Tomoya POV: Updated
Life beyond the mansion was… louder.
Despite the tranquility we'd built within those walls—a haven crafted from memories, magic, and a second chance—the world outside still pulsed with noise, movement, and unpredictability. The city thrummed with the erratic rhythm of quirks and chaos, a constant hum of conflict hiding beneath its polished skyline and polite smiles. The endless cacophony of human existence, amplified by supernatural abilities, sometimes made me long for the quiet solitude of our former sanctuary.
Still, amid all of that, we had carved out something real. Something that felt almost like peace.
Our clinic and tea shop sat tucked into a quiet corner of the city, nestled where old wooden storefronts leaned gently against steel-and-glass towers. A contradiction, yes—but not an unwelcome one. The traditional architecture reminded me of simpler times, while the modern structures spoke of a world constantly evolving. This place didn't need to make sense. It just needed to exist.
The clinic was my sanctuary. My domain where I could practice the healing arts I had perfected over centuries.
White walls. Soft calligraphy scrolls. The scent of crushed herbs and dried blossoms filled the air like incense, creating an atmosphere of tranquility that belied the often desperate circumstances that brought patients through our doors. Some ingredients I had coaxed from this world's soil with patient cultivation, spending countless hours in our small garden, whispering ancient words to encourage growth. Others had followed me across dimensions, relics from lands no one here had even imagined—rare medicinals from the Uchiha compound, chakra-infused plants that responded to my touch alone. Every tool, every blend, every technique was part of a legacy that spanned centuries and realities.
They called it a "quirk."
What they didn't understand, they tried to define in their own language. They needed to categorize my abilities, to place them neatly within their understanding of the world. As if my chakra control and medical ninjutsu could be reduced to a genetic anomaly.
Let them. It made no difference.
I healed them all the same. The chakra flowing through my hands didn't care what name they gave it.
Next door, Iroh served tea with the grace of a court sage and the warmth of a village elder. His stocky figure moved with surprising deftness between tables, each cup poured with reverence and precision. He welcomed strangers with the same kindness he had once offered kings, treating each customer as though they were the most important person in his day. His laughter softened even the hardest edges of the world outside, and I often caught glimpses of him through the open door—guiding conversation with parables, soothing pain with perfectly steeped leaves, his wise eyes crinkling at the corners.
Our little corner of the world was not untouched by chaos, but it held against it. The protective seals I'd carefully inscribed along the foundation helped, of course. Ancient Uchiha techniques, modified and strengthened. For now, they were enough.
Then came the night it didn't.
I was grinding moonflower petals in my mortar, the stone pestle cool against my palm, when the clinic doors crashed open with such force that the hinges groaned in protest.
The wind chimes above the threshold sang a fractured, discordant note, as if even they recoiled from the energy that entered with the three men. Two were upright—barely—dragging a third between them. Blood soaked through the third man's ruined uniform, turning the pristine tiles beneath him into a canvas of violence. The metallic scent hit me immediately, along with something else—something darker, more insidious.
"A hero," I realized at once, recognizing the costume despite its tattered state. "But barely." His life force was flickering dangerously, like a candle in a storm.
"Please," one of them gasped. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with tears and what appeared to be ash. His voice cracked from strain. "He was ambushed. The hospital—said he wouldn't make it—they couldn't—" His words dissolved into desperate, ragged breaths.
I didn't waste time responding. Words wouldn't save this man.
Sleeves secured with a practiced motion, hands steady as they had been through countless crises, I moved. My body remembered what to do even as my mind assessed the damage.
The wounds were brutal. Serrated cuts deep across the chest and abdomen, tissue torn in ways that spoke of malice rather than mere violence, but worse than that was the energy clinging to him—a malignant presence that didn't belong. It curled around the damage, pulsing with an unnatural rhythm, violet-black tendrils visible only to those with eyes trained to see chakra disturbances.
Poison.
Not the crude kind used in assassinations or back-alley tactics. This was crafted. Precise. Designed to not just kill—but to make a statement. It reminded me of techniques I'd seen centuries ago, when clan wars were fought with subtle arts as often as with fire and steel.
"Operating table. Now," I instructed, my voice calm despite the urgency I felt.
