I blinked. That's all I did. Just a blink—yet the whole world changed.
I remember it clearly. I was crossing the street, heading home after class, thinking about what I'd have for dinner. My backpack was lazily hanging off one shoulder, the pedestrian light was still green. No cars in sight. Just a warm summer breeze.
And then I blinked.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't there anymore.
The sky was a different color. The air smelled strange. The first thing I noticed… I was seeing the world from lower down, like everything had grown huge. Then I looked at my hands. Small. Chubby. Soft.
A mirror. A glass door. I stumbled over to it, feeling unsteady, like I was learning how to walk again. I stared at my reflection. A kid. Maybe four years old. Big eyes, messy dark hair. It was me… and yet, not me.
"Riku, what are you doing just standing there?" The voice came from behind me. In Japanese.
My body froze. I understood it. Not perfectly, not like a native speaker—but well enough. Simple Japanese. The kind I picked up from watching anime nonstop. Enough to follow a show without subtitles, not enough to have a real conversation.
I turned around slowly. A young woman stood in the doorway, wearing office clothes, hair tied back, grocery bag in one hand and a phone in the other. She looked at me with tired eyes, but there was some softness there too.
"Another nightmare?" she asked. "Come on, get inside. Your dinner's getting cold."
I walked in without thinking. The wooden floor creaked. The smell was familiar—rice, instant soup, some fish. I sat down where she pointed, not saying a word.
I had no idea where I was, but two things were already clear: I was a Japanese kid, and someone thought I was their son.
The next few days were… weird. I tried to act normal. Nodded when people spoke to me. Pretended to remember things I obviously didn't. Secretly explored the house. It became pretty clear this wasn't some dream. I wasn't going to just wake up from it.
And my new parents… what about them?
Well, I guess there's something to say.
They're not bad people. I think they care in their own way. They even tell me "I love you" sometimes—though it feels more like routine than something heartfelt. Day to day though… I'm basically on my own.
They leave me food, the TV turned on, and little notes with cute drawings or things like "eat everything" or "be good." They get home late, looking exhausted, barely having the energy to ask how I'm doing.
Sometimes… I wonder if they even sleep together. Seriously. There's zero sign of affection. It's a miracle I was even born.
Honestly… they got lucky I came with memories of a previous life. If they'd raised me from scratch, all alone like this, I'd probably have ended up pretty messed up.
But I couldn't stay stuck on that thought forever.
I had bigger things to worry about—like figuring out what kind of world I'd landed in.
And then… the TV.
I turned it on one afternoon. Cartoons. Commercials. Seemed normal… until I saw a street interview. A reporter talking to a man whose whole face was covered in scales, standing next to a lady who had an actual bird's head—like a chicken, no joke—and she was smiling at the camera.
The remote nearly slipped from my hand.
Not costumes. They moved naturally, blinked, talked… like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
"What the hell…?" I whispered to myself.
I switched channels. It didn't help. There was more. On another channel, a man with extra arms was doing live cooking. On another, kids with wings were flying around a playground.
A world full of mutants? Was this X-Men? Marvel? Something else?
No… something felt off. And then I saw it.
The news was showing someone… someone impossible to miss. Blond hair, massive muscles, that dazzling smile.
"Because I am… All Might!"
That voice. That pose. That background.
It was him. All Might. The Symbol of Peace.
The remote fell to the floor. I sank back into the couch. My heart was pounding in my ears.
I'm in My Hero Academia.
It took me hours to accept it. I confirmed it over the next few days—more news, more names, more events. Everything lined up. I had been reincarnated into the world of MHA. But… why? How? For what purpose?
In isekai stories, there's always a reason. The protagonist dies or gets summoned, and they arrive with some broken ability, a system, a quest.
But me… I didn't even remember dying.
Just a blink. That's all it was.
Ever since then, every night before falling asleep, I repeated the same lines:
"System, activate.""Status, show.""Inventory, open."
Nothing. Silence. No glowing menus. No divine pop-ups. No experience bars.
A week passed. Then a month. Then two. I kept telling myself it was just a matter of time. In this world, kids usually developed their Quirks between four and five years old. Maybe the system would come with that.
I turned five. Still nothing. Zero.
My parents—distant as they were—took me to the hospital for the standard exam. They were more tense than usual that day, even if they didn't say it out loud.
After a round of tests, X-rays, and routine questions, the doctor called us into his office. He held a folder with my results and spoke in that neutral tone people use when they don't want to scare you, but also don't want to give you false hope.
"Well…" he said, flipping through the pages, "the results are clear. There are no signs of mutation in the skeletal structure. The joint in his little toe is fully developed… and there's no record of any abnormal activity. I'm afraid your child won't develop a Quirk."
Silence.
My mother lowered her gaze, fidgeting with her hands in her lap.
"I see…" she whispered.
My father just nodded, like he had already expected it. He even put his phone away for once, actually paying attention.
After a moment, my mom reached out and ruffled my hair awkwardly.
"It's okay, Riku…" she said, trying to sound reassuring but lacking conviction. "You'll definitely find something you're good at."
