[ CHAPTER VISUAL: ] Izuku sits upon a simple wooden chair amidst the skeletal remains of a ruined throne room. Stone ruins crumble around him; old, featureless grey banners hang motionless in the dead air. A toppled brazier and a moth-eaten, blood-stained red carpet lie at his feet. He wears his Aldera School uniform, but it is a shredded ruin soaked in crimson. His face is a mask of trauma—his cheek torn open to the bone, exposing the white of his jaw.
Izuku Midoriya knew only two truths in this life: strength was a lie, and hatred was absolute.
He had suffered long enough to understand the jagged edges of these rules. Strength was a lie because those who claimed it possessed no true will or physical might; they simply possessed a Quirk—a biological accident. The rules of power were deceptively simple: for the "good," strength was a shield for the weak; for the "evil," it was a boot on the neck of the helpless.
But Izuku had only ever felt the boot. In a world where the only "good" strength he saw was filtered through the sanitized lens of the news, he had reached a cold conclusion: true strength didn't exist. There was only the power to oppress.
The second rule was even simpler: Hatred was absolute.
Except for the flickering warmth of his mother's love, Izuku's life had been a masterclass in animosity. He had been born with the greatest sin of the modern age: he was Quirkless. In a world where eighty percent of humanity was "evolved," he was a mutation—a relic of a discarded past. He was ordinary in a world of monsters, and that "ordinariness" invited the predatory bullies and the suffocating indifference of adults. It had carved the truth into his bones: to be different was to be hated.
Despite the rot, he had spent years clinging to a desperate wish. He wanted to be a hero—a warrior of hope in a world that felt fundamentally broken.
For years, he had been the world's punching bag, specifically for his former friend, Katsuki Bakugo. Yet, he endured the burns and the bruises with a will forged of iron. His dream was the light at the end of a long, claustrophobic tunnel.
His mother's love was the only anchor keeping him from being swept away by the tides of depression.
But today, that anchor would be tested.
"IZUKU, HONEY! HURRY UP OR YOU'LL MISS THE TRAIN!"
Izuku stood before the mirror, tightening his tie. He adjusted his expression, forcing a smile onto his face—a fragile, hollow thing, but a smile nonetheless.
"COMING, MOM!" he shouted back. He lightly slapped his cheeks, trying to stir some life into his pale skin. "Today is going to be a good day. I can feel it."
He grabbed his bag and stepped out of his room. The space was a sanctuary. From wall to wall, it was a shrine to Japan's Number One Hero, All Might. Rare, mint-condition figurines stood like silent sentinels on his shelves; his bed was neatly draped in a blanket bearing the hero's grinning face. In this room, the world's hatred couldn't reach him. In here, he was at peace.
He didn't know that by the end of the day, his sanctuary would feel like a tomb.
As Izuku stepped out into the morning air, the peace of his bedroom vanished. Every step toward Aldera Junior High felt like marching deeper into enemy territory. People passed him by—some with skin like stone, others with sparks dancing between their fingers—and Izuku felt the familiar, heavy weight of their collective indifference.
But as he boarded the train, his mind began to spin a golden thread of defiance.
"They don't see it," he thought, clutching the strap of his bag until his knuckles turned white. "They see a void where a Quirk should be. They see a defect. But they don't understand."
To Izuku, his Quirklessness was becoming a Secret Strength. While others leaned on their abilities like crutches, he had to learn the architecture of the world. He had to observe, to analyze, and to survive using nothing but his wits and a will that was slowly hardening into obsidian. When he finally stood atop the Hero Rankings, he wouldn't just be another "Symbol." He would be a revolution. He would tear down the current hierarchy—the one that treated humans like trash if they didn't have a biological gimmick—and replace it with something earned.
"I'll show them," he whispered to the glass of the train window. "I'll change the rules. I'll make them realize that strength isn't something you're born with. It's something you take."
The school gates of Aldera loomed ahead, grey and forbidding. As Izuku stepped onto the grounds, the atmosphere curdled. The air grew thick and heavy, smelling of ozone and the cloying, burnt-sugar scent of nitroglycerin.
"Move it, Deku."
The voice was a low growl, vibrating with a casual, practiced cruelty. Izuku didn't have to look up to see the orange sparks popping in a palm just inches from his shoulder.
Katsuki Bakugo walked past him, flanked by his usual sycophants. He didn't look at Izuku like a rival or even a human being; he looked at him like a pebble in his shoe—an annoying, insignificant obstacle.
It hadn't always been this way.
