The incessant ringing of my alarm clock shattered my blissful slumber, making me curse everything-the sun for rising, my alarm clock for interrupting my sleep, and FGO's gacha system for its incredibly hard to procure Saint Quartz.
Blindly fumbling for the snooze button, I managed to silence the infernal sound. Groaning, I pushed myself upright and glanced around the room.
Then I froze.
This wasn't my room.
It was close-uncomfortably so. The bookcase packed with books was the same. The placement of the bed and window matched perfectly. But the walls were covered in posters I definitely didn't own. My Hero Academia characters stared back at me—All Might, Edgeshot, Gang Orca—and, to my embarrassment, figurines of Midnight and Mirko.
"What is this?" I muttered.
I clicked my mouth shut. The voice that came out was mine… and yet it wasn't. Younger. Lighter.
There was a sinking feeling in my gut as a frightening realization began to form in my mind. But I had to be sure.
I bolted for the bathroom without thinking, my body moving on pure instinct. I didn't even realize I shouldn't know where it was.
The image in the mirror confirmed my fear. The reflection staring back at me looked like a younger version of myself—thirteen, maybe fourteen—but the differences were undeniable. No birthmark on my cheek. No dark circles from late nights reading. And my eyes… no longer a darkish brown, but a bright silver, like steel.
"What the fuck is going on...?"
Sitting down on the toilet, I rubbed my face trying to make sense of this. Suddenly, I was bombarded with a whole lifetime of memories.
The first was mine: a Persian kid bullied through school, surviving out of spite, finding solace in books and anime. College. Teaching. Writing. Fate/Grand Order. A failed roll for Morgan. Sleep.
And then nothing.
The second life mirrored the first, twisted through a new lens.
A world where nearly eighty percent of humanity possessed superpowers known as Quirks.
The My Hero Academia universe.
I was Quirkless.
I lived with my mother—an accomplished archaeologist whose Quirk, Deliverance, allowed her to absorb all information from any object she touched and transferring it to paper. My father... I've never met the man. Mom rarely talks about him and there are no pictures of him in the house. I only knew a few things about him:
One, he's Japanese. Two, I got my eyes from him. Three, he had white hair. Fourth, his Quirk allowed him to store the blueprints of weapons in his mind and project them into reality.
Suspiciously familiar.
Due to her work, we traveled constantly. I was homeschooled after an incident involving a bully who thought Quirkless meant harmless. Training filled our days—jogging, calisthenics, weights.
As the memories settled, dread followed.
I knew what was coming.
All for One. The League of Villains. The Meta Liberation Army.
I had knowledge—but no power.
There was no plot armor, no miracle power passed down from generation to generation. Although, maybe if I play my cards right I might be able to grab One for All before Izuku can.
But as soon as the thought appeared, I shot it down with disgust at myself. There is no way I'm taking Izuku's hope and future from him. The kid deserves it more than anybody else. I'll just figure something else out.
I had no power. And probably never will.
Or so I thought.
Before I could wonder further, a voice called down from outside the room. "Arash! You had better be ready! It's time for our morning run!"
I shook my head. Right, leave the life-changing decisions for later. Time to sweat. My Mom had an exercise plan for me and herself. Everyday, we go jogging together. Then we do some basic exercises like sit-ups, push-ups and so on. We even got some weights at home.
I washed up, changed, and headed downstairs to meet my mother.
I walked downstairs and saw the mother of this life for the first time. She looked almost exactly like my own mother except for a few differences; whereas my original mother's hair had been blonde, hers was black. Also, where my first mother had been short and bit pudgy, this one was tall and athletic, not to the extent of Miruko but still fit.
"Morning honey. Ready to sweat?" She asked, smiling far too brightly for the early hour.
"Always."
We stretched for a bit then went outside. The morning passed in a blur of running and pushing muscles. When we got back, I collapsed on the couch while my mother went to prepare breakfast. I turned on the TV and watched the news. I needed to know where in the timeline I am.
All Might was still active—though clearly slowing down. No sludge villain incident yet. That gives me time. But for what?
One for All was out. I already decided to leave it to Izuku. Plus, I doubt I'll be lucky enough to meet All Might and impress him the way Izuku did.
Get a Quirk from All for One? Hard pass. No way in hell am I getting anywhere near that fucker, not without an arsenal of nukes and Quirk-erasing bullets.
That reminds me: Eri. She needs to be saved, no buts or ifs.
But how do I go about doing that? Storming the base is out. I'd get killed quicker than Abridged Yamcha.
Sneaking in? No, I would need Batman levels of stealth to do that.
I could feed information to Sir Nighteye, but I don't think he would take the words of some no-name seriously. I could feed the heroes info from the shadows, but how do I do that? So many questions, not enough solutions.
