MHA: Reincarnated with the Power to Alter Time

The karate club's training hall echoed with the sharp sounds of strikes and the synchronized steps of the students. Yuto, his white uniform spotless, followed the movements of the club president—a senior who executed each technique with precision. The others mimicked him, repeating the same basic block, the same punch, the same kick over and over again.

"This doesn't seem to be leading anywhere."

He had imagined that joining the karate club would be his ticket to getting stronger, learning advanced techniques that would give him an edge on his path to UA. But the endless repetition of basic moves and the club president's constant corrections weren't what he had hoped for.

"It's not enough," he thought, clenching his teeth as his arm tensed with the strike. The events of yesterday replayed in his head again and again. It had been humiliating—getting cornered by a group of thugs like some inexperienced rookie. He couldn't get the scene out of his mind. And if he couldn't handle something like that, how did he expect to take on the training robots during UA's entrance exams?

"Where's that legendary master who always shows up when you need him the most? The one who looks like a homeless guy but turns out to be an unbeatable martial arts expert?"

But in his world, there was no wise old master appearing out of nowhere to train him. No mysterious wanderer choosing him as a successor. Yuto had trained alone for years, memorizing technique videos, trying to copy moves he found online. He had learned a few things, but he knew it wasn't enough. And the club wasn't helping either.

The training dragged on for what felt like an eternity. When it finally ended, Yuto headed to the locker room without saying a word to anyone. After changing, he walked out with his hands in his pockets, ready to head back to the orphanage.

However, as he approached the exit, he noticed something unusual. A crowd of students had gathered near the main entrance, whispering and pointing outside. Curious, Yuto moved closer to see what was going on.

As he reached the front, he spotted a police car parked outside the school. Two officers were escorting four handcuffed students toward the vehicle. Yuto recognized them instantly—the muscular one, the lizard-faced one, the skinny one, and of course, their leader, the guy with one shaved eyebrow.

What were their names again? Yuto hadn't even bothered to remember. Trash like them wasn't worth it.

"Is that Kenji and his crew?" a student beside him asked.

"Yeah, I heard they were planning to burn down the school," another replied.

"The cops found fuel and lighters in their bags," a third one added.

Yuto listened to the murmurs with indifference, showing no surprise. He already knew. After all, he was the one who had slipped the bottle of fuel into their backpacks and made the anonymous call to the principal from a public phone.

Kenji struggled as the officers pushed him into the patrol car. His voice rang out in desperation.

"This is a mistake! We didn't do anything!"

His gaze, filled with fury, met Yuto's for an instant. But instead of looking away, Yuto held the eye contact with a slight smirk—barely noticeable, yet enough for Kenji to understand.

The boy's eyes widened in shock. "It was you, wasn't it?!" he shouted, pointing a trembling finger at him. "You set us up! He's the one who did this!"

But the officers ignored him. They shoved him into the patrol car, paying no attention to his protests. Yuto watched as the car pulled away, its flashing lights fading into the distance. The crowd of students slowly began to scatter, whispering among themselves about what had just happened.

Yuto remained there a moment longer, staring at the empty spot where the car had been. He knew what he had done wasn't exactly right—but he didn't care. Kenji and his group were a problem, and he had found a way to get rid of them.

He sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he walked away. His mind drifted back to the real issue at hand.

His training.

Yesterday's fight had left him with a bitter sense of frustration. Three years of accumulating knowledge, training his body. And yet, when he faced someone with a Quirk, he couldn't win without relying on his ability.

That could only mean one thing—he wasn't strong enough.

That was why he had once tried to enroll in a martial arts dojo. But he quickly ran into reality.

In a world where people were born with powers, martial arts weren't as valued as they once were. And because of that, real dojos had become more selective and exclusive. They didn't accept just anyone, and the ones that did charged ridiculously high fees.

Yuto had money, sure, but not enough to afford a monthly membership at a top-tier dojo. And even if he did, there was another problem—he was underage. He needed a guardian's approval, and the orphanage he lived in wasn't going to support him. Especially when he couldn't even explain where he got his money from.

So, he had no choice but to join the school's karate club.

At first, it seemed like a decent alternative. After all, the club president had won several tournaments. But soon, Yuto realized the truth—it wasn't enough.