Once, they had been inseparable. Their mothers worked the same shifts at the hospital, and the boys had spent their childhoods weaving a shared myth of greatness. They were going to be the greatest tag-team duo the world had ever seen. They had analyzed their lineages like young alchemists; Izuku had theorized that since Katsuki's mother breathed fire and his father possessed explosive sweat, Katsuki would become a living forge. He had even theorized his own destiny: a fusion of his mother's telekinesis and his father's magnetism—a master of metal.
They had spent hundreds of hours playing 'Heroes vs. Villains' in the dirt, both of them always on the side of the light. But that dream died at the age of six.
Bakugo had been the first to be tested. He had returned from the doctor with fire in his palms and a grin that could swallow the sun. He had grabbed Izuku's shoulder, his eyes wide with a manic excitement. "You better come to me first when you get yours," he had commanded. "We're partners. You're not allowed to tell anyone else."
Izuku had believed him. He had believed in their future.
But the doctor's office had been a tomb. "I'm sorry, young man, but you don't have a Quirk."
Izuku had returned home with a crushed soul, his mother picking up the pieces of his shattered identity. He had cried, but he had clung to one last hope: Katsuki. He thought his friend would look at the medical report and spit on it. He thought Katsuki would say, "Screw the doctors. We're still going to be the best."
But that future was nothing but smoke and mirrors.
When he told Katsuki the truth, he didn't receive words of comfort. He received a scorched fist to the face. The boy who had been his brother looked down at him with a gaze full of sudden, venomous disgust.
"You freak. I can't believe I was ever friends with you."
That punch was the first brick in the foundation of his creed: Strength is a lie.
Katsuki traded his loyalty for a new crowd and a new mindset. The bullying became a ritual. Izuku was forced to learn first aid in the dark of his bedroom, patching up burns and stitching torn clothes because the school faculty—once they smelled the "defect" of his Quirklessness—treated him like a ghost.
The hatred thrown at him for the crime of being born was the first brick of his second creed: Hatred is absolute. Society built the rest of the house. The police ignored his reports. Heroes looked right through him. He was a non-entity in a sea of "evolved" gods.
"What the fuck are you looking at, Deku?"
Bakugo's voice snapped the tether to the past, dragging Izuku back to the blistering heat of the present.
"Don't tell me you're still dreaming that pathetic little dream," Bakugo sneered. He stopped just ahead, turning his head so his crimson eyes could lock onto Izuku's with a predatory intensity. "You're a glitch in the system, Midoriya. A zero. Stop standing in the way of people who actually matter before you get burned out of existence."
The Strength is a Lie rule flared in Izuku's mind like a brand. Bakugo was the embodiment of that lie—raw, explosive power without a shred of the discipline or restraint of a true warrior.
Izuku kept his head down, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The silence between them was a graveyard where a friendship had been buried long ago.
The school day crawled by like a slow-moving sickness. For Izuku, the classroom was not a place of learning, but a cage of quiet endurance. He spent the hours hunched over his notebook, the scratch of his pen the only thing keeping him grounded. He was cataloging—analyzing the mechanical intricacies of quirks, the structural weaknesses of hero costumes, and the tactical failures of the "Gods" on the news.
It was his only weapon. But in a world that valued brawn over brains, his intelligence was just another target.
"Deku... the fuck are you writing?"
The voice was sharp, cutting through his focus. Izuku reached for his journal, but he was a fraction of a second too slow. A hand—fingers elongated by a minor mutation—snatched the book from his desk. It was Mitsuki, one of Bakugo's hangers-on, a boy who lived for the scraps of power he could scavenge from someone weaker than him.
Mitsuki flipped through the pages, his eyes darting over the meticulously drawn diagrams and the dense walls of text. A look of visceral rage erupted on his face, his lip curling back to reveal teeth that looked too sharp for a human.
"The fuck is this? 'Quirk Analysis for the Future'?" Mitsuki slammed the book down on a neighboring desk, making the wood grain rattle. "You've been watching us, haven't you? Taking notes on everyone's abilities? You're a fucking creep, Midoriya!"
The air in the room shifted. Heads turned. Eyes—slit-pupilled, glowing, or entirely black—locked onto Izuku. The silence wasn't curious; it was predatory. To them, the idea of a Quirkless boy "analyzing" their powers wasn't a sign of hard work—it was a threat. It was a fly daring to study the spider.
"I—it's just notes," Izuku stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "I want to be a hero, and I need to know how to—"
"A hero?" Another student let out a sharp, barking laugh. "A quirkless freak like you? You aren't studying heroes, Deku. You're studying us. What's the matter? Planning how to stab us in the back since you can't fight us head-on?"
