The vestiges of One For All were, in a sense, insane.
You'd have to be—choosing to oppose a man who could steal and bestow superpower in a world built on superpower. Insane, or stubborn enough to keep fighting long after death.
Even they didn't fully understand their own existence. Were they lingering memories? Quirk-data etched into DNA? Souls tethered eternally to this torch? They never truly vanished. They drifted half-conscious, dreamers in the dark, brushing against one another in flashes of thought and feeling. Only in rare storms—moments of peril, resonance, or unbearable emotion—did they awaken enough to speak & act.
They had roared once, all of them, with the Eighth. They had poured everything into that final blow, blasting apart the Demon Lord's skull. For one intoxicating moment, they believed it was over. But Yoichi—always Yoichi—shattered the illusion. He felt his brother's malice still crawling through the world.
Now the torch was passed again. And for the first time, it edged toward singularity. With no prior quirk-factor or quirk-subconscious to resist it, the power could settle and expand seamlessly. The vestiges would have a chance to guide this new wielder more fully than ever before.
In the subconscious realm, a barren expanse swallowed by the void, the orange-golden flame of One For All blazed. The torch roared, flames licking high, intensifying with every pulse, tethered still to Toshinori's fading spark. From that blaze, eight figures coalesced—scarred silhouettes of lives long gone. They turned their gaze outward, to the image cast by their successor's eyes.
The first voice came sharp, battle-hardened.
"Tch. Another one." Kudo—the Second—folded his arms.. "And somehow even more naïve than the Eighth."
"Green's the right word, chief," Bruce—the Third—said evenly. "Kid hasn't hardened his bones yet. He's soft."
From a little apart, Hikage curled in on himself, his voice dry. "You're looking at the wrong thing. Bones don't break first. Hearts do. Always."
Banjo barked a laugh, spreading his hands. "Aw, don't jinx him, Shinomori. Kid threw himself at that sludge freak barehanded, didn't he? Takes guts."
"Not guts," En murmured. "Recklessness. A corpse saves no one."
Nana shook her head, her voice calm but resolute. "It isn't recklessness Tayutai. It's instinct. He couldn't just stand by while someone suffered. That kind of heart… that's what makes a hero."
The flame flickered—and the Eighth appeared. Toshinori Yagi, thin, unfinished, like a half-drawn sketch. His very presence radiated guilt, dragging on them all. He had passed the burden believing the monster destroyed. Now, in this realm, he could not escape the truth: he had left the boy to face what he had failed to finish.
"Don't start groveling, Yagi," Kudo snapped. "You chose him. Right or wrong, that's done. We need results."
Nana's eyes flared. "Enough. He gave everything—struck harder than any of us ever did. Don't cheapen that."
"Peace." Yoichi's voice rang quiet but firm. "The fire found him worthy. That matters."
"'Worthy,'" En repeated quietly. "But will worth alone vanquish that monster?"
Silence pressed. Yoichi lowered his gaze to the flame, rooting in the boy.
"He isn't gone," Yoichi whispered. "And when he rises, it will be this boy who stands. We must guide him."
A sharp hum from Hikage broke the stillness. All of them turned—through Izuku's eyes they saw the crowd, glass shattering, Trigger vials scattering—
—and then Izuku Midoriya, arms spread wide, throwing himself in front of strangers.
"Idiot…" muttered the researcher among them, bracing for the backlash.
The flame surged, violently.
Banjo flinched. "Wait—what the hell? The quirk-factor isn't even formed yet! Then how—"
Bruce cut him off, voice sharp. "Think. Trigger doesn't touch quirk-factors directly—it stimulates the brain. Specifically the subconscious tied to quirks."
Banjo blinked. "…Huh?"
Yoichi's tone was grave. "One For All's bestowal manifests through the vestige realm—anchored in the user's brain. The stockpiled power rests in the body. But the bridge lies here."
Thump— The realm echoed like a heartbeat.
Flames warped, flashing with unnatural colors.
Hikage stiffened, senses raw. With what control he had over the fire, he redirected most of the surge to the boy's hand posed toward the Trigger-junkie, who was winding up for another attack.
BOOM!!
A shockwave tore outward, scattering the crowd, blasting the villain into the wall. Izuku's bones shattered, muscles tearing apart. His scream ripped through the void, pain washing over every vestige.
"—Nine!" Yoichi tried to reach him. Nana cried out in motherly concern. Banjo shouted in panic.
But the boy's mind drowned in agony.
Hikage steadied himself. "I think… the danger-sense had—"
Before he could finish, a mild flare accompanied their discharge from the blazing core of the torch. They transitioned seamlessly into the void, as if the anchoring flame that had bound them had merely unfurled.
"Again—what the hell is going on! Wait—HEY!" Banjo yelled. "Blackwhip—I can feel it! I can push it outside!" Tendrils snapped into being, spreading and coiling around Izuku.
Yoichi's eyes widened, his voice full of awe. "The singularity process… has accelerated."
Thump! Another beat heralded another surge.
Floating, surrounded by a pink aura, Nana's eyes widened. "I can feel it as well, the connection… I can use Float!" She raised her hand, and Izuku's battered body lurched skyward. "He needs to be clear from the crowd—for his sake, and theirs."
BOoOM!
He rocketed nearly a hundred meters by that surge, before Nana clamped down, halting his ascent and holding him locked in the air, preventing him from propelling into the next town—or the stratosphere.
Thump! Another pulse.
Banjo forced a grin. "Don't worry, kid, I have plenty of experience patching wounds with these lovely chains of hell." Blackwhip wrapped Izuku tighter, binding bone and flesh together, keeping him from ripping apart.
Boom!
Another pulse of pressure released. This time, thanks to Blackwhip, the damage was substantially reduced.
