BREAKING NEWS
"All Might to Join U.A. as Teacher — Joint Statement from Might Tower and U.A. High."
The words blared from a television perched on the corner of a bar top, its pristine screen a stark contrast to the smoke-stained air and the gleam of polished, empty glasses.
The broadcast shifted to a reel of fawning soundbites.
A mother clutching her child: "Well, heroes belong on the streets, but… if it's All Might's judgment, I trust it."
A pro-hero with bark-like skin: "Training the next generation demands the best. His presence is a statement of U.A.'s commitment."
A bespectacled man: "Who wouldn't trust him? It's All Might. U.A.'s in good hands."
A starry-eyed student: "If All Might is teaching, U.A. just became the only school that matters!"
Slam.
A glass of ginger ale hit the counter; the pressure from a pale, five-fingered grip caused it to crack. Shards bit into the wood beneath his hand.
"Look at them," a voice rasped, jagged and dry with scorn. "Doesn't matter what he does. They'll lap it up—wagging their tails, drooling faith all over that fake, plastic grin…" His breath hitched: the itch was back. The need to destroy it.
To wipe it all away.
"Tomura Shigaraki."
The calm voice sliced through the haze, steady and knowing. "Attacking U.A. now would be tactically unsound. The fortress is on high alert. You would be charging into a kill box."
The bartender's form blurred in the mist. He lifted the remote; on the screen, where a reporter was now pestering a "homeless man" near U.A.'s front gate. Behind them, sparks flared as a man in an excavator helmet adjusted wiring..
Click.
The feed changed. Another anchor, another crisis already being smothered.
"A minor incident at U.A. Station was contained swiftly by heroes today," the anchor reported, smooth as lacquer. "Authorities cite a modified quirk-enhancing drug as the cause. No lasting injuries reported."
Muted footage flickered in the corner—paramedics wheeling stretchers, a boy with too many arms, a fox-girl limp with tails dragging.
Contained? The truth—the raw chaos—was already being choked, buried under veneer.
The trash's image burned brighter, swallowing the cracks.
Tomura's fingers tightened around the remote until it crumbled to ash.
"Already buried," he growled, lips pulling back in a snarl. "Not even a day, and it's gone. They'll trade a real disaster for his smiling face every single time. I just want to… destroy it all!"
Bzzzt.
The static crawled, smooth and commanding, as if it spoke through the television itself:
"Patience, Tomura."
He froze for a moment, then —"But I...I couuuld—" His voice fractured into a childish whine. "You promised, sensei. I could destroy anything I wanted."
The static oozed like tar until the anchor's voice warped into a familiar, paternal cadence:
"And you will, my boy. You will—in due time. You must learn to be patient."
Patience. The word scraped the inside of his skull.
"Thanks to this, we know his move a month in advance. Use that window. Contact Giran. Gather your party. The stage must be set."
Tomura grumbled but didn't argue.
"Doctor. The upper-tier Nomu— is it ready?"
Dr. Garaki's rasp slithered through.
"The Anti-Symbol is nearly complete, Master. It needs only polish."
A low hum of approval.
Bzzzt..Click.
The channel flipped again. New studio. Brighter lights. Colder tone. A blue-skinned anchor leaned toward the camera, her smile razor-sharp.
"Welcome back. Tonight, we revisit the U.A. Station event that forced entrance exams to be canceled. The alleged perpetrator, Rintaro Nageki, is a former hero-course dropout."
A still flashed: a young man with manic red eyes, bluish tounge hanging.
"Officials call the outbreak an 'atmospheric discharge,' likely a weather quirk amplified by Trigger. But… was it really that simple?"
Grainy footage looped in a corner: A torn U.A barrier lay in the background; a vortex of raw power twisted above the station, the air pulsing as if alive.
Bzzzt.
"A weather quirk… hmm?" The ancient voice was laced with quiet amusement. "All Might returns to his alma mater. Why now? It is an act of desperation. He is a teacher… seeking a successor."
Tomura's grin widened, cracking the skin at his mouth's corners. "Then we'll snuff out those newbie players too."
Bzzzt...Click.
Spotlights. Reporters. A stage. At the podium stood a hero with short blue hair, his posture stiffe.
"The fault lies with me," he said, voice stripped bare. "As team leader, I accept full responsibility." Then he bowed.
Behind him, other heroes bowed under the sterile light. The banners of U.A. and Might Tower hung side-by-side, a brittle display of unity. The ticker below read: Compensation assured. Preliminary reports cite miscommunication of intel regarding the Trigger outbreak.
Tomura laughed—glass cracking. "He kneels, and they clap. Pathetic."
The TV hummed. One word on the ticker burned in red: Trigger.
"…Think we can get our hands on some of that?" he muttered.
The static purred. "Doctor?"
Garaki's rasp returned, thick with disdain.
"Hmph. I could synthesize far more potent formulas. If you require such scraps, you have only to ask."
The insult bit. The arm of Tomura's chair rotted to dust under his fingers.
"Not for me," he hissed. "For the fodder. Let the low-level villains rot their bodies with it. My Quirk is more than enough."
The screen froze on All Might's smile—bright, eternal, utterly unforgivable.
Tomura's hand hovered in the air, five fingers flexing over nothing.
Aching to wipe it all away.
---
"The hell d'you mean—the Demon Lord's alive?!"
A yellow cannonball shot past All Might's face, crashing into the infirmary wall and sliding to the floor in a puff of plaster dust.
"Ah, my old bones!" Gran Torino groaned, pushing himself up. Then his eyes locked onto Izuku, and the world narrowed.
Whoosh. One moment he was across the room; the next he hovered inches from Izuku's face, the wind from his thrusters whipping the boy's hair.
"You," he hissed, voice wire-taut, eyes wide with a horrifying, focused clarity. "What do you mean, 'the Demon Lord is alive'?"
Whoosh! / Whirr!
Compressed air. / Spinning joints.
Wild, intense eyes. / Wild, bloodshot eyes.
The world was shattering.
Izuku's breath hitched. The heart monitor's steady rhythm spiked into a piercing shriek. His back arched off the mattress, fingers clawing at the sheets, his body seizing with the phantom agony of splintering bones.
"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" Inko Midoriya shouted.
Her hand shot out; an invisible hook of maternal panic snagged Torino's cape and yanked.