I was snapped out of my planning by my Mother's voice.
"By the way, did you order something? A package came in this morning." She pointed to the table in the living room where a small brown box stood.
I stared at the package, confused and slightly suspicious. I hadn't ordered anything.
I picked it up and looked for the sender. There it was, a Mister...
I blinked, rubbing my eyes to make sure I wasn't seeing things. When I was sure that what I was seeing was real, I reacted how every person would react when reading that name.
"What the fuck?!"
"Language!" My Mom yelled.
"Sorry!" I yelled back. But honestly, you can't blame me. Not after reading the name written under Sender.
There in bold black letters was written a name that any fan of the Fate series could identify, but that had no business in this universe.
Sender: K.Z. Schweinorg.
I quickly took the package with me to my room and locked my door. Steeling myself, I used a scissor to cut open the package.
Then, as if I were defusing a bomb, I tore open the package. Having closed my eyes when I opened it, I slowly opened them and was confused by what I found inside.
A deck of Tarot cards, neatly packed and bound. Right next to it, a card holder like from Yu-Gi-Oh and a letter. Am I supposed to duel? The image of me walking up to AFO in Kamino and challenging him to a card game made me chuckle.
"All for One! Your era of tyranny ends here! It's time to d-d-d-d-uel!"
I snorted. But jokes aside, I needed to know what I'm dealing with and there's only one way to do that. I pulled out the letter and opened it.
Dear Arash,
thought you needed something to even the odds. So I got a couple of Class cards for you! These are a bit different than the originals though. They boast the full power of the Heroic Spirit, but that's what makes them dangerous. Use them wisely.
P.S: Also, I would like to state for the record that I was NOT the one who isekai'd you! Seriously, why am I always the one who people suspect?!
I read the letter twice to make sure I got everything. So Zelretch was not the one who reincarnated me. Figures, people like to blame him for everything but that's just fanfiction.
But seriously! Picking up the cards, I felt like I just got the jackpot!
For those of you who didn't watch Fate/Kaleid Line Prisma Illya, the Class Cards are artifacts created for the Ainsworth Holy Grail War. But instead of summoning the Heroic Spirit, it instead captures the Spirit inside a card so that the Magus can access their power by transforming into them. I always thought it to be a much safer method, since there it eliminates the weakness of the Master.
I pulled them out and stared at them. They looked like tarot cards, each of them carrying the image of their class. Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Caster, Berserker, Assassin and... I don't know the last two ones. Avenger and Ruler, most likely. Shit, I hope my Avenger is Edmond Dantes, the Count of Monte Christo. His Monte Christo Mythologie would make Endeavor wet himself with envy. As for Ruler... the only ones that come to mind are Amakusa Shirou and Sherlock Holmes. I'd rather pick the latter as he's the World's Greatest Detective.
Anyway, I won't know until I use them. I return to the letter, hoping there was still something else.
"P.S. there may be some side effects to using a card for too long. Be careful."
"Ominous..." But it made sense; I was in the world of MHA, and if I'm going to disguise it as a Quirk, it should have limits.
"P.P.S: this package is about to self-destruct two minutes after opening it."
I yelled and dove to the ground. After a minute of nothing happening, I stood back up and saw the package still there. I read the rest of the letter.
"P.P.P.S: Gotcha! Your face is priceless!"
"Asshole!" I tore up the letter and grumbled; here I was, thinking that he was a great guy for helping me and then this!
But once my anger faded, I went into thought. The letter explained everything—and nothing. Full Heroic Spirit power. Dangerous side effects. Zelretch's trademark nonsense.
Zelretch said that he wasn't the one who sent me here and I believe him. Which leaves the question: who did?
I sighed; I won't find any answers by sitting around. Staring at the cards, I felt like laughing.
If this was real… then I finally had a way to fight back.
And that... that scared me more than anything.
"Oh, Arash! We need some eggs. Can you buy some from the supermarket?"
"Sure. Love you, bye!" I quickly ducked out of the door and went towards the nearest QTP (Quirk-Testing-Park).
It was a place that the authorities established, where children who had just gotten their Quirks had permission to test their Quirks. It was a place for children to learn more about their Quirks without hurting themselves or others, minimizing any destruction or damage to a controlled environment. The government thought that since children were very likely to go nuts with their Quirks, they gave them a place where they can go crazy without worry. The park was open on every day except Sunday, when they repaired the damage done to the place. It was a perfect place to test my Class cards without worry.
When I got there, I already saw a few people and their kids there, waiting in line. I looked beyond them and honestly? It looked like a theme park.
The entrance was like that of any park, only that each area was separated by high walls. Probably to make sure that nobody got hit by a stray Quirk. I stood in line, feeling awkward among the parents and their children. Some of them gave me suspicious looks. I winced as I realized a teenager standing among pre-school kids wasn't an ideal look.