The homunculus at my side—flawless in form, tireless by design—moved without hesitation, helping transfer the wounded hero. A whirl of motion followed: sterilized blades, glowing instruments, arcane sensors humming to life. Every piece of equipment gleamed with soft light under the sterile glow of the ceiling lamps. Some of these tools had no name in this world. Most never would. They were remnants of my research, creations born from centuries of knowledge accumulated across realities.
The man was fading fast. His breathing shallowed to barely perceptible movements. His aura flickered like a flame losing oxygen, the distinctive energy signature of his quirk fading beneath the poison's assault.
I placed a hand on his chest and began. My chakra flowed through my fingertips, seeking out the damage, assessing its nature and extent.
No hesitation. No doubt.
Just focus. The kind that comes only from having seen death so many times that its approach becomes familiar, recognizable.
Every movement was deliberate. Each incision guided by centuries of muscle memory. Each tool an extension of will honed through wars, plagues, and curses far deadlier than this. My fingers moved in patterns too quick for the human eye to follow, weaving signs that directed my chakra with surgical precision.
The poison was deep. Layered. It twisted through his veins like ivy, beautiful in its complexity—lethal in its design. It had been crafted by someone who understood both biology and energy manipulation. Someone dangerous.
But it wasn't enough.
Not against me. Not against what I had become.
I drew from everything I had learned—demon-slaying antidotes, chakra-binding stabilizers, molecular repairs borrowed from science centuries beyond this world. My hands worked without pause, silent save for the occasional breath. Time passed unnoticed, measured only by the steady slowing of blood, the easing rise and fall of his chest. Sweat beaded on my brow but I didn't stop to wipe it away.
Bit by bit, the poison receded. My chakra isolated it, neutralized its components, and repaired the cellular damage in its wake.
Not destroyed—but contained. Neutralized. Rendered harmless.
I didn't step away until I was sure. Until I had checked and rechecked every system, every pathway, every drop of blood.
Only then did I allow myself to look beyond the work—to see the man as more than a case, to acknowledge the exhaustion seeping into my limbs, dulled only by resolve. The familiar drain of extended chakra use settled into my bones, a feeling both uncomfortable and comforting in its familiarity.
He would live.
For now.
And the world outside would never know how close it had come to losing him. How close the poison had come to claiming another victim, another life snuffed out before its time.
They would attribute his survival to luck. Or perhaps to some miracle quirk-based compatibility. That was how they coped—with stories. With explanations that fit their understanding of the world.
I didn't begrudge them that.
Let them keep their illusions. The truth would only frighten them.
I wiped my hands clean, glancing toward the homunculus nurse who had already begun sanitizing the area with methodical grace. A small nod passed between us—silent communication perfected over years of working together.
The two men who'd brought the hero in stood silent, wide-eyed, their expressions hovering between shock and reverence. As they simply observe me rescuing their colleague from the threshold of mortality. Only a handful of individuals across the globe possess the capability to perform this caliber of life-preserving intervention. They would never have anticipated that one of these gifted specialists would be operating in such a modest medical facility.
"He'll make it," I said, voice level. "He needs rest now. And monitoring."
One of the heroes collapsed to his knees in relief, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The other simply whispered, "Thank you," his voice thick with emotion.
I didn't answer. Words of gratitude always felt hollow against the weight of what I'd seen, what I'd done. Instead, I stepped to the open doorway between the clinic and tea shop, seeking the one person who truly understood.
Iroh stood behind the counter, pouring tea into a simple porcelain cup, as if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn't almost tilted again. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself, ready, watchful.
"You felt it too," I said quietly, once I was close enough that only he could hear.
He nodded, handing the cup to a customer with a warm smile before glancing my way. His eyes, usually twinkling with good humor, were serious now, reflecting the concern I felt.
"Yes. But I also felt you."
His words were simple.
But they were enough. They acknowledged what had happened, what I had done, and what it meant. They carried the weight of understanding that could only come from someone who had walked similar paths.
Iroh POV: Updated
While Tomoya worked inside, my place was here—at the threshold, watching the street for what the wind carried. The night air brushed against my face, carrying whispers of the city's heartbeat, the distant sounds of vehicles, and the subtler notes that most would miss—the shift in atmospheric pressure, the way birds had settled too early for the evening.
Even in stillness, the world whispered its intent. And tonight, the air held its breath, heavy with anticipation and the metallic tang of approaching trouble. The hairs on my arms stood alert, responding to something beyond mere temperature.
