The walk to Musutafu Elementary was shorter than I expected, but my feet felt heavy with each step. The autumn leaves crunched beneath my new shoes, and the morning air carried that crisp bite that always made me think of fresh starts. I clutched my backpack straps, my knuckles white against the fabric whilst in deep thought.
Emi, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with excitement beside me. Her hair cycled through a rapid succession of colors—pink, yellow, green, back to pink—like a human mood ring set to "overjoyed."
"I can't believe you're finally coming to my school!" she chirped, grabbing my hand and swinging it. "I've been waiting forever for this! You're going to love it, Suon! The playground has this huge slide, and the lunch lady gives extra pudding on Fridays, and there's this one teacher who—"
"Emi," I interrupted gently, "I get it. I'm excited too."
She beamed up at me, her hair settling into a warm gold. "You don't look excited. You look like you're going to a funeral."
I snorted. "That's just my face."
She giggled, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease just a little. Emi had that effect on people—she was like a tiny sun, radiating warmth without even trying. In my first life, I'd never had anyone like her. A sister. A friend. Someone who looked at me like I mattered.
We walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence, her hand still gripping mine. The school came into view—a modest two-story building with faded blue paint and a playground that, unlike the park near our apartment, actually looked well-maintained. Kids were already milling about the front gates, some in groups, some alone, their voices carrying through the crisp air.
I felt that familiar knot return to my stomach. Six years old in body, but my mind still carried the weight of thirty years of loneliness. I'd been the outsider in my first life. Now I was stepping into a new world of kids who'd grown up here, who'd known each other since they could walk, who had quirks and friends and normal childhoods.
Just breathe, Suon. You've faced worse than this. You literally died and got reborned.
Emi tugged my hand. "Come on! I'll walk you to your classroom before I go to mine. Mrs. Yamamoto is really nice, I promise."
I let her lead me through the gates, past clusters of chattering students. Some of them glanced at me—the new kid, the unfamiliar face—but most were too absorbed in their own conversations to care. I preferred it that way.
The classroom was on the first floor, near the end of the hall. Emi pushed open the door and poked her head inside. "Mrs. Yamamoto! I brought my little brother!"
A kind-faced woman with glasses and a gentle smile looked up from her desk. "Ah, you must be Suon! Welcome, welcome. I've heard so much about you from your sister." She gestured to an empty seat near the window. "Find a spot anywhere. Class will start in a few minutes."
I nodded, my voice caught in my throat. Emi squeezed my hand one last time before letting go.
"I'll see you at lunch, okay?" she whispered, giving me a quick hug. "Don't be scared. You're gonna do great."
And then she was gone, disappearing down the hall, her hair leaving a trail of fading pink.
I turned back to the classroom. Sixteen desks, arranged in neat rows. About half of them were already occupied. I scanned the room, taking in the faces of my new classmates—kids with bright eyes and curious stares, some with unusual features that hinted at quirks, others looking painfully normal.
And then I saw him.
A boy with spiky ash-blonde hair and sharp red eyes, sitting near the back with a scowl on his face. Even at six years old, there was an intensity about him, like he was ready to fight anyone who looked at him wrong.
Bakugo. That's Bakugo Katsuki.
I recognized him from my past life—from the faint memories of the anime I'd watched between shifts at dead-end jobs. He was loud, proud, and destined to be one of the most explosive heroes in the world. But right now, he was just a kid, arms crossed, looking bored and tired.
And next to him, sitting with an earnest expression and a notebook clutched to his chest, was a boy with fluffy green hair and freckles.
Midoriya Izuku. Deku.
They were chatting quietly—well, Bakugo was grunting and Midoriya was nodding enthusiastically, his eyes wide as he scribbled something in his notebook. They were friends. Close friends. The kind who'd known each other since they were in diapers.
I watched them for a moment, feeling a strange pang of something I couldn't quite name. Nostalgia? Jealousy? I'd never had a friendship like that. In my first life, I'd been too busy surviving to make real connections. In this life, I'd been too focused on training.
Focus, Suon. They're just kids. You're just a kid. It doesn't matter who they become later. Right now, they're just classmates.