"Don't try to make light of the situation, Lariat," En sternly reprimanded his old friend. He then considered, "No matter what happens next, keeping this out of the public eye is the smartest move." Saying this, En shrouded Izuku in a veil of smoke, effectively masking the severity from outside eyes.
Thump!
"Why aren't you using Fa Jin?" Nana snapped at Bruce. "It could balance the recoil!"
"I'm waiting," Bruce said, voice taut. "For the real disaster."
"What are you—" Banjo started, but the flame cut him short.
Thump…thump..thump.thumpthump…..
The beat became continuous, a single ringing note. Flames burst into a storm of color, a pulsing nebula. Shockwaves bled steady, a pulling force joining it, twisted into a vortex.
Banjo's eyes widened. "That's not just recoil—he's—he's absorbing!"
The blaze folded inward, no longer a steady torch but a storm of tensions. It didn't claw at the world randomly—it reached for what was already part of itself, the patterns it knew.
Weight gathered, invisible and crushing. Currents of air whirled, spiraling into the fire. Sparks jittered like nerves misfiring, each pulse a stinging flash through their shared senses. Tendrils of charge twined into heavier threads, humming with raw electricity. Motion itself seemed to stutter—stored, released, stored again—in waves that rattled their bones. And beneath it all, deeper than breath or bone, a thrum of Bio-energy surged.
The whole conflagration vibrated like a newborn star, trying to tear itself free of the boy's chest.
"He isn't absorbing," Bruce corrected grimly. "It's Stockpiling." As he spoke, he released Fa Jin across Izuku's body, finally striking the balance—dampening the recoil without bursting the boy outright.
Yoichi's voice was taut. "It's latched onto the bridge—the link between one holder and the next, anchored by the DNA transfer."
"And if the medium of bestowal is carrying stockpile's energy at the same time it's stockpiling…" Bruce's eyes narrowed.
Kudo finished the thought, his tone clipped. "Then Trigger's interference has forced the stockpile to be bestowed outward—pulling energy for its purpose, but only the kinds already residing in it." His succinct summary put the situation into perspective.
"But… how?" Hikage asked, hunching over, still trying to parse through the flood of stimuli rushing in. "Bestowal shouldn't work without gene code. How did it manifest outside?"
Nana's voice cracked, grief pulling her steady composure thin. "Can't you see, Shinamori? The child is a bloody mess… every shockwave's carrying his blood through the air." Her hands trembled as she forced the words out. "That's the medium. That's what's spreading it."
Ah—realization struck them. The boy was too small. Too fragile. And his body was bleeding itself into the fire.
With a grunt, Kudo stepped closer to the roaring core. "I can feel inertia fields tangling in. If Gearshift spills outward, the boy won't be the only casualty." Blue flame coiled around him as he clamped down, concentrating on containing Gearshift, ignoring Banjo's muttered "tsundere" jab.
At the flame's edge, Toshinori's faint flickering vestige, clawed into the blaze, digging in bare-handed, reaching for help from his real self.
Yoichi—alone—felt the gaze. A shadow at the flame's edge. His brother. Curious. Hungry.
'No,' Yoichi resolved. An unyielding grip on the blaze. 'You will not touch him.'
The storm raged. The vestiges fought to contain it, as the realm changes around them. And in the waking world, smoke, static, and invisible force poured from one trembling boy's frame.
But none of them knew how much longer they could hold.
"He is here." Hikage sensed it first.
Then, beyond the storm, they caught the blur—blue and red pushing the air with mighty kicks, the shape of a man surging through the chaos.
Though they were his predecessors and had disjointed opinions of him, they couldn't deny the truth in that moment:
All Might inspired hope like no other.
"Don't worry, my boy."
They could hear his booming voice through the cacophony of noises.
" Because I am here."
---
Ayumi Amatsuki walked in the shadow of a giant.
The world's gleaming titan: All Might, the Symbol of Peace. Yet what struck her most was not his power, but how fundamentally un-large he truly was.
She knew the thin, drawn face of Toshinori Yagi because she was the one who filed his insurance claims, shuffled the cover stories, and fought to keep the world from noticing the catastrophic cracks in the Symbol. That had been her duty for five years, ever since the number 1 hero's former sidekick—the self-proclaimed number-one fan—walked away.
To the public, she was no one: just an invisible woman in a gray suit, clipboard in hand, orbiting Might Tower. But to Toshinori Yagi, she was firewall, archive, and witness. The Symbol of Peace blazed incandescent, demanding a perfect darkness to mask its flaws. Ayumi's job was to hoard the shadows.
Her girlish crush on All Might had long since burned away, replaced by stark clarity. She had seen the blood-soaked napkins, the tremors that wracked his frame, the stubborn refusal of a man who would not fall. After his great injury, when others panicked, it was Ayumi who fed documents into the fire, scrubbed records, and crafted excuses for his vanishing acts.
It was, she often thought, the most important job she would ever have. And perhaps the loneliest.
Her office reflected her: precise, ordered. A small vase of lilies softened the steel-gray walls. The digital clock read 09:09. Phones rang, reports shuffled, junior aides hurried past. The tower buzzed louder these days, now that All Might's U.A. teaching post was only a month away.
Ayumi sat perfectly straight, fingers hovering over her keyboard, when the emergency line buzzed.
The one only he ever used.
She lifted the receiver without hesitation. "Might Tower, Amatsuki speaking."
Air rushed faintly over the line—he was moving fast, airborne—followed by a heavy thump!
Other voices bled through: Nezu's clipped murmur, Recovery Girl's sharp scolding.
Then his voice, rasping and weaker than she'd ever heard.
"Ayumi. Incident at U.A. Station. Trigger outbreak. Contain it. Quietly."
Her pen was already poised. "Understood. Details?"
