Chapter 1: The emptiness
He was fourteen when it happened.
It hurt, his back bowed under the terrible sensation, and even though he didn't want to fall to the dirty classroom floor, he did.
The promised relief after the end wasn't there.
In the first few years of his life, he discovered that he was not a normal person. Getting air into your lungs shouldn't be difficult; emotions shouldn't be so weak and fragile; the figures and voices shouldn't be there...
He was no ordinary person, he was an unlucky monster, Mom and Dad taught him that.
So he prayed.
"Bad things happen because people don't pray enough," his father once told him, "or when they pray a lot, they don't do it with enough faith."
And he... doesn't know if he believes it.
"God must be someone very busy", he thought in the silence of his room, "Having a whole world to take care of must not be easy."
Still, prayers were one of the greatest comforts of his life.
It was nice to know he could share his pains and secrets with someone who wouldn't be mean to him. It was nice to feel welcomed when he wasn't under any kind of punishment.
He tried to go on with his life under that sense of comfort while ignoring everything else.
And then, he died.
It would be easy to believe that suicide was his end. With the remains of rat poison hidden between the mattress and the bed frame; with the careless footsteps at the top of the church tower, absently touching the walls and switching between the view of the small town and the bell; with the rope hidden under all the clothes in the closet, and how his fingers moved with almost sly ease to tie the perfect knot.
All the clues were there, and in the end, it wasn't the suicide that got to him.
It was supposed to be an ordinary afternoon. It was to finish packing up and running away from all the other students. It was meant to be just that.
But then his classmate walked into the class and started yelling, started asking for explanations of things he didn't know about.
It was all a big misunderstanding, and he just turned around to leave him alone, to give his colleague time to breathe because the boy was red with rage, he just did that and....
A knife came down on his back.
It hurt, and as he fell, only a single startled scream was released.
The floor was dirty and hard and cold, and he fell flat on his face. He felt entitled to whimper in his pain and remained unanswered as the boy walked away, still saying something he couldn't quite understand.
Blood was still dripping from the knife, a kitchen knife, the ones that were far from their glory days and had become dull blades.
The wound hurt.
It wasn't enough to kill him instantly.
The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows that day, he could see the dust particles flying through the orange sunbeams, and he could easily imagine them as lovely little lights.
The shadows, the shapes, the voices, the eyes— everything and everyone appeared before him at the same moment, a lifetime of illusions caused by diseases beyond his control; they said goodbye to him, waved, whispered good things and terrible things as they looked and looked and did nothing—
The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows that day, and as he drowned in blood, the room looked especially lovely.
This proved his theory completely: The world is cruelest to those who are born and grow up sick.
But in the end... where was his promised rest?
He fell into an endless void. His eyes could see his own body, but they couldn't see his surroundings, and then... he saw the ground, dirty and hard and cold, and when he felt pain stab through his back, he fell flat on his face.
So many voices, crying, irritated, maddened, hoarse...
So many ideas, memories, sensations, sins...
So many things that came and went, intruders that formed a constant nightmare, things that weren't his, and when he was lucid, he blinked and wondered how he didn't realize it wasn't his.
Then the cycle continued, and the screams in the distance mingled with the pain of the dull blade.
A small, semi-transparent screen appeared in the distance, when, he couldn't remember. But he could see, he could recognize his colleague — his murderer.
The boy tried to explain himself to the people around him, tried to show why he was not the culprit himself, but that he was just doing justice. And the others... they listened, they understood, they welcomed him and accepted the blood that still flowed from his hands.
Dad hastily prepared the funeral, and Mom found all the things in the room now unoccupied.
There was no one but the two of them when the coffin was covered, and there was nothing but tearless silence as they watched. When the lone white flower fell on the grave, the two were gone and never returned.
Then the truth finally came out.
His killer was horrified to discover that it was all a big lie, that it had only been manipulated so that his head was occupied with a false culprit.
But everything she said felt so real, he should have been a risk, he should have beaten her, abused her and threatened to kill her, he should have been the culprit behind the murders of the last two months— why she would lie about it all?
Because she was the one to blame, she was the one who had innocent blood running down her hands, filling her bathtub as she sang a sweet song to hear.
And now, he also had innocent blood on his hands.
His friends reassured him, saying that his intention was the best and that they still needed to find a way to stop the real killer. They said that the dead boy had a kind heart, that he would not like to see him in that state, and so they all gathered in front of the grave and cried a few tears as they left flowers on the dusty grave.
"You couldn't have known she was lying," the assassin's friend said, gripping his shoulder, "he must be in a better place now."
Amidst the infinite formless darkness, the boy slowly suffocated on his own blood once more.
