[POV: Denki Kaminari]
Days continued to pass after that night I'd overheard my parents' conversation.
And something had shifted inside me.
I couldn't quite put my finger on it at first—just a subtle change in perspective, like looking at a familiar painting from a different angle and suddenly seeing details you'd missed before.
But as weeks turned into months, that shift became impossible to ignore.
I started paying more attention to my parents. Really paying attention.
My mother, Narihana Kaminari, wasn't just "busy with hero work" in some vague, abstract sense. She was deliberately patrolling our neighborhood. Day after day, night after night, she'd focus her hero activities within a twenty-kilometer radius of our home.
'She's keeping the area safe,' I realized one evening, watching her leave for another shift. 'Specifically because we live here. Because I live here.'
And my father?
One afternoon, while he was in the bathroom and his study door was left ajar, I'd caught a glimpse of his bank account book sitting on his desk.
Curiosity got the better of me. I shouldn't have looked. But I did.
And what I saw made my chest tighten.
The numbers were... staggering.
Years and years of savings, carefully accumulated despite their modest lifestyle. And most of it—most of it—was listed under my name in a trust fund I hadn't even known existed.
College tuition, Hero school expenses, Living costs, Emergency funds.
He'd even taken out massive life insurance policies on both himself and my mother, with me listed as the sole beneficiary.
'If anything happens to them,' I thought, staring at those numbers with a strange mixture of gratitude and dread, 'I'd be financially secure for the rest of my life.'
They were planning for every contingency. Every possibility. Every potential future where they might not be around to support me.
Because they loved me. Not in the flashy, demonstrative way you'd see in movies—no grand gestures or constant declarations.
But in the quiet, practical way that mattered.
In insurance policies and neighborhood patrols and carefully saved money.
In sacrificed time and exhausted smiles and hurried breakfasts where they'd still ask about my day even though they could barely keep their eyes open.
'People can still love you,' I realized, 'even if they're not actively displaying it in obvious ways. They still care. They're still there, even when they're not physically present.'
Tears began forming in my eyes before I could stop them.
I laughed—a wet, slightly hysterical sound that echoed in the empty study. "All this time," I whispered to the empty room, "I told myself I was fine with their absence. That I understood. That it didn't bother me."
But deep down, maybe this six-year-old body—combined with my twenty-something mind—had still been craving parental attention. Still wanting to be seen, to be valued, to be chosen over work and responsibilities.
And they had been choosing me. Every single day.
My laughter died as another thought struck me like lightning.
'My parents from my previous life.'
I couldn't remember their names anymore. Their faces had become blurry, like photographs left too long in sunlight. But I could still feel how much they'd cared about me. How much they'd loved me.
'How are they doing?' I wondered, feeling a different kind of ache settle in my chest. 'Did they grieve when I died? Are they okay?'
I used to think about them occasionally—usually late at night when I couldn't sleep. But lately, I'd been so focused on training and planning for the future that I'd almost forgotten I'd had another family once.
A family that probably thought I was dead.
'I'm sorry,' I thought, though I didn't know if they could somehow hear me across dimensional barriers. 'I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I can't come back.'
I sighed, wiping my eyes and carefully returning the bank book to exactly where I'd found it.
Time to stop wallowing in complicated emotions and get back to the present.
.
.
.
Later that day...
I found Megumi-nee in the living room, glued to the television screen.
"Megumi-nee, what are you—"
"Shh!" She waved frantically for me to be quiet, eyes wide with excitement. "Look! It's All Might!"
I turned toward the TV just in time to see something that made my breath catch.
The screen showed a massive apartment building engulfed in flames, thick black smoke billowing into the sky. People were screaming. Firefighters were struggling to contain the blaze. Cameras from multiple news helicopters captured the scene from different angles.
And then—
BOOM.
A figure burst through the flames on the top floor, moving so fast he seemed to teleport.
It was All Might.
Even through the TV screen, even in this lower-quality news footage, his presence was overwhelming.
