The collapse did not happen with a single crash, but with a thousand fractures spreading like spiderwebs across the nation's facade. And in the shadow of each fracture, Izuku Midoriya's will was at work.
Above: The Unraveling
The scene outside the Commission's glass tower was a pressure cooker of grief and rage. The air vibrated with shouted accusations and the raw, scraping sound of voices pushed to their limits. The line of armored officers, faceless behind visors, was no longer a barrier; it was a symbol of the divide, and the crowd was learning to breach it.
A man in the front, a mechanic whose hands were stained with grease and whose daughter's name was on a Facility 13 manifest, picked up a chunk of broken paving stone. He didn't throw it at the officers. He threw it at the towering, shimmering logo of the Hero Commission above the sealed doors. The glass, reinforced, didn't break, but the crack of impact was a starting pistol.
"They're not coming out!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse. "They're hiding in there! Why do we wait?"
From the sidelines, a figure watched. Her name was Kana, once a low-level clerk in the Commission's logistics department, now one of Izuku's liberated and most fervent lieutenants.
She wore a plain hoodie, her face pale but set with fierce determination. She moved through the crowd not as a leader, but as a catalyst, whispering to key individuals whose pain Izuku's files had specifically documented.
She approached a woman clawing at her own hair, rocking back and forth. "He smiled at me," the woman sobbed to no one. "The hero, Starfighter… he signed a poster for my son a week before they took him."
Kana knelt, her voice low and intense. "He knew. The files show he approved the transport quota for that month. He signed your son's waiver with a autograph pen." She pressed a printed sheet, a damning excerpt, into the woman's hand.
The woman's sobbing stopped. Her eyes, red-raw, scanned the paper. The grief didn't vanish; it transformed. It hardened, heated, and became something combustible.
She looked up at the sealed building, her face emptying of everything but a terrible resolve. A faint, shimmering heat haze began to ripple from her skin—her quirk, one she'd suppressed since childhood out of fear and compliance.
"He knew," she whispered. Then she screamed it. "HE KNEW!"
Her quirk erupted. Not a focused blast, but a wave of concussive heat that shot from her body in a desperate, uncontrolled pulse. It slammed into the police line, not burning, but shoving. Officers stumbled, their formation buckling.
The crowd gasped, then roared. It was an illegal quirk use. A crime. For a second, a lifetime of conditioning hung in the air. Then a teenager, his brother's photo taped to his chest, yelled, "What are they gonna do? Arrest us all? They already took everything else!" He ignited sparks from his fingertips, setting alight a discarded "#1 Hero" banner.
The dam was truly broken.
Across the city, similar scenes ignited, each sparked by one of Izuku's embedded agents.
At Midtown Police Precinct:
Pro-heroes were being processed, their licenses suspended, pending investigation. A crowd had gathered here too, demanding the arrest of the precinct captain, whose name was in the black ledger for falsifying "villain" designations.
The ranking hero on site was Groundswell, a woman who could manipulate earth and stone. She stood on the precinct steps, trying to project authority, but her costume was rumpled, her eyes hollow with stress. "Please! The legal process is moving! Going inside will only hurt your cause!"
A man in the crowd, a quiet librarian Izuku had freed from a low-security containment facility, pushed his glasses up his nose. He didn't yell. He spoke clearly, and his voice-quirk carried it to every ear.
"Legal process? Like the legal process that held me for two years without a trial because my quirk was 'unsettling'? That process?" He pointed a trembling finger at Groundswell. "You oversaw the 'quirk threat' assessment center. You labeled me. You labeled hundreds of us. Was that your 'legal process'?"
Groundswell flinched. "The protocols… the Commission guidelines…"
"Were a lie!" the librarian shouted, his calm breaking. "And you were either a fool or a liar!" He turned to the crowd. "They only understand force! The force of their rules! We have force too!"
He took a deep breath and unleashed a sonic shout. It wasn't aimed at anyone. It was aimed at the precinct's reinforced doors. The high-frequency vibration shattered the locking mechanism. The doors blew inward.
The crowd hesitated for only a heartbeat. Then, with a collective roar, they surged forward. Groundswell moved to block them, raising a wall of stone from the steps. But a construction worker from the crowd, his quirk allowing him to sense structural stress, darted forward.
He didn't punch the wall. He placed his hands on it, found the flaw Groundswell had created in her haste, and pushed. The wall crumbled at a specific point, creating a breach. People flooded through.
Groundswell was knocked aside, not by attacks, but by the sheer tide of bodies. She lay on the cold steps, watching people pour into the symbol of law she'd upheld. She didn't get up. The will to fight had been extinguished by the truth in the librarian's eyes.
In the Financial District:
Here, the rage was colder, more calculated. A mob—now calling itself a "Citizen's Accountability Front"—had surrounded the sleek skyscraper of Halcyon Group, a major Commission contractor for containment facilities.
The heroes here were corporate-sponsored: Mirrorblade and Phaser. They were used to clean, public relations-friendly operations. Facing a screaming, weeping, furious crowd of ordinary citizens was entirely outside their training.
