In a world where strength defined justice, power was everything.
Heroes shone in the sky, bathed in cheers and cameras, while the powerless were trampled beneath their shadows. The weak were left behind, and society called it balance — as if the hierarchy of quirks was some divine order.
To be born without power was to be invisible. To be quirkless… was to be condemned.
.
.
.
The afternoon sun bled orange across the narrow streets of Musutafu, painting the cracked pavement with long, uneven shadows. Children in school uniforms laughed and chatted as they walked home — groups of friends comparing hero merchandise, arguing about their favorite Pro Heroes, and showing off minor quirks like parlor tricks.
Amid their laughter walked a single boy in silence.
Arata Seigi kept his gaze low, his small hands gripping the straps of his worn-out backpack. His uniform was rumpled, one sleeve torn near the shoulder, and faint bruises marked his cheek. His black hair, straight and slightly unkempt, fell over his blue eyes — hiding the faint tremor of quiet anger within them.
Their laughter echoed behind him.
"Did you see his face when I used my spark quirk? He almost cried!"
"Seriously, why does he even come to this school? He'll never be a hero."
"Maybe he's hoping someone will take pity on him."
He didn't look back. He didn't need to.
He had long grown used to it.
'It's funny,' he thought, his steps slow and even. 'Back in my old world, being powerless wasn't a crime. At worst, it meant working harder than others. Here, it's a curse… a label that decides your worth before you even speak.'
The irony of it all made him almost laugh. Almost.
He passed by a hero billboard — an image of All Might, larger than life, smiling with that signature, radiant grin. Beneath it, a slogan read:
"A Symbol of Peace for All!"
Arata's lips curled faintly, not in admiration, but in quiet bitterness.
'Peace for all, huh? Tell that to the ones who can't fly or punch through walls.'
His shoes scuffed against the sidewalk as he turned a corner into a quieter street — one lined with low apartment blocks, the kind the government provided for families of deceased heroes. His was one of them.
A gust of wind rustled his labelless schoolbag, and his mind wandered — not to the present, but to before.
To another world.
A world of white coats and laboratories. Of formulas, equations, and discovery.
His world.
'I was a scientist once,' he thought quietly, his expression unreadable. 'A respected one. My research reshaped industries. My theories on human evolution… they made headlines. People sought my mind. Governments sought my counsel.'
He paused at a crosswalk as a group of kids ran past him, laughing. One of them bumped into his shoulder on purpose.
"Watch where you're going, freak!"
Arata didn't respond. He simply adjusted his bag and kept walking as the light turned green.
'And now,' he continued in his mind, 'I'm a twelve-year-old nobody in a world obsessed with quirks. A world that looks at science and reason as tools for the strong, not salvation for the weak.'
It wasn't anger that drove him — not anymore. It was a cold, calculated exhaustion.
He had cried once, when he was younger, when the world first told him he was worthless. He had begged for acknowledgment, for someone to see him beyond the label. But the tears had dried. The boy who once wanted to be a hero had been replaced by someone far more dangerous — a thinker.
By the time he reached the worn-down apartment complex at the end of the street, the sky had darkened into hues of violet and gold. The building stood quiet, its paint peeling and balconies rusted. It wasn't much, but it was his.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, keys jingling softly in his pocket. The moment he stepped inside, a stillness greeted him — the kind only empty homes knew.
A single photo hung near the entrance: a smiling woman in a hero costume, bright and radiant, her arm around a man in a lab coat. The caption beneath read:
Heroine: Aegis — Defender of the Weak.
Arata stared at it for a long moment.
"Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad," he muttered softly.
The silence answered him back.
He walked further inside — a modest one-room apartment with a study desk, a small couch, and boxes filled with old papers and files. He set his bag down and collapsed into the chair beside his desk, exhaling slowly.
'Another day. Another reminder that I don't belong.'
His bruises ached faintly, but he ignored them. Pain was normal. The emptiness after it faded was worse.
'Sometimes I wonder if it was a curse or a second chance,' he mused. 'Being reborn here, of all places. In a world where power dictates justice.'
The small apartment was silent, save for the ticking of an old wall clock and the faint hum of the city outside. The air smelled faintly of dust and metal — remnants of tools, papers, and devices that once belonged to two people who had lived for something greater than themselves.
Arata sat slouched on his creaky chair, staring blankly at the rain that traced crooked lines down the windowpane. Drops raced each other, splitting apart and colliding — much like his thoughts.
'This world… it worships quirks. Power defines worth. Justice bends to popularity. And the quirkless? We're just background noise.'
His hands balled into fists on his lap. The faint sting from bruises hidden beneath his sleeves reminded him of earlier that day — another round of mockery, another shove into the dirt behind the school. He had stopped fighting back long ago. Not because he was weak… but because he was tired.
He exhaled softly, shaking his head.
'No. There has to be another way. I can't rely on quirks, but maybe… I can rely on science.'
The thought lit a faint spark in his chest. He turned his chair toward the wooden cupboard standing at the far end of the room — old, worn, and heavy with memories. Inside rested the remnants of a past he never got to experience: his parents' belongings.
When he opened the doors, a faint scent of rust and perfume wafted out — bittersweet, like nostalgia. His mother's old hero costume hung neatly on one side, slightly torn along the arms. The white and teal fabric still shimmered faintly despite the years.
Beside it, photos were pinned on the inner wall — his mother, smiling under her visor, and a man standing beside her in a doctor's coat, his face kind but tired.