He didn't forgive him. He wasn't happy to see him move on as if nothing had happened. He wasn't in a better place.
In a fit of rage, he tries to drag himself out of his own pool of blood, and his body seems to tear apart.
But there was a moment, which, he doesn't know, where everything changed.
It was just a low screeching sound, and all of reality shifted and shifted, and yet, the darkness felt the same.
His legs were weak, and as he dragged himself away from the dirty floor and the only visible point of that place, no maddening pain washed over his back. When he was finally away from that place, he tried to get up.
It had been so long since he'd walked...
It seemed to be an endless path. A path that expanded in all directions, and his feet sank into the darkness without warning, just as his body seemed to float, whether in the air or in a dark sea, he could not tell.
And then he found it.
A strange location that resembled a computer's configuration panel. The area was clear and white, and his eyes, used to the eternal darkness and the dim lighting of the floor and the hot blood, hurt like hell, and it wasn't less than an hour later that he could see his surroundings.
Among the small and large folders, among the shortcuts and commands, among the complicated names full of numbers... there was the thing that saved him from the eternal emptiness.
"Do you really want to become the new administrator of the "UCMC Operating System"?"
"Yes" "No"
•"Yes"•
"Access allowed, you will have access to all folders and files from now on."
"Welcome to the Universe Creation and Management Center!"
• • •
His life was a tiny, insignificant little folder hidden inside several others, a file named after him and titled "First False Villain." All his pains in his life were summed up in a single MB, and it and it torments him.
His city, his world, his reality... was it all just a TV show? Everything, everything that happened... was it just cheap entertainment for people to watch while eating popcorn?
His peers laughing at his vitiligo-stained skin? The shapes and whispers caused by schizophrenia? The difficulties caused by Asperger's syndrome and with breathing problems? Was it all just part of a script written to entertain?
Did his killer, the "protagonist" of that world, kill him just to satisfy the curiosity of those watching? Did he suffer so much his entire life, he lost so much and was never able to accomplish anything he set out to do... and all this to be the false villain with a tragic backstory?
He was the first rung of a ladder of supernatural secrets, and he was trampled with the weight of a blunt knife on his back as the protagonist climbed high. Someone for people to sympathize with during the first season, and then let the characters forget about their existence while the audience complains about a lot of wasted potential.
There's no knife stabbing his back, but the phantom pain hits him hard as he discovers it.
"Is someone trying to modify the files, allow?"
"Yes" •"No"•
"Modification denied successfully!"
Maybe... maybe the people of that world were amused by his pain?
"Someone is requesting admin privilege, allow?"
"Access Denied Successfully!"
With an exhausted sigh, he lifts himself up from the gleaming white floor, stepping out of the character file.
The worlds... the stories seemed to be kept in different folders, and as he walked slowly between the smaller branches — plot and dialogue, just on the right, sketches and artwork near the center, characters and models near the left... —, only 1MB for a lifetime...
"Someone is requesting admin privilege, allow?"
A whole world full of colorless memories, just to be watched.
"..."
"Are you sure you want to delete this world folder?"
•"Yes"• "No"
• • •
It was difficult to know how much time had passed, it was difficult to know if time was passing.
He lay back in the bright white, sometimes looking at the folders in the distance, yellowed and rather adorable in their places, with no sign that they held an entire world inside.
A world... he needs a new one to live in now, doesn't he?
There were many names in many languages, some with numbers, which he found no meaning.
And then, among them, there was "Boku no Hero Academia". He remembered very little about any kind of hero, a man in a red cape who flew through the skies, or someone in black clothes hiding in the shadow of the night... he'd seen so little of it, and so few times, and it looked so surreal and cool.
He goes to the characters' area, about to enter through the secondaries and— it was all in vain, he had a lifetime just to become a false villain, and his grave gathers dust while none of his goals are accomplished.
The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows that day, and as it drowned in blood, the room looked beautiful.
He changes his way and enters through the main characters' file.
His humble 1MB file was placed there, and with some searching, a file.exe with the name of the world was found. A loading screen started when that file was restarted, and a message in a bluish notice box appeared in front of his eyes, along with a metallic voice, full of false happiness:
"Story reset successfully! Welcome to Boku no Hero Academia!"
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
XiaoA_Meng
XiaoA_Meng So, as I said... English is not my first language, it is actually Brazilian Portuguese. Because of this, there can be a lot of mistakes. Anyway, I'm posting this in my main language on Wattpad, so a visit with a Google translator might be good, or if some Brazilian is reading it here (I think it's hard) they can go there and read it in Portuguese. Well, thanks for reading!
( Helene_Malik )
https://www.wattpad.com/story/281339552-reborn-in-mha-with-uchihas
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