At the same instant, Toshinori's skeletal hand clamped onto his shoulder, pulling him back with a strength that belied his frame.
"SORAHIKO, ENOUGH!"
Horror extinguished his tunnel vision, and the older hero stumbled back as he saw the boy convulsing in his mother's arms.
"You blithering fool!" Recovery Girl snapped, syringe already in hand. "Look what you've done!"
Toshinori's voice cracked. "If young Midoriya truly met the First… and the First told him that—"
"Damn it all," Torino breathed, voice like gravel. "You shattered that monster's skull. We saw the body burn."
He stared at Izuku, now limp under sedation. "Why won't the past stay dead?"
Silence fell, heavy and absolute—until Inko cut it with a voice forged of steel.
"What are these 'vestiges' you whisper about? And who is this Demon Lord you're all so afraid of?"
The two heroes exchanged a look; a history of dread passed between them.
Toshinori exhaled. "We can't do this here," he said hoarsely. "This is still a medical ward."
"The observation room," Recovery Girl suggested. "We can speak there. We can monitor him without frightening him further.".
They filed out — slowly, silently.
--
Leaving the Deku alone in the sterile silence.
For some reason, he was still conscious.
The sedative was fog at the edges—softening but never smothering the blaze beneath.
Through the one-way glass he watched them move like a silent, distant play.
All Might—so thin, so broken.
The old hero—Sorahiko, his mind supplied—a tense, rigid silhouette.
His mother—standing, demanding answers.
Their words came to him in broken pieces.
Vestiges. Brother. All For One.
The names sank into the drugged swirl of his thoughts. They were talking about him. Arguing because of him. Because his worthless, quirkless self couldn't even handle a conversation without breaking down. He should have become used to panic attacks by now.
He had made his mother cry.
He had caused All Might more trouble.
He had made everyone worry over someone like him.
Sigh.
Pushing up on his elbows, he leaned back against the headboard. The sedative's grip was loosening, the fog receding
Beep. Beep.
The beeping from the monitor steadied, rhythmic, almost like the heartbeat of someone else.
His gaze found a folded newspaper on the sofa. He recognized something in it and tried to get up—
A robotic voice interrupted:
PATIENTIS TO REMAIN IMMOBILE
He turned his head. A medical bot rolled closer, glass eyes reflecting his pale face.
They stared at each other for a beat.
Beep. Beep.
Then—
"Newspaper." The word cracked from his throat.
The bot tilted and answered:
PERMISSIBLE
It rolled to the couch, retrieved the paper, and placed it in his lap.
"...Thank you," he whispered.
The headline came into focus.
U.A. STATION: OFFICIALS BLAME 'WEATHER QUIRK' FOR OUTBREAK
A photograph under the headline: the U.A. barrier torn, air twisted into a blinding funnel of light above the station. At its center, a dark silhouette.
Him.
The memory hit like a physical blow—white heat, bones tearing, lightning through ribs, a crowd screaming. He remembered the force ripping out of his control. He remembered a mother and child huddling.
Did I help anyone?
Or did I just make everything worse?
Kacchan's voice echoed:
Useless. You'll die in the exam, Deku!
It hadn't been the exam—but he had almost died. And he had endangered everyone else in the process.
Hand trembled with the ghost of fractures as he brushed his fingers over the newspaper's headline.
He saw no weather quirk there.
He saw a disaster.
---
"It was you."
The calm statement was the first thing out of the middle-aged man with messy hair as he entered the principal's office. The scent of ozone and exhaustion clung to his suit.
The creature sitting behind the mahogany desk did not so much as twitch a whisker. Nezu merely offered a placid smile—that polite, almost amused expression that could mean everything or nothing at all.
"To what, precisely, are you referring, Mr. Mera?"
Mera gave a faint, humorless snort, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It was the sound of a man who had long since forgotten the energy required for genuine anger.
"Do take a seat," Nezu continued, his tone light as he gestured a paw toward the chair opposite him. "We have a great deal to discuss."
Mera sat, his movements precise and deliberate despite the weariness etched into his features. His voice, low and certain, followed:
"It was you who leaked the intel failure to the media."
Nezu's smile did not falter. It was a harmless expression—honed over years into a tool of weaponized civility.
"A serious accusation. I merely confirmed a fact when speaking with the Ingenium agency—that his team had operated on tragically insufficient data. The public has a right to understand why their safety was so grievously compromised."
"There were other factors," Mera said, each word measured. "Layers you are not privy to."
A gleam of amusement flickered in Nezu's black, intelligent eyes. "Were these… other factors perhaps related to a classified request from the World Hero Organization?"
The air in the room grew taut—heavy.
Mera went utterly still. A mask of professionalism hardened over his shock.
"...You knew?"
"I know nothing," Nezu said lightly, setting his teacup down with a soft, deliberate click. The sound echoed in the silence.
"But I can prognosticate. And if the public were to discover that the root cause of this incident—and the subsequent, unfortunate cancellation of their children's exams—was the HPSC manipulating a modified Trigger strain to bait some international leviathan…"
He let the thought hang there, a quiet detonation between them.
"Well. The headline would pivot rather dramatically from 'U.A.'s Crisis' to 'The Commission Gambles with Children's Lives.' A far heavier narrative to manage, wouldn't you agree?"
Mera's voice, when it came, was stripped of all diplomacy. "What do you want, Nezu?"
"The entrance exam," the principal said simply. "I want to reform it."
Mera's jaw tightened, but before he could form a protest, Nezu continued, his tone deceptively mild.
"While hero school admissions are shielded by statute against external influence, this… incident… creates a political climate ripe for certain exceptions. A reevaluation of the framework."
"What kind of change?" Mera asked, his voice strained. "And what 'outside help' would necessitate bending the law?"
Nezu's smile sharpened—a predator's grin finally reaching his eyes.
"The fair kind. The kind that identifies the heroes your system blindly discards. As for the help…"
He steepled his paws, a parody of human contemplation.
"Let's just say I have a friend of a friend."
—
When Mera finally stood, it was with the quiet gravity of inevitability. He moved like a man who had just played a dozen moves ahead and found checkmate in every single one.
"The committee will likely comply," he stated—not as approval, but as acknowledgment that the game was already over.
A competent man, Nezu mused as the door closed. He knows when the board has been lost.
