Kaito Tanaka chewed mechanically on stale potato chips, his knuckles white around the crumpled bag. His friend Hiro's cramped apartment reeked of cheap beer and unwashed laundry, the glare from the oversized TV screen casting harsh shadows across their faces. On screen, All Might's booming laugh echoed through hero-filled streets, a sound Kaito now found physically grating. He stared blankly at the flashing colors, seeing not entertainment, but a grotesque circus. These so-called heroes smiled for the cameras while the system they upheld crushed ordinary people beneath its polished boots. Hypocrisy, distilled into bright animation and packaged for mass consumption. Every punch thrown by Deku, every tear shed by Uraraka, felt like salt rubbed raw into a wound he couldn't name.
The others cheered as Bakugo unleashed another furious explosion, oblivious to the storm brewing beside them. Kaito shifted slightly, his gaze fixed on Endeavor's scowling face. Here was a man celebrated despite the monstrous things he did behind closed doors. Just like the politicians, the corporations, the whole rotten world pretending virtue while perpetuating suffering. His fingers twitched, craving something heavier than a chip. He remembered the cold indifference of the social worker who'd dismissed his pleas for help years ago, the sneering landlord who'd thrown his mother's belongings onto the rain-slicked street. All Might's grin on the screen seemed to mock those memories directly.
A sharp elbow jabbed his ribs. "Lighten up, Tanaka!" slurred Hiro, nudging a lukewarm beer towards him. "It's just a show." Kaito didn't flinch. He watched Mirio phase through solid concrete, a power that could solve genuine hardship, used only to chase petty thieves. The disconnect was nauseating. Heroes obsessed with rankings and popularity contests while children starved in alleyways two districts over. He thought of his own ending – not noble, not heroic, just forgotten in a damp gutter. The injustice of it burned hotter than any fictional villain's fire. The laughter around him faded into a dull roar, drowned out by the furious pounding of his own heart against his ribs. He tasted bile at the back of his throat. This wasn't entertainment; it was propaganda.
Kaito abruptly stood, the sudden movement silencing the room. "Need air," he muttered, cutting through the awkward pause. He pushed past Hiro's questioning look and stumbled out onto the dingy balcony. The city sprawled below him, a labyrinth of neon and shadow. Distant sirens wailed – another 'hero' chasing another manufactured crisis. He gripped the rusted railing, the cold metal biting into his palms. Below, a drunk stumbled and fell hard on the cracked pavement. No hero swooped down. People hurried past, eyes averted. A bitter, metallic tang filled his mouth. This world didn't need smiling idols. It needed consequence. It needed to understand true, unfiltered pain. He closed his eyes, the railing creaking under his tightening grip. The city lights blurred into streaks of meaningless color.
The creaking metal vanished. So did the stale beer smell and the distant sirens. Cool, damp silence pressed in. Kaito opened his eyes. Instead of Hiro's cramped balcony overlooking the city's grime, he stood ankle-deep in frigid water within a vast, echoing cavern. Jagged rock walls soared upwards into darkness, the only light a faint, eerie phosphorescence emanating from patches of luminous moss. The air tasted ancient, thick with mineral dust and the profound chill of deep earth. He looked down. His worn jeans and t-shirt were gone. Swathing his body was a long, deep-black cloak stippled with black red clouds – unmistakably the regalia of the Akatsuki. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up his throat.
He stumbled backward, splashing in the shallow pool, his gaze darting wildly. A faint ripple disturbed the still water at his feet. Driven by a dreadful curiosity, Kaito froze and peered down. The reflection was distorted, wavering, but unmistakable: high-collared cloak, the swirling red clouds motif… and a face. Not his own angular, tired features, but a younger man's visage – sharp jawline, spiky orange hair framing piercing eyes. *Yahiko's* face. Yet it was hardened, unnaturally still, like marble warmed only by the unnatural violet-and-concentric-ring glare of the Rinnegan staring back from the water's surface. Cold metal studs, like cruel punctuation marks, pierced the brow ridge and chin. The chill of the cave seeped through the soles of his boots, a visceral counterpoint to the burning horror spreading through his chest.