"Villain. Trigger. Civilians involved. A boy. He—" Toshinori's voice faltered. The silence dragged long enough to tighten her chest. "—containment. His identity. Every resource. Discreetly."
She opened her mouth, but another voice cut across the line, smooth and almost too polite.
"Good morning, Miss Amatsuki. Nezu speaking. U.A. will assist with the necessary cover-up. We can't allow a young boy's future to be destroyed. Don't you agree?"
She froze. Calm words, but his presence was complication itself.
Nezu continued breezily, "My Vanguard squad reports the boy's figure wasn't clearly seen in the chaos. Most civilians and students were already struggling from residual Trigger gas. The station's camera network, inconveniently, was destroyed in the blast. The incident will leak within minutes, but the boy's identity must remain hidden."
Her grip on the receiver tightened. "Then what narrative do you want the public to accept?"
"Why, a weather quirk, naturally," Nezu replied, light as if discussing the forecast. "Unstable atmospheric discharge, shock waves, resulting from Trigger enhancement—quite dramatic, but easy enough for the public to swallow and impossible to link to any specific person."
Ayumi frowned. "A fabricated weather quirk enhanced with Trigger for cover? What actually happened? Are you implying the boy's actual Quirk is too dangerous to reveal?"
"Don't worry yourself, Miss Amatsuki," Nezu replied smoothly. "And for reference, I'll forward you the recovered station footage once Power Loader finishes piecing it back together."
Her eyes narrowed. "You just said the footage was destroyed."
"Oh, well, of course there will be backup storage, wouldn't there? It simply requires a bit of, shall we say, technical recovery."
She tried again, firmer. "And if the media gets their hands on it—"
"As I said," Nezu cut across her gently, voice never losing its pleasant edge, "all publicly accessible data was destroyed due to a quirk accident triggered by the drug. Oh, and I'll be coordinating with Team Idaten, since they were on-site."
The line clicked dead.
Ayumi lowered the receiver slowly, lips pressed thin. Yes. They didn't call him the OverRat for nothing.
She exhaled once, steadying herself. Then orders rolled from her lips like clockwork.
"Mobilize support teams. Scrub all civilian footage before it reaches the press. Prep the release: Trigger attack at U.A. Station. The focus is on the drug." Not the boy.
Her aides scattered.
She dialed another line. "Naomasa? Amatsuki here. You're at U.A. Station?"
Sirens wailed faintly behind his curt reply. "Yeah. Perp's in custody, but fallout's ugly. Civilians, students—kids on Trigger."
Her eyes closed briefly. "Tower resources are en route. All Might wants containment. The boy's identity stays buried. You'll have full support."
A pause, then Naomasa's tone softened a fraction. "If Toshinori asked you for that… then it's worse than ugly."
Ayumi's grip tightened. "Do your job, Detective. I'll do mine."
She hung up, his voice echoing in her head.
The public would notice. All Might's shadow at U.A. Station, on exam day, couldn't be dismissed without questions. Sharp minds would connect it to rumors of his new teaching post.
Better to seize control. Announce the appointment early. Tie his presence at the station to that commitment. Let Might Tower and U.A. issue the joint report.
She straightened the papers before her, speaking crisply to the aides now gathering again.
"Draft a press statement. Advance the announcement—All Might is joining U.A. as a teacher. His presence at Mustafu ties directly to that. Make it clear Tower and U.A. are coordinating."
The machine lurched into motion.
Her computer pinged. A new file from Nezu.
She opened it—and her lips twisted as English curses spilled out, her half-American accent sharp.
"Oh, for cryin' out loud—what in tarnation do you mean by a weather quirk cover? That's a goddamn vortex!"
---
SWISH… RUSTLE!
The violent, high-pitched compression of energy ripped through the chamber, and the boy's body shuddered inside the pod. The capsule shook—not from destructive force, but from a sustained, internal agony.
Two maintenance bots zipped past the observation window, hauling oxygen cylinders and bulky equipment. Izuku Midoriya was inhaling twenty times the normal supply, his body greedily consuming every drop. Beside the pod, in front of a cluster of diagnostic screens, Recovery Girl's sharp eyes tracked the readouts, her expression carved with concern.
The sterile infirmary—its obsidian floor gleaming under harsh lights—smelled of ozone. The containment chamber, lined with one-way glass and heavy shielding, evoked the oppressive stillness of a Tartarus cell.
Yagi Toshinori stood hollow and thin on that floor. It had been an hour since he'd delivered the boy here, left him to the machines, and called Ayumi.
The waiting weighed heavier than any villain's blow. Watching the boy convulse, he almost wished for Recovery Girl's cane against his shin—something sharp, something tangible—anything but this gnawing guilt.
The door slid open.
It had taken one agonizing hour for Inko Midoriya to arrive, every second delayed by security protocols and the suspended rail lines. Now she entered, trembling, her eyes already rimmed red with panic. Nezu padded at her side, climbing onto a rolling stool the moment they entered.
"What happened to Izuku?"
She had heard about the Trigger outbreak at U.A. Station. But hearing her son was caught in it—injured—? Her voice cracked with desperation.
"As I told you on the way, Madam, your son was struck by quirk-enhancing drugs," Nezu said softly, tone measured.
"My son doesn't have a Quirk. What cruel mockery is this?" Her words lashed out, sharpened by fear.
Nezu steepled his paws and produced a tablet. "We have footage, Madam. It is better that you see."
The video played: Izuku leaping forward without hesitation, shielding strangers from Trigger bullets. His frame riddled with darts. The recording froze just before the convulsions began.
Inko's breath hitched. Terror clouded her face, yet through it flickered something else—something dangerously close to pride.
"He didn't stumble into it," Nezu said, guiding her voice as gently as a teacher steadying a pupil. "He chose. To act. To protect."