I shook off the thought and made my way to the empty desk near the window. The seat was isolated, tucked in the corner, away from the main clusters of students. Perfect. I could observe without being observed by others, a way for me to understand how things work.
I sat down, placed my backpack on the floor, and waited patiently for class to begin.
---
The next few minutes were a blur of introductions. Kids filed in, some with parents lingering at the door, others striding in with the confidence of children who'd done this a hundred times before. Mrs. Yamamoto clapped her hands, calling for attention, and the room slowly quieted.
"Alright, everyone! Welcome to your first day of first grade! I'm so excited to meet all of you and learn about your quirks and what makes you special." She smiled warmly, her gaze sweeping the room. "Before we get started, let's go around the room and introduce ourselves. Say your name, one thing you like, and if you have a quirk, feel free to share it!"
I tensed. Introductions. The worst part of any new situation. I'd have to stand up, speak in front of all these kids, and pretend I was a normal six-year-old with normal feelings.
The first few kids went smoothly. A girl named Chika liked cats and could make her hair grow longer. A boy named Ryo liked video games and had a minor quirk that let him glow in the dark. Bakugo stood up, cracked his neck, and announced: "Katsuki Bakugo. I like explosions. My quirk makes me sweat nitroglycerin, and I'm going to be the number one hero." He sat down to a mixture of impressed whispers and nervous glances.
Midoriya, when it was his turn, seemed smaller than before. He stood up, clutching his notebook like a lifeline. "I-I'm Izuku Midoriya. I like heroes." He paused, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm… I don't have a quirk. Not yet." He sat down quickly, his face red.
I saw Bakugo's expression shift—not dismissive, but almost protective. He nudged Midoriya with his elbow and muttered something I couldn't hear. Midoriya smiled weakly in return.
They're still friends. Before everything changed.
My turn came too fast. I stood up, my legs shaky. "I'm… Suon. Suon Yamada. I like…" I paused, my mind blank. What did I like? Training? Napping? The feeling of the drumbeat in my chest? I couldn't say any of that. "I like… food. And my family." I swallowed. "I have a quirk called Nika. It makes my body stretchy."
A few kids gasped. Bakugo looked at me with renewed interest. Midoriya's eyes went wide, and I saw him flip open his notebook and start writing furiously.
Great. Now I'm in his book of addiction.
I sat down quickly, my heart pounding. The girl next to me—a dark-haired girl with a kind face—leaned over and whispered, "That sounds so cool! What can you do with it?"
I blinked, startled by her friendliness. "Uh… I'm still figuring it out. It takes a lot of energy."
She nodded like she understood completely. "I'm Irina. My quirk is minor healing—I can fix small cuts and bruises. It's not flashy, but it helps."
I stared at her. Minor healing. In a world of explosions and telekinesis and hair that could change colors, she'd been given something quiet, something supportive. Something that reminded me of Betta, my mother.
"That's… really cool," I said, and meant it, yet it sounded less serious. "Healing is important. More important than people give it credit for." I understood it completely since healing would become a core part of how a hero can survive consistently.
Irina's smile widened. "Thanks! Hey, do you want to sit together during lunch? I can show you the best spots in the cafeteria."
I hesitated for a small moment, then nodded. "Sure. That'd be nice."
---
The rest of the morning passed in a haze of worksheets and introductions. I was painfully aware of how out of depth I felt. These kids were normal—or as normal as kids with superpowers could be. They chatted about heroes and cartoons and weekend plans. They had no idea about the weight I carried, the memories of a life I'd already lived, the God who'd reincarnated me with a promise of freedom.
I was an outsider. Again.
But as I sat in my corner, watching the ebb and flow of the classroom, I started to notice things. The way Midoriya's eyes lit up when he talked about quirks, like he was cataloging information for a future he desperately wanted. The way Bakugo, despite his gruff exterior, always made sure Midoriya had a seat next to him. The way Irina quietly helped a boy who'd scraped his knee during recess, her hands glowing with a soft light.
This world is different. And maybe that's okay.
When lunchtime came, Irina found me immediately. "Ready? I saved us a spot near the windows."
I followed her to the cafeteria, which was loud and chaotic and full of kids jockeying for food. She navigated it like a pro, leading me to a table near the back where the noise was slightly less overwhelming.