Recognition slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. *Pain.* The Deva Path. Nagato's ultimate weapon, forged from grief and righteous fury. *His* weapon now. Kaito (was he still Kaito?) raised shaking hands – *Yahiko's* hands – tracing the unfamiliar planes of the face reflected below. His fingertips brushed the cold metal studs embedded in the flesh. No pain registered, only a terrifying numbness. A surge of alien memories flooded his mind – fragments of Konan's paper fluttering like fragile hope, Nagato's broken voice whispering promises of peace through agony, the crushing weight of Hanzo's betrayal. He gasped, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the cavernous silence, tasting damp mineral air thick with the scent of wet stone and ancient dust. This wasn't possession; it was *integration*. He *was* this Path, this vessel sculpted for divine retribution.
Driven by a compulsion deeper than thought, he pushed through the shallow water towards a fissure emitting a dim, grey light. The cloak, heavier than it looked, whispered against his legs as he squeezed through jagged rock, the rough stone scraping against the sturdy fabric. Emerging, he blinked against the sudden brightness. Rolling hills stretched before him, lush and green under a vibrant blue sky – a jarring contrast to the gloom of the cave and the grimy cityscape he'd just left. In the far distance, nestled against the coastline, lay a cityscape gleaming under the sun. Its silhouette – the distinctive domes, the towering Sky Egg – was unmistakable: Mustafu. Recognition ignited not nostalgia, but a fresh wave of corrosive bile in his throat. The hypocrisy framed by paradise.
He began walking, hs Sandels silent on the soft earth. The Rinnegan scanned the horizon with unnerving clarity, perceiving far beyond human limits. High above Mustafu, specks darted through the air – heroes. One, trailing shimmering light like cheap tinsel, executed a pointless aerial flourish for a hovering news drone. Another posed dramatically on a rooftop, basking in the adulation of a small crowd gathered below. Their staged heroics, their manufactured smiles, screamed into the unnatural silence of his perception. He saw the carefully choreographed rescues, the villain-of-the-week theatrics designed solely for ratings and rankings. It was the same grotesque circus amplified tenfold, played out amidst gleaming skyscrapers instead of grimy alleyways. Disgust wasn't a strong enough word. It was revulsion, physical and profound, tightening his borrowed jaw into a grim line. The scent of blooming wildflowers clashed violently with the imagined stench of decay he knew festered beneath that city's polished surface.
Each step fueled the cold fire building within the Deva Path. The Rinnegan absorbed the scene: the heroes' performative antics, the blissful ignorance of the citizens cheering below, the sheer *waste* of power focused on maintaining this fragile, corrupt illusion. Nagato's yearning for peace through shared pain resonated with Kaito's own buried fury, amplified a thousandfold by this borrowed, terrifying power. This world didn't deserve gentle smiles or empty platitudes. It deserved a truth as brutal and undeniable as gravity. A faint, predatory smile touched Yahiko's lips – Kaito's purpose crystallized with chilling clarity. He would show them pain. Not the petty tantrums of a man-child like Shigaraki, but the crushing, divine judgment of a god walking among mortals. Mustafu would be his first sermon. The Rinnegan pulsed with barely contained power.
He descended from the hills towards a small town nestled beside a winding road, the Akatsuki cloak drawing startled glances he ignored. The cloying sweetness of baking bread wafted from a small cafe, mingling with the exhaust fumes of passing cars – sensory overload after the cavern's silence. His senses, honed unnaturally sharp, caught snippets of conversations: mundane worries about bills, gossip about celebrity heroes, complaints about the latest minor villain attack. Their trivial concerns scraped against his growing conviction. Ahead, a cluster of people stood transfixed before an electronics store window, their faces illuminated by the glare of large-screen TVs. The Rinnegan focused instantly, drawn not by the program, but by the date stamp flashing in the corner: *May XX, XXXX*. He stopped dead, the flow of pedestrians parting around his imposing figure like water around a stone.
