Life as a toddler is a grind that'd make my old salaryman days look like a vacation. Up at dawn with Kenji's wails piercing the quiet like a villain's alarm quirk, then endless cycles of eat, play, nap, repeat. My body's growing—legs steadier now, hands grasping with purpose—but it's still a prison of pudgy limbs and limited vocab. I toddle around the house like a drunk penguin, bumping into furniture that seems to leap out just to trip me. The tatami mats are soft underfoot, but every fall reminds me: patience, self. You've got years to build this empire. *Heh, empire? Start with not face-planting on the coffee table, hotshot.*
Mom keeps us on a schedule thats as rigid as Hiroshi's barriers. Mornings: breakfast of mushy rice porridge that tastes like wallpaper paste, but I scarf it down anyway. Energy in equals energy out, right? Cursed energy, that is. I feel it humming stronger now, a constant buzz under my skin like static from a faulty outlet. Six Eyes sharpen everything: colors pop brighter, movements slow to a crawl when I focus. I spot quirks from blocks away—neighbors' energies flickering like faulty bulbs. But mine? Invisible to them. Perfect cover.
Kenji's my shadow these days. At eight months, he's a chubby blob with a grip like a vice, latching onto my finger whenever I lean over his crib. His eyes—plain brown, no blue glow—stare up at me with that innocent trust that twists something in my chest. Old me never had siblings; hell, barely had friends beyond online forums debating anime power scales. Now? This kid's got me wrapped around his tiny pinky. "Sa-to!" he babbles, mangling my name into something cute. I grin back, careful not to show too much smarts. "Ken," I mumble, patting his head. Soft white hair like mine, but no markings. Yet.
Language is the real unlock. At two-and-a-half, words click faster. I understand most of what they say now—full sentences, context, even jokes. Hiroshi's hero tales: "And then, bam! My golden wall stopped the car dead—saved the day!" He acts it out, arms wide, voice booming. Aiko laughs, her telekinesis floating a napkin to wipe Kenji's drool. But speaking? I keep it simple: "More story, Papa!" or "Hungry, Mama." No need to freak them out with full paragraphs. Inside, though, monologues rage. *Okay, timeline check: If I'm nearing three, Deku's probably a toddler too. All Might's at his peak, quirk society ticking along like a bomb. I know the explosions coming—USJ, Stain, Kamino. Gotta prep without tipping my hand.*
Training ramps up in stolen moments. Naptime's my dojo. I lie there, eyes closed, focusing that inner spark. Infinity's reliable now—hold it for ten minutes easy, space warping around me like an invisible bubble. Test it: roll a marble toward my foot. It slows, stops, rolls away. *Sweet. Barrier game's on point.* But pushing further? Levitate a toy subtly, using cursed energy like an unseen hand. It hovers an inch, trembling, before dropping. Reserves drain fast, leaving me dizzy. Six Eyes optimize, recycling every drop, but I'm still a battery on low. Food helps—sneak extra bites when Aiko's not looking. Growth spurts hit hard; I'm taller than average, white hair fluffier, eyes drawing stares on outings. "What a striking boy!" strangers coo. *Yeah, striking villains soon enough.*
Dreams turn darker. Not just MHA flashes—Deku's smash, Bakugo's explosions—but red-tinged nightmares. I'm not in control; something else is, slashing through shadows with glee. Blood splatters hot, laughter echoes mine but deeper, crueler. Wake up sweating, heart pounding, that red energy twisting in my gut like a knot. *What the hell? Cursed energy spike?* It fades, but leaves a residue, a whisper urging more. I ignore it, chalk it to reincarnation glitches. Focus on family. Hiroshi's home less, patrols stretching into nights. "Villains popping up like weeds," he grumbles over dinner, forking rice with a sigh. Aiko's eyes worry, her hand on his. "Be safe, love. The boys need you." Kenji bangs his spoon, oblivious. I watch, meta-knowledge churning: *Overhaul's rising, League forming. Dad's top 50, but cannon fodder in the big leagues. Can't let that happen.*
Playtime with Kenji reveals hints. I "accidentally" push a toy too hard with energy— it skitters across the floor. He crawls after, giggling, then swipes at it weakly. A faint ripple? No, imagination. His quirk's slashes, nerfed. I'll guide it when time comes. For now, brotherly stuff: stack blocks, make faces. He mirrors my grin, toothy and pure. Warmth floods me—real, not faked. *Two lives lonely, now this? Worth the truck, universe.*
One evening, tension builds. Hiroshi's late; Aiko paces, telekinesis absentmindedly stirring tea that sloshes over. "Mama okay?" I ask, toddling to her leg. She scoops me up, hugging tight. "Papa's strong, Satoru. He'll be home soon." Kenji fusses in his playpen, sensing the vibe. I pat her arm, tiny comfort. Inside: *If he's hurt, I'll... what? Waddle to the rescue?* That red twist stirs again, angry. Push it down.