The line moved way too slowly, so to occupy my thoughts, I pondered which Heroic Spirits I'll get.
I doubt I'll get Gilgamesh. Even in FGO, I never got him. And even if I did, I wouldn't use him. His ego might take me over.
While I thought about possibilities, I eventually managed to reached the desk. The clerk, a preppy young girl with sunflowers for hair, looked at me with a bright smile.
"Hi! Name and Quirk of the child?"
"Um, Arash Shadi. Quirk..." Shit, I didn't think of a name before coming here. The clerk waited patiently, sunny smile still on her face. "Class Card."
"Hmmm," she hummed as she wrote it down. "That's a new one. And how old is the child?"
"Um," I rubbed my neck, feeling really uncomfortable. "He's... thirteen? And standing right in front of you."
Finally, her smile seemed to dim and was replaced with confusion. She looked him up and down. "You're... a bit older than the usual kids here."
"I know, I know." I waved his hands. "I'm a late bloomer. My Quirk didn't come in until a few days ago."
"Oh I'm sorry!" She blushed as she quickly tried to correct herself. "I didn't want to offend you, it's just that the people who come here are usually on the younger side!"
"It's ok, you didn't mean anything by it," I waved off her apology, not really offended by it.
"Here's your entry card. Area 3 is free. You have three hours. Have fun!" She handed him a plastic card with number 3 on it.
"Thanks." I took it and went into the park. I wish I had looked back, because peeking out from the top of her handbag was a book with a red cover with a splash of black in the middle shaped like a mask, or the small logo on the sign which says "Detnerat Inc.'
I walked towards Area 3; a large open space that reminded me of a tennis court or golf range. A couple of kids were blasting a bunch of dummies with their Quirks. The dummies were quite sturdy; taking hits from fire, ice, lightning and other attacks yet they did not break.
I pull out my Class Cards and looked between them. Which one should I pick?
Berserker's out. There's no way I'm using him in a populated space like this. Archer seems like the best choice. Ranged attacks, controlled damage-perfect for a playground like this.
I pull out the Class Card, suddenly feeling very apprehensive. What if it didn't work? As far as I know, I never had magic. If I try to activate it and just stand around like an idiot?
I steeled myself. There's no time to doubt myself. A lot of good people will die. And I have the power to change that. So shut up and do it.
I lifted the card up, the sunlight reflecting off the golden card and declared, not to myself, not to the curious kids or parents glancing at me from the corner of their eyes...
but to the very world.
"Class Card Install: Archer!"
The moment I said those words, the world shattered.
Light erupted from my body—golden, blinding, overwhelming. It wasn't just brightness; it devoured everything in its path. The range vanished. The people vanished. Even the sky and the sun were swallowed whole, peeled away layer by layer until nothing remained. Sound died. Sensation unraveled.
There was only blackness.
A vast, yawning void—empty, silent, absolute.
Then—
Light exploded again.
And I was somewhere else.
I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the sudden glare of the sun. It seemed brighter than before, harsher, unforgiving. The air was different too—dry, hot, and thick with dust. I lowered my hand and looked around.
I was standing in a town straight out of a Wild West movie.
The town squatted low and wide beneath an endless sky, its wooden buildings bleached pale by sun and wind, like bones picked clean by time itself. A single dusty main street cut straight through its heart, scarred with wagon ruts and edged by hitching posts where tired horses swished their tails in lazy defiance of the heat. Boardwalks creaked underfoot, raised just enough to keep boots out of the mud when the rare rain turned dust into sludge.
False-front facades loomed taller than the buildings behind them, painted names announcing the saloon, the general store, the barber, and the hotel—letters chipped and faded but still stubbornly proud. The saloon doors swung lazily, exhaling the smell of whiskey, tobacco, and sweat, accompanied by the clink of glasses and a piano struggling through something jaunty and painfully out of tune. Across the street, the sheriff's office stood solid and watchful, a tin star gleaming on its door, iron-barred cells visible through dusty windows.
Beyond the town's heart, the buildings thinned into stables, corrals, and scattered homesteads where laundry snapped on lines and chickens scratched at the dirt. Wind carried grit through every crack, setting signs to groaning and tugging hats low. Life here was hard and public—every stranger noticed, every sound carrying far—but there was a stubborn confidence in the place. This town, like the people who built it, intended to endure no matter how unforgiving the frontier became.
"Well howdy, pardner! You lost?"
The voice made me turn.
He was a lean, sharp-eyed gunslinger who looked more like a carefree drifter than a legendary outlaw. He carried himself with an easy slouch, as if nothing in the world could quite catch up to him, yet beneath his grin was constant alertness—hands loose but never far from his guns, eyes always measuring distance and timing. Youthful, almost boyish, he felt less like a hardened criminal and more like someone who never quite grew out of the thrill of speed and risk.
