The endless plain stretched all the way to the horizon, the afternoon sun's reflection twisting in the air as if trying to melt the sky and the earth into one.No buildings. No living creatures. Not even the whisper of wind or the stir of grass.Only a solitary stone structure in the middle of the field — a monument to something nameless, and perhaps best left forgotten.
Nine stone chairs stood in precise formation, arranged like relics of an ancient ritual. Upon each chair sat a silent figure, unmoving, their eyes fixed on a central monitor that broadcast the UA Sports Festival.
A faint clink of metal against metal broke the stillness as one man shifted. His entire head was encased in a steel helmet, his presence as solid and immovable as a war memorial.
No one laughed. No one cared about the victory or defeat playing on the screen. Not even a sigh escaped. This was not the silence of people — it was the silence of beings watching the world from behind the rotting curtain of history itself.
The nine mysterious figures kept their gaze on the monitor. The broadcast continued, showing the events of the UA Sports Festival.
They watched without speaking a single word. But instead of easing the tension, the silence seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on the air until the man in the steel helmet finally spoke.
???: Looks like he's shown up this time… wouldn't you say, Asterion?
He turned toward the figure in the space suit.The man's helmet was sealed tight, as if carved from solid black onyx — no eyes, no skin, nothing visible beneath.And yet, the air around him froze, each particle locked in place, like an ancient glacier rising from beneath the polar ice.
Asterion: "…"
His silence was a blade of ice.
???: I thought you'd be the first to take a knife to the Player…
Asterion remained quiet for a moment longer before tilting his head toward the man who had spoken.When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy — like a sentence passed on the day of the world's end.
Asterion: All For One… the day of judgment draws near. And when it comes — it will be I who drags him down into the pit.
His gaze shifted toward a woman seated cross-legged on another stone chair. She wore a vivid crimson dress, the color of fresh, warm blood, flowing down to the ground like a path of sin.Resting on her lap was a short dagger. Behind her stood two women who shared her exact face, like mirrors reflecting sin upon sin.
Asterion: …But I am not the only one who seeks him. You as well… isn't that right, Gisong?
The woman closed her eyes in serenity, as though listening to the hidden machinery turning within the body of the universe itself. Yet when her voice slipped past her lips, it carried the taste of pure madness.
Gisong: Not quite. I don't want to 'hunt' him — I want to 'devour' him. His body, inside and out… I want to taste him with my own tongue.
A faint chuckle came from another man, seated carelessly with his legs crossed. His black suit was immaculate, but his skin was obscured by a swirling mass of black smoke, leaving only the gleam of two white, glowing eyes fixed upon the others.
???: The system still won't let us in… but that doesn't mean we're without options — our subordinates can still slip through.
He chuckled low in his throat, those white eyes narrowing like a predator assessing its prey.
Gisong: It seems you've already tested that… Gilliad.
The smoke shivered faintly, as if laughing.
Gilliad: I have. I nearly killed him — if the 'system' hadn't interfered. The second time, I sent a swarm of nightmare beasts to Tatooine Station and to a high school. But they were all slaughtered. He's not alone… he has an army. His own personal army.
Asterion: …Different. Vastly different… from the players before him.
He paused before continuing.
Asterion: But it's not too late. This will be the last cycle in which he still has a chance to 'grow.' Once it passes… he will become something we cannot control.
Suddenly, a deep metallic bell tolled across the plains — a sound both distant and thunderous, like a shout from the graveyard of gods.
Every voice fell silent. The air froze.
Then, the man who had not spoken since the beginning of the gathering rose to his feet. His black mask was shaped like charred bone, and his long white hair swayed in a wind no one else could feel. At his side hung a black blade, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
He stood slowly, each step echoing against the stone floor like the tolling of a death gong.
???: Time… has run out. It is time for all of you to leave.
No one defied him. All rose in unison, like priests performing a rite in a cathedral of secrets. Each bowed — even All For One.
In an instant, shadows of grey and black swallowed them, erasing their presence from the world, leaving only the man who had cast them out.
He stood alone in the vast emptiness, silent… like the final pillar holding up the ruins of the universe
Cut to Kazuma – 9:00 AM
The holiday morning began with an excitement he could hardly contain.