He bursts in hours later, suit torn, arm bandaged. "Minor scuffle—acid quirk villain. My wall held, but he got a lucky shot." Aiko fusses, floating bandages. He winces but smiles for us. "See, kids? Heroes always win." I stare, Six Eyes picking golden residue on his skin. *Close call. Too close.* Later, in bed, I experiment harder. Channel energy into my fist—reinforce. Punch the mattress softly; it dents deeper than it should. *Body amp? Nice add-on.* But the red urges slash, not punch. *Not now,* I tell it.
Age three creeps up. Birthdays here are simple: cake, quirks discussed. Mine hasn't "manifested," they think. "Maybe soon," Aiko says, ruffling my hair. Party's small—neighbors, a few hero friends of Hiroshi's. Kids play, showing off: one kid sparks fire from fingers, another stretches arms. I watch, faking awe. "Cool!" I say, but inside: *Flashy, but fragile. My stuff's eternal.* Gifts pile: toys, clothes. Kenji gnaws a rattle, content.
That night, alone in the dark, the red surges unbidden. Pain lances my gut, like fire ants crawling inside. I curl up, biting lip to not cry out. Visions flood: not dreams, awake ones. Four arms, tattoos blooming, a throne of bones. Laughter bubbles up, mine but not. *Mine? No—ours?* Energy splits: blue calm vs. red rage. It pushes, demanding out. I fight, Six Eyes clamping down, but it leaks—a slash unintended, cutting my blanket silently. No blood, just threads parting. *Holy shit. What was that? Dismantle?* Panic rises, but excitement too. *More power? But violent. Sukuna?* Flashes from old manga: King of Curses. *Why me? Gojo's enough—now this?* The red recedes, exhausted. I pant, staring at the tear. Hide it under pillow. *Secret. Control it, or it controls you.*
Morning after, normalcy reigns. Aiko hums breakfast, Hiroshi off to work. Kenji babbles at me across the table. "Bro!" he says, first word clear. I laugh, real. "Yeah, bro." Language fully clicks now—understand everything, speak fluently if I want. But hold back; ease in. "Mama, can we play outside?" Full sentence, casual. She beams. "Of course, sweetie! You're talking so well!"
Outside, park swings creak under us. Kids quirk-play nearby. I swing Kenji gently, that red whisper faint. *Awakening? Fine, I'll harness it. Two faces? Double the fun.* But caution: violent, unpredictable. Test later, alone.
Days blend: family meals, Hiroshi's stories laced with fatigue. "Endeavor's climbing ranks—fiery guy." I nod, knowing the abuse behind. *Fix that too.* Training mixes blue and red now—balance them. Red's slash: microscopic, on leaves in yard. Cuts clean, no trace. Thrill hits. *OP combo. Gojo defense, Sukuna offense. Unstoppable.*
But control slips sometimes. Anger at a stubbed toe—red flares, toy shatters invisibly. Panic clean-up. *Chill, self. Baby steps to throne.* Kenji senses? He clings more, like safety net.
Evening bath: Aiko scrubs us, bubbles floating via quirk. Kenji splashes, I "help." Warm water soothes, but red simmers. *Why now? Reincarnation gift? Curse?* No answers yet. Bedtime: Hiroshi tucks in. "Dream big, sons. World needs heroes like you." I smile. *Heroes? Nah, Dad. Kings.*
As sleep pulls, funny voice quips: *Truck-kun dropped a two-for-one special. Definately not complaining—yet.*