Age: 8
The air left my lungs in a forced hiss, more out of surprise than pain, when Izuku's back slammed against my chest with well-directed force. He hadn't hit me in the traditional sense. Instead, he used his center of gravity, naturally lower than mine, to destabilize me right at the peak of my momentum, at the exact moment I launched a high kick. It had been a basic judo technique: Osae Komi Waza for control.
But it wasn't the technique itself that surprised me; it was the execution. The precision, the timing, and the fluidity were something he simply didn't possess a year ago.
I took two steps back on the tatami to fully regain my balance. The smile that spread across my face was genuine. It wasn't the usual snarl of superiority, but one of silent pride.
"Better," I said, wiping the stinging sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "But you telegraphed your move. You looked at my feet right before shifting your hips. It's an obvious tell."
Izuku panted in front of me. His white gi was disheveled, marked with sweat and dust, but his stance, though tired, was unwaveringly firm. His breathing was fast and shallow.
"It's hard not to look, Kacchan," he replied between gasps. "Your explosions usually come from above and force me to focus on your torso, but your footwork is three times faster than mine. If I don't look, you sweep me."
"Exactly. If you look at my feet, I punch your face. If you look at my face, I sweep your feet," I countered, taking a step forward to illustrate my point, forcing him to instinctively step back. "You have to look at the center. The solar plexus. It's the anchor point, the core. From there, you see everything: the body's intention, the thrust of the hips, the twitch of the shoulders before a hook. It's the eye of the storm."
Sensei Ogawa, a man of few words who had agreed to instruct us, nodded solemnly from a corner, giving his silent approval to the lesson. My instruction was blunt, but efficient.
Four years had passed since this body, Katsuki Bakugo's, was invaded by a foreign consciousness, an adult mind from another world. In the original timeline, at this point, I would have already shattered Izuku's self-esteem to the brink of self-destruction. He would fear me, hate me, and, paradoxically, admire me in a toxic mix of emotions.
When I handed him a bottle of cold water, I saw the absolute contrast. He smiled at me. A smile of trust, of camaraderie. The smile of a student looking at his mentor, not his tormentor.
I had become his unofficial older brother, his sparring partner, and his silent protector. It was a strange role that sometimes weighed on me like armor. I felt like I was the only real barrier between him and a world that inherently wanted to crush him for being Quirkless. But then I saw him block a takedown that would have made him cry before, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, I was building something stronger than One For All: I was building an unbreakable will.
"Shower, hurry up!" I ordered, with my usual authoritative tone, but without malice. "Flash-Bang is coming to the mall today. You wanted to see him, right?"
Izuku's eyes lit up like two headlights. All the fatigue from training dissipated in an instant.
"Yes! Of course, Kacchan!" he exclaimed. "They say his new suit has a titanium alloy to reflect and amplify the strobe light! It's ingenious!"
The mall was packed. It was a cacophonous symphony of blaring pop music, colorful lights, and the hum of heroic consumerism at its peak. There were balloons with agency logos, t-shirts, and a meandering line of kids and parents waiting to see the hero of the hour.
Flash-Bang. A lower-mid-tier hero, popular not for great deeds, but for his flashy aesthetic and his strobe-light Quirk. Useful for disorienting villains in enclosed spaces, but useless for heavy rescue or direct combat. A purely commercial hero.
We stood in line for thirty minutes, during which Izuku vibrated with contained excitement. He hugged his hero analysis notebook (his precious "Heroes of the Future Vol. 4") and a brand-new pen.
"We're almost there, Kacchan. I just need to ask him about the dispersion radius of his flashes in a humid environment. It's a blind spot in his public information."
Finally, we reached the front of the line. Flash-Bang was sitting on a prop throne, a ridiculous piece of shiny plastic furniture. His smile, with teeth so white they looked fake, was strictly professional and forced.
Izuku took a step forward, shy from the proximity but eager for the information.
"Hi, Flash-Bang! I'm a huge fan. I wanted to know if you could... if it's not too much trouble..."
The hero didn't even look at him. His eyes scanned right over Izuku's head, examining the line behind us for something more photo-worthy.
"Sure, sure, kid. A quick photo and you're on your way," he said in a game-show host voice, making a dismissive gesture with his hand to brush Izuku aside. "Next! Look at that Quirk, how photogenic!"
The kid right behind us had small, white, iridescent angel wings sprouting from his back. Very visible. Very marketable.
Flash-Bang completely ignored the notebook Izuku was holding out and, with a theatrical movement, pulled the winged kid in for the photo. He tucked him under his arm like a trophy.
"Now this is front-page material!" the hero exclaimed, posing with his perfect smile for the strategically placed local press cameras. "Look at the future hero we have here, proof that Quirks are the hope of tomorrow!"
Izuku stood there, his hand outstretched and the notebook open to the blank page. A security guard in a too-tight uniform gently pushed him; not with cruelty, just with bureaucratic efficiency.