The teacher, a man whose skin was the color of old parchment and who possessed a minor telepathic quirk, didn't even look up from his tablet. He had heard it all. He had seen the theft. But in his mind, Izuku was already a ghost—a statistical anomaly that didn't deserve the effort of intervention.
The Hatred is Absolute rule pulsed in Izuku's mind, cold and steady. He looked around the room and saw not classmates, but a sea of monsters in human skin. They didn't hate him for what he did; they hated him for what he was.
He looked toward the back of the room, where Bakugo sat. Bakugo wasn't laughing. He was just watching, his crimson eyes narrowed, his palms smoking with a dull, orange glow.
Bakugo didn't join the laughter. He simply stood, the sheer weight of his presence—the "Power" that radiated off his shoulders like a physical heat—silencing the room. In the eyes of Aldera's faculty, Bakugo was a golden god. He was the one who would put this pathetic school on the map. They pampered him, overlooked his failures, and scrubbed his record clean, all for a taste of his future glory.
"Hey, Bakugo! You're in his book too!" Mitsuki shouted, his voice eager as he handed the stolen journal over like an offering to a king.
Bakugo gripped the notebook, the cover crinkling under his touch. He looked at the pages, then shifted his gaze to Izuku. It was a glare that carried the heat of a furnace.
"You've been watching me, you fucking nerd?"
The accusation was low, dangerous. Izuku immediately scrambled back, his hands waving in a desperate, placating gesture. He was trying to soothe a dragon that had already decided to breathe fire.
"No, Kacchan! I swear! Your quirk is just—it's so amazing, I had to—"
His words were cut short by the wet thud of a fist. Mitsuki had struck him across the face, a strike delivered on the silent, telepathic command of Bakugo's sneer. The "King" wouldn't dirty his own hands with the filth of a quirkless boy—not yet.
Izuku crashed to the floor, his vision swimming. Through the haze, he looked up at the teacher's desk, his eyes pleading for a shred of humanity. The man looked at him, his expression one of bored annoyance. He whispered four words that hit harder than any fist:
"Not my problem," he mumbled, returning his gaze to his tablet.
"WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GET IT THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULL!" Bakugo's roar filled the room. He stepped forward and delivered a heavy kick into Izuku's stomach.
The classroom erupted in laughter. These were teens on the cusp of eighteen—nearly men, nearly "heroes"—and they were cheering for a slaughter. One more summer, one more year, and they would be given licenses to "protect" society.
"YOU CAN'T BE A HERO, YOU GODDAMN DEKU!"
Each word was punctated by the heavy stomp of Bakugo's boot. Stomp. The light of the dream flickered. Stomp. The iron will Izuku had spent years building began to crack. Stomp.
All Izuku could do was curl into a ball on the cold linoleum, his arms wrapped around his head to minimize the damage. He was a piece of meat being tenderized for the world's consumption. He didn't cry out. He didn't beg anymore. He simply lay there, a broken gear in a machine that wanted him crushed.
Bakugo reached down, his fingers knotting into Izuku's green curls. He hoisted him up with a violent jerk, tossing him back into his chair—not as an act of mercy, but to ensure Izuku was forced to look him in the eye.
"You wanna be a hero so bad? Fine."
The room fell silent. Even the teacher looked up, his interest piqued by the sudden, lethal calm in Bakugo's voice. Bakugo shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze dropping to Izuku like a king looking at a stray dog.
"Take a swan dive off the roof and pray you get a Quirk in the next life."
The words hung in the air for a heartbeat before the classroom erupted. The students roared with laughter, a cruel, mocking sound that bounced off the walls like a physical assault. The teacher said nothing; he simply returned to his tablet, his silence a silent blessing of the death threat.
Bakugo reached out, snatched Izuku's scorched journal from the desk, and walked to the window. With a casual flick of his wrist, a surge of heat erupted from his palm. The notebook caught fire instantly, the pages curling into black ash. He tossed it out into the air.
Izuku watched, paralyzed, as the only record of his dreams fell through the sky and landed with a pathetic splash in the schoolyard fountain. The sizzle of the fire dying in the water felt like the sound of his own heart being extinguished.
RING.
The final bell screamed through the halls, signaling the end of the day. It was the sound of a prison gate opening. Izuku scrambled to his feet, his hands trembling as he shoved his belongings into his bag. He didn't look at anyone. He couldn't. He ran out of the room, the laughter of the "evolved" and the icy indifference of the faculty chasing him like a pack of wolves.