The news anchor's voice, crisp and professional, cut through the street noise: *"...as we commemorate twenty-four years since All Might's spectacular debut, reshaping the landscape of hero society..."* Twenty-four years. Kaito's borrowed heart hammered against ribs that suddenly felt hollow. He frantically accessed the fragmented timeline woven into Nagato's memories. Twenty-four years after All Might's debut… six years before the U.A. entrance exam that marked the "canon" beginning. Six years. A lifetime. Endeavor was still clawing his way to the top, Hawks likely just starting his meteoric rise. All For One lurked in the deepest shadows, patiently rebuilding. U.A. would be filled with children Deku's age – earnest, naive, dreaming of meaningless rankings. A savage thrill warred with cold calculation. Six years gave him time. Time to gather strength unseen, to understand the full scope of this world's rot, to plan an agony so profound it would shatter their complacency forever. The Rinnegan's concentric rings seemed to shimmer with dark anticipation.
On screen, archival footage showed a younger, impossibly vibrant All Might demolishing some colossal villain with a single punch, his iconic laugh booming even through the speakers. The crowd outside the store murmured appreciatively. Kaito felt Yahiko's face contort into a silent snarl, his own revulsion amplified by the Path's engineered hatred. All Might. The ultimate symbol of this broken system. His brightly packaged justice blinded the masses to the suffering festering beneath. The news cut to a live shot of Endeavor subduing a minor villain downtown, flames roaring unnecessarily, snarling for the cameras. Hypocrisy layered upon hypocrisy. Six years. Enough time for the seeds of despair to take root. Enough time to ensure that when he finally unleashed Shinra Tensei upon this glittering lie, the entire world would feel the weight of its own indifference. He turned away from the flickering idolatry, the cloak swirling darkly around him, and vanished into the bustling street's oblivious currents. The hunt had begun.
The first priority crystallized, cold and sharp as the metal studs in his brow: find Tenko Shimura. Find him *before* the shadow parasite claiming godhood sank its tendrils into that fractured mind. Shigaraki Tomura was a tool of All For One's decaying ambition, a petulant child handed apocalyptic power he neither understood nor deserved. Kaito recalled the man-child's tantrums, the childish glee in destruction devoid of purpose, the pathetic reliance on a master manipulating his every trauma. Disgust curdled in the Deva Path's borrowed gut. Yet… beneath the whining incompetence lay potential. Raw, unfocused hatred born from genuine, world-shattering betrayal – the annihilation of his family. That hatred, properly honed, stripped of All For One's coddling and instilled with a true understanding of *why* the world deserved ash, could be invaluable. Tenko Shimura needed to become something All For One could never envision: not a heir, but an apostle of divine pain, forged in Kaito's crucible.
Navigating the labyrinthine underbelly of Japan without attracting hero notice required patience the Rinnegan afforded him. He moved like a ghost, the Akatsuki cloak traded for nondescript civilian garb purchased with stolen yen. His senses mapped the city's pulse – the stench of overflowing dumpsters in forgotten alleys, the frantic whispers of petty criminals, the distant thrum of hero patrols overhead. Fragments of Nagato's memories guided him: safe houses used by Amegakure operatives decades prior, locations where desperation festered. Days bled into weeks, filled with the monotonous grind of surveillance and deduction. He targeted orphanages first, particularly those with records of abuse or disappearances, places ripe for All For One's predators to pluck vulnerable children. He lingered near playgrounds where bruised children played too quietly, scanned police reports for unsolved family annihilations. The scent of cheap antiseptic in a rundung clinic corridor reminded him of sterile hospital rooms, triggering a flash of Nagato's memory – Shimura Nana. The trail led west.