My dad added,"Yeah. Not everyone is born with a Quirk, but that doesn't mean you can't have a future."
It wasn't much, but coming from them, it felt like an unusual show of affection.
I just clenched my fists in silence. This couldn't be it. There had to be more. That night, I yelled into the void again, waiting for answers that never came.
"Come on! I know you're out there! Give me something—anything!"
The air stayed silent.
I went into kindergarten, then elementary school. I wasn't stupid—I kept my head down, didn't draw attention. But sooner or later, word got around: Riku doesn't have a Quirk.
And in a society built around powers, that was pretty much a scarlet letter.
Teachers talked to me with that forced kindness, saying things like, "you can contribute in other ways," or "not everyone is meant to be a hero, and that's perfectly fine."
Kids… were less subtle.
"Hey, Quirkless!""Don't come near me, you'll make me useless too."
At first, it didn't really bother me. In my previous life, I didn't have powers either. I was used to being normal. Deep down, I still believed one day something would awaken.
But as the years went by, that hope started to fade.
Between ages six and nine, I focused on training. Like those isekai protagonists who unlock their system after pushing through near-death experiences, I thought maybe if I pushed my body hard enough… something would trigger.
I woke up early, went running, did push-ups, followed basic karate moves I found online. I watched videos, downloaded books, practiced in secret.
I got injured a lot. Some days I couldn't even lift my arms.
But it was worth it if it meant surviving in this world.
Because as time passed, my fear only grew stronger.
Gigantomachia.Shigaraki.The League of Villains.
I knew what was coming. I knew the events shown in the anime were just the tip of the iceberg. Every battle brought destruction, casualties, chaos. And me? Just a civilian. No Quirk. No power. No defense.
What would happen if a villain wiped out my city?
What if I was just walking down the street when Gigantomachia decided that neighborhood had to vanish?
I couldn't rely on heroes. I couldn't trust the script to protect me.
I needed… another way.
One random day, when I was nine years old and had pretty much accepted I'd never have powers, I stumbled across something.
I was watching TV, not really paying attention, just letting it play in the background while I snacked. I was channel surfing when I landed on a live broadcast about new technology being used for civilian rescue. At first, I didn't care. It seemed like just another science segment for grown-ups. But something made me stop.
On screen, a host was interviewing a man—someone who wasn't a hero, or a cop, or a rescue worker. He was a civilian inventor. An engineer showing off his latest designs: mechanical arms for lifting rubble, stabilizer jetpacks for vertical mobility, lightweight exoskeletons to help with evacuations, and small drones equipped with basic AI for search and rescue.
I sat there in shock.
And then it hit me.
The Support Course.
I remembered something I had forgotten in all my frustration: at U.A., the top academy for heroes, there was a whole department called the Support Course. A division dedicated to creating equipment, costumes, gear, and devices for professionals. People without strong Quirks—or no Quirk at all—who contributed through engineering.
I didn't have powers. But I had two hands. And, more than anything, I had fear.
That constant fear of dying like any other civilian. Of Shigaraki turning a mall into dust. Of a Nomu attacking my neighborhood. Of the League of Villains, with their twisted worldview, deciding my life was worthless.
I couldn't wait for a hero to save me. I couldn't count on the story following the script.
I needed to become my own support team.
And there was precedent. Real examples. All Might, after losing One for All, used a special suit to fight All for One one last time. Sure, it wasn't enough against that monster… but against other enemies, it could have worked. Even Izuku, at the end of the manga, after losing his Quirk, managed to stay in battle using a tech-based suit funded by his own friends.
If they could do it… why couldn't I?
That same night, I dug through old gifts my parents had given me over the years. They didn't know how to show affection, but they bought me expensive toys. High-end gadgets for a lonely kid. I found a couple of half-broken battle robots, a beginner drone, some busted AR glasses, and an old electronic repair kit.
And I got to work.
I wasn't naturally talented. In my past life, I barely knew how to change a lightbulb. But fear is a great teacher, and survival is a stronger motivator than pride.
The first time I tried to modify the drone, it crashed into a wall and smashed a flower vase. The second time, I fried a circuit board. The third, I short-circuited an outlet and nearly started a fire.
But I didn't stop.
I read manuals, watched tutorials, joined forums. I hunted down old blueprints, amateur guides, interviews with Support Course engineers. I stayed up late reading until my phone dropped on my face. I sketched designs in the corners of my notebooks.
The mistakes kept coming. But every failure taught me something new.
Over time, I managed to build small but useful gadgets.
I modified a flashlight to activate with sound detection and run on solar power. I converted an old pair of roller skates into short-burst boosters using compressed air—only good for three seconds, but enough to get away. I built a knee brace with dual-pressure springs to absorb shock when jumping from medium heights. I even made a wristband that could launch a flare with LED flashes for emergencies—designed to help rescuers find me if I ever got trapped under debris.
I wasn't a hero. I wasn't a prodigy. But I was someone who wanted to survive.
And for the first time since I arrived in this world… I had a plan.