This world is broken, he thought, the tears finally spilling over as he sprinted toward the schoolyard. It's not just the villains. It's the heroes. It's the teachers. It's the system.
He reached the fountain, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He reached into the murky water and fished out the soaked, blackened remains of his book. It was heavy, cold, and ruined—a perfect mirror of the boy holding it.
He walked out of the school gates, a small, trembling figure against the backdrop of a world that didn't want him. He was alone. His mother was his only sanctuary—an island of warmth in a sea of ice—but even her love felt like a shroud. He had seen the way she looked at him when he spoke of his dreams: the pity in her eyes, the way she bit her lip. She didn't want a hero; she wanted her son to stay alive, and in this world, those two things were mutually exclusive.
Yet, a spark remained. A fool's hope that if he reached the summit, the world would finally have to look him in the eye.
Izuku chose the long way home, seeking a path that didn't involve the sneers of his peers. He found himself beneath a heavy concrete bridge near the Mustafu River. The water was a piercing, transparent blue, flowing with a relentless, cold grace. It reminded him of himself—always moving, always swept up in a current he couldn't control.
But now, the river felt like a dead end.
He leaned against the damp concrete of the bridge, the weight of the day pressing down on him. All because of a statistical anomaly. All because he was part of the one percent. In a world of eighty percent "evolved" gods and nineteen percent "remnants," he was the bottom of the barrel. He was the one-in-a-hundred mistake. A smooth, flat 1% chance had stripped him of his humanity before he had even been born.
The silence of the underpass was heavy, smelling of moss and stagnant air. It was a place where things were forgotten. It was a place where things died.
The silence of the underpass was shattered. The iron manhole cover in front of Izuku didn't just move; it erupted, clattering against the concrete with a deafening ring. Izuku scrambled back, his breath hitching as he fell hard onto the damp ground.
Out of the darkness of the sewer slithered a nightmare made of filth.
"Damn that All Might bastard..."
The voice was a sickening gurgle, the sound of a man drowning in his own lungs. The creature was a shapeless, heaving mass of translucent green slime. It had no skeleton, no skin—only five thick, undulating tentacles and a single, jaundiced yellow eye that pulsed with a frantic, murderous light.
"Oh, look at that," the creature hissed, its eye locking onto Izuku. "Seems my luck is turning around. A perfect meat suit."
Before Izuku could even scream, the creature surged. It didn't just hit him; it consumed him.
The sludge was thick and impossibly heavy, a gelatinous weight that pinned his limbs to his sides. Izuku felt the violation of cold, slimy tentacles forcing their way into his mouth, his nose, and even his eyes. It was a sensory assault of the worst kind. Everything tasted like hot, wet garbage and stagnant sewage; the air was replaced by the overwhelming stench of a rotting, sun-baked corpse.
"Don't struggle," the villain whispered directly into his ear, the sound vibrating through the slime. "It'll only hurt for about forty-five seconds. Then I'll have a body, and you'll just be a memory."
Izuku's lungs burned. His vision began to blur into a haze of vomit-green and grey. He clawed at the sludge, but his fingers found no purchase—only the slick, unyielding texture of the monster's hide. He was a 1% mistake, being erased by a monster the world would call a "villain," while the "heroes" were nowhere to be found.
Just as the darkness began to swallow him, a thunderous boom echoed through the tunnel.
The "Light" had arrived. But it was far too late to save the boy Izuku used to
"ALABAMA SMASH!"
The voice was a thunderclap, a roar of pure authority that shook the very foundation of the bridge. To Izuku, it was the voice of a god.
With a single, colossal strike, the air pressure in the tunnel shifted violently. The Sludge Villain didn't just break; he exploded. The creature's form disintegrated into a rain of foul-smelling droplets, leaving nothing behind but a pathetic puddle and a single, frantic yellow eye rolling on the concrete.
Izuku collapsed forward, his body heaving as the vacuum of the punch dragged the remaining sludge from his lungs. He retched, vomiting up a mixture of bile and green slime that drained out of his mouth, his ears, and even blurred his vision as it leaked from the corners of his eyes. His body was a broken "mainframe," purging the necrotic poison of the villain with every agonizing shiver.
Through the haze of his own tears and the stench of sewage, Izuku looked up.
There stood the beacon. The mountain of muscle. The #1 Hero, All Might.
He was a titan of a man, clad in a simple white t-shirt and tan khakis that looked ready to burst from his sheer mass. His hair was a golden crown so bright it made the dingy underpass look like a cathedral, and his smile... it was a masterpiece of porcelain and confidence that put the sun itself to shame.