Toshinori's gut twisted. He understood Nezu's manipulation—necessary, but merciless. Izuku wasn't being framed as a victim. He was being reframed as a boy who chose to leap into danger.
That changed the fear. Didn't erase it—but anchored it.
Inko whispered, half in denial: "But—even if he jumped in—he's Quirkless. How could a quirk-enhancing drug affect him?"
The moment had come.
Toshinori's skeletal frame folded forward, dropping instantly into dogeza. His forehead pressed against the cold tile, a gesture of absolute apology.
Inko stared, bewildered at the gaunt prostrating before her.
"Madam," his rasping voice trembled with shame, "there is something you must know. Izuku… he is not entirely Quirkless."
Inko froze.
"The power within him—the very power tearing him apart—is a torch. A flame passed down through generations. I gave it to him. I bestowed this Quirk upon your son."
He lifted his head slowly, his eyes locking onto hers, ready to bear the full weight of the moment. He wouldn't offer her the name Toshinori Yagi or the mantle of All Might, the Symbol of Peace. He didn't want her reverence; he wanted her judgment.
Silence. A storm of emotions crossed her face, then—
SLAP!
The crack echoed off the sterile walls.
Yagi flinched, the sting burning across his cheek. Inko staggered back, hand over her mouth, horrified by what she had done. Tears blurred her vision.
The silence was thick, suffocating.
Then—
THUMP!
The pod rattled, harder this time. Izuku convulsed violently, black tendrils writhing around his body.
Inko's panic snapped back to its rightful place. Her son. Nothing else mattered. She turned toward the glass, rushing to the chamber.
For Inko Midoriya, her son always came first.
---
The hero hopefuls were losing hope.
Without warning, they had been herded into the vast U.A. Examination Hall by two men—heroes, some guessed, a few even recognized. No explanation, only the vague word emergency.
The tension was suffocating. Candidates exchanged nervous glances, half-whispered questions evaporating before answers came. Some even wondered if this was part of the test—a hidden trial of nerves.
Then, like sparks across dry brush, the glow of screens spread. Every phone lit up. The hall became a restless constellation of blue light and scrolling feeds. Where authority stayed silent, rumor swelled into chorus.
The consensus was unmistakable: Trigger. U.A Station crippled.
At last, an official voice broke through. Present Mic bounded onto the stage, though his usual swagger was muted, his grin stretched thin.
"A-A-ALRIGHT, listeners! You've heard it—the Trigger incident at the station is serious business! With the security risks, the number of injured candidates, and the rail lines down… fair attendance is impossible! So, the U.A. Entrance Examination is—suspended!"
A wave of disbelief crashed through the room.
"Suspended? I traveled six hours for this! That's it?!" a boy's voice cracked, raw with anguish.
"What about the business course exam?" another asked.
"What about a re-schedule? Will it even be fair? We wasted everything!" another shouted.
Amid the uproar, Tenya rose stiffly, posture like a drawn blade. His words cut across the hall:
"Present Mic, sir! Do you confirm this incident was severe enough to suspend the entire examination? This represents a grievous failure of public safety at the terminal!"
Mic's glasses flashed as he forced a brighter grin. "You nailed it, listener! Exactly right! Total emergency response, unpredictable fallout—no way to run a fair exam! We'll reschedule."
Some were calmed. Others weren't.
A green-haired girl whispered, clutching her phone: "The victims matter more. Pausing the exam means U.A. is taking this seriously, kero." Her steady tone betrayed nothing—but the hand pressed against her chest did.
A boy with a tail exhaled, shoulders sagging as he tucked his phone away.
Another, fur bristling along his arms, growled low: "Villains and their poison robbed us of this day! How disgraceful!" Frustration sharpened every word.
A girl crowned with vines pressed her palms together, lips moving in silent prayer for faceless victims.
And so the great hall, once alive with ambition, simmered into fractured silence. For the first time, every hopeful felt the weight of the path they dreamed of.
Tenya left the hall last, his steps measured though his mind roiled.
The words Trigger incident rang louder in his head than the clamor of disappointed candidates. More than the failure of public safety, more than the disruption of the exam, it was the name that stuck. Team Idaten. Reports said they had been on-site. His brother's team.
He adjusted his glasses, forcing composure, but unease pulled at his calm.
The corridor ahead broke his thoughts. There—just beyond the doors—stood two pros in quiet conversation.
Present Mic, shades pushed up into his hair, one hand raised in a half-hearted attempt at levity. And beside him, shoulders bowed under scuffed white armor, stood Tensei Iida. His plates were streaked with soot and dirt, his helmet tucked under one arm, the other clutching a school bag stuffed with charred notebooks.
Mic gave Tensei a firm pat on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it, bro. Nezu's waiting. We'll sort this." His voice was lower, stripped of its usual showman's shine.
Tenya froze. The sight of his brother like that—battered, weary—cut sharper than the suspension of the exam ever could.
"…Brother."
Tensei turned, and for the briefest moment, exhaustion cracked into warmth. "Tenya."
Mic caught the shift, and with a knowing nod, excused himself. "I'll see you in the briefing, Turbo. Take your time." With that, he vanished down the hall.
Tenya hurried forward. "What are you doing here? Were you—" His gaze flicked to the soot, the battered notebooks. "…you were at U.A Station."
Tensei sighed, the weight of the day in that single breath. "Yes. I was there. Nezu called me in afterward for a meeting."
Tenya swallowed, voice taut. "The reports—Trigger, Team Idaten—was it truly that severe? What happened?"
For a moment, Tensei's eyes darkened. Then he shook his head gently. "Bad intel. That's all I can tell you."
It wasn't enough, but Tenya knew better than to press. His brother's tone was final.
"Come," Tensei said instead, resting a hand on his shoulder. "The trains are down. I already called us a taxi."