I'd seen it before. In the moments before battle, when soldiers grew unnaturally quiet. In the hushed pause before fire consumes the forest, when animals flee and leaves tremble without wind. Quiet didn't always mean peace. Sometimes, it meant waiting—the universe drawing back like a bowstring before releasing its arrow.
The crickets had gone silent, their nightly orchestra abruptly cut short. Nature always knows first when danger approaches.
I stepped beyond the clinic's warm lantern light, letting my senses open fully to the night. The golden glow behind me cast my shadow long across the empty street, while my eyes adjusted to the darkness beyond. There—movement. Shadows coalescing at the edge of the street, darker patches against the night that shifted with purpose, not chance. Six figures approached with slow, deliberate steps, their silhouettes gradually taking form beneath the sparse streetlights. Their masks—crude things of painted wood and cloth—offered anonymity, but their posture betrayed them—shoulders hunched like cornered animals, hands twitching near concealed blades, eyes gleaming with false confidence beneath flickering streetlights. Their bodies radiated tension, the kind that comes from inexperience trying to masquerade as strength.
Predators. Or at least, men who fancied themselves as such.
One stepped forward, separating from the pack. His mask, painted with a crimson smile, couldn't hide the nervousness in his movements. His voice was sharp, forced. Meant to intimidate, but I had heard better threats from drunk soldiers in backwater inns during my military days, from boys trying to sound like men before their first taste of real combat.
"We're here for the hero," he announced, swagger in every syllable, his chest puffed outward like a bird's display. "Hand him over, and we won't make this messy. Not too much, anyway." He fingered the blade at his hip, a theatrical gesture that spoke more of insecurity than skill.
I clasped my hands behind my back, rooting my stance without appearing to do so, posture loose but centered. Calm. Like tea just beginning to steep, holding its potential energy before releasing its character.
"This is a place of healing," I said quietly, keeping my voice even and warm. "Not of war. The wounded come here to find peace, not more suffering. You will leave now, and you will not return. That is my offer." I smiled, the expression genuine despite the circumstances. Every man deserves a chance to choose wisdom.
He laughed—dry, bitter, a sound like autumn leaves crushed underfoot. "Old man, there are six of us and one of you. You think wisdom will save you from what's coming? Your gray hair won't protect you tonight."
I stepped forward, letting my heel touch the stone beneath me with deliberate pressure. Letting them see how still the flame could burn before it roared. How balance precedes movement. How patience isn't weakness.
"I think you mistake kindness for weakness," I said, maintaining my smile though it no longer reached my eyes. "And that mistake rarely ends well for those who make it. Consider your next action carefully."
The tension cracked like ice on a spring pond.
One lunged from the side, blade flashing silver in the moonlight, aiming for my ribs with untrained eagerness.
The others followed in a disorganized rush, pulled by bloodlust and poor judgment rather than tactical thinking. Their movements betrayed their lack of coordination—a group, not a team.
It ended quickly. As such things usually do.
I moved—not with rage, not with hesitation, but with purpose. Flame bloomed at my fingertips, controlled and precise, not meant to kill but to disarm. One fell with a startled cry, his wrist scorched just enough to drop his weapon, the smell of singed cloth and hair mingling with his surprise. Another staggered from a sweep of my leg, his balance lost before his blade ever found its arc, his back meeting the cobblestones with a dull thud.
The world narrowed to movement and breath. No wasted steps. No unnecessary pain. Just the dance of combat I had learned decades ago and refined through countless encounters.
Within moments, the street was quiet again—groans and soft curses the only protest from those now sprawled across the cobblestone. Their masks lay broken or discarded, revealing young faces contorted with pain and shock. Boys playing at being men, now learning a harsh lesson.
But not all of them had fallen.
A man stepped from the shadows further down the street—cloaked in black and purple fabric that seemed to absorb the light around him, as if the night itself had dressed him for war. Barbed wire coiled around his limbs like living serpents, humming with strange energy that made the air vibrate. Curved blades shimmered in his hands, glinting like scorpion stingers in the moonlight, their edges catching light in ways that suggested they were more than simple steel.
Different. This one carried himself with the certainty of experience.
I met his gaze across the distance between us. Measured him as he measured me.
Not one of them. The leader, or something worse. Something calculated.
"Impressive," he said, voice low, rough like stone against stone. "But I'm not like the others. They were just the opening act."
