The end did not come with a bang. There was no final, earth-shattering Detroit Smash, no cacophony of crumbling cities, and no villain’s manic laughter echoing into the void.
It came with the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor in a private room at the Central Tokyo Hospital.
Izuku Midoriya, the ninth holder of One For All, the Symbol of Peace, and the man who had finally stitched the world back together after the Collapse, was tired. He was one hundred and four years old. His body, once a vessel capable of changing the weather with a flick of a finger, was now a map of old scars and brittle bones. The embers of One For All had long since faded, passed on to the Tenth nearly a decade ago, leaving him with nothing but the quiet hum of a life well-lived.
He wasn't alone. He was never alone anymore. The room was filled with flowers—sunflowers from the Todoroki estate, lilies from the Uraraka agency.
"It’s okay, Deku," a voice whispered. It was Kota, now a grizzled veteran hero in his forties, holding Izuku’s paper-thin hand. "You can rest now."
Izuku tried to smile. He wanted to say that he wasn't afraid. He wanted to say that he was looking forward to seeing them again—Toshinori, Gran Torino, Nighteye, and even Kacchan, who had passed five years prior from a heart that had simply beaten too hard, for too long.
His vision blurred. The white ceiling tiles dissolved into a haze of light. The pain in his joints, a constant companion for eighty years, began to recede, replaced by a weightless, drifting sensation.
I did it, he thought, his consciousness fraying at the edges. We saved them. We saved the future.
The darkness rose up to meet him, warm and welcoming. Izuku Midoriya closed his eyes, exhaled his final breath, and let the current take him.
Then, he inhaled.
It wasn't a gentle intake of air. It was a desperate, gasping, burning inhalation that felt like drowning in reverse.
"IZUKU!"
The scream ripped through his throat, raw and high-pitched, shattering the silence of the room. His eyes snapped open, expecting the sterile white of the hospital or the void of the afterlife.
Instead, he saw All Might.
Not the skeletal, retired Yagi Toshinori who sat by his bedside in his final years. But the Golden Age All Might. A poster. A glossy, vibrant poster plastered on a wall that was far too close to his face. The hero was smiling, his fist raised in triumph, the bold letters "PLUS ULTRA" emblazoned in red across the bottom.
Izuku scrambled backward, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He reached out to steady himself, expecting the familiar, calloused grip of his scarred hands.
His hand was tiny.
It was smooth, unblemished, and chubby. There were no twisted fingers, no faded burn marks, no Lichtenberg figures from the stress of one hundred percent. Just soft, pink skin and dimpled knuckles.
"Izuku? Sweetie? What’s wrong?"
The door burst open. Izuku flinched, his body instinctively coiling for a combat roll that his muscles refused to execute. He tangled in the sheets and tumbled off the bed, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
"Izuku!"
A woman rushed to his side. She scooped him up with frantic ease. Izuku froze. The scent hit him instantly—fabric softener, faint jasmine, and the savory smell of miso soup.
He looked up.
Inko Midoriya was young.
She wasn't the small, round, worry-worn woman he had cared for in her twilight years. She was vibrant. Her face was slimmer, her eyes bright with panic but unshadowed by the years of terror that his vigilante era would eventually cause her. Her hair was a dark, rich green, tied back in a half-ponytail.
"Mom?" The word came out as a squeak. His voice. It was so high. So... small.
"I’m here, baby, I’m here," Inko cooed, rocking him back and forth, pressing his face into her shoulder. "Did you have a nightmare? It sounded awful. You were screaming."
Izuku stared over her shoulder at the room. It was his room. But not the shrine of a teenager, and certainly not the minimalist apartment of an adult pro hero. It was a nursery. Toy blocks were scattered on the rug. A limited-edition Bronze Age All Might action figure—the one he had lost in the park when he was seven—sat on the shelf, pristine and mint in the box.
He looked at the calendar on the wall. The numbers were drawn in crayon, likely by him.
XXXX, July 15th.
The year...
Izuku stopped breathing for a second. The year was decades in the past. Eighty years? No, more. He did the math, his mind moving with the sharp, tactical precision of a veteran strategist, clashing violently with the undeveloped neural pathways of a toddler.
He was four years old.
"Izuku? You're trembling," Inko said, pulling back to look at his face. She placed a hand on his forehead. "You don't have a fever. Was it the All Might video? Did you get too excited for your appointment today?"
The appointment.
