Chapter 3: The Gavel and the Cradle
The transition from the sterile, infinite white of the Void into the physical realm was less of a birth and more of a sensory ambush. After the absolute, heavy silence of the Bailiff's court—a silence that felt like it had mass and weight—the sudden rush of material existence was nothing short of violent.
Hiromi felt a crushing, claustrophobic pressure, a narrowing of his entire being as the vastness of his soul was forced into a tiny, biological vessel. This was followed by a sudden burst of frigid air that hit his new, hyper-sensitive skin like a thousand needles. His first breath didn't feel like life; it felt like a searing, metallic invasion of his lungs.
Then came the lights—sterile, blinding, and far too bright for eyes that, moments ago, had been adjusted to the soft mahogany and cosmic shadows of a spiritual courtroom.
"He's here! A healthy baby boy! Look at those eyes... he's so quiet."
Hiromi tried to protest the sheer indignity of the situation—the cold, latex-covered hands, the stinging disinfectant in the air, and the fact that he was being held upside down. He wanted to demand a summary of his current legal status or at least a blanket to preserve his dignity, but his adult mind was betrayed by his infantile vocal cords. His sophisticated rebuttal came out as a high-pitched, desperate wail that echoed off the tiled walls of the maternity ward.
As he was wrapped in Egyptian cotton and pressed against the chest of a woman who radiated an aura of unconditional, almost frighteningly pure love, his mind raced.
"Reincarnation is... a physical reality. It is not a theological theory, nor a trope found in the cheap paperbacks my paralegals used to read during lunch breaks," he thought, his tiny heart drumming a frantic, syncopated rhythm against his ribs. "The Bailiff... that geometric entity. It was an interdimensional transfer. I have been re-filed into a new jurisdiction. This is a continuation of the trial, merely in a different venue."
The Gilded Prison of Minato
As the weeks bled into months, Hiromi's adult consciousness began to painstakingly piece together the tapestry of his new reality. He was not born into a life of struggle, which presented its own unique set of moral challenges. He lived in a sprawling, modernist estate in Minato, the epicenter of Tokyo's wealth.
The floors were polished white marble that felt like frozen lakes beneath a toddler's feet. The air was always a perfect 22°C, filtered and climate-controlled to the point of being lifeless. From the nursery window, he watched a city that looked like his old Tokyo—but it was sharper, taller, and pulsating with a different kind of kinetic energy. Occasionally, he would see a streak of fire or a flash of blue light across the skyline. Not airplanes. People.
His father, Daichi Higuruma, was a titan of the legal world, just as Hiromi had once been. But the nature of Daichi's practice made Hiromi's blood run cold. One afternoon, while sitting on a thick Persian rug and pretending to play with wooden blocks, Hiromi observed his father through the cracked door of the home office.
Daichi was a man of sharp angles and expensive silk suits. He was currently on a video call, his voice like velvet dipped in acid. "The Hero Public Safety Commission is quite clear, Counselor. If we admit the Hero's 'accidental' use of fire caused the building collapse, we open a window for a class-action suit that could bankrupt the agency. We don't settle; we bury. Find a flaw in the building's original blueprints. Blame the architect. Blame the materials. Just don't blame the Cape."
Hiromi felt a familiar, bitter bile rise in his throat. In this world, Law wasn't about civil disputes or criminal justice; it was a sophisticated management system for "Gods." The law was being used as a shock absorber for the powerful, ensuring the "status quo" remained unblemished while the collateral damage—the common people—were swept under the rug of "unforeseen circumstances."
The Yaoyorozu Connection
Hiromi spent his first two years in a state of silent, eerie observation. To his mother, he was a "miracle child"—unnaturally calm, his dark eyes always tracking movement with a cold, analytical intensity. He didn't babble; he listened. He didn't crawl aimlessly; he explored the perimeters of his cage.
While other toddlers were fumbling with basic shapes, Hiromi was mentally cataloging the names he heard during his father's frequent high-society galas. It was during one such event, held at their estate, that the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.
He was being carried through the ballroom by a nanny when he overheard his father speaking to a man who radiated old money and quiet authority.