Arata traced his fingers across the photo. "...Mom, Dad."
His mother, Mirai Seigi, had died when he was still a baby — killed in duty while rescuing civilians during a villain attack. His father, Haruto Seigi, had passed away even earlier, under unclear circumstances at a private research facility.
All that was left behind were their savings, a small apartment, and the monthly pension from the Hero Commission. It was enough to survive, but not enough to live.
'You both tried to make the world better in your own way. A hero and a doctor… but neither of you survived it.'
He crouched, scanning through the bottom drawers filled with medical notes and scribbles in his father's handwriting. "Maybe there's something useful in here…"
He pulled out one of his mother's broken support gauntlets, its inner mechanisms fried and rusted.
"Maybe I can repair this," he muttered. "If I can understand how support gear works in this world, I can build something for myself by combining it with my previous world's technology."
The gears clinked as he inspected them, his mind already racing. 'If I can modify existing technology, maybe I can simulate strength… reaction time… maybe even artificial muscle assistance.'
But as he reached deeper into the corner of the cupboard, his hand brushed against an old brown suitcase. Its metal lock was cracked with age. Curious, he tugged it free and set it on the floor. The suitcase felt heavier than expected, its handle coated in a thin layer of dust.
He flipped it open.
Inside were stacks of old research journals, hospital papers, and a few scattered ID cards with his father's name.
'Dad worked as a doctor… but these symbols…' His eyes narrowed as he saw faint insignias on the papers alongside a name he recognized from his old-world memories of My Hero Academia.
"Garaki…" he whispered.
Before he could think further, a faint clink echoed — something had rolled out from the lining of the suitcase. Arata blinked, reaching down to pick it up. It was a small, metallic pendrive, half-rusted but intact.
He frowned. "A pendrive? What's this doing here?"
Curiosity burned through his exhaustion. He brushed the dust off and plugged it into the old laptop sitting on the desk. The screen flickered for a moment before a folder appeared:
[Confidential – Quirk Replication Data | Dr. Kyudai Garaki Project]
Arata's breath hitched. 'Garaki… the doctor who worked for All For One. The one who created Nomus. This… this can't be real.'
He double-clicked the folder. Rows of files filled the screen — detailed genetic maps, neural pattern simulations, and incomplete project notes. Many were corrupted, but a few still opened.
> Research Log #72: Theoretical Feasibility of Quirk Duplication through Neural Genome Encoding.
Dr. Haruto Seigi assisting in data sequencing. Pending ethical clearance.
Arata's fingers froze on the keyboard.
"Dad… you worked for Garaki…"
The entries continued, more personal now — his father's private notes.
> He promised funding for my wife's medical expenses and hero career. I can't refuse him now.
Garaki said this project will 'change the world,' but I can feel it — once we succeed, I'll become expendable.
If I die, and you find this Mirai… please, show this to the heroes. Stop him.
Arata stared at the screen, his heart pounding.
'So that's what happened… He wasn't evil. He was trapped.'
He sat back, exhaling shakily. "Fate really is cruel."
His mother died fighting evil. His father died serving it — unwillingly.
'The world took everything from them. From me. Heroes, villains, government… they all claim justice, but none of them understand suffering.'
He scrolled further through the files, eyes flickering over pages of code and design diagrams. His father had managed to back up the process of cloning quirks, though incomplete. It involved isolating quirk factors from DNA and converting them into programmable bio-chips.
The concept was decades ahead of anything public. Dangerous. Revolutionary.
Arata leaned forward, his scientist's mind whirling with fascination and horror.
'If I could perfect this… I could replicate quirks. Artificially. Without needing genes or bloodlines. Without discrimination.'
A surge of excitement flashed in his eyes — but it was tempered by guilt.
'No. I can't just use this recklessly. This technology destroyed lives. I need to understand it first.'
His gaze drifted toward the shelf beside the desk, where several worn-out notebooks sat stacked. He reached for one — a simple blue cover titled "Old World Heroes."
Inside were his sketches — figures he had drawn to keep his mind busy at school: Iron Man, Gojo Satoru, Goku, Luffy, Power Rangers — icons of strength from his previous world. Each page filled with childish admiration and detailed notes about their powers, philosophies, and ideals.
He flipped through until one page caught his attention — the bold words scrawled across the top: "Infinity War."
The drawing below was unmistakable — Thanos, standing tall, arm outstretched, the Infinity Gauntlet gleaming with six stones.
Arata stared at it for a long time. The idea — absurd, impossible, and yet... logical.
'Space. Time. Soul. Mind. Reality. Power.'
He glanced back at the pendrive, then at the gauntlet.
'If quirks can be cloned, they can be combined. If I gather and merge quirks that represent each of these concepts… I could create six artificial "quirks." Not inside me… but as external cores.'
He exhaled sharply, his pulse racing. "An artificial infinity gauntlet…"
The storm outside rumbled, thunder rolling across the night sky.
He picked up his pen, turned to the blank page at the back of the notebook, and began to write:
PROJECT INFINITY — The Science of Godhood.
When he finished the title, his hand hovered over the paper. His reflection in the dark laptop screen stared back — a quirkless boy, surrounded by ghosts, holding the knowledge that could reshape existence.
He smiled faintly, the spark of madness and brilliance flickering in his eyes.
"Power… without bloodlines. Justice… without favoritism."
He whispered the words as if sealing a promise to himself.
"Project Infinity begins now."