The realization hit him like a kinetic impact from a Nomu.
July 15th. The day of the diagnosis. The day his life had shattered the first time. The day Dr. Kyudai Garaki, the man who would eventually be revealed as the architect of the High-End Nomus and the servant of All For One, told him to give up.
Izuku looked at his hands again. He clenched them into fists. The strength was gone. The stockpiled power of eight generations of heroes, the whips of black energy, the ability to float, the danger sense—all of it, gone. He was empty.
But he remembered.
He remembered the location of the League of Villains' hideout. He remembered the secret of Shigaraki’s decay. He remembered the faces of the friends who had died in the first war, and the second. He remembered the feeling of All Might’s hair going down his throat.
"I'm... I'm okay, Mom," Izuku said. He tried to sound reassuring, to project the calm baritone of the Number One Hero, but it came out as a lisped whisper.
Inko smiled, relief washing over her face. "That's my brave boy. Come on, let's get you dressed. We don't want to be late for the doctor. Today’s the big day! Maybe you’ll finally find out what your Quirk is!"
Izuku felt a cold knot form in his stomach. He knew exactly what his Quirk was.
He was Quirkless.
But this time, he wasn't just a Quirkless child. He was the Ninth. And he had work to do.
The drive to the clinic was a surreal exercise in nostalgia and horror. Musutafu looked different—cleaner, yet smaller. The skyline lacked the imposing reconstructive architecture that had defined the post-war era. There were no statues of him. The heroes on the billboards were people he remembered from history books or as retired mentors: Crimson Riot, a young Endeavor with fewer flames and more scowls, and of course, All Might.
Everywhere, All Might.
Izuku sat in his booster seat, clutching the All Might action figure Inko had handed him. He stared out the window, his mind racing at a million miles an hour.
Physical status, he analyzed. Height: approximately 100cm. Weight: maybe 16kg. Musculature: nonexistent. Coordination: poor. If a villain attacked right now, I couldn't protect Mom. I can't even unbuckle this seatbelt quickly.
He flexed his fingers, testing the grip strength. It was pathetic.
Mental status: Intact. Memories are clear. Too clear. I can recall the tactical layout of the Jakku Hospital raid. I know the chemical composition of Trigger. I know All Might’s true form.
He looked at Inko, who was humming along to the radio.
She’s happy, he thought, a pang of guilt piercing his heart. In the original timeline, I ruined this happiness. I made her worry until she gained weight from stress. I made her cry every single day. Not this time.
"We're here!" Inko announced, pulling the small car into the parking lot of the clinic.
The sign read: Jaku General Hospital - Pediatrics Ward.
Izuku stiffened. He knew this place. Not just as the place of his diagnosis, but as the future ground zero of the War. Beneath this building, deep underground, was the laboratory where the Doctor synthesized the quirks stolen by All For One. Beneath his tiny, light-up sneakers lay the vats of embryonic Nomus.
He had to force himself to step out of the car. Every instinct screamed at him to call in an airstrike, to evacuate the city, to smash the ground and drag the devil out into the light.
Calm down, Midoriya, he commanded himself. You are four. If you start screaming about Nomus and All For One, they will institutionalize you. You have no credibility. You have no power. You have to play the game.
He took Inko’s hand. Her palm was warm.
"Ready, Izuku?"
"Yes, Mom," he said, his face set in a grim line that looked comically serious on a toddler.
The waiting room was a chaotic sensory overload. Children were manifesting their quirks—some were floating inches off the ground, others were changing the color of their skin, one was sneezing small bursts of glitter.
Izuku sat silently. He sat with his back straight, feet flat on the floor, hands on his knees. He scanned the room, identifying entry and exit points, counting the civilians, assessing potential threats.
"Midoriya Izuku?" a nurse called out.
Inko jumped up. "That's us! Come on, Izuku."
They walked down the hallway. The linoleum smelled of bleach and sickness. Izuku’s heart rate slowed. He entered the "Zone"—the mental state he had perfected over decades of pro hero work. Emotion was a luxury he couldn't afford right now.
They entered the office.
Dr. Kyudai Garaki sat in his swivel chair. He looked exactly as Izuku remembered, perhaps a little less wrinkled, but the distinctive mustache and the thick, round goggles were the same. He was hunched over a clipboard, the posture of a man who spent too much time over a microscope.