Today wasn't just about sleeping in after all the intense training—he had an important appointment. Two girls were coming to his place. That's right… Momo and Mina were visiting him on a day off like this.Who wouldn't be excited?
Excited about seeing them? Sure.But more than that—he was ready to show off his master-level cooking skills in person, and then take them out for some fun afterward.Basically… a date with two people at once.
If anyone wanted to call it a harem, let them. His heart was already racing past that point.
Ryōjin got himself dressed up sharp, sprayed on the kind of cologne advertised to "drive women wild," and—of course—slipped a certain important item into his wallet, in a special slot reserved for the occasion.
Because he knew his "size" was… above average for this country.Okay, not bragging, but… the ladies would probably be impressed.
The doorbell rang. He rushed to open it—and froze for a split second.
They had dressed up nicely, looking so bright and beautiful that his eyes refused to look anywhere else.
"What's wrong, Ryō?" Momo asked with mild suspicion.Mina tilted her head, looking curious too.
"Nothing… just—you two look gorgeous today," he said with his usual blunt honesty.
Both of them flushed slightly. Mina let out a giggle, while Momo smiled shyly without saying a word.
"Come on in. I'm cooking for you today. Chef-level stuff. I'm telling you, this won't be ordinary." He grinned, leading them into the kitchen, mentally patting himself on the back.
"If it's not good, I'll hit you," Momo said flatly—before sitting down at the table with a rare wide smile.
"Yay! Ryō's cooking show!" Mina cheered, as bubbly as ever.
He began preparing authentic Thai dishes he used to make in his past life—tom yum soup, pad krapow, pad thai, even fluffy omelets over rice. He toned down the spice for their Japanese taste, but the aroma filling the kitchen was proof enough: these dishes wouldn't escape the word delicious.
After eating to their fill, they moved to the sofa, watching a movie together and chatting about everything—from heroes in the news to secret gossip about classmates (mostly Bakugo). Laughter filled the room all afternoon.
Then Ryōjin took the two of them to a nearby arcade. None of them expected it to be this fun—But before long, they were playing like elementary school kids: dancing games, shooting games, claw machines.
Some people even recognized them and asked for pictures, but it didn't matter.As long as Momo and Mina were laughing like this, he was happy.
By evening, they were back at Kazuma's place again. This time, instead of going out, they decided to watch another movie in his room.
And yes—he already had a plan.
"Wanna see my cat in my room?"
He smiled slyly to himself.
Tonight might be longer than expected…
(It's simple, they have sex, and I don't want to describe it, for fear of not being able to get the full effect.)
After dropping the two girls off, he drove straight toward The Thumb's headquarters.
Dressed in a black suit, he took a hidden route—one known only to the Boss and the Underboss.
Come to think of it, nearly the entire system here was his creation. As for field operations and the finer details, he had long entrusted those to the Underboss.
The road he followed was silent, swallowed in shadows, the air laced with the faint tang of iron. No signs. No lights. No GPS could guide the way—only memory.
Upon reaching the perimeter of the headquarters—a place so secret that even some high-ranking members dared not speak its name—he slowed the car with measured calm.
At the gate stood two clones, standing guard. They didn't move. They didn't speak. Not even a sideways glance in that old, insolent way they used to.
They had changed.
After he ordered the Underboss to reform their behavior and instill discipline, they began following the rules he'd set.
Gone was the chatter, the hot tempers, the street-thug swagger.
Now they were silent, cold, and watched everything with an empty but orderly gaze.
And that… was exactly what he wanted.
When he stepped out of the car, the sharp sound of leather soles striking stone rang out in the stillness—like a warning bell. The two clones moved in perfect sync, standing straight with arms at their sides, flawless in posture.
No greeting. No words.
But behind their masks, their eyes held something different from before.
Respect.
Not fear. Not blind obedience.
But true respect.
They knew well—he was the one who had built this entire system. The one who had shaped The Thumb into more than a secret organization—into an empire in the shadows, capable of crushing anything with a single command.
He stepped into the building, the massive steel doors parting automatically as the identity scanners recognized his presence.