Before leaving, Mera had pressed for the identity of the "weather quirk" holder. Nezu had, of course, politely declined.
Now alone, the principal's claws made a soft tap-tap-tap against a pile of scorched notebooks.
Their edges were blackened, their pages dense with frantic, analytical handwriting—Izuku Midoriya's Hero Analysis for the Future.
From the titles, the boy had compiled thirteen volumes. Nezu had managed to acquire the last four.
He flipped through them slowly. As the pages turned, he could see the progression—the amature sketches refining into surgical diagrams, each line dissecting combat styles, quirk limitations, and tactical adaptations with unnerving, almost frightening precision.
He noted the focus: Musutafu's local heroes—the ones a boy could watch from the streets. Yet among them appeared several underground pros. Eraser Head's capture weapon, its tensile strength, the zero-visibility combat techniques—all broken down with near-clinical accuracy.
Extraordinary perception, almost unsettling.
A testament to a gaze that saw what most people instinctively chose to look away from
A faint ache, strange and unfamiliar, touched his chest. Regret? Or a tactical oversight.
He could have reached out sooner. Yagi had mentioned the boy's analytical gift.
But he hadn't wanted to burden the child further, nor poach the Symbol of Peace's chosen successor.
And, after the station incident, the fit seemed… undeniable.
Still, another possibility tugged at the edges of his logic: Mirio Togata. And by extension, Sir Nighteye.
Where Nezu's genius was a scalpel—cutting through chaos to expose structure—Sir Nighteye's was archival. His strength lay in systematic observation, in gathering and compiling information. A foremost expert.
He had called, of course. Having seen the news, he'd suspected One For All's involvement immediately. Nezu had assured him the situation was "handled."
From Yagi, he knew of Nighteye's disapproval. The man saw a middle-schooler where he had cultivated a prodigy.
In Nezu's estimation, Mirio Togata was a diamond cut for the public eye—a perfect hero.
But turning the pages of this battered notebook, witnessing the raw, unpolished hunger for understanding etched into every line—
Midoriya Izuku possesses a monstrous potential.
His train of thought was violently rerouted by a memory—an audio feed playing through the speakers of a medical bot.
"The Demon Lord is alive."
According to his own calculations, the probability of All For One surviving that final confrontation had been less than 5%. A negligible variable.
And yet. If the man had retained an associate, a support system they had failed to root out amidst the ashes of his empire… then the probability models shifted dramatically.
The threat level escalated from a contained historical event to an active, metastasizing crisis.
He hadn't yet spoken to the boy, the meeting with Mera taking precedence. But now, preparing to head to the infirmary, he decided to check the feed once more. A final status update.
He activated the audio feed.
"Give back this__"
And promptly spat his tea across the desk. A fine mist of high-grade Earl Grey coated a stack of financial reports.
Sputtering, he wiped his muzzle, his fur bristling. He rose from his chair, his usual composure shattered as he marched toward the infirmary.
A exasperated thought echoing in clinical tone of a forgotten specimen, in his mind.
'After all this time, it seems Subject K10-S9 still cannot understand the confounding variables of the human heart.'
---
"Give back this quirk."
The words hung in the sterile air—simple, final, and utterly shattering.
—
A moment earlier, the world had been still.
Almost peaceful.
The steady pulse of the heart monitor. The pristine, suffocating white of the infirmary. It all registered in Izuku's mind with a new, unnerving clarity.
The newspaper felt heavy in his hands, the print sharper, the information assembling itself in his mind with a speed that wasn't his own. He read, and the words stuck, cross-referencing against his humming, fractured memories.
ALL MIGHT TO SHAPE NEXT GENERATION AT U.A.
INGENIUM TAKES RESPONSIBILITY FOR STATION INCIDENT
UA STATION: WEATHER QUIRK OUTBREAK CONTAINED
Each headline was a stitch, patching a false version of reality together.
He saw the narrative being spun—one where everything was fine, controllable, explainable.
One where the world didn't have to face what really happened.
A soft whir broke the silence.
Recovery Girl froze mid-step, a medical bot beside her. Her expression shifted—from practiced calm to disbelief.
"You're awake? The sedative should've lasted for hours!" Her eyes widened behind her glasses. "Your metabolism—it's burned straight through it. The cellular restructuring…"
Her exclamation was a beacon. The infirmary door slid open, and the room constricted.
All-Might's face was a map of frantic worry.
The old man in yellow—Sorahiko—pushed past, his gaze a laser.
No pleasantries. No easing into it.
"Kid," Torino's voice was flat, stripping away all pretense. "The First User. You really met him? His name was Yoichi?"
The air left the room.
Under that relentless stare, Izuku could only give a slow, firm nod.
The confirmation landed like a physical blow.
Torino's shoulders sagged a fraction. All Might seemed to fold inward, his skeletal frame looking smaller than ever. His lips moved, shaping a silent, gut-wrenching apology.
And through it all, his mother was a statue of silence.
Inko sat beside his bed, her hands knotted in her lap, white at the knuckles. Then—a single tear traced a path down her cheek. Another followed. It wasn't panic. It was a deep, quiet, bottomless grief.
"Mom?" Izuku's voice was small, confused. "Why are you crying? I'm okay…"
She didn't answer him.
Instead, she looked up—at the three heroes—and her voice, though trembling, was absolute.
"Please. I need to speak with my son. Alone."
They filed out without protest.
Recovery Girl with a weary sigh.
All Might with a last,haunted glance.
Torino with a grunt of grim understanding.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Inko took a shaky breath, then reached out—her hands finding his. Her touch was gentle, but he felt the tremor in her fingers.
When she looked at him, her eyes held a love so vast it was painful, and beneath it, a terrifying resolve.
"Izuku, my baby," she began, her voice raw. "I've watched you dream your whole life. I've watched you fall, get hurt, and get back up. And I… I've never been brave enough to stand beside you."
His mind drifted—
—A rooftop under a clear sky.
—A jagged scar on the piller.
—A mask painted with grin.
She squeezed his hand tighter, tears falling freely now.
"But I'm your mother. My first job—my only job—is to keep you safe."
Crack.
A tremor ran through her voice, before it became firm.
"That power… it's not a dream, Izuku. It's a curse. It's tearing you apart. And it's painted a target on your back for something… something evil."