"Ah, Mrs. Midoriya," Garaki said, spinning around. His voice was raspy, carrying an undertone of boredom. "And this is little Izuku."
Izuku looked at him.
In his previous life, Izuku had been trembling with excitement, vibrating with the hope of being like All Might. He had held his action figure up like an offering.
Now, Izuku stood perfectly still. He locked eyes with the Doctor.
He didn't see a pediatrician. He saw a monster. He saw the man who had tortured his childhood friend Oboro Shirakumo and turned him into Kurogiri. He saw the architect of Shigaraki’s hell.
For a split second, the mask of the four-year-old slipped. Izuku glared with the intensity of the Symbol of Peace staring down a villain. It was a look that had made hardened criminals surrender without a fight. A look that said, I know what you are.
Dr. Garaki paused. He blinked behind his goggles, a flicker of genuine unease crossing his face. He leaned back slightly, unnerved by the heavy, piercing gaze of the toddler.
"My," Garaki muttered, clearing his throat. "He's... a focused one, isn't he?"
"Oh, yes," Inko said nervously. "He takes heroes very seriously."
"I see." Garaki recovered his composure, dismissing the feeling. It was just a child. "Well, have a seat. We’ve reviewed the X-rays."
Izuku climbed onto the examination chair. He knew the script.
" Mrs. Midoriya," Garaki began, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You should probably give it up."
Inko gasped. "What? Is something wrong?"
"Look at this," Garaki said, pointing to the X-ray film on the light box. "It’s his foot. The pinky toe. It has two joints."
Izuku stared at the ghostly image of his own bones. The bones that he had broken a thousand times.
"It’s a throwback," Garaki continued, his tone clinical and dismissive. "People with quirks have evolved to have a single joint, streamlining the body. This double joint is a rare sign of the previous generation of genetics. It means he has no Quirk factor. He is Quirkless."
The silence in the room was heavy.
In the original timeline, this was the moment Izuku’s world ended. He had dropped his toy. His mouth had fallen open in silent devastation.
Inko looked at her son, her eyes filling with tears, ready to comfort him, ready to apologize.
But Izuku didn't drop the toy.
He tightened his grip on All Might until the plastic creaked.
He looked at Garaki. He was analyzing. Why is he telling the truth? Izuku wondered. Garaki steals quirks. If I had a good quirk, he would have taken it and told my mother I was quirkless anyway. The fact that he’s telling me the truth means I truly was born with nothing. Or... nothing that he wanted.
"I see," Izuku said.
The voice was small, but the tone was flat. Adult.
Garaki raised an eyebrow. "You take that news well, boy. Most kids cry."
"Crying won't change my genetics, Doctor," Izuku said. He hopped down from the chair. He walked over to Inko, who was stunned into silence, and took her hand. "Mom. We can go now."
"Izuku?" Inko stammered. "But... but surely there’s a mistake? Maybe it’s just late manifesting?"
"The X-ray is conclusive, Mrs. Midoriya," Garaki said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the boy. There was something wrong with this child. He felt a prickle of danger, the same feeling he got when the Master was displeased. But that was absurd. The boy was a null. A nothing.
"It’s okay, Mom," Izuku said, tugging on her hand. He wanted to get out of there. The urge to smash Garaki’s face into the desk was becoming difficult to suppress, and his four-year-old arms couldn't generate the force necessary to do it justice. "Let's go home."
Inko, bewildered and teary-eyed, allowed herself to be led out of the office.
As they reached the door, Izuku stopped. He turned back to look at Garaki one last time.
"Doctor," Izuku said.
Garaki looked up from his clipboard. "Yes?"
"Take care of your health," Izuku said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding eerily like a threat. "The future is unpredictable."
He closed the door, leaving a very confused and slightly shinking evil genius in his wake.
It was raining by the time they got home.
The apartment was quiet. Inko moved through the motions of making dinner, but her shoulders were shaking. She was trying to hide it, but Izuku knew she was crying.
He sat at the computer desk. The screen glowed blue in the dim room. The video was playing.
“I am here!” All Might shouted on the screen, carrying the bus disaster survivors on his back. “HAHAHA!”
Izuku watched it. He didn't feel the despair he had felt the first time. He felt a fire. A quiet, roaring inferno in his gut.
I don't have One For All, he thought. I don't have the embers. I am back to zero.
He looked at his reflection in the dark monitor. Large green eyes, messy hair, freckles.