Outside, the late afternoon air carried the wail of distant sirens. A taxi idled at the curb, waiting. Tensei guided Tenya toward it with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Go home, get some rest. U.A. will contact you about the reschedule."
"You're not coming with me?"
Tensei shook his head. "Nezu's waiting. This won't take long."
As the taxi pulled away from U.A., Tenya risked a glance at his brother. The dirt on his armor, the weary set of his jaw—this was not the elder sibling who always seemed untouchable.
For the first time, Tenya felt the shadow of the world his brother lived in, and it unsettled him more than any canceled exam ever could.
His mind circled the same uneasy thought:
Tensei was hiding something.
---
SWISH… RUSTLE!
Inside the sterile containment chamber, black tendrils writhed like living shadows, cocooning Izuku's trembling body. The pod's glass shimmered under the pressure of restrained power, muffled vibrations rattling the frame.
Inko Midoriya's breath caught. Her son looked swallowed, suffocated. Panic clawed her chest as she pressed closer to the glass.
"His condition—please," she begged, eyes darting between Recovery Girl and the flickering readouts.
The elderly heroine frowned, turning from her monitors. "You're the boy's mother?"
Inko nodded, gripping the glass as if sheer will might shield him. Recovery Girl's gaze flicked briefly toward Toshinori Yagi, still kneeling in silence at the far side of the room. She almost spoke, then bit it back.
Instead, her sharp eyes studied Inko's quick movements across the data streams. "You understand diagnostics… you've worked in medicine?"
"I'm a retired nurse," Inko answered automatically, never tearing her gaze from Izuku.
"Then you know why I haven't healed him," Recovery Girl said, her voice gentler now.
Inko blinked. "You're Recovery Girl—the pro hero who can heal injuries instantly." Her son had spoken about her countless times, awed that U.A. had such a healer. "If you really are her… why aren't you saving him?"
The old woman's lips thinned. "Because my Quirk draws on stamina. And your boy has none left to spare. Every drop is being hijacked—focused on something else. If I forced my healing now, it would snuff him out."
Inko's throat tightened. "How could this even happen?"
Recovery Girl pulled up a tablet, flicking through lab results. "The drug wasn't standard Trigger. It was a modified Ideo formula—meant to last longer, reduce body deformation. But the makers failed. It still mutates, still destabilizes—and they deliberately made it highly volatile. Experimental. Weaponized."
Inko's voice broke. "Volatile? You mean... they made it so it would turn into a gas? Why? Who would intentionally want to create that?"
A calm voice cut through the sterile hum. "To use it as a bioweapon for mass terror."
Nezu stepped in, his tiny frame somehow casting a larger shadow than his size should allow. Behind him, Yagi stirred but did not rise.
The silence pressed until Recovery Girl spoke again, curious despite herself. "His reaction isn't normal. But then… One For All isn't normal either."
Inko turned sharply. "What do you mean?"
The old heroine tapped the screens. "His mutations aren't single-track. Neural activity, his nervous system, even his equilibrium—everything is overclocked at once. Fueled by an immense energy source, burning oxygen like fire. It prevents my healing… but it's also what's keeping him alive."
Nezu adjusted his tablet, eyes gleaming. "Energy readings confirm it. Noticeably low at the vortex site—even from a drone a hundred meters up. Yagi—tell me. Wasn't the boy suspended in the air?"
Toshinori's eyes widened. Slowly, he lifted his head. Recovery Girl's silence proved she had realized earlier.
"Yes," he whispered.
Inko looked between them, bewildered. Toshinori answered her directly. "That was Float. My master's Quirk."
Recovery Girl pointed toward the black tendrils binding Izuku. "And those—Black energy tendrils, most likely another predecessor's. He's manifesting their powers."
Inko's knees wavered. She stared at the writhing tendrils, horror and awe colliding. Until now, she'd thought this strange power was the gaunt man's alone. But this… this was something far greater. Her son's reckless leap into danger had cursed him with pain—yet also saved him.
SWISH… RUSTLE!
The pod shuddered again. Izuku convulsed, the tendrils clamping tighter. Inko cried out. "Why is he shaking like that?!"
"Energy compressions," Recovery Girl replied. "His body is mutating, remaking itself with every pulse."
Her cane tapped sharply against the floor. "The Ideo-trigger's mutation effect, combined with its quirk-amplifying property, is tearing him apart. And because he never had a natural quirk, the integration is accelerated. My healing could stabilize him in bursts, yes—but it would also rip away the very system keeping him alive. Like tearing a splint off a broken bone mid-surgery."
Inko's eyes shimmered. "Then… is there nothing you can do? Nothing to wake him from this coma?"
Recovery Girl hesitated, then sighed. "If I applied my quirk repeatedly, in intervals, it might pull him toward equilibrium. But stamina is the price. In this state, his body might not respond at all. Worse—it could collapse the instant the mutation scaffolding falls."
The silence was unbearable.
Then Nezu's voice, calm and sharp, sliced through. "Unless…"
Both women turned. His black eyes gleamed, paws steepled. "Unless we deliver a jolt. A reboot. Not foreign energy—his body would reject that. Something compatible. A spark he wants to accept. In that moment—Recovery Girl applies her quirk to push him back toward balance."
Inko seized the idea. "Something compatible? Where could we possibly—"
Her gaze followed Nezu's. To the gaunt man in the corner.
Yagi's eyes widened. "Me?!"
Nezu tilted his head, amused. "Of course. You passed it to him. His link to One For All is through you. That's why you felt his danger before anyone else, isn't it? You sensed it."
Yagi faltered. He had felt it—an invisible tug in his chest when Izuku's body screamed.
"If such a link exists," Nezu pressed, "then your residual energy—your connection—could serve as the spark. Though it will likely reduce your power even further. Your time in your enhanced form may shrink."
Yagi gave a firm nod, undeterred.
