fever dream.
Izuku tilted his head. "Hey, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost…"
Nighteye didn't answer right away. He was still shaken. Never—not even with All Might—had he seen a future so… blinding.
"Midoriya," he finally said, voice quieter than before, "where did you say you were from?"
"I, uh, live on a farm just outside the city. With my mom and dad."
"And your Quirk?" Nighteye asked, carefully.
Izuku hesitated. "Flight. And… super strength. I'm still learning."
Nighteye adjusted his tie. "You're going to do more than learn."
He turned, giving Izuku one last unreadable glance.
"I don't know who you are, Midoriya. Not yet. But I think... one day, the world will know."
Then he walked off, coat trailing behind him like a shadow retreating from the sun.
Time passed like a gentle wind on the plains—steady, subtle, and always moving forward.
Izuku continued to live quietly on the farm, splitting his time between school, chores, and mastering the overwhelming powers within him. While others his age were worried about grades or crushes, he was learning how to hold a grain of rice without crushing it… how to walk without cracking the sidewalk… how to listen to the world with senses that never slept.
Yet despite the immensity of his strength, Izuku always made time for the small things.
He helped elderly neighbors lift their groceries. He rescued kittens stranded on rooftops. He repaired broken fences with one hand and raked whole fields in a blur. He never asked for recognition—never wanted it. He just smiled, nodded, and flew off before anyone could get a clear look.
In his heart, Izuku was still just the boy who fed chickens and flew kites.
But deep down, he knew a different life was calling to him.
And finally, it was here.
The U.A. Entrance Exam.