But I have the data. I know how to use 100% without breaking my bones. I know how to move. I know how to fight. If I train this body—really train it, not just the beach cleanup, but the specialized conditioning I learned from Gran Torino and Endeavor—I can be ready.
The door creaked open.
Inko stood there. She looked heartbroken. In the old timeline, she had run to him, hugged him, and cried, “I’m sorry, Izuku! I’m so sorry!” Those words had haunted him for years. He hadn't wanted an apology. He had wanted belief.
Inko took a step forward, her lips trembling. "Izuku... I..."
Izuku spun the chair around. He didn't wait for her to speak. He jumped off the chair and walked toward her. His gait was steady.
"Mom," he said firmly.
Inko froze. "Sweetie?"
Izuku looked up at her. He placed his small hands on her knees.
"You don't have to apologize," he said. His eyes were dry. They burned with an intensity that took Inko’s breath away. "I don't need a Quirk to be a hero."
Inko blinked, the tears spilling over. "But... but the doctor said..."
"The doctor is wrong about what makes a hero," Izuku said. He pointed to his chest. "It’s in here. All Might didn't save people because he was strong. He was strong because he wanted to save people."
He took a deep breath. It was hard to articulate this with a toddler’s vocabulary, but he pushed through.
"I’m going to be a hero, Mom," he declared. "I’m going to be the greatest hero the world has ever seen. And I’m going to save everyone. So please... don't cry. Smile. Because I am here."
Inko stared at him. For a moment, she didn't see her four-year-old son. She saw a shadow of something vast, something golden and protective standing behind him.
She fell to her knees and hugged him. "Izuku... oh, Izuku!"
But she didn't say she was sorry.
"I believe you," she sobbed into his shoulder. "I believe you, my baby."
Izuku patted her back, his expression serious. Step one complete, he thought. Save Mom’s heart.
The next morning, the reality of his physical limitations hit him.
He woke up at 5:00 AM, a habit from his pro hero days. He rolled out of bed and dropped to the floor to do push-ups.
"One," he grunted.
His arms shook. His core collapsed. His nose mashed into the carpet.
"Zero," he corrected, rolling onto his back, panting. "Okay. This is... going to be harder than I thought."
He was four. His muscles were undeveloped. His bones were soft. He couldn't just jump into the Gran Torino workout. He needed a pediatric fitness plan.
He crawled over to his desk and grabbed a crayon and a notebook. He flipped past the crude drawings of All Might and turned to a fresh page.
Project: Phoenix, he scrawled in messy, blocky hiragana.
1. Diet: Increase protein and calcium. Ask Mom for fish and milk.
2. Cardio: Tag. Running. Lots of it. Build lung capacity.
3. Flexibility: stretch every night. Maintain the limberness of a child.
4. Analysis: Start mapping the quirks of everyone in class.
He looked at the list. It was a start.
"Izuku! Breakfast!"
He closed the notebook and ran to the kitchen. "Coming, Mom!"
Aldera Kindergarten was a cesspool of noise and chaos.
Izuku walked into the classroom, his yellow backpack secure on his shoulders. He scanned the room.
And then he saw him.
Katsuki Bakugo.
He was sitting on top of a table, holding court. He was small, his hair was spiky and ash-blond, and he was grinning with that arrogant, sharp-toothed confidence that Izuku knew so well.
"Kacchan!" a lackey shouted. "Show us the explosion again!"
"Heh," Bakugo smirked. He held out his palms. Pop. Pop. Pop. Small, smoky explosions burst from his sweat glands. The other kids ooh-ed and aah-ed.
"I'm gonna be better than All Might!" Bakugo declared. "I'm gonna be the richest, strongest hero ever!"
Izuku stood by the door, a strange ache in his chest. He missed the adult Bakugo—the one who had sacrificed himself to save Izuku, the one who had apologized in the rain, the one who was his partner. This child... this child was a bully in the making.
But Izuku knew why he was a bully. He had been praised too much, unchecked, his ego inflated until it nearly destroyed him.
Not this time, Kacchan, Izuku thought. I’m not going to be your punching bag. I’m going to be your reality check.
Izuku walked over to the group.
"Hey, look! It's Deku!" Bakugo pointed a finger at him. "Did you go to the doctor yesterday? What's your Quirk? It's probably something lame like floating things, or crying!"
The lackeys laughed.
Izuku stopped in front of the table. He looked up at Bakugo.
"I went to the doctor," Izuku said calmly.