I reached into my sleeve and pulled out a small teacup I'd been carrying—force of habit. The tea inside was lukewarm, having cooled during my watch, but that wasn't the point of the gesture.
"Of course not," I said, sipping slowly, appreciating the subtle notes of jasmine that remained. "You've clearly put a great deal of effort into your ensemble. The wire is a particularly dramatic touch. Quite intimidating to most, I imagine."
His lips twisted into a smirk beneath his half-mask. "You're stalling. Hoping for reinforcements?"
"No," I said, setting the cup down carefully on a nearby ledge, respecting even a mediocre brew. "I'm offering you a way out. A chance to reconsider. Last chance before we both do something that cannot be undone."
He didn't take it. Few ever do.
The barbed wire snapped forward with startling speed, a blur of silver in the moonlight, crackling with energy that split the air. I stepped aside with a pivot that belied my stocky frame, fire bursting to life from my palms in controlled streams, weaving through the attack with a fluid grace that came from decades of practice. The wire hissed and fell where it met my flames, its energy dissipating where fire kissed it, leaving blackened coils on the ground.
He pressed forward, unleashing a flurry of strikes. Fast, brutal, each movement flowing into the next with practiced efficiency. His blades carved arcs through the air that would have separated flesh from bone had they connected.
But I was faster. Not in body—age takes its toll on even the most disciplined—but in perception, in the reading of intent before action.
I moved through him like a stream carving stone—inevitable, flowing around resistance rather than meeting it directly. Predictable only to those who understood that true discipline means knowing when to yield and when to advance.
His blades met empty air where I had been a heartbeat before.
My fist met his center mass with focused force, driving the breath from his lungs.
He collapsed, gasping, the wire falling lifeless around him like dead vines, the energy that had animated them now disrupted by the precise strike to his solar plexus.
"You fight with anger," I said, stepping back to give him space, showing respect even in victory. "But no clarity. That makes you loud, not dangerous. Power without direction is just noise."
Sirens echoed in the distance, growing closer. Red and blue lights began to stain the walls of the street, painting the aftermath in shifting hues that cast strange shadows across the fallen figures.
The man tried to stand—failed, clutching at his abdomen where my strike had landed. His mask had slipped, revealing a face younger than I expected, marked with old scars and fresh frustration.
I straightened my robes and smoothed the fabric with practiced motions, brushing away flecks of ash that had settled on the cloth. No blood on me. There never was. Violence, when necessary, need not be messy.
The officers arrived moments later, vehicles screeching to a halt at both ends of the street, weapons drawn, eyes wide with the adrenaline of responding to an emergency. They took in the bodies, the chaos, the calm figure of me standing still among the debris like the eye of a storm.
"What's going on here?" one asked, hand twitching near his holster, uncertainty written across his youthful face.
I bowed, respectfully but not submissively. "These men attempted to harm one under our care. A young hero recovering inside. I offered them tea and conversation. They declined rather forcefully."
Suspicion flickered in the officer's eyes, his gaze darting between me and the groaning figures on the ground. "You can't just act like a hero on the street. That's illegal without a license, no matter what they did first."
I offered him a card from my sleeve—simple, elegant, and legitimate, the edges slightly worn from being carried but the official seals still crisp.
He read it. Paused. Read it again as if the words might change.
"…Hero license and quirk counseling certification?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "How did someone like you—"
"I found the process enlightening," I said with a gentle smile. "A pot of jasmine tea helped the interviewers reflect on their own biases about age and appearance. Remarkable how clarity can come through shared moments of contemplation."
He handed it back reluctantly, still skeptical. "Still. Next time, leave it to the professionals. Call us first."
"Of course," I said, inclining my head slightly. "Though I do wonder if a few cups of oolong might improve your arrival time. It's excellent for focus and response."
Before he could reply to my gentle ribbing, wind howled overhead, a sudden gust that scattered loose papers and debris across the street. The officers looked up, startled.
A thunderous impact cracked the pavement near us, sending spiderwebbing fractures through the stone.
Dust scattered in a cloud that momentarily obscured the landing site.
A new figure rose from a cratered landing—bright costume of red, blue and yellow that seemed to glow even in the dim light, white cape flaring dramatically behind him like unfurled wings. A wide grin split his face as he struck a classic pose, one fist planted on his hip, the other thrust skyward.