"A-A-All Might," Izuku stammered, his voice a broken rasp. He looked at his idol through bloodshot, slime-rimmed eyes, his heart hammering against his ribs.
All Might placed his massive hands on his hips and let out a booming, melodic laugh that seemed to vibrate in Izuku's very marrow.
"HAHAHAHAHA! I am glad I arrived in time! This slippery fellow has been giving me a bit of a chase!" He looked down at Izuku, his eyes shadowed but his grin never wavering. "Hello, young man! Are you unharmed? And—strictly for professional reasons—would you happen to have an empty bottle on your person?"
The hero spoke as if he were in a commercial, his tone light and jovial. He didn't seem to notice the way Izuku's hands were shaking, or the fact that the boy had just nearly been murdered in the dark. To All Might, this was just another Tuesday. To Izuku, it was the moment he would ask the question that would either save his soul or destroy
Izuku fumbled with his bag, his fingers still slick with slime, and retrieved an empty water bottle. He also pulled out his scorched, waterlogged hero analysis journal—the one that had been mocked, burned, and drowned only an hour before.
He handed the bottle to All Might, who gave a quick, booming thank you. Izuku watched, transfixed, as the Symbol of Peace began the meticulous work of shoveling the scattered, quivering pieces of the villain—and that lidless, staring yellow eye—into the plastic container.
Once the bottle was capped and the threat contained, All Might turned to depart.
"WAIT! ALL MIGHT, PLEASE!"
The hero paused. To him, this was just another fan. He didn't know that for the boy standing in the sewage, he was the only thing holding a fractured psyche together.
Izuku dropped into a deep, trembling bow—an angle of respect so sharp it was almost painful. He thrust the ruined journal forward. "PLEASE! CAN I HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH?!"
All Might let out a booming laugh that echoed off the concrete walls. He took the journal, but as he flipped through the damp, charred pages, his smile faltered for a fraction of a second. His eyes sharpened.
Inside were dozens of analyses. Not just fanboy ramblings, but cold, tactical breakdowns of heroes he had fought alongside for decades. He saw notes on kinetic output, recovery times, and structural weaknesses that even professional agencies overlooked.
Did this boy write all this? All Might wondered, his curiosity finally overriding his haste to leave.
"Of course, young man," All Might said, his voice dropping an octave into something more genuine. "But tell me… did you write these notes? They are truly remarkable."
Izuku nodded frantically, not trusting his voice to remain steady.
"Ye-Y-Yes, sir! Quirks have always fascinated me. I don't know why, but whenever I see one, all I can think about is how it ticks… and ways to improve it… or counter its weaknesses," he began to ramble, the words tumbling out like a dam breaking.
All Might stood stunned.
An inborn analytical mind, the hero thought, looking down at the small, battered boy. I know people in the underground who would kill for a brain that can dissect a Quirk like this. Most people shy away from the mechanics of power, but this boy… he cultivates it.
It was the truth. All Might knew many who would pay a king's ransom for such a gift—especially 'Him', the ancient shadow that haunted All Might's past. To see such a staggering talent in a child who looked like he had been chewed up and spit out by the world was a revelation.
For a heartbeat, there was a glimmer of hope in the dark tunnel. But the clock was ticking, and the "Light" was about to fade.
"I must be going now! Keep up the studies, young man! A brilliant mind is a hero's greatest tool!"
All Might's voice boomed, but there was a flicker of strain in it—a tightness around the corners of his impossible smile. He didn't wait for a reply. He coiled his massive legs, the concrete beneath his boots spider-webbing from the sheer pressure.
No. Not yet. I haven't asked.
The thought screamed in Izuku's head, louder than the rushing wind. If he let the Light walk away now, he would be back in that classroom. He would be back in the dirt, under Bakugo's boot, part of the 1% that didn't matter.
As All Might launched himself into the sky with the force of a surface-to-air missile, Izuku didn't think. He lunged.
His fingers, still raw and trembling, locked around the fabric of All Might's cargo pants.
"HEY! WHAT ARE YOU—!" All Might's voice was snatched away by the g-force.
They were hundreds of feet in the air in an instant. The city of Musutafu shrank beneath them, becoming a grid of grey stone and glass. Izuku's eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth grit so hard he thought they might shatter. The wind was a violent entity, clawing at his skin, trying to peel him off the hero's leg and drop him into the abyss below.
"LET GO, YOUNG MAN! YOUR FANATICISM IS GOING TOO FAR!" All Might shouted, his hand reaching down to pry Izuku off.