Letting out one last sigh, he pushed those thoughts aside. There was no point in dwelling on them.

When he arrived at the orphanage, no one greeted him—as expected. He walked through the dimly lit hallways in silence, heading straight to his room without stopping. He didn't eat dinner that night; not that anyone would notice his absence.

And Yuto didn't bother to care. He let himself collapse onto his bed without even changing clothes.

His eyes fixed on the ceiling, watching the faint shadows shifting under the streetlights outside.

"I still have time," Yuto thought, a small spark of hope flickering inside him. "I can get stronger."

But deep down, he knew the truth. No matter how many years he trained, there would always be something missing. Without a Quirk, without something to set him apart, his body could only go as far as a human's limits allowed. And that frustrated him more than he wanted to admit.

"What's the point of all this if I don't have a Quirk?" The thought burned inside him. He could get faster, tougher, sharper—but in a world where the extraordinary dominated, human strength alone wouldn't be enough.

"I need a teacher…" he thought. But deep down, he knew that was only a temporary solution. A teacher couldn't give him what he truly needed.

Then, an old thought resurfaced in his mind.

"What if I just left all of this behind? Moved to another time… lived a normal life… without any of these problems?"

It wasn't the first time he had thought about it. In fact, lately, the idea had been growing more tempting. Maybe it was nostalgia. The longing for a simpler life—no fights, no responsibilities. No pressure to be something he wasn't. No weight of an uncertain future.

That question haunted him, but he never found a clear answer. Maybe my conscience is what keeps me here. Maybe… it's my responsibility, he told himself, though without conviction.

He remembered the apocalypse in the other timeline—the lives lost, the pointless suffering. Maybe he felt like he owed something to those people, as if he had to make up for what happened. Or maybe… just maybe, the thought of being the savior of the world gave him a purpose. A grand purpose. Something that made him feel like his life actually mattered.

Sometimes, he imagined a future where his name would be remembered. A statue in a plaza, a city bearing his name. He chuckled to himself. What's the point of dreaming about that? In his other life, he once thought graduating from college would be a big achievement, but he never even got to finish it. And now, here he was, in this world, without even knowing why.

"Whatever," he muttered, letting the thought drift away.

With a yawn, he curled up in bed and closed his eyes. Little by little, sleep took over. His body relaxed, and his restless mind finally found some peace.

But then, something strange happened.

His body started shifting subtly—stretching, shrinking, flickering for a brief moment. A familiar sensation washed over him. It was the same feeling he experienced when using his ability to rewind time.

But Yuto remained asleep, unaware of what was happening.

In the blink of an eye, he vanished completely, as if he had never been there. The room fell silent, empty.

At least, that's how it seemed.

A second later, Yuto reappeared in the same way he had disappeared. But something was different. His appearance had changed. Instead of his school uniform, he was now wearing a snug, long-sleeved black shirt with loose-fitting pants and a long belt hanging from one side. A martial arts outfit—one that fit him better than he expected. He also looked a bit taller.

His eyes snapped open.

He immediately sat up, scanning the room, his gaze sharp with confusion.

"What year is it…?" he whispered.

His eyes landed on a calendar hanging on the wall.

He stared at it carefully.

A second later, he let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"Yeah... right when I left."

...

....

....

It was midnight in Jaku City, and everything seemed quiet. However, the silence of a dark alley was suddenly broken by a man's desperate screams.

"Please, no! Don't do this to me!"

A thug, clearly terrified, shouted as he looked into the shadows—where, at first glance, no one was visible.

Then, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the alley. Little by little, a figure emerged from the darkness—a young man with jet-black hair and piercing red eyes. But the most unsettling thing about him was the intricate tattoos covering his face. His tight black outfit hugged his form, giving him an imposing presence as he walked with an eerie calm.

The thug, cornered in a dead end, kept pleading.

"Please! Don't do this!" he begged, his voice trembling as he looked at the young man with sheer desperation.

Before he could finish his sentence, the tattooed boy grabbed his face with a firm grip. The thug's screams began to fade—his body twisting and contorting unnaturally—until, in mere seconds, he was reduced to a small, shapeless mass. His clothes fell to the ground, the only thing left of him.