His outfit blended Wild West practicality with stylized flair: a long coat that fluttered when he moved, a loose scarf at his neck, and twin revolvers worn so naturally they seemed like extensions of his hands. A sheriff's star motif hinted at the strange irony of his legend—outlaw and lawman blurred together—while his light, agile frame emphasized motion over brute strength. He looked like he belonged in the split second before a gunshot, living in the moment where everything was decided.
At first glance, he seemed casual, friendly, and disarmingly honest. The kind of person who cracked jokes, shrugged off danger, and treated deadly situations like a game of reflexes rather than a moral struggle. Yet beneath the laid-back attitude was a sharp understanding of who he was: he knew he was defined by speed, precision, and the inevitability of pulling the trigger first. He embodied the romance of the quick draw—the idea that history could hinge on a single, perfectly timed shot.
I had never met this boy in person before.
But I recognized him instantly.
Not because he had been one of my favorite Archers in FGO.
No—something far deeper screamed the name into my mind.
"Billy the Kid," I breathed.
He tipped his hat, a cocky grin spreading across his face. "Nice to meetcha, Master. Though… this ain't exactly a regular summonin'."
I chuckled weakly. "Yeah. So how do we do this?"
Billy stepped closer and held out his hand. "Well, we could shake on it. But I should warn ya—when you do, you'll get 'everything' from me. Not just the shootin'. You think ya can handle that?"
I hesitated.
Then I clasped his hand.
The world screamed.
Images—no, lives—slammed into me all at once. A young blonde boy, small hands shaking as he stabbed a man again and again to protect his mother. Dusty trails and stolen cattle. Laughing over robbery one day, escorting goods the next like nothing had happened. Picking fights with other outlaws purely out of boredom. Slowly learning to avoid trouble instead of chasing it.
John Tunstall. Loyalty. Bloodshed. A war he never meant to fight.
Iron bars. A jail cell.
Betrayal by a friend's hand.
Pat Garrett.
Escape.
A shadow in the dark.
A gunshot that came too late.
An entire lifetime crushed into me with the force of one of All Might's punches.
And I understood.
I hadn't just 'seen' Billy the Kid's life.
I had lived it.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. I didn't just gain a Heroic Spirit's power or skills—I gained 'everything'. Their memories. Their instincts. Their sins and regrets. Their very essence. Power wasn't just strength or skill. It was weight. It was memory. It was responsibility carved straight into the soul.
When the rush finally ended, I collapsed to my knees, gasping like I hadn't breathed in years. Billy knelt beside me, concern etched across his face.
"You alright there, pardner?"
I shook my head, fighting the urge to vomit. A canteen appeared in his hand, offered without hesitation. "Drink up. Might help."
I took it without question and drank like there was no tomorrow, the cool water grounding me, anchoring me. I drained it completely before realizing what I'd done.
"Sorry," I muttered, embarrassed.
Billy laughed it off. "No worries. We're partners now, ain't we? Gotta look out for each other."
I smiled despite myself. "Right. Partners."
The world around us began to dissolve, like water washing over a painting. Colors ran. Edges blurred.
"What's happening?" I asked.
"Looks like it worked." Billy's body began to break apart into golden dust—not fading away, but flowing toward me. "Use my power good. And—uh—yeah, you ain't exactly a Master. My bad."
He grinned as the dust poured into my chest, my arms, my soul.
"Happy to be workin' with ya. Let's show 'em what an outlaw can do."
Then he was gone.
The town collapsed into nothing.
Sound slammed back into me as the real world returned. Wind, distant voices, the sharp crack of something splitting nearby. My knees buckled, boots scraping against the ground as I barely caught myself.
Then the pain came.
Not agony.
Alignment.
Something inside me snapped into place. My heartbeat slowed, sharpened. The world felt *closer*. Every movement stood out—the twitch of a finger, the shift of weight before a step. Distance turned into numbers. Angles traced themselves across my vision.
Golden light spilled from beneath my skin, spiraling around me in controlled rings. My clothes tore apart as mana surged, replaced by a long coat settling over my shoulders, a scarf brushing my neck. Weight kissed my hips.
"Click!"
Twin revolvers formed in their holsters, so familiar it made my fingers itch.
I straightened, breath steady.
My hand rested naturally near my gun.
I wasn't just wearing Billy the Kid's power.
I stood where his legend stood—balanced on the knife-edge between speed and death, between choice and consequence.
Archer had been installed.
And somewhere deep inside, I felt it.
That grin.
That thrill.
That certainty that everything could be decided in a single, perfect shot.