"DON'T WORRY, CITIZENS," he boomed, his voice carrying the resonance of someone accustomed to being heard across great distances. "FOR I AM HERE TO SAVE THE DAY!"
I raised an eyebrow, taking in the spectacle with the patient amusement of someone who has seen many such entrances.
"…And fashionably late," I added quietly, lifting my teacup once more and sipping the last of its warmth, hiding my smile behind the rim. "Though I suppose heroes, like good tea, arrive precisely when they mean to."
Raiden POV: Update
Even before I had words, I understood pressure.
It wasn't spoken. It didn't need to be. It hummed beneath the surface of everything—like a note held too long on a string, trembling before it snapped. The tension vibrated through the very air, a constant reminder of something larger than myself.
I lay swaddled in warmth, but the world beyond that comfort buzzed with friction. Not from sound or light, but energy—dense, charged, restless. A collision of intent just beyond the walls of our sanctuary. I couldn't see it, couldn't name it, but I felt it—like static crackling against skin I had only recently begun to understand. It prickled along my infant nerves, a language more ancient than words, speaking of dangers and powers converging like storm clouds.
My arms couldn't reach. My voice hadn't yet found form. My body was new and unfamiliar, a prison of undeveloped muscles and uncoordinated limbs that refused to obey the commands of a mind that somehow felt older than it should.
And still, something inside me responded. Something deep and instinctual, like muscle memory from a life I couldn't recall but somehow carried within me.
My mother's presence wrapped around me like silk pulled tight across steel. Her chakra—soft but unyielding—flowed with emotion I didn't yet recognize, but felt in my bones. Protection. Fear. Resolve. The kind that came from having lost too much and choosing not to lose again. Tomoya's energy had a distinctive signature—refined yet powerful, like cherry blossoms carried on a hurricane wind. It enveloped me completely, her love manifesting as an almost physical barrier between me and whatever lurked beyond.
And then there was Iroh.
If Mother was the flame held carefully in a lantern, he was the stone beneath the fire. Grounded. Steady. His energy stretched across the space between us like roots in soil, anchoring me even as the world outside shifted with unseen dangers. Uncle's chakra felt like warm tea on a cold morning—comforting yet infused with a strength that belied his gentle demeanor. When his large hand rested on my blanket, I could sense the dormant power within him, controlled and disciplined, ready to erupt if anything threatened what he held dear.
The chaos beyond those walls couldn't reach me—not fully. The shouting voices, the clashing intentions, the swirling malice—all of it crashed against the fortress of protection they had built around me.
Not with them here.
And not with it beside me.
The fox.
It appeared without ceremony, materializing in that quiet way it always did—like it had always been there, just waiting for me to notice. One moment emptiness, the next—presence, undeniable and ancient.
Its fur shimmered like moonlight on fresh snow. Not cold. Not warm. Just… pure. Like it had no weight in this world, but all the gravity of one that came before. Nine tails curled around me, trailing arcs of silver that pulsed with light only I seemed to see. Each strand contained galaxies of power, chakra so dense and refined it seemed to bend reality around it, creating a pocket of stillness in the chaos.
It didn't speak. But it didn't need to. Words would have diminished what passed between us—a connection transcending language, rooted in something far more primal.
Its gaze met mine, and something shifted—something old, buried deeper than thought. A memory that didn't belong to me… and yet, somehow did. Its eyes were pools of still water reflecting stars I hadn't yet seen, and in that silence between us, something clicked into place. Recognition. Resonance. The sensation of puzzle pieces fitting together after being scattered across lifetimes.
I reached out.
Tiny fingers brushed impossibly soft fur, and the world narrowed—not to danger or fear, but to stillness. Understanding. The contact sent ripples through my developing chakra network, awakening dormant pathways that shouldn't have existed in one so young. Colors bloomed behind my eyes—patterns of energy that told stories of battles and bonds from long ago.
This creature wasn't just a guardian.
It was a part of me.
Bound not by blood, but by soul. Connected through strands of fate that had been woven long before my first breath in this world. Its power hummed in harmony with mine, separate yet unified, like twin rivers flowing from the same mountain.
Outside, the world bristled with danger—voices raised, weapons drawn, tension stretching thin like the surface of boiling tea. I could feel the clash of chakra signatures, some familiar, some strange and threatening. The walls seemed to vibrate with the force of confrontation brewing just beyond.