He stood seven feet tall, muscles that looked like they'd been carved from marble, wearing his signature red, white, and blue costume. His blonde hair defied gravity, styled in those ridiculous antenna-like tufts that somehow worked on him.
And he was carrying four people on his shoulders—two adults and two children—all of them clinging to him as he leaped from the burning building with impossible grace.
He landed on the street below with enough force to crack the pavement, set down the rescued civilians gently, and then turned toward the cameras with that smile.
That impossibly wide, reassuring, heroic smile that made you believe everything would be okay.
"Fear not, citizens!" His voice boomed across the scene, deep and confident and absolutely certain. "Why, you ask?"
He struck a pose—ridiculous, dramatic, perfect.
"Because I am here!"
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Megumi-nee actually squealed beside me, clutching a throw pillow to her chest. "Oh my god, he's so cool! Did you see that? He saved hundreds of people at once! And he wasn't even trying!"
I couldn't help but smile.
'There he is,' I thought, watching the Symbol of Peace rush back into the burning building to save more people. 'All Might in his prime. Before the injury, before the time limit. When he was truly unstoppable.'
It was surreal, seeing him like this after watching the entire series where he was constantly struggling, constantly pushing past his limits just to maintain the illusion of invincibility.
'Enjoy it while it lasts, old man,' I thought with a bittersweet pang. 'Because in a few years, everything's going to change.'
"Denki-kun!" Megumi-nee grabbed my shoulders, shaking me slightly. "When you become a hero, are you going to be cool like that? Are you going to save people and say awesome catchphrases?"
I grinned up at her. "Obviously! I'll be even cooler than All Might!"
"That's impossible," she said, deadpan. "Nobody's cooler than All Might."
"Watch me."
She laughed and ruffled my hair—a gesture I'd gotten used to over the years, even if it always left my blonde spikes in complete disarray.
"I believe in you, Speedy-kun. You'll be amazing."
'Damn right I will,' I thought, electricity crackling faintly across my fingertips. 'Just you wait.'
Speaking of the future, it was almost time for me to start elementary school.
Yeah. School.
The bane of every child's existence and the setting for approximately 90% of all boring slice-of-life anime episodes.
'But it shouldn't be a problem for me,' I reasoned, watching Megumi-nee flip through channels. 'I've got an adult mind in a kid's body. Elementary school should be a breeze.'
After all, failing elementary school after reincarnating with your memories intact would make you officially the dumbest transmigrator of all time. That was like... basic requirements for the isekai protagonist club.
The schooling system in Japan was slightly different from what I remembered from my previous life.
Elementary School of 6 years (ages 6-12), Junior High School of 4 years (ages 12-16), High School of 3 years (ages 16-19) and University of 3 years (ages 19-22)
'So I've got six years of elementary school, four years of junior high, and then—if everything goes according to plan—I'll take U.A.'s entrance exam at sixteen.'
That gave me few years.
Few years to build my foundation, master my Quirk fully, and prepare for the absolute chaos that was the My Hero Academia plot.
'I should enjoy this time,' I decided. 'Once canon starts, it's going to be a non-stop speedrun of villain attacks, training arcs, and existential crises. Might as well experience a relatively normal childhood while I can.'
Being a kid only happened once in most people's lives. But for me? This was round two.
And I fully intended to take advantage of every benefit that came with it—the freedom, the lack of responsibilities, the ability to do weird shit and have everyone dismiss it as "kids being kids."
'Plus,' I thought with a smirk, 'I can use this time to set up some very profitable side projects.'
Another thing I'd been thinking about was my parents' financial situation.
I understood their worries now. Understood why they worked themselves to exhaustion. They were building a future for me, saving every yen they could spare so I'd have opportunities they never had.
'But what if I could help?' I thought. 'What if I could contribute to the family income and ease some of that burden?'
And there was really only one thing a reincarnated person with meta-knowledge could do to make money quickly, Write novels.
