The cold was the first thing he felt.
It seeped into his bones, sharp and unrelenting, as if the very air sought to freeze him alive. His body—no, this body—was weak, trembling under the weight of exhaustion and neglect. Every breath was a struggle, every heartbeat a faint echo in the hollow shell he now inhabited.
Izuku Arashi opened his eyes.
The world around him was dark and suffocating. He lay in the filth of a narrow alley, the walls towering above him like silent sentinels of decay. The ground beneath him was damp, the stench of rot and waste clinging to the air. Shadows danced at the edges of his vision, shifting and writhing like living things. Rats scurried in the distance, their tiny eyes glinting in the faint moonlight that filtered through the cracks above.
He tried to move, but his body refused to obey. Pain shot through his limbs, sharp and unyielding, as if every muscle and bone had been stripped of strength. His hands—small, frail, and trembling—clutched at the dirt beneath him. They were not his hands. Not the hands of a warrior who had faced demons and gods alike. These were the hands of a child, weak and malnourished, on the verge of collapse.
Memories flooded his mind.
The battlefield. The betrayal. The heavens' judgment.
The faces of those he had once called allies, friends, family—all turned against him. Their blades, their spears, their arrows, cutting him down without mercy. And then, the voice of the heavens, cold and unyielding, condemning him to a fate worse than death.
*"You who have struggled for power, shall be cast into a world where power is given at birth."*
*"You who have carved your own destiny, shall be sent to a world ruled by status and bloodlines."*
*"You who have never relied on fate—shall be made the lowest of the low."*
Izuku's breath hitched, his chest tightening as the weight of his new reality settled over him. The heavens had not simply killed him. They had stripped him of everything—his strength, his power, his identity—and thrown him into the depths of a world that would see him as nothing more than refuse.
He was no longer the Unforgiven Warrior. He was a nameless child, abandoned and forgotten in the slums of a city he did not know.
Footsteps echoed in the distance, pulling him from his thoughts.
Izuku's instincts, honed through decades of battle, flared to life. Despite the frailty of his body, his mind remained sharp, his senses attuned to the slightest hint of danger. He forced himself to move, dragging his weakened frame deeper into the shadows of the alley. His movements were slow and uncoordinated, but he managed to press himself against the wall, his breath shallow and silent.
Two figures emerged from the gloom.
They were young, barely older than the body he now inhabited, their faces gaunt and hollow with hunger. Their clothes were ragged, their eyes sharp and calculating. In their hands, they carried crude daggers, the blades glinting faintly in the dim light.
"Oi, look at that," one of them muttered, his voice low and rough. "Fresh meat."
The other boy grinned, his teeth yellow and crooked. "New blood, huh? Bet he doesn't even know the rules yet."
They stepped closer, their movements predatory, their eyes locked on Izuku's trembling form.
He exhaled slowly, his mind racing.
This body was weak, but his will was unbroken. He had faced demons, gods, and the betrayal of those he trusted most. He would not fall to street rats.
The first boy lunged, his dagger flashing in the darkness.
Izuku moved.
His body was slow, his reflexes dulled by exhaustion, but his instincts were razor-sharp. He shifted his weight at the last moment, dodging the blade by a hair's breadth. The boy stumbled forward, off-balance, and Izuku seized the opportunity.
With a grunt of effort, he grabbed the boy's wrist, twisting it until the dagger clattered to the ground. His movements were clumsy, his strength barely enough to overpower the scavenger, but he pressed the advantage.
The second boy hesitated, his eyes widening in shock.
Izuku's gaze locked onto his, cold and unyielding.
"Where am I?" he demanded, his voice low and hoarse.
The boy in his grasp trembled, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Izuku's glare. "T-The slums! East Sector—please, let me go!"
The slums.
Izuku's mind worked quickly, piecing together the fragments of information. This world—a world of magic and nobility, where power was inherited, not earned. And he, cast into the lowest of the low, a nameless child in the filth of the slums.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
How fitting.
He released the boy, shoving him away with what little strength he had left. The two scavengers scrambled to their feet, their fear palpable as they fled into the night.
Alone once more, Izuku slumped against the wall, his body trembling with exhaustion.
He had nothing. No power. No resources. No allies.
But he was alive.
And that was enough.
For now.
Izuku's gaze drifted upward, toward the sliver of moonlight that pierced the darkness above. His golden eyes—now dull and lifeless—narrowed with determination.
The heavens had cast him down, but they had not broken him.
He would rise again.
Even from the ashes.