Four years later,
Issei sat at a desk hewring the teacher drone out.
She was explaining Japanese grammar, her chalk scratching across the blackboard as she dissected sentence structures.
Issei's eyes followed her movements, absorbing the lesson with ease.
At nine years old, his high-end senses and inhuman memory made learning trivial.
Grammar, math, history—it all stuck like glue, no effort required.
He jotted a note here and there, more out of habit than necessity, his mind drifting elsewhere.
His quirk—or quirks, plural—still baffled him.
The high-end senses were obvious, a quirk anyone could point to and name.
They let him hear the faintest whispers of classmates gossiping across the room, smell the chalk dust settling on the board, feel the subtle vibrations of footsteps in the hall.
But his memory? That was something else.
He could recall every detail of his past life on Earth—blurry flashes of TV screens, takeout boxes, a mundane existence—alongside every moment of this one.
Was it part of his senses, or a second quirk? No one had answers.
Then there was the heat conversion. Not ice, like he'd thought four years ago when he froze All For One's goon solid.
It was more dangerous, more lethal. A negative multiplier.
If something was 100 degrees hot, Issei could flip it to -100 degrees cold.
It wasn't flashy like Todoroki's ice walls or fire blasts—it was precise, deadly.
Organs frozen solid, life snuffed out in seconds.
Even All Might, in his prime, wouldn't stand a chance against that kind of power.
The thought made Issei slightly uneasy.
He wasn't a killer, but his quirk didn't care.
Having two quirks—or three, if his memory counted—was unheard of, unnatural.
Only All For One had wielded multiple quirks, and Issei wasn't him.
The government knew, of course.
In their database the high-end senses were a byproduct of his ice based quirk
Gran Torino, his caretaker, knew too.
But at school Issei was just another kid, his quirks hidden under a veneer of normalcy.
No one could know how dangerous he was.
He glanced out the window, the spring sun glinting off the schoolyard.
Four years ago, he'd washed up on that beach, clutching the fading ember of his father's shield, Ryoma's sacrifice burned into his soul. .
The police had taken him to a station, and instead of an orphanage, Gran Torino had been waiting.
The old hero's gruff demeanor and sharp eyes had startled Issei, but the bigger shock was learning about Ryoma's past.
His father had been a villain once, a classmate of Nana Shimura.
Ryoma's weak defensive quirk hadn't cut it, and he'd flunked out, spiraling into crime.
Years later, After prison, Ryoma reformed, dedicating his life to guiding kids away from the criminal path he'd once walked.
Gran Torino, Nana's friend and ally, had crossed paths with Ryoma during those years.
They'd developed a mutual respect, an understanding forged in their shared connection to Nana and their desire to protect the next generation.
When Gran Torino found Ryoma's name tied to Issei at the police station, he'd stepped in.
No questions.
He took Issei in, raising him with a mix of tough love and quiet wisdom.
The old man wasn't soft—his training sessions left Issei bruised and breathless—but he was family now, the closest thing to a father Issei had left.
"Oi, Issei," the teacher's voice snapped him back. She stood at his desk, arms crossed. "Daydreaming again? Care to conjugate this verb for the class?"
Issei blinked, his memory supplying the answer instantly. "Taberu becomes tabemasu in polite form," he said, voice steady.
The teacher nodded, satisfied, and moved on.
A few classmates murmured, but Issei ignored them.
He still saw his father's smile in his dreams—bright, ruthless, ignoring his screams as the shield launched him to safety.
Ryoma had faced All For One, knowing he'd die.
Gran Torino had told him the story, pieced together from All Might's account.
How in his final moments, he used his quirk to tear the villain apart from the inside
Ryoma's green spikes had crippled All For One, giving All Might the chance to finish him before the hero could succumb to his own wounds.
It was a hero's end considering everything his old man lived his life for...but it didn't ease the ache in Issei's chest.
The bell rang, and Issei packed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.
As he stepped into the crowded hallway, his senses picked up the chatter—kids talking about hero rankings, the latest villain takedown, U.A.'s upcoming sports festival.
He tuned it out, heading for the exit. Gran Torino would be waiting at home, probably with another grueling training session to "toughen him up."
Issei's hand brushed the small pendant around his neck, a piece of polished stone Gran Torino said Ryoma had carried.
It was one fo the few things he had left of his father since their home was torn up very badly in the fight.