Yeah, I know. Super original. Every third transmigrator in existence pulls this trick—stealing intellectual property from their previous world and passing it off as their own in the new one.
It was morally questionable at best, Ethically dubious and definitely plagiarism.
'But,' I reasoned, 'those stories don't exist in this world. And if I can use them to help my family and maybe boost my public image before I become a hero...'
The ends justified the means, right? ...Right?
'Ugh, listen to me,' I thought with a grimace. 'I'm literally justifying theft. This universe is turning me into one of those fame-hungry heroes I used to make fun of.'
I shook my head, trying to clear away the uncomfortable thoughts.
'No. I'm not doing this for fame or money. Not primarily, anyway. I'm doing this to ease my parents' burden and maybe—maybe—establish a positive public image that will help when I eventually become a pro hero.'
Because public opinion mattered in this world. A lot.
Heroes with good reputations got better job offers, more agency support, and could actually help people more effectively.
'And if killing All For One becomes necessary,' I thought, my expression turning grim, 'I'll deal with that when the time comes. Future me can make that call.'
Because honestly? I didn't know if I had it in me to kill another person.
In my previous life, I'd never thrown a real punch at anyone except my friends during roughhousing. I'd never been in a serious fight. The thought of actually taking someone's life—even a monster like All For One—made my stomach churn.
'I'm not a maniac who casually decides to murder people without considering the consequences,' I reminded myself firmly. 'I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, I need to focus on getting stronger and smarter.'
So, novels it was. But the question was: which story should I "write"?
I spent several days considering my options.
Harry Potter? Too long, and the magic system wouldn't translate well.
Percy Jackson? Similar problem.
Naruto? Already existed in this world as a manga.
And then it hit me.
Fairy Tail. It was perfect.
A story about a guild of mages with unique magical abilities—basically the My Hero Academia of the fantasy world, just with magic instead of Quirks.
It had everything: friendship, epic battles, emotional moments, comedy, and enough fan service to guarantee sales without being too explicit for my age.
'Plus,' I thought with a grin, 'the magic system is flexible enough that people in this Quirk-based society will relate to it. They'll see parallels to hero agencies and Quirk abilities. It'll be a huge hit.'
I'd write Fairy Tail, publish it when I was old enough that it wouldn't seem too suspicious, and use the proceeds to help my family.
'And if I become famous as an author before I become famous as a hero?' I thought smugly. 'Well, that's just a nice bonus.'
.
.
.
And so my life fell into a new rhythm.
I entered Saitama Municipal Elementary School at age six, and—surprise, surprise—I became the "genius kid" almost immediately.
Perfect test scores, Insightful answers, mature behavior and the teachers loved me.
'Almost too easy,' I thought during one particularly boring math lesson. 'It's like playing a video game on easy mode after you've already beaten it on hard.'
And the kids themselves were... actually pretty great.
I'd worried I'd find them annoying—that the gap between my mental age and theirs would make socialization unbearable.
But kids were surprisingly fun to be around. They were genuine and honest. Unfiltered in ways that adults never were. When they liked you, they showed it openly. When they were upset, they said so directly.
No corporate politeness and social masks. Just pure, unvarnished humanity in its most innocent form.
'I forgot what this was like,' I realized during lunch break, surrounded by kids excitedly showing me their Quirks. 'In my previous life, I loved kids. Wanted to have some of my own someday. Guess that hasn't changed.'
Though I had to admit, keeping up with their energy was exhausting. Not physically—I literally had electricity running through my body, giving me nearly endless stamina.
But mentally.
'How do elementary school teachers survive this every day?' I wondered, watching a kid try to eat paste for the third time that week. 'They deserve medals. And therapy. Mostly therapy.'
But the friendships I formed were genuine. The memories I made were real.
And I made sure to extend that same effort to my family.
I spent as much time with my parents as their schedules allowed.