But inside, I lay nestled beneath the weight of something much greater than fear.
Purpose.
I didn't understand what that meant yet. I couldn't. Not fully. My infant mind lacked the framework to comprehend the destiny that had already claimed me, marked me as different from the moment of conception.
But I felt it.
Felt it in the rhythm of my mother's heartbeat as she held me close, her Uchiha blood flowing through my veins, carrying legacies I would someday inherit. In the unwavering pulse of Iroh's aura as he stood guard, his wisdom and strength a promise of guidance to come. In the way the fox curled its tails around my body like a vow made flesh, binding our fates together in ways that would unfold across years yet to come.
There would be trials. Storms. Pain. The pressure I sensed would grow, not diminish. The path ahead would demand everything I had and more.
But not yet.
Not tonight.
For now, I was a child.
And I was loved.
And in that love, I was becoming something more than I had been. The chakra within me—Uchiha, Senju, Uzumaki—stirred quietly, like embers waiting for the breath that would ignite them into flame. My tiny hands curled reflexively, unaware of the power they would someday channel, the elements they would bend to my will.
Something more than human. Something meant for greatness.
The world could wait. Its challenges would still be there tomorrow, and the day after, stretching endlessly into a future I couldn't yet imagine. For this moment, cradled in protection and purpose, I simply existed—a beginning, not an end. A promise yet to be fulfilled.
All Might's POV: Update
The street was calm now—eerily so.
Cracked pavement. Scorched walls. The lingering scent of smoke and adrenaline still hung in the air, but it was quiet. Controlled. The kind of stillness that came only after something chaotic had been wrestled into submission. Glass fragments sparkled under the fading sunlight, reflecting tiny rainbows across the devastation like nature's attempt to bring beauty back to this scarred battlefield.
Villains lay strewn across the road, subdued and restrained. Officers moved in practiced motions, handcuffs clicking shut as they cataloged weapons and swept debris. Their steps were efficient, but cautious—the way people moved when they weren't sure whether the worst was truly over. I noticed how they kept glancing over their shoulders, their bodies tense despite the apparent victory. One officer's hand rested perpetually on his holster, fingers twitching at every sound.
And at the center of it all stood the man who had brought the storm to a halt.
He wasn't in a hero costume.
There were no flashy gadgets or exaggerated movements.
Just calm. Quiet power. A stillness that radiated certainty. His presence seemed to anchor the chaos around him, like gravity itself bent to his will. Even from this distance, I could sense it—the perfect balance of Yin and Yang energy flowing through him, spiritual and physical forces working in complete harmony.
I took it all in—the aftermath, the expressions on the officers' faces, the lingering tension still clinging to the air—and felt my chest swell. Not with pride for myself, but for what had been protected.
Lives.
Hope.
Order.
"DID I MISS ALL THE FUN?" I called out, my voice echoing across the buildings like thunder. I smiled, wide and familiar, even as I surveyed the wreckage. "OR IS THERE STILL TIME FOR A BIT OF ACTION? SEEMS LIKE SOMEONE'S BEEN DOING MY JOB WHILE I WAS RUSHING ACROSS TOWN!"
The man turned.
He was taller than I expected. Broad, composed, immovable—not in the way of a wall, but in the way of an old tree: deeply rooted, slow to move, but capable of incredible strength when needed. His robes were still pristine, despite the scuffle. Not a thread out of place. The fabric seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, giving him an almost otherworldly presence amid the destruction.
And yet… his presence didn't demand attention. It invited it.
He offered a respectful bow, his face calm, voice steady. "Not at all, All Might. Your arrival, as always, is appreciated. The situation was handled peacefully—and by the book. These individuals merely needed guidance back to the proper path."
There was no arrogance in his words. No pride in what he'd done.
Only assurance.
I let out a booming laugh, scratching the back of my head. "HA HA! YOU'RE TOO MODEST! QUITE THE SITUATION YOU MANAGED OUT HERE! VERY IMPRESSIVE WORK, TRULY! I COUNT AT LEAST SEVEN VILLAINS DOWN WITHOUT A SINGLE CIVILIAN CASUALTY!"
The officers jumped slightly at the sound of my voice—old habits. I tried to rein in the volume a little as I approached him, my footsteps leaving small impressions in the cracked asphalt. I could feel my time limit ticking away inside me, that familiar burning sensation in my side where my old wound pulsed with each heartbeat.