The other was actually a photo album of Ryoma and a Diary.
...
Issei stepped out of the school, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the courtyard.
The chatter of his classmates faded behind him as he adjusted his backpack, his senses picking up the hum of the city—car horns, distant sirens, the rhythmic clank of construction nearby.
He was ready to head home, when a scream cut through the air.
His head snapped up.
Across the street, a man dangled from a window-cleaning crane, its cable fraying as he clung to the platform, his face pale with terror.
The crowd below gasped, phones raised to record.
A flying hero—some low-ranker in a blue cape—shot toward the man, arms outstretched, closing the distance fast.
Then it happened.
A membrane materialized in the air, right in the hero's path.
It was translucent, rippling like a heatwave, blocking the rescue.
The hero's eyes widened, too late to stop his momentum.
Issei's heart skipped.
His inhuman memory clicked, pulling up a detail from his past-life knowledge of My Hero Academia.
This was familiar—too familiar.
The falling worker, the membrane, the hero's collision.
It was the backstory of Gentle Criminal, Danjuro Tobita, the moment that branded him a villain.
A well-meaning act gone wrong, a life ruined by a single mistake.
Fear gripped Issei.
Not for himself, but for the man behind this—Danjuro, somewhere nearby, trying to help and about to lose everything.
Issei's senses scanned the crowd, locking onto a figure in a coat, his hands trembling as he focused on the membrane.
Danjuro's face was tense, eyes wide with hope and dread.
Issei couldn't let this happen.
Not when he knew what it would cost.
A sensation crept up his body, electric and familiar, like the moment four years ago when his heat conversion quirk awakened.
His fingers tingled, power surging, but a whisper from his old self—the cautious, detached adult from Earth—hissed in his mind.
This isn't your fight. It's not your problem.
The fear faded, replaced by a hollow calm.
He could walk away.
He should.
But his eyes turned back to Danjuro, to the worker screaming above, to the hero bracing for impact.
Issei's jaw clenched.
He wasn't that old self anymore.
The air around the membrane shimmered as he activated his heat conversion quirk, supercooling it in an instant.
The temperature plummeted, the membrane's elastic surface turning brittle as glass.
With a sharp crack , it shattered, fragments sparkling in the sunlight as they fell harmlessly to the ground.
The hero sailed through, unscathed, and caught the worker just before he plummeted.
The crowd erupted in cheers, phones still recording, oblivious to the near-disaster.
The worker sobbed in the hero's arms as they descended safely to the street.
Issei's senses zeroed in on Danjuro Tobita, standing frozen in the crowd. Gentle Criminal—though he won't ne that now—looked terrified, his face drained of color.
He'd expected it all to go wrong, for the hero to crash, for his quirk to ruin everything the moment his mind registered what was about to happen.
When the membrane broke, his eyes widened in confusion, darting around as if searching for the cause.
His gaze passed over Issei, but the boy was just another kid in a school uniform, unremarkable in the chaos.
Issei looked at his hand, his heart pounding.
He'd done it—changed the story, maybe saved Danjuro from his tragic path.
He expected to feel a moment of happiness or regret or anything at all from his action to save two lives today...yet he felt nothing at all.
Being a hero sure is tedious.
He turned, blending into the stream of students heading home.
"I'm trying, Dad," he muttered under his breath.
He didn't know if he'd done the right thing, or if Danjuro would still fall... there was no emotion to steer away from this thinking after all.
But he'd acted.
That was enough for today.
He may not feel intensely about wishing to be a hero but he will keep the promise and won't settle for anything less than the hero Ryoma wished to be...
As he walked, his senses caught the faint buzz of a news drone overhead, already broadcasting the rescue.
Hmm technology..sure has evolved.
...
Some time later.
The old warehouse reeked of rust and motor oil, its cracked concrete floor littered with dented cans and broken crates.
Sunlight streamed through shattered windows, casting jagged shadows as Issei stood in the center, his small frame tense.
Gran Torino, leaned against a rusted beam, his cane tapping the ground impatiently.
The old hero's sharp eyes shone with mischief, a stark contrast to his wrinkled face and diminutive stature.
"Alright, kid," Grandpa said, his voice gravelly but warm, like he was about to tell a bedtime story instead of putting Issei through hell. "Today's about thinking on your feet. Your senses are sharp too sharp, if you ask me but you're still predictable.... Gotta learn to improvise, or some villain's gonna turn you into a pincushion."