Her fingers dug into his palm.
—The echo of "You can't."
—The retreating back of his idol.
—The advice of his childhood friend.
Inko drew in a trembling breath.
"So I'm going to be brave now. I'm going to ask you for the one thing I know you'll never want to give."
Crack.
She leaned forward, her tears soaking into the sterile sheets.
"Give back this quirk."
---
Izuku Midoriya's world was shattering.
Again.
'Give back this quirk.'
The words didn't feel like sound.
It hung in the sterile air of the informery.
His mouth opened—but no sound came. The silence between them grew heavy, suffocating, a wall he couldn't climb.
Then, her figure began to blur.
It wasn't tears. The edges of her form softened, bleeding into the sterile white behind her. The room stretched; the far wall receded into an impossible dark. The ceiling warped, fluorescent lights smearing into long, sickly streaks.
His mind went blank.
For one merciful second—nothing.
Then—
Worthless.
The thought was a shard of glass in the void.
Delusional.
Useless.
A DEKU.
The words weren't his. They were old, worn smooth by repetition, dragged up from the swamp of memory.
Somewhere, faintly, he could hear someone crying—his mother, maybe—but for the first time in his life, Izuku Midoriya found he could ignore it. The sound came muffled, like through thick, unbreakable glass.
His gaze fell to his hand resting on the white sheet.
And then, his hand fractured.
Not with the wild, electric fury of One For All—but with silent cracks of black light veining beneath his skin like fractured porcelain. Power thrummed under the surface, restrained and wrong.
He snatched his hand back, eyes squeezing shut. His breath hitched.
Cold realization filled him.
One For All.
He was afraid of it.
The power that had once been his dream now felt like a sleeping monster inside his bones—and he, a fragile, splintering cage.
Leech.
His mind clung to the word—which had been carved into him like many other labels.
He was a leech to this torch, draining a legacy he couldn't control.
A leech to society, leaving wreckage and wounded heroes in his wake.
A leech to his mother—making her cry, forcing her to become this heartbroken stranger just to save him.
He was a parasite.
Something deep inside him—his stubborn, shining core of heroism—tore open. A psychic seam ripped. Breath left him in a shudder.
The room breathed with him—walls pulsing, monitors flickering. Reality itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then—
A voice. Light. Amused. Oddly Curious.
"What am I? A mouse? A rat? A bear? Or… something else?"
--
Izuku Midoriya was about to snap.
A white-hot wrath—resentment raw and directionless—flared beneath his ribs. It wasn't the kind that burned outward; it imploded, hollowing him from within.
He couldn't aim it at her—not at his mother, sobbing for him, her trembling hands reaching for a dream she was begging him to surrender. Today was just the final crack in a heart already stomped on by the world. He didn't want to direct it at her.
"What am I?" said a calm, measured voice from the doorway. "A mouse? A rat? Or a bear?"
Somehow, that infuriated him more. Perhaps because the recipient wasn't his mother, it felt safer.
But deeper down, he was furious that someone had interrupted the shattering—
the final, clean break of his dream.
It reminded him of that fateful twilight:
"Young man. You too can be a hero."
A withering dream had found an oasis then.
But today? He wanted to see what it was like to let go—to be free of the burden of hoping.
So he raged.
Why did someone have to stop him?
What gave them the right?
But when his wild, glassy eyes found the speaker—when he saw his own reflection in those calm, black eyes—the fire guttered out.
Hollow.
The word echoed in the sudden silence of his mind. A realization found him, cold and absolute:
Without this burning dream, I, Izuku Midoriya, am not—
Before he could finish the thought, the voice cut through him again. The speaker—Principal Nezu—had crossed the room without a sound. His mother's quiet sobbing faltered, replaced by stillness.
"Young man," Nezu said, his gaze unwavering—a pin holding a butterfly to the board. "What do you think I am?"
Izuku looked at him clearly now. The catalog in his mind supplied the obvious data: Principal of U.A.
But the deeper part of him—the hero analyst, the boy who never stopped observing—knew more. He knew the rumors. The history.
So he didn't see a mouse, a rat, or a bear.
He saw the subject of dehumanization: a creature once caged, experimented on, and stripped of identity. He saw the being who had risen from that torment not with rage, but with a brilliant, frightening intellect—to become the master of the nation's greatest hero stronghold.
The word surfaced, scattering the ashes of his self-pity and igniting a small, stubborn spark beneath.
"...A hero."
--
"I am the principal, madam,"
—the rodent had reassured, requesting to speak with the boy.
She didn't say anything. The mother couldn't meet her son's eyes.
After a hesitant moment, she left the room.
For a heartbeat, the word hung:
"A hero."
Nezu inclined his head. "An interesting answer. Most see an anomaly."
His voice carried a peculiar steadiness—the kind that didn't comfort but rather aligned.
From seemingly nowhere, Nezu produced a familiar, charred-edged notebook.
Izuku's breath hitched. Hero Analysis for the Future, No. 13.
"I have perused your work," Nezu said, tapping the cover with a claw. "The evolution is remarkable. Early entries are devotional—the scribbles of a fan. But over time, they become something else. They become predictive models."
He opened the notebook to intricate diagrams of Eraser Head's capture weapon.
"You didn't just draw his scarf. You deduced its material based on tensile strength and friction coefficients."
Nezu looked up, eyes sharp.
"You see systems, Midoriya—the underlying code of quirks. The station was a system failure, and your brain, wired for pattern recognition, instantly diagnosed the critical point. Your body moved before your conscious mind could formulate the command."
Izuku's hands trembled. He remembered the calculations flashing behind his eyes, the trajectory arcs, the interception points. He'd never put a name to it. It was just… what he did.
"Do you know," Nezu continued, "what separates analysis from obsession?"
Izuku blinked, disoriented by the pivot. His mind scrambled to keep up.
"O–Obsession is… emotional? Analysis is objective?"
"A common answer," Nezu murmured. "And wrong. Obsession feels objective while turning inward. Analysis is emotional, but directed outward."
He took a step closer. "Young man, your analysis became a cage built from guilt. You think that by understanding every failure, you can erase the chaos. You can't. You can only join it."
Izuku's fingers clenched the bedsheet. He couldn't meet those small, piercing eyes.
Nezu's tone softened, but only slightly.
"Tell me, young man—what have your notes ever said about yourself?"