His persistence paid off in a decaying industrial district choked with rust and neglect. Rain lashed down, turning grimy streets into oily rivers reflecting the sickly yellow glow of malfunctioning streetlights. He sensed the concentrated misery before he saw its source – a small, trembling figure huddled deep within the alcove of a boarded-up pawn shop. Tenko Shimura. The boy was a skeletal shadow swallowed by oversized, filthy rags, clutching his exposed forearms tightly against his chest. His cracked lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line, his wide, terrified eyes darting frantically from passing figures to his own gloved hands. Each time a passerby hurried past, shoulders hunched against the rain, Tenko flinched violently, shrinking further into the damp brickwork. The stench of unwashed fear clung to him, sharp and acrid beneath the damp concrete and stale urine of the alley.
Kaito halted ten paces away, observing the raw vulnerability beneath the terror. *Why crawl into this filth?* The Deva Path's enhanced vision traced the boy's likely path – past a brightly lit police station only three blocks back, its blue lamp a beacon of false sanctuary. The answer echoed in Nagato's borrowed instincts: paralyzing trauma. The memory of his family dissolving into dust under his own touch would make any authority figure, any promise of help, feel like a death sentence. Tenko saw only executioners where others saw protectors. A pitiful whimper escaped the boy as he noticed Kaito's stillness, mistaking it for predatory intent.
Silence stretched, thick with the drumming rain and Tenko's ragged breaths. Kaito stepped forward deliberately, the borrowed features softening into something approximating concern, a stark contrast to the Rinnegan's unearthly glare. He stopped directly before the terrified child. Rainwater plastered Tenko's ragged hair to his scalp, dripping into his wide, haunted eyes. Kaito knelt slowly, heedless of the filthy water soaking his borrowed trousers, bringing himself to the boy's level. His voice, using Yahiko's deeper timbre but stripped of Nagato's anguish, cut through the downpour's roar, quiet yet resonant: "Why are you alone, child?"
The boy froze, staring up with animal panic. Kaito saw the raw terror warring with a desperate, buried hope for any scrap of kindness. He extended a hand slowly, palm open and empty. "This place offers nothing but wet stone and indifference," he murmured, holding Tenko's terrified gaze. "The storms within you deserve better than this decay." He waited, the Rinnegan silently analyzing the frantic pulse at Tenko's throat, the tremor in his small shoulders, the sour tang of despair mixing with the metallic bite of rain. Behind Yahiko's borrowed face, Kaito calculated coldly: *Here is the shattered vessel. Let All For One have his pawns. I will forge a harbinger.*
Internally, Kaito/Pain mapped the intricate web of All For One's influence. Fragments of Nagato's deep-rooted hatred intertwined with his own burning disgust. The Symbol of Evil was an ancient cancer, clinging to power through stolen quirks and poisoned minds. Shigaraki's future tantrums were proof enough—AFO cultivated weakness wrapped in destruction. Kaito envisioned surgical strikes: isolating the Noumu factories first, starving his resources. A final confrontation wouldn't be a battle; it would be an extermination. *Why leave a parasite to fester? Crush the rot before it can scuttle into the shadows again.*
Tenko's gloved hand trembled violently inches from Kaito's own. The Rinnegan absorbed the microscopic decay particles clinging to the fabric—a power uncontrolled, leaking horror. Kaito's voice remained low, an anchor in the downpour. "They fear what you carry," he stated, not flinching. "They see only the hands." His gaze never wavered. "I see the storm *behind* them. The truth they forced you to bury." Rainwater traced paths through the grime on Tenko's cheeks, mingling with silent tears. The boy's breath hitched, a choked sound swallowed by thunder. Slowly, agonizingly, his fingers uncurled from his chest.
Kaito closed the distance. His hand didn't grasp Tenko's glove; it settled firmly on the boy's bony shoulder, feeling the frantic heartbeat beneath thin cloth. "Come," he commanded, the word resonating with unnatural finality. "The world owes you agony. I will teach you how to collect it." He pulled Tenko upright, the child staggering like a newborn fawn. As they turned from the dripping alcove, Kaito's Rinnegan scanned the rain-blurred street. Hunters would come for this prize. Let them. His path was clear: reshape the broken boy, purge the false god festering in the dark, and then… let the divine gravity of pain descend upon the false idols glittering in the distance. The sermon was being written.