Five years had passed.
The sun stretched across the countryside in a warm, golden haze, painting the open fields in soft light. Cicadas droned lazily from the trees, their rhythm blending with the whisper of wind through tall grass. The scent of freshly turned soil lingered in the air, grounding the quiet afternoon in something simple, something real.
At the edge of the fields, on a worn wooden bench, a boy sat alone.
His short black hair shifted gently with the breeze, and his bright, observant eyes followed the movement of other children playing along the dirt path. Their laughter carried easily across the open land—light, carefree, untouched.
The boy did not join them.
This was Takeshi Moriyama.
He sat with his hands resting neatly in his lap, his legs swinging idly beneath the bench. There was no bitterness in his gaze, no visible loneliness—only a quiet kind of distance, as though he stood just outside the world they belonged to.
He watched.
Listened.
And remained where he was.
"Hey, kid."
The voice broke through his thoughts.
Takeshi turned, slightly startled, and found an elderly man standing a few steps away. His yukata was faded with age, its colors softened by time, but he stood straight, his presence steady. Deep lines marked his face, yet his smile carried an easy warmth—gentle, familiar.
"Why are you sitting here all alone?" the old man asked. "What's your name?"
Takeshi straightened slightly.
"My name is Takeshi Moriyama, Grandpa," he replied politely. "I'm waiting for my father. He's still working in the fields."
The man studied him for a moment, something curious flickering in his eyes.
"You should be out there," he said, nodding toward the other children. "Running around, making noise. Kids your age shouldn't be sitting still like old men." He paused. "Or… are they bothering you?"
Takeshi shook his head.
"No. They're not bad." His voice was calm, almost thoughtful. "But Father told me not to play too much with others."
The old man's brows drew together slightly. "And why would he say that?"
Takeshi lowered his gaze for a moment.
"He said… I might hurt them."
Silence followed.
The old man's expression shifted—not into disbelief, but into something more measured. His voice lowered, quieter now.
"Then you should be careful," he said. "There have been problems lately. Child traffickers moving through nearby villages. Children who wander too far…" He didn't finish the sentence.
The laughter in the distance suddenly felt more fragile.
But Takeshi only smiled—a small, confident curve of his lips that didn't quite match his age.
"You don't have to worry, Grandpa," he said lightly. "I've already awakened a strong quirk. No one's catching me."
The man let out a soft chuckle, rolling his shoulders as if amused. Even with age, there was strength in his frame—something disciplined, controlled.
"Confident, huh?" he said. "That's not a bad thing."
He studied Takeshi again, more carefully this time.
"Tell me… do you want to become a hero?"
Takeshi didn't answer immediately.
He tilted his head, considering the question—not like a child chasing a dream, but like someone weighing a decision.
Then he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "That's my goal."
The old man's eyes gleamed faintly, as if that answer had been what he was waiting for.
"My name's Yami," he said. "If you're serious, come find me sometime. I live nearby. I can teach you a few things."
Takeshi stood from the bench and gave a small, respectful bow.
"Thank you, Grandpa Yami. I'd like that." He glanced toward the fields. "But my father will be here soon."
Yami nodded once.
"Then we'll meet again."
With that, he turned and walked down the dirt path, his figure slowly fading into the golden light of the late afternoon.
Takeshi watched him go.
A Few Months Earlier
The memories came without warning.
At first, they were faint—blurred fragments, like reflections in disturbed water. But slowly, they sharpened. Connected. Became whole.
And with them came a truth he couldn't ignore.
He had lived before.
Not in this world—but in another.
A world that now felt strangely familiar.
He remembered watching it once. Not all of it—just bits and pieces. An anime he never paid much attention to. A story he never thought mattered.
But now, he was inside it.
And unlike before… this wasn't fiction.
This was real.
In his previous life, Takeshi had been ordinary.
Just a boy caught in a broken home.
His parents' marriage had been hollow—more obligation than love. His mother, young and restless, had slowly drifted away before leaving entirely with someone else. His father… didn't stop her.
There had never been anything worth fighting for between them.
But what Takeshi hadn't understood—what he only realized far too late—was that his father had still tried.
In quiet ways.
He provided. Stayed. Endured.
Loved, even when that love wasn't returned.
But Takeshi had been too blind to see it.
He clung to the memory of his mother, chasing after someone who had already let him go. Every word from his father felt like control. Every attempt at discipline felt like rejection.
Until one night, everything broke.
Rain pounded against the windows. Thunder shook the walls.
His father's voice, sharp with frustration, cut through the storm—scolding him again for neglecting his studies. But what stayed with Takeshi wasn't the words.
It was what came after.
His computer—his most prized possession, the last gift from his mother—was taken away.
And to him, that meant everything.
In that moment, anger swallowed reason.
He ran.
Out into the storm, ignoring his father's voice calling after him, chasing the only place he believed he still belonged.
Her.
When his mother opened the door, surprise flickered across her face.
Then it disappeared.
"Takeshi…" she sighed. "What are you doing here?"
He stood there, soaked, shivering, desperate.
"Mom… can I stay with you? Please… I don't want to go back."
For a second, there was silence.
Then her expression hardened.
"Don't interfere with my life," she said flatly. "Go back to your father."
She pressed money into his hand—cold, impersonal.
"Don't come here again without my permission."
No warmth.
No hesitation.
The door closed.
And just like that, he understood.
Too late.
He stood there in the rain, the weight in his chest heavier than anything he had ever felt. The money in his hand meant nothing. Less than nothing.
He walked.
Aimlessly. Numb.
The storm swallowed everything—his thoughts, his voice, the world itself.
Until—
Headlights.
A horn.
Pain.
And then—
Nothing.
That was how his first life ended.
And how this one began.
End of Chapter 3