Kenta, a 16-year-old hardcore otaku, clutched his precious collector's edition of *My Hero Academia* as if his life depended on it. The sun beat down mercilessly on the Tokyo sidewalks, but he didn't care: he'd just scored the limited edition with a holographic cover of All Might. Finally, some good news in this shitty life, he thought, adjusting his thick glasses.
"Damn, 15,000 yen… I could've bought three months of subscription with that," he muttered.
He flipped the first page, walking without looking ahead, when a deep rumble made him jump.
BROOOOM!
A runaway truck appeared out of nowhere, blinding headlights, blaring horn. Kenta didn't even have time to scream.
'Shit... I'm gonna die...'
Total darkness.
No buxom goddess to welcome him to the afterlife. Just… a throbbing pain, a metallic taste in his mouth, and that damn antiseptic smell burning his nostrils.
"Fuck, am I alive? In a hospital?" he groaned, painfully opening his eyelids.
White ceiling. Monotonous beeps of machines. Two doctors in scrubs chatted near his bed, unaware he'd regained consciousness.
"His Trust Rating is zero, but he's been admitted to U.A. Weird, right?"
"Yeah, but without a Quirk, he'll get wrecked there," the other replied, nodding.
Kenta blinked, swallowing hard. U.A.? Quirk? Trust Rating? What the hell was this nonsense?
He jolted upright, triggering a wave of dizziness. His reflection in the window hit him like a mental uppercut: same nerdy face, same thick glasses, but a frailer, almost sickly body.
"FUCK, I STILL LOOK THE SAME!"
The doctors jumped, staring at him.
"Uh… Are you okay, kid?"
"Uh, not really. My memory's a bit fuzzy right now."
The two men exchanged a loaded glance before dropping the truth: he was in a world where heroes were superstars, wielding powers called Quirks, but their strength also depended on the public's trust in them. A social media-like popularity system, but way more hardcore.
"You were on your way to U.A. when you got caught in the crossfire between Queen and Tatsumaki... Anyway, you were rushed here. Looks like you're pretty lucky, kid."
"You gone crazy, kid?"
"I guess everyone is these days," the other continued.
"With the Trust Tournament determining the global hero rankings," explained the first doctor. "Number one, a guy calling himself Hero X, humiliated All Might in the last tournament before vanishing off the radar."
Kenta's otaku brain overheated.
"Wait… U.A.? Queen and Tatsumaki? Is this a crossover between *My Hero Academia*, *To Be Hero X*, and *One Punch Man*?!"
The doctors sighed, exasperated.
"Anyway, I don't know what you're talking about. Good luck at U.A., kid."
...
I was basically an orphan, a Quirkless loser living in a miserable little apartment. Trust Rating: 0.
That night, as I stared at the monumental entrance of the building in the distance, a giant screen flashed:
"Next match: Garou VS Endeavor! Live Trust Ratings!"
I was about to push open my door when twenty men in black emerged from the shadows. In an instant, they subdued me, dragging me toward an armored van. My wrist throbbed as I sensed danger rising:
[Error]
[Error]
[Error X]
Memories exploded in my skull.
"So… I'm actually Hero X?"
*Snap.*
In a single motion, my form transformed. White hair slicked back, square-framed glasses with orange lenses. Immaculate suit, crimson cuffs, red tie marked with a metallic X. Power radiated from me.
The men in black raised their weapons, but their frozen fingers didn't have time to pull the trigger.
*Snap.*
A grin splitting my face. The first guard suddenly screamed—his right arm twisted at an impossible angle, the humerus bursting like shattered porcelain. Before blood splattered the ground, I was already behind his neighbor.
*Crack.*
My palm slammed against his sternum. No punch. Just pressure. Then a tremor. His ribs disintegrated into a spray of bone shards, piercing his own lungs in a warm gurgle. He collapsed, eyes rolling back, as I pivoted toward the next.
Teleportation? No. Just a matter of time. To me, their movements were statues in slow motion. I slipped between two of them, brushing their temples with my fingertips.
*Pop.*
Their eardrums exploded in a reddish syncope. They fell to their knees, hands clamped over ears that no longer existed. A third fired—the bullet passed through my reflection in his pupils before I ripped out his tongue through his throat.
"Ghkk—!"
His teeth shattered on the bloody muscle, his own flesh oozing between his lips. Around us, the last men retreated. One vomited. Another prayed.
I snapped my fingers.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Not an explosion. Just the shockwave of compressed air. Their skulls imploded like overripe melons, spraying brain matter and vertebra fragments across the walls. A strand of spinal cord landed in convulsive serpentine at my feet.
Silence.
I shook an imaginary drop of blood from my immaculate cuff. The metallic X on my tie glinted in the moonlight.
"Too bad."
The armored van behind me spontaneously caught fire, reducing the evidence to cold ashes.
"Who sent you?"
Silence.
"Very well."
A snap of fingers.
Their skulls exploded in a purple rain, just to make sure they were all dead.
Then I vanished, leaving behind a nightmare scene.