The blackness was absolute.
There was no light, no sound, no nothing. Only a dense, silent darkness that wrapped around everything like a blanket of vacuum. If he could have described the sensation, he'd say it was like floating at the bottom of the ocean without the water, the pressure, or the cold. Simply... nothing.
Am I dead?
The question surfaced in his mind with surprising calm. There was no panic, no desperation. Only the cold, somewhat resigned observation of someone who no longer had anything to lose. He vaguely remembered the last bit: the roar of traffic, a flash of white light, and then this. The eternal, boring this.
Yes. I'm definitely dead.
What a stupid way to go. It hadn't even been something epic. Just a street crossing, a moment of distraction, and the universe had decided that enough was enough. No heroic funeral, no memorable last words, nothing. Just the void.
An indeterminate amount of time passed like that. It could have been a second or an eternity; it was impossible to tell. And then, without warning, something changed.
A light.
Dim at first, like a phone screen turning on in a dark room. Then more intense, warmer, until the black dissolved into a blinding white that pierced through everything.
And then came the pain.
The first coherent thought he had was that someone was squeezing his head with a hydraulic press.
The pressure was brutal, throbbing, as if his skull had suddenly decided to shrink three sizes. A cascade of sensations followed: the feel of bedsheets, the smell of detergent mixed with something sweet, the distant sound of a television blaring in a nearby room.
He blinked.
The ceiling was white. Smooth. With a small water stain in the left corner that someone had painted over without much care. He studied it for several seconds, letting his brain process the absurd amount of new information flooding in from all his senses.
I'm alive.
No, wait. That wasn't entirely correct.
I'm... somewhere.
He sat up slowly, and the first thing he noticed was that something was deeply wrong with his perspective. The room looked enormous. The bed, though normal-sized for a pre-teen, felt like a massive platform. The desk at the back of the room was at a height that felt familiar yet strange, like when you dream of your old house and the ceilings are higher than you remember.
With an effort, he swung his legs toward the edge of the bed and let them hang. His feet barely brushed the floor, as if he were a couple of centimeters short of touching it comfortably.
He stared at them for a moment.
They were small. Wearing purple socks with tiny yellow stars.
...Okay. Don't panic.
He slid his body forward and landed on the floor with a soft thud. He approached the mirror above the desk and stared at the reflection with an expression that would have looked comical to any outsider: the face of a twelve-year-old boy with the most jaded, soul-dead gaze a pre-teen had ever worn.
Big eyes. Round face. And on his head, two perfectly circular spheres of dark purple hair sticking out as if someone had glued two billiard balls to his skull.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"No."
He looked at his hands. Small. The hands of a boy who hadn't finished growing yet.
"No, no, no."
He looked back at the mirror. The reflection was still there, unperturbed, staring back with those wide eyes and that look of absolute disbelief.
Of all the possible bodies in all the possible worlds... I got this one?
Minoru Mineta. Twelve years old. Approximately 108 centimeters tall. Known in the future for being the most widely detested character in My Hero Academia for reasons anyone with half a brain could list without effort.
He slumped down onto the floor, back against the desk, and stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling fan spun slowly. One of its blades had a small star sticker that someone—he himself, at some point in this life he didn't remember—had placed there.
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.
Several minutes passed in silence. Outside, the TV continued to emit the muffled sound of some news program. A car horn honked in the street. Daily life in Japan went on, completely oblivious to the existential crisis taking place in that small purple bedroom.
Eventually, he took a breath.
Okay. Think.
First things first: he was alive. That, objectively, was better than the alternative. He hadn't had a body, but now he did. He hadn't had a future, but now he did, even if it was in a fictional world with villains capable of erasing existence with a touch of their fingers.
Second: he knew exactly what world he was in. My Hero Academia. A universe where eighty percent of humanity had supernatural powers called Quirks, where professional heroes fought crime, and where, in the coming years, a catastrophic war would break out, shaking the foundations of society.
A war he knew. Every arc, every betrayal, every death.
That was a massive advantage.
Third—and this was what he struggled most to process—he was Mineta. Not in the sense that he shared his values or personality, because he definitely didn't. But in the sense that he inhabited his body, had his Quirk, and carried his name. Which meant he also had his reputation, his problems, and his 108 centimeters of height.
108 centimeters.
He looked at his star-covered socks again.
This is a personal insult from the universe.
However, despite everything, something in him refused to sink completely. There was something about this cosmic absurdity that, if looked at from the right angle, had a certain twisted appeal. A second chance. That's what it was, no matter how ridiculous the presentation.
He hadn't asked to be born in a world of superheroes. He hadn't asked for the body of a twelve-year-old boy with balls on his head. But he was here, and the universe, in all its poor taste, had given him a second chance to exist.
The least he could do was not waste it.
He spent the first few days taking inventory.
First, his memories. Mineta's were accessible, though blurry in some spots, like old photographs someone had stored carelessly. He could access them like someone flipping through someone else's album: he recognized them, but didn't feel them as his own. His family, his routines, school. His parents worked away frequently, traveling abroad for business reasons the original boy hadn't fully understood and he didn't bother to analyze beyond what was useful. They sent money regularly—enough to live comfortably and then some.
Which meant he had free time and resources. A combination that, in the wrong hands, was dangerous, but in this particular case, could be exactly what he needed.
Second, his Quirk. Pop Off. He could pluck the spheres from his head and throw them with force. Upon contact with a surface, they became sticky. If he didn't touch them, they regained their original shape and stayed stuck where they landed. It was a Quirk the canon had almost always reduced to an escape or distraction tool, but it actually had more potential than the original Mineta had ever exploited.
The balls were hair. Technically, that made them part of his body, which opened interesting questions about how far his control over them could go.
But that would come later. For now, there was something more urgent.
Third, the time. He was three years before the start of the canon. Three years before Izuku Midoriya would cross paths with All Might on a rooftop. Three years before the UA entrance exam, the battle at USJ, and everything that would follow like an unstoppable chain of dominoes.
Three years was time. Not much, but enough if he used it well.
That night, sitting at his desk with a blank notebook in front of him, he began to write.
Not a diary. He had no romantic interest in documenting his feelings. It was something more practical: a list. Concrete objectives, ordered by priority and feasibility.
Improve the body. 108 centimeters and the physique of a sedentary boy weren't going to get him very far. He didn't expect to become All Might, but he didn't plan to stay as he was either. Consistent exercise, proper nutrition, and time. A growing pre-teen body responded well to training if done smartly.
Master the Quirk. Before thinking about evolving anything, he had to understand what he had. Limits, range, endurance, regeneration speed of the spheres. Everything measurable, everything improvable with systematic practice.
Learn to fight. This was non-negotiable. A Quirk without a physical base was half a tool. He needed martial arts. Something that adapted to his small body and the nature of his power, which required mobility and distance control.
Enter UA. Not as a final goal, but as a waypoint. UA was where everything that mattered in the coming years would be.
He stared at the list for a moment. Then he added one last line, almost as a personal reminder:
Don't be Mineta. Not in the sense of denying who he was now, but in the sense that the person Minoru Mineta had been—the original—had certain... habits and priorities that he had no intention of adopting. He could carry his name and his face without needing to carry his reputation too.
He closed the notebook, turned off the light, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan with the star sticker.
108 centimeters.
He sighed deeply.
There have been worse starting points in history.
He wasn't entirely convinced, but it was what it was. And for now, it was enough to keep going.
End of Episode 1.