Izuku's throat closed. The answer was a void.
"Nothing,"
"Good," Nezu said softly. "Then there's room left to write."
He climbed onto the chair beside the bed, a faint smile returning.
"Do you know why I chose to teach? It wasn't to lead. It was to learn."
Izuku looked up, startled. "Learn? But you're the smartest being in the nation—maybe even the continent!"
A genuine laugh escaped the chimera. "There are myriad kinds of intelligence, young man. Geniuses who surpass me in their own fields exist. I am not a reservoir of knowledge, but a conduit for it."
A twinkle flashed in his eyes. "And do you know what underlies the necessity of learning? What gives it meaning?"
He paused. "Connection."
Izuku's head jerked up. "Connection?"
"Of course." Nezu turned back, voice almost tender. "Your notes were letters—to every person you wished you could reach but couldn't. The boy who watched heroes and took notes on their courage—that was compassion."
Silence settled, full and heavy, but no longer suffocating.
Izuku looked down at his trembling hands, the fractures of black still faintly visible beneath his skin. He exhaled, slow and unsteady.
"Then… what am I supposed to do now?"
"Simple. Keep observing. But this time, start with yourself."
Nezu hopped down lightly. "And Midoriya—when you're ready to analyze again, I'll make sure there's pen and paper waiting."
He paused at the door, voice touched with irony.
"Understanding isn't what makes us human. It's what keeps us kind.
---
"What the hell do you mean the recommendation exam is cancelled?!"
Endeavor's roar shook the top floor of his agency, rattling the reinforced glass. From her desk outside, Burnin winced and casually adjusted the flame of her hair. The Big Man had been a live wire ever since the joint announcement from Might Tower and U.A.
She supposed he was conflicted—torn between fury that his rival was embedding himself deeper into Japan's top hero school, and a grudging satisfaction that his son would be trained by the best… even if that "best" was him.
"GOD DAMN IT!"
A second shout. The sharp crackle of scorching wood. Burnin pursed her lips, whistling a tuneless melody as the smell of singed lacquer drifted out of the office.
Better to stay out of the blast radius.
--
"You're going to U.A., kero?" Tsuyu Asui tilted her head, gently swaying beside her friend on the park swing.
Habuko Mongoose grinned, pushing herself higher. "Yeah! Didn't you hear the announcement? They're actually doing something smart for once!"
"About what, kero?"
"The exam! They changed it!" Habuko landed with a soft thud, tail flicking with excitement. She thrust her phone toward Tsuyu. The U.A. site gleamed on the screen—
'Understanding Your Quirk: A Guide for Applicants.'
"See? They're asking for full quirk descriptions now. And here—" she tapped the display, "this year's practical will have scenarios for people whose quirks don't just punch stuff!"
Tsuyu's wide eyes scanned the page. Then she turned and hugged her friend tight.
"I'm really happy for you, Habuko-chan. Maybe we can go to the same school after all, kero."
Habuko hugged her back, laughter bubbling through. "They even uploaded a new mock exam! I'm taking it the second I get home. This is it... a real chance."
--
The train hummed.
Hitoshi Shinso scrolled through the announcement, the glow from his phone reflected in his tired eyes.
Catering to human-centric quirks.
A faint, unfamiliar warmth bloomed in his chest. Something that might have been hope—if he still believed in the word.
Then the quiet shattered.
"SUCH PASSION!"
A massive boy with a buzzcut leapt to his feet several rows away, startling half the car.
"INVITING ALL DREAMS TO THE STAGE! I ACCEPT THIS CHALLENGE WITH MY WHOLE HEART!"
Passengers flinched. Shinso didn't even blink.
He just watched, lips twitching faintly. Proof the change was real.
The cynic in him went quiet. He looked back at his phone, thumb hovering over the text box.
Then, for the first time, he began to write his quirk description.
--
Saiko Intelli took a slow sip of tea, eyes fixed on the announcement hovering in holographic text.
Merged exams. No recommendation track.
Emphasis on quirk descriptions. Strategy over spectacle.
A sly smile touched her lips. She set the cup down with a soft, decisive click.
Brute force was out. Strategy was in.
With one elegant motion, she deleted Seiai Academy from her shortlist.
U.A. was no longer a circus of robot-smashing brawlers. It was a chessboard.
And she already knew how to play.
--
Momo Yaoyorozu traced the structure of a complex compound, her brow furrowed in deep concentration.
A soft cough interrupted her study.
She looked up. The family butler stood by her desk, tablet in hand.
"A crucial update from U.A. has just been broadcast, my lady," he said, face perfectly neutral. "I believed you'd want to see it immediately."
Momo accepted the tablet. Her eyes flicked down the screen—
…and widened.
"The recommendation exam… is cancelled?"
Her polished composure fractured. All her targeted preparation, the etiquette drills, the specialized interviews—it was all for a door that had just vanished.
The chemical diagram on her notebook blurred as her focus slipped.
"Eh?" she murmured, lost and confused.
For the first time in a long while, Momo Yaoyorozu didn't know what to do next.
---
'A friend will come to visit'—
That was what Nezu had said during his second, briefer visit, just before placing a new pen and notebook, along with his old charred ones, on the bedside table.
Izuku stared at the blank page.
The pen felt heavy in his hand, as if made of lead.
He hadn't written a single word.
The only thing his mind could cling to was One For All—and even the thought of it sent a cold, metallic shiver through his veins.
The realization that he was afraid of the very thing he'd once dreamed of stung deeper than any pain in his body.
Across the room, All Might sat in a chair that seemed too large for his shrunken frame.
He had apologized earlier—quietly, awkwardly—and Izuku still wasn't sure for what.
For the power?
For the danger?
For believing in him?
Next to him sat the old man—the one who had arrived like a thunderclap and introduced himself as All Might's teacher.
He had apologized too, though his voice carried the rasp of someone unaccustomed to it.
Izuku had only nodded, his mind circling one phrase that refused to leave him: Demon Lord.
He didn't know who it referred to, but the dread in their voices said enough.
Whoever it was, it was the worst possible news.
And then there was his mother.
She sat on the small sofa, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
The storm of tears had passed, leaving behind a barren, silent shore.
Neither of them met the other's eyes.
Between them stretched a gulf—of love, fear, guilt, and all the things neither could bring themselves to say.