"I CAN'T!" Izuku wailed, his voice a thin, desperate streak in the sky. "IF I LET GO NOW, I DIE! I HAVE TO ASK! PLEASE!"
All Might paused. He looked down at the boy clinging to him like a parasite. He saw the blood-stained uniform, the tear in the boy's cheek from the earlier assault, and the sheer, terrifying desperation in his eyes.
Suddenly, a violent spasm racked All Might's frame. A spray of blood erupted from his mouth, vanishing into the slipstream behind them. Steam—thick, white, and smelling of ozone and rot—began to hiss from his pores.
"Crap… not now…" the hero hissed, his voice losing its thunderous resonance.
They were losing altitude. The golden aura was flickering. Like a falling star losing its fire, the Symbol of Peace began to plummet toward the rooftop of a nearby skyscraper. They hit the concrete with a bone-jarring thud, sliding across the gravel surface until they slammed into a cooling unit.
Izuku lay there, gasping, the world spinning in nauseating circles. He looked up, expecting to see the mountain of muscle and the sun-gold hair.
Instead, through the dissipating steam, he saw a ghost.
Standing before him was a man who looked like he had been hollowed out by a vengeful god. He was skeletal, his skin a sickly parchment stretched over sharp bones. His eyes were sunken pits of darkness with two tiny, glowing blue embers at the center.
The Light was gone. In its place was a dying man.
"You…" Izuku whispered, the Strength is a Lie rule echoing in his mind with deafening force. "You're… All Might?"
"I am," the skeletal man wheezed, his voice a dry rasp that sounded like dead leaves skittering over a grave. He coughed, a spray of crimson flecking his chin. "But you must swear—swear on your very life—that you will keep this a secret. The world cannot see the hollow truth of their Symbol."
Izuku scrambled to his feet, his mind reeling. The "Strength is a Lie" rule was screaming now. This man wasn't a pillar of iron; he was a ruin held together by sheer, desperate will.
"What happened?" Izuku's voice trembled. "Are you... are you dying?"
All Might didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached for the hem of his oversized t-shirt and slowly hiked it up.
Izuku's breath hitched. It wasn't just a scar. Sprawled across the hero's left side was a jagged, necrotic crater of flesh. It was a deep, bruised purple, the color of a thunderstorm and ancient wine. The skin around it was puckered and black, with veins of sickly violet radiating outward like the legs of a spider. It didn't look like a wound from a blade or a quirk; it looked like a Curse. It looked as if a demon had reached into his torso and tried to hollow out his soul.
"Five years ago," All Might murmured, his sunken eyes staring at the ruin of his own body. "A battle the world never saw. My respiratory system was destroyed. My stomach, gone. I've wasted away to this. I can only perform my 'heroics' for about three hours a day. The rest of the time... I am this ghost."
He dropped the shirt, the darkness of the fabric hiding the corruption once more. He looked at Izuku—really looked at him—and for a moment, the boy saw the crushing weight of the crown the man wore.
"Now you know," All Might said, his tone turning cold and clinical. "The Symbol of Peace is a mask. A necessary lie to keep the monsters at bay. So, tell me, young man. You've seen the rot behind the gold. What is the question you were so desperate to ask?"
Izuku felt the wind howl across the rooftop, tugging at his torn uniform. He thought of Bakugo's boot. He thought of the teacher's indifference. He thought of the 1% chance that had defined his misery. He swallowed the iron-tasting blood in his mouth and looked the dying god in the eyes.
"Can someone... even without a Quirk... be a Hero like you?"
Toshinori Yagi looked at the boy, and for a fleeting, agonizing second, the years stripped away.
Long ago—before the thundering applause, before the weight of the world sat upon his shoulders, and before the blood-stained gold of his mantle—he had stood in the dirt and asked that very same question. He had asked it of a master who had given him the world, and in exchange, he had received a lifetime of war.
The public saw the posters and the smiles. They didn't see the dark side of the "Light." They didn't see the bone-deep exhaustion, the screams of the people he was too slow to save, or the hollow ache of watching friends fall. Some died in the mud; others, driven mad by the pressure, had crossed the line and become the very monsters they once hunted. Every choice he made left a scar; every life he couldn't reach was a ghost that followed him into the night.
He looked at Izuku—battered, bloodied, and clutching a scorched notebook—and he saw a mirror.
This boy was a reflection of the man he used to be. He saw the same hunger, the same desperate need to mean somethingin a world that called him nothing. And it was because of that reflection that Toshinori felt he had to be cruel. He wouldn't wish this cursed life upon a soul who wasn't equipped to survive the first strike.