Issei's face stayed serious, his dark eyes narrowing as he scanned the warehouse.
His senses scanned the surroundings, picking up the creak of metal overhead, the faint drip of water in a corner, the rhythm of Grandpa's heartbeat.
"I'm not predictable," he said, his voice flat, mature for his age.
"I can handle it."
Grandpa snorted, twirling his cane like a kid with a toy. "Oh, big talk from the squirt who tripped over his own feet last week! C'mon, show me you're not just a brainy statue. Move!"
Before Issei could respond, Grandpa vanished in a blur, his Jet quirk propelling him across the warehouse.
This time his reaction was noticeable slower than the time with Gentle...
Did that have something to do with the sensation i felt..
A crate launched toward Issei's head, kicked with pinpoint accuracy.
Issei's senses screamed, and he ducked, the crate sailing over him to smash against a wall.
His heart raced, but his face stayed stoic, even as a childish yelp slipped out.
"H-Hey, that's not fair!"
"Fair?" Grandpa's voice echoed from above, where he perched on a rafter like a gremlin. "Villains don't send you an invite, kiddo! Improvise!"
He flicked his wrist, and a rusted pipe hurtled toward Issei's legs.
Issei jumped, his senses and intelligence combined mapping the pipe's arc.
He landed awkwardly, his nine-year-old body betraying him with a stumble.
"Stop throwing stuff!" he snapped, a whiny edge creeping into his voice.
His cheeks flushed, embarrassed by the outburst.
He was supposed to be better than this—calm, focused.
Grandpa cackled, dropping to the floor with a gust of air. "Aw, what's that? Little Issei's gettin' mad? Thought you were Mr. Serious!"
He poked Issei's forehead with his cane, grinning. "Your senses are a cheat code, but you're still a kid. Use that big brain and those powers, or I'm eatin' your dinner tonight."
Issei swatted the cane away, his serious mask cracking as he pouted. "You'd eat it anyway, Grandpa."
His voice was grumpy, but his eyes moved at maximum physically possible speed.
He felt the air shift behind him—he was moving again.
This time, Issei was ready.
He spun, his heat conversion quirk tingling in his fingers.
The air where Grandpa had been wobbled slightly as Issei supercooled it, turning the humidity into a brittle frost barrier.
Grandpa skidded to a stop, barely avoiding the icy patch, his cane slipping. "Whoa, sneaky brat!" he laughed, hopping back.
"That's more like it! But you're still too slow!"
Issei gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling. "I'm trying," he muttered, his voice low but laced with a kid's desperation.
His senses caught a faint vibration—Grandpa was circling, ready to strike. Issei's memory kicked in, recalling every dodge and counter from their past sessions.
He didn't need to see Grandpa to know where he'd hit.
As Grandpa lunged, Issei dove behind a stack of crates, his small body scraping the concrete.
He reached out, supercooling a metal pipe nearby until it cracked with frost.
With a shove, he sent it rolling into Grandpa's path.
The old hero tripped, cursing as he caught himself with a burst of Jet. "You little punk!"
Grandpa said, but his grin was wide, proud. "That's the spirit! Keep it comin'!"
Issei peeked from behind the crates, panting, his serious facade crumbling as a small, triumphant giggle escaped.
"Got you," he said, then clamped his mouth shut, embarrassed.
He wasn't supposed to act like a kid but he did from time to time..
Grandpa strolled over, leaning on his cane, his eyes softening. "You're too hard on yourself, kiddo. All that brainpower, and you forget to have fun."
He ruffled Issei's hair, ignoring the boy's half-hearted swat. "Your dad would be proud, you know. But he'd also tell you to lighten up. Can't save the world with a permanent frown."
Issei looked away, clutching the pendant. "I'm not trying to save the world," he said quietly, his voice heavy again.
Grandpa's grin faded, replaced by a knowing look. "Yeah, I get it."
" But you're not him or snyone he aspired to be , Issei. You're you. And you're doin' fine." He tapped his cane on the ground. "Now, one more round. Try not to cry when I whoop you this time."
Issei's pout returned, a spark of childish defiance flaring. "I never cried!" he protested, but he was already moving, senses locked on Grandpa's next move.
...
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Power Stones and Reviews please