My eyes swept past him to the clinic, modest and warm against the evening's tension. Its windows glowed with soft light, casting long, gentle beams into the street like lanterns guiding the lost home. A small sign swung gently in the breeze, the only movement in this frozen tableau of aftermath.
The man turned slightly, gesturing toward the doorway with one massive hand. "My sister-in-law is inside. She's tending to a wounded hero—nothing critical, but urgent enough. He'll recover, but I imagine seeing you would do wonders for his morale. Your presence alone carries healing properties that medicine cannot provide."
There was no urgency in his tone, no demand. Just truth.
I studied him for a moment longer.
Everything about him exuded restraint. Precision. He wasn't just strong—he understood strength. How to hold it. When to release it. His control reminded me of my own powers, how I needed to be increasingly selective about when and how I used it.
My smile softened—not the wide, toothy grin I gave reporters, but the one that came when I saw something… right in the world.
Something worth protecting.
"You handled yourself well," I said, quieter now. "The kind of presence that turns the tide without needing to raise a fist. That's a rare gift in our line of work, where many believe power must always be displayed to be effective."
He bowed slightly, not in deference, but in mutual respect.
"I am simply doing what must be done," he replied. "Balance must be maintained, especially in times of chaos."
I nodded, then turned toward the clinic. The air was different now—less tense, more hopeful. Inside, a wounded hero rested. Outside, peace had been maintained.
I could feel it.
A different kind of strength had settled here.
And in that moment, I was reminded that heroism wasn't always about grand gestures or dramatic rescues.
Sometimes… it was a quiet force, holding the world steady so others could heal.
Tomoya POV: Updated
The steady rhythm of chakra pulses under my fingertips slowed as I sealed the last of the hero's wounds. His breathing had stabilized, his pain eased, and the storm of battle had passed—for now. The familiar warmth of healing chakra dissipated from my hands, leaving behind the faint scent of medicinal herbs and the subtle tingle that always remained after extensive treatment.
It was in that quiet, fleeting pause that the door opened once more.
A shadow spilled across the threshold—massive, deliberate. I didn't need to turn to know who had arrived. The sheer presence that swept into the room was unmistakable. Strength, certainty, and something else… reverence. The air itself seemed to shift, becoming charged with an energy that was both reassuring and overwhelming.
I looked up.
There he was—All Might. The Symbol of Peace, dressed in his red, blue, and gold, carrying the weight of a nation on shoulders broad enough to bear it. That same radiant smile, unwavering even in the wake of chaos, met my gaze. The light from the window caught on his golden hair, creating an almost halo-like effect that matched his heroic persona.
And yet, behind that grin was something softer. Gratitude. His eyes—bright blue and intense—held a depth of feeling that his public persona rarely revealed.
"Thank you for saving him," he said as he stepped inside, each movement deliberate, heavy not with violence but respect. The floorboards creaked slightly beneath his weight. "Heroes don't always get the help they need. What you did here… it matters. More than most will ever realize."
His voice was loud—but sincere. Deep, thunderous, but undeniably human. It filled the small healing room completely, yet somehow didn't disturb the peaceful atmosphere I had cultivated.
I bowed slightly, hands folding at my waist, the sleeves of my kimono brushing together with a whisper of silk. My tone, as always, was even. "There is no need for thanks. He came to me wounded. I simply did what was required." The centuries of my existence had taught me that healing was not heroism—it was necessity, balance, restoration of what should be.
But as I straightened, I saw it—his expression faltered. That polished mask of unwavering optimism cracked, just for a heartbeat. His mouth opened, but no words came. His eyes widened, and for the first time since I had seen him grace the screens of this world, he was speechless. A faint flush spread across his chiseled features, visible even beneath his perpetual smile.
Then—completely without warning—he blurted:
"Marry me."
I blinked.
Of all the things I had prepared for in this long life—battles, poisons, healing across dimensions, the complexities of demon physiology, the nuances of centuries-old jutsu—this was… not one of them. The request hung in the air between us, as tangible as the afternoon sunlight streaming through the paper windows.
A long moment stretched between us, awkward and unyielding. I could hear the distant chirping of birds outside, the soft bubbling of medicinal concoctions on the small stove in the corner, the hero's steady breathing from the bed beside us.