"Trash should know when to shut up," the tattooed boy muttered coldly, a smirk playing on his lips.

Suddenly, a voice rang out from behind him.

"Stop right there!"

The dark-haired young man slowly turned his head, his crimson eyes reflecting the dim glow of the city lights. Standing before him was a hero, his stance firm and his expression filled with righteous fury.

The tattooed boy's smirk deepened, but there was no fear or surprise in his gaze.

"What did you do to him?" the hero demanded, his brows furrowed. "Using your Quirk on civilians is a crime! I'm ordering you to turn him back to normal."

The dark-haired boy clicked his tongue, his expression shifting to one of boredom and disdain.

"Shut up," he murmured, casually slipping the small, shapeless mass into his pocket.

The hero clenched his fists.

"You have five seconds to comply before I use force!"

The red-eyed boy tilted his head slightly, an amused grin stretching across his face.

"Oh, I'm trembling," he mocked. "What now? Gonna give me a speech about justice before trying to take me down?"

The hero didn't reply. He didn't need to.

His body was already in motion.

He lunged forward at full speed, aiming to end this fight in a single, decisive blow. If he could subdue the villain quickly, he could prevent further damage.

But the dark-haired boy didn't even flinch.

The hero's fist came to a sudden halt—just inches from his face—as if an unseen force had frozen it in place.

"What…?" The hero's eyes widened in shock. He tried to push his arm forward, but it wouldn't budge.

The tattooed boy smirked—a cold, taunting smile.

"My turn."

He lazily raised a single finger in front of him.

"Dismantle."

The moment he uttered the word, he flicked his finger slightly.

A spray of blood splattered across the hero's face.

For a moment, he felt nothing. He didn't even register where the blood had come from. But then, he looked down at his arm—

And froze.

His arm was gone.

It lay on the ground, severed. His breath hitched. His mind struggled to process what had just happened.

His arm... wasn't there anymore.

Then, the pain hit.

A sharp, unbearable agony surged through his body. A guttural scream tore from his throat as he stumbled back, clutching the bleeding stump with his remaining hand.

The dark-haired boy grinned, watching him with twisted amusement.

"Wow, I thought you'd last longer," he mused. "What a letdown."

The hero gritted his teeth, his breaths ragged. His training told him to act fast—to stop the bleeding before it was too late. But his mind was still in shock. He couldn't comprehend what had just occurred.

Meanwhile, the villain took a step forward, crimson eyes gleaming with a sinister light.

Then, suddenly—

He stopped.

A voice echoed in his mind, one only he could hear.

"10 XP points."

His smile widened, filled with satisfaction.

"Who would've thought... your pathetic existence actually served a purpose." He shrugged. "I was planning to kill you, but I'm in a good mood."

The hero, using every ounce of strength he had left, reached for his communicator. He had to call for backup. If he couldn't stop the villain, at least he could warn the others.

But before his fingers could even graze the device, the black-haired man drove a brutal kick straight into his abdomen.

The impact sent him crashing against the wall. A sharp crack echoed through the alley.

"How rude…" the villain said with fake disappointment. "When someone talks to you, you should listen. Didn't your parents teach you any manners?"

The hero coughed up blood. His vision blurred. His body felt heavy. Maybe he wouldn't wake up again.

But if he did… if by some miracle he survived, he had to know.

With the last bit of strength left in him, he whispered:

"Who… are you…?"

The black-haired man stopped, tilting his head slightly.

"Ah, that's right. How impolite of me not to introduce myself." He placed a hand on his chin, as if thinking. "This is my big debut, isn't it? I should pick a good name..."

His eyes glowed with excitement.

"Got it. Since I have his appearance, I might as well take the whole role."

He leaned forward slightly, his smile chilling to the bone.

"You can call me… Sukuna."

The hero's eyelids grew heavy. The blood loss, the pain, the impact—it was all dragging him into unconsciousness.

Sukuna watched in silence as his victim collapsed onto the bloodstained ground. He wasn't in a hurry. He took a moment to admire the scene.

"Well, I didn't kill you," Sukuna said mockingly, staring down at the hero's limp body. "The blood loss did. See? I keep my word." He gave an indifferent shrug.

There was no need for him to deal the final blow. The hero's fate had already been sealed the moment he crossed his path.