Izuku's gaze drifted to the faint salt tracks on her cheeks, and something in his chest twisted painfully.
He reached instead for the medical chart Recovery Girl had left at his bedside:
Physiological Mutation Log
— Nervous System Enhancement
— Neural Pulse Acceleration
— Vestibular System Recalibration
He read each entry as if it belonged to someone else.
Oddly, he wasn't horrified. It was just… data.
Something solid to hold onto—a list of symptoms for a condition he still didn't understand.
He was tracing the word Vestibular with a trembling finger when a calm voice broke the still air.
"Hello there. May I enter?"
All eyes turned. Standing at the door, was a young man with short blue hair, dressed in a dark jacket. His face was serious, but his eyes held a steady, determined kindness.
"I–Ingenium?"
The name escaped before Izuku could stop himself—half awe, half disbelief.
The man smiled faintly. "A fan, then?" His gaze flicked toward the folded newspaper on the nightstand, the headline blaring:
INGENIUM TAKES RESPONSIBILITY FOR STATION INCIDENT.
"Or… maybe not."
Izuku flushed. "N-no, I—! I mean—yes! I've followed your career since the Hosu raids! Your new rescue protocols are incredible! The way you coordinate with—"
He stopped. His gaze fell back to the newspaper.
The shattering glass, the screaming, the smoke—everything rushed back, leaving his words hollow.
By then, Ingenium had crossed the room. He placed the paper down gently on the bedside table.
They both spoke at once.
"I'm sorry."
The awkward harmony startled Izuku into blinking. Ingenium chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.
"Nezu said you'd do that."
"Nezu?" Izuku echoed, confused.
"Mm." Tensei nodded, pulling a chair closer to the bed. "He called me this morning. Said a bright young boy was blaming himself for something that wasn't his fault. I wanted to meet you anyway—I'd asked about it when I handed your notebooks back to him."
"N-notebooks?" Izuku asked, reeling.
"Yes. I was the one who found them at the station. I took a brief look to identify the owner."
A small, genuine smile. "It was a fascinating read."
Izuku could only stare.
"For instance," Tensei continued lightly, "your idea about using my engine pipes to release a smokescreen? A clever concept—and it could work."
A flicker of pride rose in Izuku before embarrassment drowned it out.
"I-I got it wrong, though. You mentioned in a interview that, it's a steam-based cooling system, not smoke-generating…"
"Details an observer couldn't know," Tensei said with an easy wave. "The tactical idea matters more. And the potential is there."
He leaned forward slightly. "I also saw your notes on using my engine to simulate a whole body, tornado-like rotation for attacks, mimicking All Might's Oklahoma Smash."
His eyes glinted knowingly. "You're a huge fan of his, aren't you? I saw his autograph in your book."
Before Izuku could stammer a reply, a dry cough interrupted them.
Tensei looked over, blinking as he finally registered the other occupants.
"Ah—my apologies. I was… engrossed."
He stood and bowed slightly to the skeletal man. "Tensei Iida. A pleasure."
The gaunt man offered a weak smile. "Toshinori Yagi. I work as All Might's secretary."
"Aha! Are you a colleague of Ayumi Amatsuki? I worked with her on the joint compensation program after the station incident. Remarkably competent woman."
"She is the best of us," Toshinori murmured, before excusing himself and slipping quietly out.
Tensei turned to Gran Torino, but the old man was already shuffling to his feet.
"Took too long a smoke break decades ago," he muttered, pausing only to squint at Tensei. "Tentaro's grandson, eh? You're more talkative than he was."
He left without another word, leaving Tensei momentarily stunned.
Finally, Tensei turned to Inko. He bowed deeply.
"You must be Midoriya's mother. It's an honor. You must be very proud—your son possesses a truly heroic heart."
Inko's eyes flicked toward the door Toshinori had gone through. A complex silence hung between them before she gave a single, slow nod.
She paused by the bedside, fingertips brushing the unused pen Nezu had left, then turned and walked out without a word.
The room felt larger and quieter.
Tensei turned back to the boy in the bed.
Izuku looked down at his hands, voice barely audible.
"I… I wasn't a hero."
Tensei's expression softened, all levity gone. His words carried the calm certainty of a professional who'd seen too much to mistake courage for recklessness.
"That," he said, "is where you're wrong."
"B-but I was!" Izuku's voice cracked. He jabbed a trembling finger at the newspaper, at the photo of the vortex.
"I was the reason for that—for the disaster!"
Tensei picked up the paper. He didn't look at the vortex. Instead, he flipped it over—to the photo of himself bowing in apology.
"This is responsibility. And I've already taken it.
The operational failures, the lapses in judgment—they were mine.
You, Midoriya, were the variable that stopped the equation from ending in tragedy."
Izuku's breath hitched. "But I—butted in! I made chaos! My shockwaves shattered the Trigger vials—I probably hurt people—!"
Tensei blinked, then exhaled softly. "You're analyzing it through guilt, not fact. That junkie was already flinging vials. He would have broken them regardless. Your shockwave…"
He paused, choosing the words carefully.
"It didn't scatter the crowd. It threw the attacker into a wall—neutralized him instantly. And you were suspended in the air for the rest of the pulses, weren't you?"
Izuku's eyes widened. He remembered it—the sensation of being held, of power being guided away from the people below.
The vestiges had been acting even then.
Tensei saw understanding dawn on the boy's face and smiled faintly.
"You weren't the disaster, Midoriya. You were what stood between it and the people."
He let the silence linger, then asked quietly,
"Do you remember the mother and daughter? The ones with the flaming hair you shielded?"
Izuku nodded slowly.
"What do you think would've happened if they'd been struck by that modified Trigger?"
Izuku shuddered, the answer immediate. "Fire… everywhere. It would've triggered a chain reaction."
"You realized that in that instant, didn't you?"
He nodded again, the memory clear as day.
"I've met them," Tensei said softly. "They're recovering. They asked about you. They want to thank the green-haired boy who jumped in front of them."
He placed a hand over his own chest.
"And you saved my heroism, too. I was ready to believe my failure had cost lives.
Then I learned about you—a boy without any apparent power, who still dreamed of being a hero.
A boy who, when the moment came, leapt without hesitation. You reminded me why we fight."