"And?" Bakugo leaned forward, sparks popping in his hands.
"I'm Quirkless," Izuku stated.
The room went silent. The other kids looked at each other. Quirkless? That was rare. That was weird.
Bakugo blinked, then a cruel grin spread across his face. "Quirkless? HA! You really are useless! You’re a pebble, Deku! You can't be a hero without a Quirk!"
He hopped off the table, marching toward Izuku. "You're beneath me! You hear me?"
He raised a hand, aiming an explosion right at Izuku’s face. It was a move he had done a hundred times in the past. Usually, Izuku would cower.
Bakugo swung.
Izuku didn't flinch. He didn't cower.
He watched the trajectory of the swing. He saw the shift in Bakugo’s weight.
Right hook. Telegraphed. Too much commitment on the forward step.
Izuku stepped to the left. A simple, minimal slide.
Bakugo’s hand swiped through empty air. The momentum carried him forward, and he stumbled, nearly face-planting into the floor.
"Wh-what?" Bakugo spun around, his face red. "You moved!"
"You attack with your right side first," Izuku said. His voice was conversational, like he was discussing the weather. "You put too much weight on your toes. If you miss, you lose your balance."
Bakugo stared at him. The other kids stared at him.
"Shut up!" Bakugo screamed. "I don't lose balance!"
He charged again. Another explosion, this time aimed at Izuku’s chest.
Izuku pivoted on his heel. He caught Bakugo’s wrist—not with strength, but by guiding the momentum. He let Bakugo fly past him, using the other boy's speed against him.
Bakugo tripped and fell onto his butt.
It wasn't a fight. It was a dismantling.
Bakugo sat on the floor, stunned. He looked up at Izuku, confusion warring with rage in his eyes. Deku was supposed to be scared. Deku was supposed to cry. Why was Deku looking at him like... like an adult?
Izuku extended a hand to help him up.
"Your Quirk is amazing, Kacchan," Izuku said genuinely. "But a Quirk isn't everything. If you can't hit the target, the explosion doesn't matter."
Bakugo stared at the hand. He slapped it away.
"I don't need your help!" he yelled, scrambling to his feet. "I’m gonna crush you next time! You just got lucky!"
He ran off to the other side of the playground, his face burning. But he didn't attack again. He stood by the sandbox, looking at his hands, then looking back at Izuku with a furrowed brow.
Izuku sighed. He’s stubborn. But I planted the seed. He’s thinking about his form now, not just his power.
The teacher blew the whistle for recess.
Izuku walked over to the sandbox. He sat down and began to build. He didn't build a castle. He smoothed out the sand and began to draw a map with a stick.
Musutafu layout. UA High location. Sludge Villain attack site (Tatoin Station). USJ.
He needed to remember the dates. The Sludge Villain was the catalyst. It wouldn't happen for ten years.
Ten years, Izuku thought, gritting his teeth. Ten years of waiting. Ten years of letting Shigaraki fester in his hate. Ten years of All For One plotting.
Could he wait?
No.
He couldn't fight them yet. But he could prepare the battlefield.
He looked at his small hands again.
I need a weapon, he thought. I can't use One For All. But I learned from Aizawa. I learned from Sir Nighteye. I can use capture tape. I can use weighted seals. I can use support items.
He looked up at the sky. It was a bright, painfully blue day.
"I have time," Izuku whispered to himself. "I have time to fix everything."
He erased the map in the sand just as the teacher walked by.
"Whatcha making, Izuku?" the teacher asked kindly.
Izuku looked up and beamed—a bright, dazzling smile that didn't quite reach the ancient, weary depths of his eyes.
"A plan, Sensei," he chirped. "I'm making a plan."
Two Years Later (Age 6)
Izuku Midoriya was a ghost in the neighborhood.
He was the polite boy who helped old ladies carry their groceries. He was the quiet student who got perfect grades but never raised his hand.
But the local police were baffled.
Detective Tsukauchi sat at his desk, rubbing his temples. He looked at the file in front of him.
"Another one?" he asked.
"Yeah," the officer said. "Another tip. Found sticky-noted to the vending machine outside the station."
Tsukauchi picked up the note. It was written in crayon—green crayon—but the handwriting was strangely legible, blocky but precise.
Villain 'Slug-Eater' is hiding in the abandoned warehouse on 4th Street. He keeps his stolen loot under the floorboards. Watch out for his acid spit—it melts Kevlar but not polyester. Wear the cheap vests.