Inko looked between them, stricken. "You're saying—you would drain yourself? Lose more of your power—for my son?" She knew the value of power in this world filled with heros & villans.
Toshinori's voice was ironclad. "If it saves him, then yes." For the first time, his eyes carried light—hope of atonement.
Her breath caught. A stranger—this battered man—was willing to give everything for her son. She didn't even know who he truly was.
"Then we test," Recovery Girl cut in briskly. Her eyes locked on Yagi. "Take your true form."
"…Pardon?"
"Your muscle form," she said flatly, "we need full readouts before anything else."
Inko frowned, confused. "Muscle form?"
Yagi hesitated only a moment, then clenched his fists. His gaunt frame erupted outward, muscle surging in explosive waves. The frail man vanished. In his place stood the towering, golden-haired Symbol of Peace.
ALL MIGHT.
The room tilted.
Inko staggered back, eyes wide, her breath stolen. A thousand thoughts crashed over her.
The No.1 Hero had passed his power to her son. The same power that was tearing him apart—and keeping him alive.
All Might had given Izuku his dream… while she could not.
The man who had knelt at her feet in apology was the same one her son adored beyond words.
And now, the Symbol of Peace was ready to lose more of his power for her boy.
Inko sank to the floor, too shocked to process it all.
A giant hand rested gently on her shoulder. She looked up to see the Symbol of Peace gazing at her with quiet concern. For a moment, neither spoke. Then she whispered: "Why my boy? He's all I have…"
Yagi bowed his massive head. "Because he had the heart of a hero long before he had a Quirk."
Their gazes held, mother and mentor, sharing a single truth: Izuku Midoriya truly possessed the heart of a hero.
Recovery Girl's cane struck the floor, shattering the moment. "Enough talk. We have a boy to save."
Bots rushed, panels sliding aside. Two apertures opened in the pod—one at Izuku's arm, exposing a wound, the other at his hand.
"Yagi," Recovery Girl instructed. "A drop of blood into the wound. That will serve as the conduit."
"And I'll apply my quirk at the same time. Not enough to collapse him—just enough to shift his system."
Inko pressed to the glass, whispering prayers through her tears.
Inside, Izuku twitched, tendrils thrashing violently.
All Might raised a trembling hand. With careful focus, he pressed a bleeding fingertip to the wound on Izuku's arm.
On the opposite side, Recovery Girl leaned forward, lips brushing his hand as her quirk flared—sparks of gold spreading outward.
The chamber roared. Energy whined. Oxygen pumps hissed. Alarms screamed red.
And Inko Midoriya prayed harder than ever before.
"Please, Izuku… come back to me."
The pod shuddered one last time—then, suddenly, the violent spasms stopped. The tendrils curled close around Izuku instead of lashing out. His breathing, once ragged, steadied into rhythm.
On the monitors, red chaos resolved into a fragile but undeniable line of stability.
Recovery Girl pulled back, exhaling. "It worked."
All Might's hand slid down the glass, his voice rough but steady. "He's holding on."
Inko collapsed against the window, tears flowing—but this time with relief. Her son was still here. Still fighting.
For the first time hope filled the sterile air of the chamber.
---
"It wasn't a weather quirk."
Nezu's whiskers twitched as he regarded Shouta Aizawa's deadpan stare across the desk. The principal sipped his tea as if the words had amused him.
The news of the new One For All wielder's stabilization had allowed Nezu to turn his focus back to other matters—and Aizawa never wasted time with pleasantries.
"Of course it wasn't," Nezu said with a soft chuckle. "Enhanced by Trigger, yes, but weather? No. I would never attempt such a lie in front of an experienced man like you, who was there himself."
Aizawa grunted, arms folded. "Then tell me—who was the boy in the vortex?"
Nezu's smile thinned. "That, I cannot."
Aizawa's brow twitched. He said nothing, only fixed Nezu with a heavy, questioning look.
"The parents," Nezu explained, "do not want their child's identity exposed. And personally, I concur. Knowledge of him would not be kind to his future. Not with the HPSC sniffing, and villains hungering."
A long pause. Then Aizawa exhaled through his nose. "…Fine."
Nezu's grin sharpened. "And that is why I like you, Shouta. Always rational."
From beside Aizawa, Snipe adjusted his hat. "Some of the U.A. board members have been buzzin'. Questions about the exam cancellation. Questions about the incident. And inquiries about the HPSC's involvement in the cleanup detail."
"Tell them," Nezu replied smoothly, "that U.A. will handle everything. The exam date will be rescheduled soon. As for the HPSC—" His eyes gleamed. "We have a guest who may shed some light."
A knock interrupted.
"Come in," Nezu sang.
The door opened, revealing a tall man in white armor. Tensei Iida—Ingenium—bowed slightly. "Principal. Professors."
"Ah, Tensei," Nezu said warmly. "If you don't mind, I'd like privacy for this discussion."
Aizawa rose at once. On his way out, he placed a firm hand on Tensei's shoulder, a silent nod. Then he and Snipe were gone, leaving only Nezu and the pro-hero.
Tensei straightened. "What happened at U.A. station… it was meant to be routine. A Trigger raid. But because of incomplete intel, it spiraled into disaster. I dragged U.A. into that. I apologize."
Nezu tilted his head, eyes glimmering. "If faulty intel was the issue, does that not place fault upon the HPSC, who provided it?"
Tensei stiffened. "You knew…?"
"I knew," Nezu said lightly, "that the Commission has been issuing strike orders on Trigger operations. Hardly classified, really."
Tensei's jaw tightened. "Even so, the field response was mine. My responsibility."
"And if the intel itself was false?" Nezu's tone sliced cleanly, as if testing the edge of a blade. "Still your fault?"
Tensei faltered. "…What do you mean?"