It wasn't always easy. Mom's hero work and Dad's insurance cases meant that "family time" had to be carefully planned and fiercely protected.
But I insisted. And to my surprise, they responded.
We started having family dinners at least three times a week. Weekend outings when possible. Simple things—trips to the park, visits to museums, watching movies together on the couch.
I took photos. Lots of photos.
And I hung them on the walls of our house.
Before, the walls had been mostly bare. Generic art pieces that came with the furniture. Nothing personal. Nothing that screamed "a family lives here."
Now? Now our house looked like a home.
Pictures of Mom laughing at something Dad said. Dad and me building a poorly constructed blanket fort. All three of us at a summer festival, wearing yukata and holding candy apples. Megumi-neesan photo-bombing a family selfie with a ridiculous face.
Every empty wall space gradually filled with evidence of life. Of love. Of a family that actually existed together, not just occupied the same building.
Megumi-neesan helped with that too. She was there for all of it—a constant, reliable presence who made our house feel warmer just by being in it.
'She's basically family at this point,' I thought, watching her help Mom hang a new picture frame. 'I should make sure she knows that.'
And coming back to my school life, I was careful not to be too perfect. I deliberately got a few answers wrong here and there, pretended to struggle with concepts I'd mastered years ago, and made sure to act like a relatively normal kid.
'Can't stand out too much,' I reminded myself. 'Genius child prodigy attracts attention. Attention attracts scrutiny. Scrutiny leads to uncomfortable questions about how a six-year-old knows university-level physics.'
So I played the part, smart but not superhuman, talented but not impossible. And I used every spare moment for training.
Recess? Training disguised as "playing tag" while running electricity through my legs.
Lunch break? Practicing breath control and meditation in an empty classroom.
After school? Full combat observation and mimic drills, Quirk experimentation, and martial arts practice.
'The grind never stops,' I thought, doing one-handed push-ups in my bedroom while maintaining Thunder Breathing. 'Not for a second.'
I even joined a local dojo that offered martial arts classes for kids—karate, specifically, because the instructor was patient and the other students were adorably incompetent.
Watching six-year-olds try to perform proper punching forms was simultaneously endearing and hilarious.
"Denki-kun, you're really good at this!" one of my classmates said after I'd executed a perfect roundhouse kick. "Have you trained before?"
"Nope!" I lied cheerfully. "Just lucky, I guess!"
'Or, you know, I've got enhanced reflexes from running electricity through my nervous system for the past year,' I thought. 'But sure, let's go with "lucky."'
The instructors favored me—partly because of my natural talent, partly because I was polite and well-behaved, and partly because I had a tendency to step in whenever I saw bullying.
Which happened more often than I'd like.
Kids with mutation-type Quirks—the ones that made them look "weird" or "different"—got picked on constantly. It was depressing how early that kind of prejudice started.
So whenever I saw it happening, I intervened. Nothing dramatic and violent.
Just a few well-chosen words, a intimidating crackle of electricity across my knuckles, and a look that said "back off or find out what 10,000 volts feels like."
Surprisingly effective.
By the end of my first year, I'd become the most popular kid in school—not because I was trying to be, but because I was genuinely nice to people and had zero tolerance for bullies.
'Weird how basic human decency makes you stand out,' I thought wryly.
.
.
.
Time passed. Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. Months turned to years.
And I trained. Gods, did I train. Every. Single. Day.
Morning runs with electricity coursing through my legs, pushing my speed higher and higher.
Afternoon Quirk practice, experimenting with new applications and techniques.
Evening martial arts training, refining my combat skills and building muscle memory.
Night meditation sessions, expanding my electrical sense and working toward that bio-electricity detection I'd been chasing for years.
I didn't skip a single day. Not for holidays, not for birthdays. Not even when I was sick—though my accelerated healing meant that didn't happen often.
'The grind never stops,' became my mantra. 'Every day is an opportunity. Every moment is training.'
And the results?