"Young man," Toshinori began, his voice no longer the roar of a hero, but the tired rasp of a man who had seen too much death. "I was once like you. I once stood where you are and looked up at the sky, wishing for a way to matter."
He looked out over the edge of the roof, at the sprawling city of Musutafu.
"Pros are always risking their lives. Some villains just can't be beaten without power. Can you be a hero without a Quirk?"
He turned his head back to Izuku. The blue embers in his sunken eyes flickered with a mixture of pity and cold, hard-won logic.
"No. I cannot say it's possible. If you want to help people, become a police officer. They're teased for being 'side-kicks,' but it's a fine profession. It's realistic. But this? The front lines?"
Toshinori gestured to the necrotic ruin of his own chest, his voice trembling with a weight that felt like lead.
"It's a butcher's shop, kid. And without a Quirk... you're just the meat. I cannot, in good conscience, send you into that grinder. There are other ways to serve. Become a doctor. A firefighter. Become one of the silent heroes the public forgets to thank. But don't join this war."
He was almost pleading now, the weary veteran begging the recruit to run before the cannons started firing. Toshinori turned toward the rooftop door, his skeletal frame hunched under the burden of his secret. He stopped for a fraction of a second, wanting to look back, wanting to offer one more word of comfort—but he couldn't. He kept his eyes glued to the gravel, unable to meet the gaze of the boy whose world he had just set on fire.
"Some men and women are born into this battleground, boy. And others... others aren't. I'm sorry, but it's the truth."
He stepped through the threshold. "Good luck in life."
𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬.
The sound of the door latching was soft, but to Izuku, it echoed like the falling blade of a guillotine. The finality of it severed the last cord holding his spirit together. The light of the "Symbol" vanished, leaving him alone in the howling wind of the rooftop.
He stood there, a broken 1% mistake, staring at the rusted metal of the door. The "Hatred is Absolute" creed pulsed in his veins, colder than the air. The "Strength is a Lie" rule was no longer a theory; it was a scar.
The city below continued to hum, a vast, mechanical beast indifferent to the fact that its greatest idol had just executed a boy's soul. Izuku stepped toward the ledge, his movements stiff, like a marionette with its strings cut. The height was no longer a terror; it was a promise. The concrete was the only thing left in this world that would embrace him without condition.
In the hollow silence of the rooftop, the voices returned.
They weren't whispers anymore; they were a cacophony, a swirling storm of every doubt, every sneer, and every rejection he had ever endured. The students, the teachers, his own mother—and finally, the crushing resonance of All Might—all joined into a singular, mocking choir.
"Hahahaha! Look at you, pathetic Deku. I told you."
"Weak fool. You'll never be anything."
"It's a foolish dream, boy. Give it up."
"You waste of space. How dare you sully the name of 'Hero' with your presence?"
"Get out of here, kid. Nobody has time for a broken person like you."
"You won't make a lick of difference. You're nothing but disposable trash."
"Idiot. Why would anyone believe you could do it?"
Even his mother's voice, once his only anchor, now sounded like a heavy chain dragging him down: "Izuku, honey, I love you… but maybe you should dream of something else."
And finally, the death knell from the Symbol of Peace: "I'm sorry… but it's the truth."
The truth.
The truth was that he was a 1% error in a world that only valued the perfect. The truth was that he was alone on a roof with a shattered heart and a body that felt like a cage.
Izuku closed his eyes. The voices reached a fever pitch, a screaming wall of sound that demanded a sacrifice. He leaned forward, the wind catching his hair, his toes curling over the cold, unyielding edge of the skyscraper.
For the first time in his life, Izuku Midoriya didn't fight back. He didn't analyze. He didn't try to prove them wrong. He simply let go.
〔 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓹𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓳𝓸𝔂𝓼 〕
They say that at the moment of death, your life flashes in your mind. As Izuku looked over the edge of the rooftop, he cried angry tears—not the weeping of a child, but a look of rage so tight and focused that gods would fear it.
"All I wanted… ALL I WANTED WAS A CHANCE! ALL I WANTED WAS STRENGTH!"
〔 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓭𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓪 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓶𝔂 𝓪𝓹𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝔂. 𝓖𝓮𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓸𝓯𝓯 𝓶𝔂 𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓽. 𝓘 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓭𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝓫𝓮𝓼𝓽. 𝓘𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓮𝓪𝓻. 𝓢𝓲𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝔀𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼𝓼. 〕
"Why is it that no matter what I did, no matter how kind I was… strength, love, peace, friendship… none of it came to me?"