"Daichi-san," the man said, swirling a glass of amber liquid. "The Yaoyorozu Group is exceptionally pleased with the new liability waivers you drafted for our support equipment division. My daughter, Momo, is already showing extraordinary promise with her Creation Quirk. As she prepares for the future—specifically U.A. High—we must ensure the legal path is cleared of any 'unfortunate' incidents involving her early training."
"The pleasure is mine, Yaoyorozu-sama," Daichi replied with a smile that was a masterclass in professional insincerity. "The Yaoyorozu family is a pillar of Japan. It is only right that the Law functions as a shield for such brilliance."
Hiromi, pretending to be asleep against the nanny's shoulder, felt a jolt of recognition that felt like an electric shock. "Yaoyorozu? Momo? U.A. High?"
The realization hit him with the weight of a falling gavel. This wasn't just any world. He was in the world of My Hero Academia. He remembered the manga from his previous life—the stories of a boy born without power in a world of icons. He remembered the symbols, the looming shadow of All For One, and the fundamental, structural rot of a society that turned heroism into a commodity with a price tag and a marketing budget.
The Double Shadow
But a second, more metaphysical realization haunted him. He spent hours staring at his own name on the embossed nursery documents: Hiromi Higuruma.
He reached into the depths of his memories, past the legal codes and the river water, to another story. Jujutsu Kaisen. He remembered a man with his exact name—a lawyer who, pushed to the brink by a corrupt judiciary, had awakened a terrifying technique: Deadly Sentencing. A power where a blindfolded entity acted as judge, jury, and executioner.
"The Bailiff mentioned giving me the 'tools' to judge this world," Hiromi realized, his tiny, soft hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. "He didn't just give me a second life. He gave me the potential of a Sorcerer. He gave me a soul that can manifest a Courtroom where Quirks don't matter—only the Truth."
By age three, Hiromi had stopped trying to be a "normal" child. He spent every waking moment in his father's library, a cathedral of oak and leather that housed the most comprehensive collection of Quirk-related statutes in the country. He read through the Quirk Registry Acts, the Hero Licensing Bylaws, and the Provisional Liability Statutes.
He noticed the minor details that everyone else missed: the way the law defined a "Villain" was based more on intent than action, and how "Heroes" were granted immunity for actions that would land a civilian in prison for life. He saw the "Holes"—the intentional gaps left in the law to allow the Hero Public Safety Commission to act outside of public scrutiny.
He could feel the power simmering beneath his skin. It wasn't a biological Quirk; it didn't feel like a muscle he could flex. It felt like a Domain. It was a space that lived inside his mind, a cold, impartial void that was slowly filling with the weight of the injustices he witnessed through his father's files.
Every time Daichi "fixed" a case for an agency, Hiromi felt the pressure in his chest grow. Every time he heard of a civilian losing their home because a Hero's battle destroyed the neighborhood, the "well" of his Cursed Energy deepened.
The Eve of the Trial
He looked at his reflection in the glass of a bookcase. He was no longer the tired, thirty-two-year-old lawyer with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was a boy of four, with sharp features, dark, unblinking eyes, and a mind that was a lethal weapon.
"In my old life, the Law was too weak to stop the shadows," he whispered to the empty room, his voice still holding the high timbre of a child, yet carrying the gravitas of a veteran prosecutor. "In this life, the Law is the shadow. It's a velvet curtain used to hide the blood on the floor."
He looked at the calendar on the desk. His fourth birthday was tomorrow. In this society, that was the threshold. The age of awakening. For most children, it was the day they discovered they could breathe fire or move objects. For Hiromi, it was the day his jurisdiction would finally be established.
He wasn't going to be a "Hero" in the way this world defined it. He wasn't going to be a "Villain."
He was going to be the Judge.
"The defense is ready," he thought, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. "I hope the world is prepared for the prosecution."
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Author's Note: I have rewritten and expanded this chapter to truly emphasize the "dual-nature" of Hiromi's new life. We're moving away from the typical "I'm a baby" tropes and into the psychological preparation of a man who sees the legal infrastructure of the MHA world as his primary enemy. The details about his father's corruption and the Yaoyorozu connection set the stage for Hiromi to become a true wild card in the upcoming U.A. years. If you're enjoying this deep dive into his childhood and the awakening of his Cursed Energy, please leave a comment or support!