Inside, the grand hall gleamed under pristine white lights. Machinery pulsed and churned without pause, like the heart of some lifeless beast.
This… was the command center.
And he—was the one around whom every mechanism in this universe revolved
After stepping into the base, he looked around at the vast, unyielding interior—an edifice that felt as though it had been forged from blood and iron, beating at the heart of darkness.
This base was truly massive. He knew it had been built with expansion in mind—not just to widen the reach of the organization, but to extend its power without limit.
All around, workers dug pits, hauled sand, and erected structures with relentless fury. They moved like tireless machines, yet he felt nothing toward them.
He entered a large chamber, his figure touched only by faint beams of light in the dead silence. There, he began creating thousands of clones.
These clones were unlike their reckless, undisciplined predecessors. Each carried only the essential skills—usually just two or three—gained from the demons he had slain.
"Killing is the act of creating new life," he thought.
The funds he had amassed from expanding the organization into legitimate businesses allowed him to purchase a vast array of skills for the clones. The business ran without pause, unchallenged—because their rivals had been quietly, unknowingly forced into submission.
As he reviewed plans to deploy clones overseas, his confidence grew. The global rise in villain activity would work in his favor—it would bring wealth and legitimacy to The Thumb.
He then walked toward the Boss's wing, where clones and staff stood silently in respect.
In the meeting room, the organization felt like a prison's underground chamber—silent and heavy.
The high-ranking staff and three Underbosses took their seats. He sat at the head of the table.
The meeting began with each division stating their requests for funding. Every proposal was delivered quietly—they all knew who would make the final decision.
Underboss Rechel proposed buying shares in various clothing companies and suggested expanding the food distribution business nationwide to strengthen revenue. Though the costs would be high, the profits promised to be substantial. He approved.
Next, Hashtag proposed venturing into mercenary work—deploying soldiers to war-torn countries to seize resources or even ignite conflicts in underdeveloped regions, funneling the spoils back to The Thumb.
He paused briefly, then approved, especially for operations in southern Africa, rich in both war and resources. Heavy weaponry was authorized.
Beak Ji reported on PROJECT NEXUS, which had drastically reduced villain numbers in the province, leaving only scattered Agent groups active. She asked if she should launch the program in neighboring provinces. After a moment's thought, he replied, "Begin."
He inquired about the scouts' recruitment numbers. She handed him a file—two to three hundred had joined so far, mostly gang members and ordinary citizens, with vigilantes making up a small fraction.
Silence returned to the room. He said nothing more, but the weight of his decisions was clear in everyone's eyes.
In this strange, shadowed darkness, he was the one guiding every movement, every plan, every choice—and he knew, without doubt, that everything he did would carry The Thumb toward a greatness beyond anything that had ever existed.
He turned to Beak Ji once more."Do we have any heroes among us yet?" he asked.
She handed him a file—eight names.
One of them made him pause.Ms. Joke.A woman whose face he knew well. An Agent on their side. He never would have guessed that a friend—or rather, the one who loved Aizawa—would be part of their network.
He stayed silent for a moment, eyes scanning the document as Beak Ji explained.
"Some underground heroes have already joined our organization. Some are trading goods, others even participate in villain suppression. And yes… a few have killed. They're no different from the ones on TV—sanctioned by the state to kill only when 'necessary.' That's why they can work with us."
He gave a faint nod. He knew the world was cruel. And to survive in it, you had to play by its rules.
The meeting went on until two in the morning. Everyone offered their ideas and plans. He listened, weighed each one—approving those he agreed with, and dismissing the rest without hesitation.
When it finally ended, he stood, ready to head home. But then, a thought struck him. He turned back to Beak Ji.
"Get in touch with Ms. Joke. Tell her I'll be joining her for the internship," he said in a low voice."Aizawa already said there'd be one. I'm choosing her because it'll make things far easier than going with anyone else."
Beak Ji acknowledged the order, and he walked out of the meeting room.
Driving home in the stillness of the night, he told himself he'd take two days off before returning—or decide later if he even wanted to.
When he arrived, at last, he could rest. He only wanted to sleep.The world outside had grown too turbulent… too dark… for today.