Izuku sat frozen, the words washing over him—soft and heavy and real.
His mind drifted—
Nezu, mentioning layered cover stories—the "Weather Quirk." & " Accumulative Quirk."
Lies to keep him safe.
His gaze fell to his charred notebook, a life spent chasing truth. Now, his own truth was hidden.
Is this what a hero is? he wondered, a cold knot tightening. Someone built on a lie?
His voice came out small and thick with uncertainty.
"I… I don't know what heroism is anymore. Or how to be a hero."
Tensei smiled gently.
"Then all you have to do is ask."
Izuku blinked. "Ask… who?"
"Ask Izuku Midoriya."
He looked down at his hands, then back up, confusion and fragile hope flickering in his eyes.
"About what?"
Tensei's answer was a quiet, encouraging smile.
"What kind of hero do you want to be?"
---
The holographic table in the I-Island Council Chamber thrummed softly, casting a pale blue glow across polished steel and glass. Reflected in that light were the composed, wary faces of the assembled board members.
Only one item sat on the agenda:
Request from U.A. High School for the Temporary Off-Island Deployment of Dr. David Shield.
"The prohibition is clear," said one councilwoman, her fingers steepled.
"Our scientists remain on the island to safeguard the confidentiality of our research. That rule is the cornerstone of our neutrality. We cannot allow our brightest minds to be… persuaded by their nations of origin."
A man with a neatly trimmed beard nodded. "Precisely. The policy exists to prevent exactly that—a home government exerting pressure for proprietary designs. We cannot set a precedent."
"And yet," another member countered, leaning forward, "this is U.A. we're talking about. Our partnership with them has been one of our most productive. They're not a corporate entity seeking reverse engineering. Their goals align with ours—developing safer, ethical applications of Quirk science. The request involves diagnostic systems, not support gear or weapons. The risk is minimal."
A ripple of quiet discussion moved through the chamber. The request was unprecedented—but the petitioner unimpeachable.
"Furthermore," the third member continued, tapping a glowing dossier, "the appeal isn't solely from U.A. It carries the joint endorsement of Might Tower and the Japanese Hero Commission. That level of alignment is rare. This is more than an academic collaboration—it's strategic."
"Which raises a question," another voice said, suspicion edging his tone. "Since when do U.A. and the Hero Commission cooperate? Their priorities rarely coincide. A unified front implies urgency—something significant."
"Politically, though," the bearded man conceded, "broadening ties with U.A., especially through Might Tower, could benefit I-Island. Refusing outright would be… shortsighted."
All eyes turned then to the man seated at the far end of the table—Dr. David Shield. He had listened in silence, hands folded, expression unreadable.
"Dr. Shield," the first councilwoman began, her tone softening, "your recent incident with the unauthorized prototype remains a mark against your record. It raises questions of judgment."
David adjusted his glasses, the blue light flaring briefly across the lenses.
"A fair concern," he said evenly. "But if you review U.A.'s specifications, you'll see they're not requesting powered or augmentative technology. Only diagnostic systems—tools for mapping the fundamental expression of a Quirk, not enhancing it. My expertise lies precisely in that field. The work is theoretical, non-invasive, and non-weaponizable."
He let the words settle. Murmurs followed—less wary now, more contemplative.
"Technically," the bearded man said after a moment, "Dr. Shield does possess clearance for temporary sanctioned leave. The bylaws allow it, provided both destination and purpose are vetted. U.A. and its partners meet those standards."
A few quiet nods circled the table.
Finally, the first councilwoman exhaled, conceding the inevitable.
"Very well," she said. "The Council grants authorization. Dr. Shield is permitted temporary deployment to U.A. High School under standard confidentiality and security protocols. Duration and oversight will remain at our discretion."
With that, the session adjourned. The holographic light faded, leaving the room dim and reflective.
As the members gathered their devices, an older man lingered beside David. His voice was low, thoughtful.
"This level of backing… Might Tower's involvement, the Commission's approval—it's about Toshinori, isn't it?" he asked gently. "Your old friend must need your help."
David paused, collecting his tablet. His expression softened, a faint, private smile forming.
"Not quite," he said, voice calm but carrying the faintest thread of intrigue.
He recalled the conversation he'd had a day prior with a certain principal.
"It seems the one who truly needs help," he finished,
"is a friend of a friend."
---
The world was in ruins.
Mankind destroying itself.
In that hollowed silence, a dark star was born—breathing with a hunger for everything.
He covered the land in shadow, his face a mask of blood-crimson flame.
Before him knelt two souls: one yearning for normalcy, the other thirsting for power.
He placed his hands upon them.
He smiled—an expression both cruel and kind.
A spark passed from one to the other. Their desires were fulfilled.
He walked, and they followed.
He walked, and others joined.
He walked as the sky vanished beneath his shadow.
He walked as the world drowned in it.
--
Izuku awoke with a gasp, his back pressed against the gnarled roots of that tree in the Vestige Realm.
The echo of that cosmic hunger still coiled in his chest.
"He was my brother."
Izuku turned.
Yoichi sat slumped against the same root, his eyes fixed on some distant, bleeding memory.
Izuku whispered, the realization tasting like iron.
"The Demon Lord."
Yoichi nodded once. "The one we have fought for generations. The one who gave the Eighth his mortal wound."
The confirmation struck like a physical blow.
All Might's injury—his waning light, the hidden terror behind every whisper of that infirmary room—traced back to a single, monstrous origin.
Yoichi rose and extended a hand.
After a heartbeat's hesitation, Izuku took it. His fingers trembled.
They walked toward the thrones, the multicolored streams of light curling around their path like restless serpents.
Izuku opened his mouth to speak, but Yoichi's quiet voice came first.
"You saw it, didn't you? The taking. The bestowing."
Izuku's breath hitched. The pieces fell into place with terrifying clarity.
"It can take and give any quirk… Anything goes."
Yoichi's gaze was distant, resigned. "Yes. Anything goes. Strength. Speed. A voice that compels. Even—longevity."
The word lingered, heavy and inevitable. It explained everything.
The Demon Lord wasn't merely powerful. He was ancient.
Izuku breathed the name he had once only seen scrawled in the half-believed corners of old conspiracy threads.
"The Boogeyman."
"All For One," Yoichi said softly. "The name of the quirk—and the name he chose for himself."