"Move along, kid. You're blocking the shot."
I watched Izuku's shoulders slump. It wasn't a dramatic collapse. It was the subtle but devastating shrinking of someone who has just been reminded of their place. The little light that always shone in his eyes went out, replaced by the familiar shame of knowing that, in this society, he was "inferior."
I didn't make a scene. I didn't blow anything up. My body stayed tense, but my adult mind mastered the impulsivity. I simply walked over to Izuku, placed a firm hand on his back, and guided him out of the crowd.
As we walked past Flash-Bang, I looked at him. It wasn't a look of childish hatred, but of clinical, ruthless analysis. A look that said, with crystal clarity: I see you. And you are worthless.
The hero blinked, losing his professional smile for a fraction of a second when he met the intensity of my eyes, but he recovered it instantly for the camera.
We bought ice cream. I chose lemon, tart and intense. Izuku asked for vanilla, sweet and comforting. We sat on a bench away from the noise of the mall, next to the canal that ran through the city. Izuku ate in silence, staring at the water with the lost expression of someone who had been robbed of a piece of their faith.
"It's not fair," he finally muttered, licking the last drop of his ice cream. "He didn't even listen to me. It was a genuine question, I didn't just want a stupid autograph."
"He's not interested in you, Izuku," I said, biting into my popsicle with a crunch. I was brutally honest, because lies were the poison that would kill him in this life. "You're not a commercial product for him."
"Product?" Izuku looked at me, confused, his face marked by disappointment. "But he's a hero. He saves people."
"He saves people when there are cameras," I corrected, my tone dry and didactic. "Listen closely, nerd. There are two kinds of heroes in this world. Those who see heroism as a moral obligation, and those who see it as a business."
I nodded toward the mall, where the screams of the crowd could still be heard.
"Flash-Bang is a commercial brand. He sells toys, he sells his image, and above all, he sells the idea that having a flashy Quirk is the only thing that matters. You, without a Quirk, ruin his Instagram photo. The kid with wings is useful to him. It's basic marketing, Izuku. It's not that he's evil; he's just superficial and banal."
Izuku lowered his head, clenching his fists against his knees. His notebook felt heavy in his lap.
"That... that's wrong. All Might isn't like that. He always saves everyone."
All Might is the exception that proves the rule, I thought. Then I sighed, looking up at the blue sky.
"In the future, Izuku, there will be people who realize this. People who will absolutely hate these vain heroes. Very dangerous people."
I thought of Stain, the Hero Killer. In my past life, I despised him as a bloodthirsty madman. But now, with the mind of a cynical adult living in this world, I could see the nuances of his madness.
"There are villains out there who believe society is rotting with 'fake heroes,'" I continued in a serious tone. "Heroes who are only after fame and money. Those people believe these phonies should be eliminated to cleanse the word 'Hero.'"
"Eliminated?" Izuku shivered at hearing the word.
"Yes. Murdered." I turned to him, making sure he grasped the seriousness of the matter. "Listen to me well. Their methods are pure garbage. They're villains because they kill and impose their vision with blood. But their diagnosis of society..." I looked back toward the mall. "Their main complaint isn't entirely wrong."
"So... is Flash-Bang a villain?" he asked, confused.
"No. Flash-Bang is just a symptom, an idiot in tights. Society allows it because we buy his merchandise and stand in line to see him. He doesn't break the law, but he spits on what it means to be a real hero: sacrifice."
Izuku looked at his notebook. He opened it to the blank page he had reserved for the autograph. With contained anger, he took his new pen and forcefully crossed out the entire page, tearing the paper a bit, staining the immaculate sheet with black ink.
"I don't want to be like that," he said, with a sudden firmness that made me smile. "I don't want to be a plastic hero. I want to save the people that plastic ignores."
"Then don't worry about idiots like him," I replied. "When you get power... and you will, Izuku... remember how you felt today. Remember that a real hero signs the Quirkless kid's notebook before the kid with wings, because the Quirkless kid is the one who needs to believe it's possible the most."
I stood up, brushing the dust off my pants.
"The world isn't fixed by killing fake heroes like those lunatics believe. The world is fixed when the real heroes shine so brightly and are so selfless that the plastic ones are exposed as the trash they are."
I held out my hand to him.
"You'll be brilliant, nerd. Don't let neon-lit garbage keep you up at night. Now let's go home. Tomorrow we're increasing the weight on your squats. You have to be strong to defend the ones Flash-Bang refuses to see."
Izuku looked at my hand, then at his ruined notebook, and snapped it shut with a sharp thud, putting an end to a chapter of naivety. He took my hand and stood up; his grip was firm.
"Yeah, Kacchan. Understood."
As we took the long way home, I noticed Izuku's posture had changed. Innocence was shattering, yes. But beneath the wreckage, steel was being forged. And I would make sure that steel never bent to the hypocrisy of this world.