"Disperse immediately!" Mirrorblade commanded, his voice amplified by his helmet. "This is private property! Your grievances are with the government, not a private enterprise!"
From the roof of a nearby van, a young woman stood. She was Sora, a former Halcyon junior analyst Izuku had turned. Her suit was torn, but she held a megaphone.
"Private enterprise?" Her voice was sharp, laced with contempt. "Halcyon Group billed the government 5.4 million yen per month for 'nutritional paste' at Facility 8. The invoices are in the leak.
The paste was spoiled. It made children sick. My signature is on the quality waiver because my boss told me to. I lost my job when I questioned it. You," she pointed at Mirrorblade, "your agency received a 'security retainer' from Halcyon last quarter. You're not heroes. You're hired guards for murderers."
The crowd's murmur grew deadly.
Phaser stepped forward, hands raised, glowing with soft energy. "Let's not escalate. We can talk…"
"Talk?" A man emerged from the crowd. He was massive, a longshoreman with a powerful emission quirk that let him generate concussive waves from his palms—a quirk that had gotten him flagged for "potential instability."
He had been blacklisted from stable jobs. "My boy died in a Halcyon 'care facility.' He had a fever. They said it was managed. He was seven." His voice was gravel, his eyes dead. "No more talk."
He slammed his palms together. A visible shockwave, like heat haze, blasted forward. It didn't hit the heroes directly. It hit the marble façade of the Halcyon building. A ten-foot section shattered inward with an ear-splitting crash.
Mirrorblade moved instantly, creating a barrier of hard light to block debris. "You are under arrest for destruction of property and illegal quirk use!" He lunged, but his movement was predictable, meant for dueling villains, not for a swarm of enraged civilians.
Three people tackled him from the side. A woman wrapped him in electrified cables she yanked from a streetlight. A man with adhesive skin glued his helmet visor shut.
Another, with no quirk at all, simply wrenched the power supply pack from his back. Mirrorblade went down, blinded and trapped, his sophisticated gear useless against simple, brutal practicality.
Phaser fired a warning shot of disorienting energy into the air. "Stop this!"
The longshoreman turned his gaze to her. "Or what? You'll phase me? Send me to one of their cells?" He began walking toward her, each step deliberate. "Do it. Make me disappear. They'll just add your name to the list."
Phaser hesitated. The moral certainty she'd always fought with was gone. These weren't villains. They were victims. And they were right. Her finger trembled on her emitter. She couldn't do it.
In that moment of hesitation, the crowd surged past her, into the broken building. She stood alone in the chaos, her weapon hanging uselessly at her side, as the people executed their own form of justice, smashing lobbies, seizing files, dragging terrified executives into the street.
Below: The Purge
The air in the underground facility was cool and still, thick with the smell of damp concrete and ozone. Izuku moved through it like a ghost. The distant, muffled thunder from above was his symphony. On the walls, on scattered tablets, live feeds played silent images of the unfolding revolution.
He came to the secure wing he had allocated—or rather, imprisoned—to All For One's emissaries. They were four men, each bearing the mark of their master's "gifts": crude, powerful, and brutal enhancements that spoke of pain inflicted and received.
The leader was Gorou, a mountain of a man whose skin had been grafted with a rocky carapace, leaving his face a patchwork of scar tissue and hard stone.
He was playing cards with two others: Kaito, whose right arm was a grotesque, oversized blade-limb, and Ren, whose eyes glowed with sickly yellow energy.
The fourth, Sora (no relation to the woman above), a lean, silent man with vibration-sensitive fingertips, stood watch by the door.
"Kid's back," Sora murmured as Izuku entered.
Gorou didn't look up from his cards. "Midoriya. The surface is a buffet. When do we eat? My master expects a report on the new… opportunities."
Izuku stopped in the center of the room, hands in his pockets. He looked young, small amidst the brutes. But his stillness was absolute. "Your master's time is over," he said, his voice flat. "The old world of thieves, hiding in shadows and picking at the carcass, is ending."
Kaito snickered, the blade on his arm scraping against the table. "You got a big mouth for a little revolutionary. You think this chaos isn't exactly what he wanted? Disorder is his playground."
"This isn't disorder," Izuku said, his eyes cold and green in the low light. "It's correction. And there's no place in the new world for parasites who feed on suffering instead of causing it to end."
Ren stood up, his eyes flickering. "You're gonna moralize at us? After you unleashed all that?" He jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. "You're drowning the world in blood."
"I'm washing it clean," Izuku corrected. "And you're a stain that won't come out."
Gorou finally put his cards down. He stood, his bulk scraping the low ceiling. "I think the boss miscalculated you. Thought you were a useful weapon. You're just a broken kid with a messiah complex."
He cracked his stone-knuckled fists. "We'll take over from here. Your files, your little prison-break… we'll use it. Tell the master you died in the chaos. He'll understand."
Izuku didn't smile. He didn't adopt a fighting stance. He simply said, "No."
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