Izuku's mind, ever dissecting, grasped the next thought.
"Then… One For All is…?"
"My quirk," Yoichi said. His tone held something fragile—an echo of pride and regret.
"It was simple once. The power to pass my will to another. But when he forced a stockpiling quirk into me… they merged. A cage became a cradle."
They reached the bank of the largest stream, its current whispering with memories and power.
Yoichi stepped across, his presence barely disturbing the flow.
Izuku stopped at the edge. His foot rooted to the ground.
Yoichi looked back, seeing Izuku hesitate at the stream's edge.
His voice was calm, cutting to the heart of the matter. "You are afraid of All For One. And you are afraid of One For All."."
The realm seemed to still, the light dimming around them.
Izuku began to shake, his mind drowning in a riptide of thoughts—his mother's tears, the splintering of his own bones, the weight of a war he had never asked to join.
But then—light.
A glow touched his face, radiating not heat, but warmth—something purer, gentler.
He looked up.
The other Vestiges sat upon their thrones, each shrouded in a distinct flame of colors— azure, emerald, Crimson, golden, rosy, amber, amethyst.
The inferno that had once concealed them was receding. Through its flickering veil, he could finally see them: their shapes, their postures, their silent, patient watching.
The warmth they emitted was a language of its own—compassion, steadfastness, grim will, serene acceptance.
A chorus of souls.
All of them looking at him.
Yoichi's hand settled on his shoulder. Izuku turned, his eyes filled with unspoken questions.
"They are containing it," Yoichi said softly, following his gaze. "Slowly. Steadily. We are all learning to contain the mutated quirks now residing within One For All."
Izuku's eyes widened. Mutated quirks.
The words clicked into place—Floating, Black tendrils, Smoke. The strange changes he'd felt in battle.
"Yes," Yoichi continued, as comprehension dawned across Izuku's face. "Like your body, the core of One For All has changed. It has evolved—and the echoes we left within it have evolved alongside it."
He paused. His voice lowered. "And we are afraid of this too."
The confession struck Izuku silent.
They were afraid—the very legends he carried inside him.
"We felt your turmoil," Yoichi went on, his tone heavy with regret. "Your pain. Your self-loathing. Your will, edging toward collapse. And we did not intervene."
He glanced toward the other thrones, and Izuku sensed the gravity of their silence.
"Because we feared what it would mean to act. Our influence grows with One For All's evolution. To reach into your emotions… to shape them… that would not be guidance." His eyes darkened. "It would be manipulation. It would be something he would do."
Izuku's throat tightened. Their restraint—born not of indifference, but of respect—felt heavier than comfort ever could.
After a long stillness, Yoichi asked, gently, "Do you now understand your mother's plea?"
Izuku remembered the dark star—the smiling mask, the shadow that consumed worlds—and nodded weakly. The scale of what awaited him was almost unbearable.
"A wonderful mother," Yoichi murmured, a faint, wistful smile ghosting his face. "One who would fight destiny itself for her child."
His gaze turned grave. "But this… is not so simple anymore."
He gestured to the star-dusted rivers, to the breathing world that had grown from what was once void.
"This realm was born from the chaos you endured," he said. Then he pointed directly at Izuku—at the trembling heart of him.
"And One For All did not form a quirk factor within you, Izuku. You now hold something higher than a quirk factor. Something even we cannot yet name."
Izuku stared at him, stunned.
He wasn't just a vessel. He was… something new.
Yoichi stepped back across the stream and extended his hand—not in command, but invitation.
"We will learn what One For All has become. Together."
His voice was calm, assured. "You do not need to sit upon a throne you are not ready for. You do not need to bear the weight of All For One—let the adults, let the Eighth, shoulder that for now. You do not have to walk our broken, painful path."
His hand remained outstretched, a bridge across the current.
"You can choose your own way, Izuku. And you do not have to walk it alone."
He smiled.
Behind him, the thrones glowed brighter.
"Do not worry," he said. "We are here."
Hesitantly—his heart a fragile drumbeat of fear and hope—Izuku reached out and clasped the hand.
The realm did not shake or roar. It simply… settled.
The streams shimmered a little brighter. The air grew a little warmer.
He had not crossed the water—but he had crossed a threshold within himself.
He was not just the Ninth Holder.
He was Izuku Midoriya,and he was not alone.
---
The light faded—
not abruptly, but like dawn retreating behind a soft curtain.
The warmth of the Vestige Realm lingered in his chest as the world of dreams unraveled—
the starlit rivers dissolving into the sterile white of the infirmary ceiling.
The echo of Yoichi's words—we are here—settled somewhere deep, a steady pulse beneath his ribs.
When Izuku opened his eyes, the world was real again.
The air was thin and still.
Machines hummed their soft, mechanical lullaby.
His fingers twitched against the cool, starched sheets.
For the first time since the chaos began, his heartbeat did not feel like an alarm.
His gaze drifted—
to his mother, standing by the window, her silhouette framed in the gentle light of morning.
She was looking out, but seeing nothing, lost somewhere within her fears.
And for the first time since the chasm had opened between them, he found the strength to bridge it.
"Mom?"
The single word was quiet—
but it shattered the wall of silence that had been building, brick by painful brick.
Inko's head turned sharply, surprise widening her eyes.
It was the first time he had called for her—truly called for her—and not merely responded to her presence.
He knew there were mountains yet to climb.
A Demon Lord to face.
A power to understand.
But first—before any of it—he had to do this.
He had to reassure the person who mattered most.
"Don't worry," he said, his voice rough but clear. "It'll be fine."
Inko turned fully, the morning light catching the fresh tears that now traced the paths of old ones.
Her face was a map of everything—fear, love, exhaustion, and a fragile, desperate hope.
She wanted to argue, to protect, to beg—but all that escaped was a single, trembling question.
"How?"
Izuku's gaze drifted to the bedside table.
To the two notebooks lying side by side.
One was his old, charred Hero Analysis for the Future—now bearing a new, proud signature from Ingenium, a testament to a hero's belief.
The other was the fresh, blank journal left by Nezu—an empty page waiting to be filled with a new understanding, starting with himself.
He felt the thrum in his heart—not panic this time, but resolve.
A small, weary, genuine smile tugged at his lips.
He looked back at his mother—his anchor, his compass.
"I just have to do my best."
-- --