"Did we check it?" Tsukauchi asked.
"SWAT team went in an hour ago. Guy was there, exactly where the note said. They wore the cheap polyester vests. No injuries."
Tsukauchi sighed. This was the fifth tip this month. They were always accurate. They always gave tactical advice on how to counter the villain’s quirk. And they were always written in crayon.
"Who is doing this?" Tsukauchi muttered. "Some kind of child genius? A vigilante with a kid's quirk?"
He looked at the bottom of the note. There was a drawing of a small, smiling face.
"Keep an eye on the vending machine," Tsukauchi ordered. "I want to know who our little informant is."
Miles away, in the Midoriya apartment, Izuku sat on his bed. He was doing sit-ups. He was up to fifty now without stopping. His body was starting to harden, losing the baby fat, replaced by wiry, dense muscle that shouldn't exist on a six-year-old.
He had snuck out the night before to stick the note. He had seen Slug-Eater lurking near the school. He remembered that villain from a cold case file he had read when he was twenty-two. Slug-Eater had killed a rookie hero in the original timeline.
Not this time. The rookie hero was alive. The timeline had shifted, just a fraction of an inch.
Izuku wiped the sweat from his forehead. He picked up his dumbbell—a water bottle filled with wet sand.
He looked at his wall. He had started a new notebook.
Target: Touya Todoroki.
Status: Alive. Unstable.
Location: Sekoto Peak.
Timeframe: Soon.
Izuku narrowed his eyes. Saving a rookie hero from a C-list villain was easy. Saving the son of the Number Two Hero from burning himself alive? That was going to require more than a crayon note.
He needed to get stronger. Faster.
He resumed his sit-ups.
Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three.
The road was long. But the Ninth holder was walking it again. And this time, he knew where the potholes were.
"Plus Ultra," he whispered into the quiet room.
And for the first time in eighty years, Izuku Midoriya smiled not for the cameras, but for the thrill of the challenge. The game was on.
The concept of time was a strange thing when lived in reverse.
For the average person, time was a river—a linear flow from source to sea. For Izuku Midoriya, time had become an ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail. He was an old man trapped in the soft, unscarred flesh of a child, a veteran of wars not yet fought, walking through a city that was still whole, still breathing, still ignorant of the ash that would one day choke its skies.
He was eight years old when he realized that muscle memory did not transfer through reincarnation.
"Damn it," Izuku hissed through gritted teeth, his small face contorted in frustration.
He was in the local municipal park, hanging upside down from the monkey bars. He had attempted a modified abdominal crunch—a move he used to perform with 200-pound weights strapped to his chest in the vestige world—but his core had given out at repetition thirty. He swung there, blood rushing to his head, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed red.
A group of mothers watching their toddlers near the sandbox whispered.
"Is that the Midoriya boy?"
"Yes. Inko says he’s obsessed with gymnastics. He’s been hanging there for twenty minutes."
"He’s… intense, isn't he? Those eyes."
Izuku ignored them. He ignored the burning in his undeveloped obliques. He pulled himself up, grabbed the bar with his knees, and controlled his descent to the mulch below. He landed in a crouch, perfect balance, perfect silence.
Analysis: Cardiovascular system is improving. Lung capacity is up 15% from last year. But fast-twitch muscle fibers are lagging. I need more protein. I need resistance training that won't stunt my growth plates.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand that had never thrown a Smash.
I have ten years until the Sludge Villain, he thought, checking his mental clock. Six years until the Entrance Exam. Every day is a variable. Every workout is a deposit in a bank account that needs to pay for the safety of the world.
He picked up his yellow backpack. Inside, nestled between a bento box and an All Might pencil case, was a notebook. It wasn't "Hero Analysis for the Future." The title, written in black marker, simply read: Logistics.
He began his jog home. He didn't run like a child. He ran with a measured, rhythmic gait, his breathing synced to his steps—in for three, out for three. He scanned every alleyway, every rooftop, his eyes dissecting the structural integrity of fire escapes and the sightlines of potential sniper nests.
It was paranoia. It was survival. It was the only way he knew how to live.
Age 12: Aldera Junior High
Adolescence was a battlefield of hormones and insecurity. For Izuku, it was an exercise in patience.
Aldera Junior High was exactly as he remembered it: the scuffed linoleum floors, the smell of chalk dust and floor wax, and the palpable tension that radiated from one specific desk in the center of Class 1-A.