Nezu slid a folder across the desk. "It wasn't standard Trigger. It was a modified Ideo strain. Designed to last longer. More volatile. Gaseous on contact with air. That is what tore your operation apart."
Tensei scanned the pages, eyes widening.
"Had your team known," Nezu continued, "prepared properly… would the outcome not have been different?"
Tensei clenched his fists. "The Commission didn't know either. They couldn't have."
"Perhaps," Nezu allowed. "And yet I've already heard of such modified Trigger on black markets. The Commission should have, too."
Tensei went silent.
Nezu leaned back. "My personal investigation suggests the HPSC withheld details. They are baiting bigger fish. Likely at the request of the World Hero Organization. Classified, hush-hush."
Conflict churned in Tensei's chest—duty demanding he shoulder the blame, reason telling him where it truly belonged. His eyes drifted to the battered backpack he had carried in.
He heard the reports: a boy had leapt into the chaos, shielding strangers. He'd even asked about their well-being while he lay in pain on the ground—a boy who likely hadn't even understood the Trigger..
"...The boy, how is he?" Tensei asked, looking up. "I saw All Might carry him from the vortex."
"Stabilizing," Nezu replied. "And All Might, wisely, did not stay to assist the cleanup. A quirk like his in the presence of airborne Trigger? Catastrophic."
Tensei shuddered at the thought. The world didn't know All Might's true ability, but if his power lost control… disaster was too small a word. He set the backpack on Nezu's desk, sliding notebooks forward.
"These belonged to him. Izuku Midoriya."
Nezu's eyes flicked to the name.
"I won't reveal his identity," Tensei promised, voice steady. "It's better for him if the media never learns. But…" His tone turned curious "I… looked inside. Notebooks. 'Hero Analysis for the Future.' No mention of his quirk, but detailed breakdowns of Pro Heroes. Even me. It was… humbling." He hesitated. "Nezu, what is he?"
Nezu steepled his paws. "Tell me, Ingenium. When you saw him in the vortex—what did you see?"
"Raw power," Tensei admitted. "Wild. A phenomenon I couldn't explain."
"And before that?"
Tensei closed his eyes, recalling the scene: he watched from afar as the boy's small frame hurled itself forward. "Instinct," Tensei murmured. "Reckless instinct to save others."
"Exactly," Nezu said softly. " Not, because he did not know what Trigger was. Because he had no quirk at all."
Tensei's eyes shot open. "…What?"
"Registered quirkless," Nezu said evenly. "Until Trigger forced a… reaction. Energy-accumulative. Invisible until released."
Tensei staggered back. "But… he applied to U.A. without a quirk?"
Nezu's smile sharpened. "Why not? He studied. He dreamed. He dared. Quirk or no quirk, he walked to our gates."
The words pierced. Tensei looked down at the notebooks again, really seeing them for the first time. The obsessive detail, the relentless curiosity—written not from power, but from hunger. From faith.
"…To want to be a hero without power," he breathed. "To leap anyway…" His chest tightened, then burned with something fierce. "That's… true heroism."
Nezu's eyes softened. "And so you see why you must not shoulder this guilt. The boy has already turned your failure into his first act of heroism."
The shadow of self-doubt lifted from Tensei's face. In its place, fire.
"He will be great," Tensei said firmly. "With instincts like that, and a mind for analysis, Midoriya will surpass us all. Please… tell him I wish to meet him. To apologize. Properly."
"You will," Nezu promised.
Tensei bowed deeply, then left with renewed resolve.
Alone, Nezu set the notebooks atop his desk. His smile remained, but his eyes sharpened.
The public would be satisfied with the cover story of a "weather quirk enhanced by Trigger." Ingenium would keep the secret, but the HPSC, with their reach, would discover Izuku Midoriya soon enough. By then, the boy would already be a U.A. student, and any inquiries about his former "quirkless" status would meet the same tidy explanation Nezu had just offered Ingenium.
Not a lie. Not the whole truth.
Because even those in the know about One For All… knew only fragments.
Nezu reached for the phone, dialing. The line clicked.
A gruff voice answered, dry with exasperation.
"…What did that oaf do this time?"
---
Mezo Shōji wanted to be the coolest hero.
Not the loudest. Not the strongest. The coolest. Someone whose very memory proved that heteromorphs could be more than their monstrous appearance. Someone the next generation could look at without fear.
That dream had roots in pain.
Back in his village, prejudice ran deep. When he saved a drowning girl—stretching one of his strange arms into the river to haul her out—the villagers didn't cheer. They sneered. They called it dirty blood staining the pure. Then they beat him for touching her.
Later, the girl found him. Tearful, blaming herself, begging forgiveness. Shōji gave it without hesitation. And when she whispered thank you, something sparked in him. That one word made the bruises worth it. If saving people could still bring gratitude, even through fear, then he would live for that. He would become a hero.
So he left. In the city, stares followed him, yes, but fists did not. People muttered, but no one dragged him away. It wasn't acceptance, not yet, but it was enough to breathe. Enough to dream of U.A. High.
He studied, trained, endured. Even if he failed the entrance exam, he would try again. He would not give up. Each day of preparation was a step toward proving that a heteromorph could stand as a hero.
Then, at the station, sound like gunfire erupted. Trigger rounds tore into the crowd. Quirks went haywire in every direction.
Shōji froze. Instincts warred inside him—years of learned caution screaming not to draw attention, not to remind the world of the "monster" in their midst. But his body tensed, ready to move, when another boy moved first.
He didn't know his name. Only that the boy hurled himself forward, shielding strangers with nothing but his own body.
Why? Did he not know what the drug could do? Or did he know and still choose? Shōji couldn't tell. But when the boy, writhing in pain, still turned to ask if the others were alright—Shōji recognized something. The same kind of heart he'd seen in that drenched girl's, whisper of thank you.
