MHA: Save And Load System, Becoming All Might's Perfect Successor!

In my first life, I was a prisoner of my own body.

I was born with a disease so rare, they named it after me—a genetic curse that robbed me of strength and condemned me to a childhood confined to hospital beds.

My bones were brittle, my organs fragile, and my immune system practically non-existent.

By the time I turned 12, the doctors told me I wouldn't see my next birthday.

Six months, they said. That was all I had left.

I should have cried, screamed, cursed the world.

Instead, I felt relief.

Life had been nothing but a series of needles, tubes, and sterile white walls. My parents loved me—I knew they did—but their sadness was heavier than I could bear.

Every forced smile, every word of encouragement, was laced with the weight of knowing they couldn't save me.

In the end, I made the choice for them.

Euthanasia.

The memory of my final moments was oddly peaceful. My parents held my hands, their tears falling freely, while I whispered my goodbyes.

The drugs were cold as they entered my veins, but the warmth of their love was the last thing I felt.

'At least now, I can rest,' I thought as the world faded to black.

…

I didn't expect to wake up.

The first thing I noticed was light—blinding, soft, and warm.

My head felt fuzzy, my limbs stiff, and everything around me was muffled and strange.

My lungs burned as I took a sharp breath, and then…

I cried.

The sound startled me. I hadn't cried in years. I had trained myself to be strong, to bear my pain in silence.

But here I was, wailing uncontrollably like… a baby?

It took me several seconds to process the sensation of being lifted. Warm hands cradled me, and a gentle voice cooed softly in a language I didn't recognize.

My body instinctively relaxed as I felt myself pressed against someone's chest, the rhythmic sound of a heartbeat soothing me.

And then came the most humiliating realization of my existence.

I was drinking breastmilk.

'Oh no.'

'Oh no, no, no, no!'

The full weight of the situation hit me like a truck. I wasn't just alive—I had been reborn.

My memories, my consciousness, everything from my first life was intact.

But now, I was a baby. A freaking baby!

The awkwardness of the moment was almost enough to distract me from the sheer absurdity of my situation. Almost.

Over the next few weeks, I began to observe.

At first, I thought I had been reincarnated into a random world. The language was unfamiliar to me, and the faces around me were new.

My "new" mother was a striking woman with long, silky black hair and vibrant green eyes that seemed to shimmer under the light. Her voice, though unintelligible to me at the time, was soft and comforting. She held me with a warmth I hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity.

Then there was my father. Even as an infant, I could tell he was different. I rarely saw him, but when I did, he left an impression.

He was a towering figure with snow-white hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through you. His mere presence carried a sense of authority and power that was impossible to ignore.

Whenever he picked me up, I couldn't help but feel small—not just physically but in every sense of the word.

I didn't understand much, but I knew I wasn't in an ordinary family.

It wasn't until I heard the word "quirk" that everything clicked.

I was maybe three months old when I overheard my mother speaking to my father in hushed tones.

Though I didn't understand most of the conversation, one word stood out: "quirk."

At first, I brushed it off. My infant brain struggled to comprehend the situation, let alone believe that I might be in a world I once thought fictional.

But as the days passed, I heard it more and more.

Words like "hero," "villain," and "quirk" popped up in conversations my mother had with strangers or in snippets of television I caught from my crib.

No way. It can't be…

The pieces started falling into place.

My mother's voice, though kind, carried the same firm resolve I had always imagined a hero would have.

My father's authoritative demeanor and the occasional mention of "missions" hinted at something far greater than I initially realized.

And then, one day, I heard my father's name on television. Though I didn't understand the language, the imagery was unmistakable: a towering man with white hair, standing victorious amidst a ruined battlefield, as reporters called his name.

That was the moment I realized the truth.

I had been reborn into the world of My Hero Academia.

This revelation sent my mind spiraling. I had watched the show religiously in my first life.

All Might, Deku, Shigaraki—all their faces flashed in my memory.

But just as quickly as the excitement built, another thought hit me like a freight train: I hadn't finished the series.

I had only made it to the end of Season 4 before my illness became too much to bear.

My death had robbed me of the chance to learn how it all ended.

And now? Now I was living it.

Part of me was thrilled. A second chance in a world of quirks and heroes? Who wouldn't be excited?

But the other part of me was… uneasy.

This wasn't a story anymore. This wasn't just a fun fantasy world where good always triumphed over evil.

This was real. And I had no idea what was waiting for me in the future.

…

The months turned into years, and I slowly adapted to my new life.

My mother, Aiko Volkov, always cared for me with unshakable warmth. Her voice carried a sense of reassurance, even if I couldn't always understand what she was saying.

But I recognized the rhythm of her words immediately.

It was unmistakably Japanese.

As someone who spent my free time in my past life bingeing anime and dreaming of trips to Akihabara, I couldn't help but marvel at the realization.

I'm in Japan, I thought to myself, the pieces continuing to fall into place.

My father, Dmitri Volkov, remained a distant yet imposing figure. His absence wasn't unusual, given what I now suspected about his role as a hero. But when he was home, his presence was undeniable

 Everything about him—from his commanding voice to his towering frame—exuded authority. And with his white hair and blue eyes, he stood out as distinctly foreign in this land.

Together, they named me Renjiro Volkov.

I didn't need an explanation to understand the cultural blend behind it.

My first name was Japanese, tying me to the land I now called home, while my surname carried the weight of my father's heritage.

…

The years passed in a strange blend of discovery and routine.

My mother's gentle guidance taught me how to speak and read in Japanese, and while my father was rarely around, I still caught glimpses of him on television.

Images of him battling villains or standing victorious amidst devastation only confirmed what I already knew—this family wasn't ordinary.

And then, when I turned 4, everything changed.

I awakened my quirk.