〔 𝓝𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓘 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓽. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓯𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓒𝓪𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝓹𝓾𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽? 〕
"Why is it that everyone gets the strength? Why are their bonds stronger? WHY AM I ABANDONED?!"
〔 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓶𝓮. 𝓑𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮 𝓘 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝓫𝓮. 〕
"Fine. If I'm to be the gods' punching bag, then I hope they're watching as I tear up the script."
He lifted one leg and tilted forward, letting go of the twelve-story high railing.
〔 𝓢𝓵𝓲𝓹𝓹𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓬𝓻𝓾𝓶𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓾𝓼𝓽. 〕
"Fuck this life," Izuku whispered as he fell, welcoming the abyss.
The ground met him with a thunderous, sickening crack. He lay in the alleyway, a tangled ruin of school fabric and shattered bone. His right arm was a mangled hook; his left leg was bent at an impossible, necrotic angle. Each breath was a struggle against the jagged shards of his own ribs piercing his lungs. The air smelled of iron, wet concrete, and the stagnant rot of a city that had forgotten him.
Above, the rooftop was a distant, mocking grave. "I'm sorry, but no," the Symbol of Peace had said, leaving him to die in the dirt.
As the cold of the concrete began to seep into his marrow, the world didn't go black. It curdled into a thick, electric Violet.
The city's heartbeat—the sirens, the distant traffic—died instantly. Time itself seemed to clot. From the center of the growing pool of his own blood, a shard of obsidian rose, expanding into a shimmering screen framed in heavy, Gothic Gold filigree that twisted like thorns.
Then, the Voice arrived. It was a singular, kingly resonance that carried the heat of a lover's whisper and the cold finality of an executioner's axe.
Ω━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Ω
〔 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓣𝓻𝓲𝓪𝓭 𝓱𝓪𝓼𝓓𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓭 〕
"Look at you... a broken toy discarded by a hollow God. And a foolish society."
"You sought the light of a Hero, only to find it burns the weak. But we do not seek the righteous, Little King. We seek the thirsty. We seek the one who would conquer and master himself... the one who would be called King." Ω━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━Ω
» 𝓓𝓲𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝓻𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝓫𝓮𝓰𝓰𝓪𝓻? «
» 𝓞𝓻 𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓬𝓵𝓪𝓲𝓶 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓓𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓸𝓷? « Ω━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Ω
[ ⚔️ 𝓐𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 ] ㅤㅤㅤ [ ☠️ 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓱 ]
With a trembling, blood-slicked finger, Izuku didn't just touch the screen; he clawed at it with a primal hunger.
"Anything," he wheezed, blood bubbling in his throat. "I want... everything."
The moment his skin broke the surface of the [ 𝓐𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 ] prompt, the alleyway exploded in a surge of Molten Gold.
The pain was divine. His bones didn't just heal; they were forged anew, snapping back into place with the sound of cracking timber. His heart, which had slowed to a crawl, suddenly hammered against his ribs with a rhythmic, thunderous roar—not the heartbeat of a boy, but the war-drum of a Conqueror. The atmosphere around him began to tremble, a shadowy mana-pressure radiating from his skin that would make any lesser being choke.
A heavy, purple steel chest materialized beside him, its lid slamming open to reveal a bed of black velvet. Resting within was a hunk of dark, rusted iron that radiated a predatory cold.
〔 𝓣𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓾𝓻𝔂 𝓐𝓬𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 〕 𝓘𝓽𝓮𝓶: The Broken Cimmerian Blade 𝓠𝓾𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂: Dread-Wrought 𝔄𝔱𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔟𝔲𝔱𝔢𝔰:+5 Strength | +2 Vitality
"A blade forged in the pits where men go to die. It is blunt, cruel, and heavy. It does not seek justice; it only seeks to taste the marrow of your enemies."
Izuku's hand closed around the leather-bound hilt. The iron was freezing, demanding his blood as the price for its weight. As he stood, his height seemed to increase, his presence expanding until it filled the alleyway. The Calligraphy of the system burned brighter in his vision, and the Voice purred at the base of his skull:
"Stand tall, Izuku Midoriya. The Age of Heroes is flawed. Let us be the ones to show it the power of a Warlord."
He stood in the center of the alley, his shadow stretching long and jagged against the brickwork. The heavy blade dragged a spark against the concrete, a screech of iron that sounded like a scream.
He was no longer the boy who had jumped.
He was now going to be something that shook the world to its core—something that brought a change unheard of. The "1% error" was a ghost of the past. The Sovereign had stood up, and the world was finally going to feel the weight of his presence.