Then came the blast—an eruption from the boy's body that hurled them all back—followed by a swamp-green haze that choked the station.
While others gagged, Shōji raised a limb high, manifested a mouth, and breathed. With another arm, he pulled civilians out of the worst of the cloud, dragging them toward safety.
The officer who later introduced himself as Tsukauchi praised him first, questioned him second, and was gone by the third breath.
Now, lying in a hospital bed, arms folded across his chest, Shōji let his gaze drift to the mask resting on the table beside him. His dream had never felt clearer.
That boy… whoever he was. If fate allowed—
"I'd like to meet him. And say thank you."
---
The world was shattering.
That was Izuku Midoriya's only thought as darkness closed in, pain gnawing at every corner of his body.
Then—silence.
He sank. Not down, not forward—just sank, into a liquid nothingness that rippled with impossible colors. They spiraled, twisted, shimmered, alive. His body felt weightless, his senses muffled, yet he fell endlessly, caught in currents of light and shadow. There was no ground. No air. No horizon. Only the sensation of moving, of being carried somewhere he could not name.
And then the fall ended.
He emerged as if bursting out of the depths themselves, floating atop a surface that was not water, not land, but something between. Stars stitched themselves across the sky in jagged constellations, nebulae spilling in colors his mind refused to categorize. Beneath him, the surface flowed with the same strange light, each ripple whispering echoes he could almost understand.
He tried to rise. The surface gave way. He sank, gasping, clawing upward. Panic flared—then a wave, impossible in its speed and grace, lifted him. It carried him forward through shores that hinted at memory: a stripped-down Dagoba, pure and untouched. Streams braided into forests, into ruins, into shapes half-familiar, half-impossible.
At last, the current released him, casting him at the roots of a tree beside two converging rivers of colored light. He pushed himself up, dizzy, and saw the grove. Nine thrones of fractured stone rose before him. Eight were occupied, but flames wrapped each figure so tightly, so brilliantly, he could feel their gaze without seeing faces.
A splash drew his attention. One of the seats yielded a figure, the light dimming just enough to reveal a tall man with messy, shoulder-length white hair, and a smile that seemed to carry both kindness and centuries of wisdom.
"Hello," said the man gently.
Izuku recoiled. "W-wait—where… who are you?"
"This is the Vestige Realm," the man said. "The inner world of One For All. And I am Yoichi—the first to carry it."
Izuku's gaze darted to the blazing silhouettes. "Then… the others?"
"All of them," Yoichi said. "All the past users." His eyes traced the shimmering currents, thoughtful. "This place… it has changed. Once, it was nothing but void, lit by the core flame of One For All. But now… perhaps it reflects the singularity. Or the sudden acceleration of the power. Either way, this is what it has become."
"Singularity…?" Izuku whispered, tasting the word.
"Yes," Yoichi said quietly. "The power reached it sooner than expected. That is why we can speak."
The currents rippled, whispering around them, alive with silent voices.
"Your time here ends," Yoichi said, tone sharp now. "You've drifted long enough. Wake… and tell the Eighth, Toshinori—the Demon Lord is alive."
The wave rose, taller than anything natural, swallowing him. He struggled, clawed, and finally broke through the surface—
—and gasped awake in the real world, shooting upright in his hospital bed, lungs burning with desperate breath.
The fluorescent lights of the infirmary stung his eyes. His chest heaved, muscles screaming in ache and memory. His mother slept beside him, hand lightly resting on his arm. In the corner, slumped on a sofa, was the gaunt form of All Might. Both seemed so still, almost statues.
A soft voice called from the doorway. "It's good to see you awake, young man. How are you feeling?"
Before he could respond, his mother stirred, eyes wide, and All Might pushed himself upright. "Izuku!" they both called. Inko moved faster, wrapping him in a trembling hug, tears soaking his shirt.
Izuku tried to smile, tried to speak, but a violent tremor ripped through him. His lungs seized. His hands curled into claws against the blanket. Sweat drenched his temples as his chest heaved in broken gasps.
"Sweetheart? Izuku!" Inko cried, pulling back in panic, gripping his face in trembling hands.
Recovery Girl stepped forward, voice firm. "He's showing severe stress responses. I need to sedate him quickly."
And Toshinori—All Might, the Symbol of Peace—stood rooted to the floor. His heart hammered, but not only with fear. With guilt.
This is my fault.
He had seen pain before—cities in flames, bodies broken. But never had he felt it crush him like this. Never had he thought the boy he chose, the boy who looked at him with such trust, would be brought to this point—convulsing under the weight of a burden he'd forced upon him.
And then… it happened.
A gentle, calming aura wrapped around him, subtle but unmistakable. Layers of voices, faint but insistent, brushed against his mind—soothing tones, a trace of dismissal, a maternal comfort—an invisible chorus urging him to breathe, to ground himself.
Izuku blinked, startled by the sudden calm. His lips parted, breath hitching not from fear now, but wonder.
Toshinori stepped closer, resting a large, trembling hand on his shoulder. "Young Midoriya…"
Izuku looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I… I could feel them. The vestiges. They were trying to calm me down."
Toshinori's heart skipped. He remembered the ghostly silhouettes he had glimpsed, the figures flickering at the edge of his vision when he still carried the power. He never thought…
Izuku swallowed, words spilling out before he could think. "I—I met the first. His name is Yoichi. He said One For All has already reached the Singularity." He hesitated, then added, almost absentmindedly,—
"Oh, and he said to tell you… that the Demon Lord is alive."
For a heartbeat, silence.
And then—
"WHAT?!" Both All-Might's and another voice echoed.
A blur of yellow bursting into the room, feet-first, aiming for All-Might's face — and missing spectacularly—crashing into the wall instead, shouting:
"The hell d'you mean—the Demon Lord's alive?!"
-- --