By the time I reached twelve years old and finished elementary school, I had Photographic memory, I could recall any information I'd read or seen with perfect clarity. Textbooks, combat footage, hero statistics—all of it stored permanently in my brain like a biological hard drive.
Enhanced cognitive processing - My thoughts moved at superhuman speeds. I could work through complex problems in seconds, analyze combat scenarios in real-time, and process sensory information faster than most adults.
Advanced electrical techniques - I'd developed dozens of original moves based on my Quirk, including Railgun, by Launching metal objects at supersonic speeds using electromagnetic acceleration
EMP Burst, A localized electromagnetic pulse that could disable electronics.
Lightning Clone - Creating afterimages by moving fast enough to fool human perception
Overcharge - Temporarily boosting my physical capabilities beyond normal limits by flooding my muscles with electricity
Martial arts mastery, Six years of dedicated training had made me genuinely dangerous in close combat. I might be small, but I was fast, and I knew how to use leverage and precision to compensate for lack of physical strength.
I can now generate enough electricity—at least, if my calculations are right—to power a city for a few hours. Since I can't properly measure it with equipment, this is as far as I can estimate for now.
Maybe it would be a good idea to talk to Mom about testing my electrical capacity, I noted.
I can even vibrate at high speeds, but phasing through walls and solid matter is still difficult and requires more concentration and practice.
And perhaps most importantly, I'd completed writing Fairy Tail. All 545 chapters.
It had taken six years—mostly because I wasn't a professional writer in my previous life and had to learn proper narrative structure, pacing, and character development.
But I'd done it. The manuscript sat in a locked drawer in my desk, waiting for the right moment to be published.
'I'll wait until I'm fourteen or fifteen,' I'd decided. 'Old enough that people will take me seriously as an author, but young enough that the "teenage prodigy" angle will generate positive publicity.'
Of course, not everything went smoothly.
There was one particular incident I would remember for the rest of my life—and not in a good way.
It happened about a year ago, when curiosity got the better of my common sense.
I'd been wondering what exactly "Whey Mode" felt like. In the anime, Denki would short-circuit his brain and turn into a thumbs-up-giving idiot for several minutes.
'But what does that actually feel like from the inside?' I'd wondered. 'And can I build up a resistance to it if I understand the mechanism?'
So, like the absolute genius I was, I decided to test it.
I waited until my parents were out and Megumi-nee was downstairs watching TV.
Then I went into my backyard, took a deep breath, and released everything.
Every single volt of electricity stored in my body, discharged in one massive burst.
The result?
"Wheeeeey~"
Apparently, I'd spent the next fifteen minutes wandering around the house with my thumbs up, drooling slightly, and making incomprehensible noises.
And Megumi-nee—the traitor—had recorded the entire thing on her phone.
"Oh my god, Denki-kun, this is adorable!" she'd squealed, showing me the video after I'd recovered. "Look at your face! You're so cute when you're dumb!"
"Delete that," I'd said flatly, electricity crackling around my clenched fists. "Right now."
"No way! This is precious! I'm keeping this forever!"
"Megumi-nee, I'm warning you—"
"Already backed it up to three different cloud services!" she'd sung cheerfully, dancing away before I could grab her phone. "You'll never destroy all the copies!"
I'd stood there, watching her retreat with that smug smile on her face, and made a solemn vow.
'Revenge,' I'd thought darkly. 'Sweet, perfectly calculated revenge. You think you've won, Megumi-nee? You think you're safe?'
'I've been training for seven years. I've become one of the fastest humans alive. I can access restricted files, hack accounts, and move through secure locations without being seen.'
'And when the time is right—when you least expect it—I will find every single copy of that video and erase it from existence.'
She had no idea what she'd started. But she would learn.
'Just you wait, Megumi-nee,' I'd thought with a dark chuckle. 'Patience is a virtue. And I'm very patient.'
.
.
.
Which brought me to today.
My first day of junior high school.