I let out a quiet breath and smoothed my kimono with practiced ease, tucking a loose strand of black hair behind my ear. The movement was deliberate, giving me time to compose a response befitting both my station and the unexpected nature of his proposal. My voice, when it came, was soft, polite, and unbothered.
"I respectfully decline, All Might-san. Though I am… flattered." The words were simple but carried the weight of centuries of formality and restraint.
Color bloomed across his face—an endearing contrast to the bold colors of his costume. His massive hands fluttered momentarily, unsure where to rest.
"AH—OF COURSE! I—THAT WAS—FORWARD OF ME." He cleared his throat loudly, rubbing the back of his neck with the unmistakable energy of a man realizing he'd leapt without looking. His voice boomed even louder than before, as if volume could mask his embarrassment. "PLEASE FORGIVE MY IMPROPRIETY."
Before the situation could unravel any further, the soft sound of footsteps interrupted us. The tatami mats barely whispered beneath the approaching feet.
A homunculus entered the room with the fluid grace only they possessed. Porcelain skin. Measured steps. No sound beyond the whisper of fabric. Her eyes—blank yet somehow attentive—surveyed the room before settling on me. In her arms, she cradled Raiden—swaddled in the soft blue blanket I had embroidered the week before with protective seals disguised as decorative patterns. She bowed slightly and extended him toward me without a word, her movements precise and reverent.
The moment shifted.
Everything else fell away.
As I took Raiden into my arms, the room grew still. His warmth, his tiny breath against my collarbone, the gentle flutter of his fingers against my skin—all of it grounded me in a way no spell, no meditation, ever could. The weight of him, so perfectly balanced in my embrace, centered my entire being. My chakra instinctively adjusted, creating a cocoon of protective energy around him so subtle that only another skilled shinobi would detect it.
He was so small.
And yet, he was my entire world.
I felt my expression soften before I realized it. It always did when I held him. The mask of formality and restraint that I had worn for centuries slipped, revealing something truer—the face of a mother, timeless and universal.
All Might stepped forward again, his eyes no longer wide with awe, but softened by something else—something quieter. His towering frame seemed to shrink slightly, becoming less the Symbol of Peace and more simply a man witnessing something profound.
"…Is this your son?" he asked, voice low now. Almost reverent. The bombastic hero had vanished, replaced by someone gentler, more genuine.
I nodded. "His name is Raiden." My finger traced the curve of his cheek, feeling the subtle pulse of both Uchiha and Senju chakra beneath his skin—a legacy and a promise.
The name felt right on my tongue, every syllable a vow I had made the day I first held him. A name that spoke of power and potential, of storms and clarity that follows. A name worthy of what I knew he would become.
All Might leaned slightly forward, as though unwilling to disturb the stillness of the moment. His shadow fell over us, protective rather than imposing. "He's… extraordinary. There's something about him—I can feel it." His voice held the wonder of someone who recognized greatness, even in its infancy.
I didn't reply immediately. My gaze was on Raiden's sleeping face, on the subtle curve of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the tiny furrow of concentration that appeared even in his sleep. He stirred slightly, as if he could sense the attention, but then nestled closer, content in the security of my embrace. His tiny fingers curled around a strand of my hair that had fallen forward.
"He is everything," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "And he will be more than anyone expects." In those words lay two centuries of knowledge, of seeing empires rise and fall, of understanding what true power meant—and what it cost.
There was movement at the doorway.
Iroh stood there, a cup of tea in his hands, steam curling gently toward the ceiling like miniature dragons dancing in the air. The aroma of jasmine and herbs mingled with the medicinal scents of the healing room. His weathered face was serene, his posture relaxed but dignified. His gaze met mine—quiet, knowing. He said nothing, but the look he gave me said more than words ever could.
Pride. Trust. Faith.
The bond between us—forged through shared purpose and mutual respect—needed no verbal affirmation. His presence completed the circle of protection around Raiden, another layer of care and wisdom that would shape my son's future.
Together, we had built something here. A place of warmth and healing. A quiet corner of a noisy world. A sanctuary where old knowledge met new beginnings, where ancient jutsu and modern heroism could coexist in harmony.
And in that moment, even with the chaos still waiting outside our walls, I knew this truth:
No matter what trials the future held, Raiden would never face them alone.
Not while I still breathed. Not while the blood of ancient clans flowed through his veins. Not while he was surrounded by those who understood both the burden and the blessing of exceptional power.