"I used to eat alone when I first came here," she said, unpacking her bento box. "It wasn't fun. So now I make sure to find anyone who looks lonely and invite them over."
I smiled, unpacking my own lunch—a rice ball and some fruit, prepared by Betta with love. "That's really kind of you."
She shrugged, her cheeks flushing. "It's just what you do, right? Help people when you can." She took a bite of her food, then added, "So, tell me more about your quirk. It's called Nika? That's a weird name for a quirk."
I paused, choosing my words carefully. "It's… named after something I believe in. A symbol. Of freedom and joy."
Irina tilted her head, curious. "That sounds deep for a first grader, you sound like you went through some sort of tribulations."
I laughed—a real laugh, not the forced one I'd been using all morning. "I'm an old soul, I guess."
She giggled, and the sound was light, free, unburdened. "You're funny, Suon. I think we're going to be good friends."
I looked at her—this kind, earnest girl who'd decided to talk to the weird new kid without hesitation—and felt something warm spread through my chest. Not the drumbeat. Not Nika's power. Just… connection of a possible friendship.
"Yeah," I said, my voice soft. "I think so too."
---
The rest of the week fell into a rhythm. Classes were easy—my adult mind made simple arithmetic and reading comprehension a joke. Recess was harder. I'd watch the other kids play, their quirks on full display, and I'd feel the familiar itch to train, to push myself, to transform and show them what I could do.
But I held back. I didn't want to stand out too much. Not yet.
Instead, I focused on building my stamina. Every morning before school, Kenji and I still trained. I'd transformed in the park, running laps and stretching my limbs until I collapsed. My record was now twenty minutes stationary, twelve while moving. My punches could send a small rock skipping across the ground. My stretches reached nearly seven feet.
And Betta watched, always with her tea and her smiles.
"You're getting so strong," she said one evening, brushing dirt off my uniform. "But you look tired, Suon. Are you sleeping enough?"
"Plenty, Mom," I lied. The truth was, I spent most nights lying awake, thinking about Nika, about my training, about the future and my past. But I didn't want to worry her.
She kissed my forehead. "Alright. Just promise me you'll rest when you need to."
"I promise."
---
By the end of the first month, I'd settled into the school's routine. I had a few acquaintances—Irina was my closest, always saving me a spot at lunch, always asking about my training. I'd started to open up to her, telling her about my father's gruff encouragement and my mother's gentle support. She listened without judgment, her healing hands always ready to soothe any scraped knees I'd get during recess.
Midoriya and Bakugo were still a unit, inseparable in their own way. Bakugo would shove anyone who looked at Midoriya wrong, and Midoriya would follow him around like a faithful puppy, notebook in hand, jotting down notes about Bakugo's explosions.
I watched them sometimes, wondering how their friendship would evolve. Would it break the way I remembered? Would they become rivals, enemies, something more complicated? Or would this world—this new, second chance—allow them to be different?
Maybe I can be different too.
One afternoon, during a break, I found myself sitting alone in the corner of the playground, stretching my leg experimentally. It was a test—just a small stretch, nothing visible—but I was so focused that I didn't notice the shadow looming over me until a voice spoke.
"Hey. You're the stretchy kid, right?"
I looked up. Bakugo stood there, arms crossed, his red eyes boring into me. Midoriya hovered behind him, looking nervous.
I stood up, brushing off my uniform. "Yeah. That's me. Suon."
Bakugo snorted. "Weird name. Weird quirk." He paused, studying me. "But you're not weak. I can tell. You've got that look which tells me a lot."
"Look?"
Midoriya stepped forward, his voice eager. "It's the look of someone who trains! Your hands have calluses—I noticed them during class! And your posture is like someone who's used to physical exertion!" He was scribbling in his notebook again. "So cool!"
I blinked, slightly overwhelmed by their attention and his notebook. "Uh… thanks? I guess?"
Bakugo grunted. "Whatever. Just don't be boring and become something I can give attention towards." He turned and walked away, Midoriya scrambling after him, as he looked back at waved before going with Bakugo.
I stood there, dumbfounded, before a small smile crept onto my face. They were strange. Intense. But maybe, just maybe, I was starting to belong..