Musutafu Private Middle School—a decent institution with good academic ratings and a solid reputation. Yes, he lives in Saitama Prefecture, a short train ride from Musutafu. Due to the butterfly effect, he ended up enrolling here, as the school near his neighborhood was destroyed during a village attack.
My parents had dropped me off this morning, both of them taking time out of their busy schedules to be there for this "important milestone."
"You're going to do great, Denki," my mother had said, hugging me tightly. Her hero costume smelled like ozone and coffee—a weirdly comforting combination. "Make friends. Study hard. And if anyone gives you trouble—"
"I'll zap them," I'd finished with a grin.
"No," she'd said firmly, though I could see her fighting back a smile. "You'll tell a teacher. Like a responsible student."
"Right... Responsible. Got it."
My father had ruffled my hair—taller now, I barely had to bend down for him to reach—and smiled proudly. "We're proud of you, son. You've grown into an amazing young man."
'Thanks to all your sacrifices,' I'd thought but didn't say. 'Thanks to every long hour you worked and every moment you spent planning for my future.'
Instead, I'd just hugged them both and promised to make them proud.
After they left—my mother heading to patrol, my father rushing to a client meeting—I stood at the school entrance and took a deep breath.
'Here we go. Junior high. Four years until U.A.'s entrance exam.'
I walked through the gates, I found my classroom—1-B—and walked inside.
It was the standard Japanese classroom setup: rows of desks, large windows on one side, blackboard at the front and the most important seat in any anime-style school, the window seat in the back row.
The protagonist seat.
'Every main character sits here,' I thought with amusement, settling into the chair and staring out at the clouds drifting past. 'It's basically a law of anime physics. If you sit here, important things happen to you.'
I watched the clouds for a moment, letting my thoughts drift.
'How nice it must be,' I mused, 'to be a cloud. Just floating along without a care in the world. No training schedules, No world-ending threats in the future and no pressure to save people who are destined to die.'
"Hi! Nice to meet you!"
I turned to see who'd spoken.
A boy around my age—twelve, like me—had taken the seat directly beside mine. He had black hair, an enthusiastic smile that showed off slightly sharp teeth, and an energy that reminded me of an excitable puppy.
He was also very slightly familiar, though I couldn't quite place why.
"Hey," I said, offering a friendly smile. "I'm Denki Kaminari. Nice to meet you."
"Eijiro Kirishima!" he replied, sticking out his hand for a shake. His grip was firm—surprisingly so for someone our age. "Let's get along well in the future, yeah?"
My brain stuttered.
'Wait... WAIT. KIRISHIMA?!'
My eyes widened as recognition slammed into me like a freight train.
'Holy shit, this is Kirishima! Red Riot! The guy who becomes one of my best friends in Class 1-A! The manliest hero in the entire series!'
A huge grin spread across my face—genuine, unstoppable, probably slightly unhinged.
"Yeah!" I grabbed his hand and shook it enthusiastically. "Let's definitely get along! I have a feeling we're going to be great friends, Kirishima!"
He blinked, clearly surprised by my sudden enthusiasm, but his smile widened to match mine. "Hell yeah! That's the spirit!"
...
Author's Note
Hey guys. I wanted to clarify a small but important change I've made to the timeline. In canon, U.A. High starts at fifteen years of age, but in this story I've shifted the starting age to sixteen. This extra year exists for one main reason: to give our MC more time to grind, train, and grow naturally before stepping into U.A.
From the very beginning, my plan is for the MC to enter U.A. already standing at—or at least brushing against—the level of a pro hero. That kind of strength doesn't come out of nowhere, and I didn't want to rush or handwave his development. With one additional year, combined with his personality, obsession with improvement, and relentless drive to push his limits, the growth feels more earned and believable.
So yes, that one extra year matters. It's the difference between "talented student" and someone who walks into U.A. like a loaded thundercloud waiting to break. Thanks for sticking with the changes, and I hope you enjoy how this altered timeline pays off later in the story. ⚡