Katsuki Bakugo.
In the original timeline, this period of Izuku’s life had been defined by fear. He had been the quirkless punching bag, the "Deku" who flinched at loud noises and stuttered apologies for his own existence. He had spent years making himself small so that Bakugo’s explosions would miss him.
But you cannot bully a man who has looked All For One in the eye and pitied him.
The bell rang, signaling the end of history class. The teacher, a man Izuku remembered as being indifferently cruel, tapped his papers on the desk.
"Alright, settle down. I’ve got the career aptitude forms here, but..." He chuckled, tossing the papers into the air. "Who am I kidding? You all want to be heroes, don't you!"
The class erupted. Quirks fired off—eyes popping out, fingers elongating, small fires lighting up. It was a display of chaotic, unrefined power.
"Hey, teach!" Bakugo’s voice cut through the noise like a whip crack. He had his feet on the desk, leaning back with a grin that was all teeth and arrogance. "Don't lump me in with these extras. They’ll be lucky to end up as sidekicks to some D-lister. I’m going for the top. I’m going to surpass All Might!"
The class groaned, but they didn't argue. Bakugo’s power was undeniable.
"Oh, right," the teacher said, checking his list. "Bakugo, you’re aiming for UA High, aren't you?"
"Damn right!"
"And..." The teacher paused, a smirk playing on his lips. "Midoriya is also applying to UA, correct?"
The silence that followed was heavy. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded a beating. Every head turned to look at the back of the room.
Izuku sat there. He was sketching a diagram of a new support item—a localized air-pressure gauntlet—in his notebook. He didn't look up.
"Hey, Deku!" Bakugo slammed his hand onto his desk, a small explosion singeing the wood. "You think you can compete with me? You're Quirkless! You’re nothing but a pebble in my path!"
In the past, Izuku would have trembled. He would have stammered, “No, Kacchan, I just… it’s my dream!”
Now, Izuku slowly closed his notebook. He placed his pen down, aligning it perfectly parallel to the book's edge. He looked up.
His eyes were green, deep, and utterly calm. There was no fear. There was only a tired, almost clinical assessment.
"Kacchan," Izuku said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried across the room. "Your nitroglycerin levels are spiking. You're sweating more from your right palm than your left. It’s creating an imbalance in your ignition timing."
Bakugo froze. The explosion dying in his hand fizzled out with a pathetic pfft.
"Hah?" Bakugo blinked, his brow furrowing. "What the hell are you babbling about?"
Izuku stood up. He wasn't tall yet—he was still growing into the frame that would one day hold One For All—but he held himself with the posture of a soldier. He walked toward Bakugo’s desk. The other students parted like the Red Sea, unnerved by the lack of fear in the quirkless boy.
"If you rely too much on the right side," Izuku continued, stopping two feet from Bakugo, "you'll develop a rotator cuff injury by the time you're twenty-five. You need to adjust your stance. Widen your feet. Lower your center of gravity."
Bakugo stared at him. The sheer audacity of the critique short-circuited his rage for a moment. "You... you're criticizing me? You? The quirkless loser?"
"I'm analyzing you," Izuku corrected gently. "Because if you want to surpass All Might, raw power isn't enough. You need efficiency. You waste 12% of your energy on showmanship."
Bakugo’s face turned a shade of crimson that rivaled a tomato. Sparks flew from his palms, wild and uncontrolled. "Die!"
He swung. A right hook, explosive and fast.
Izuku didn't panic. He didn't even blink. He had fought Shigaraki at 100%. He had dodged lasers. A middle-school right hook moved in slow motion.
Izuku shifted his weight to his left foot. He dropped his shoulder, letting Bakugo’s fist sail harmlessly over his head. As Bakugo overextended, stumbling forward from the momentum, Izuku placed a gentle hand on Bakugo’s back.
He didn't shove. He just... guided.
Bakugo tripped, his feet tangling, and he crashed into the chalkboard, erasing the homework assignment with his face.
The class gasped.
Bakugo scrambled up, chalk dust coating his nose, looking like a feral raccoon. "YOU—!"
"See?" Izuku said, his tone devoid of mockery. "Overextended. You telegraph the right hook when you're angry. A villain will exploit that."
He turned back to his desk, picked up his bag, and looked at the clock. School was over.
"See you tomorrow, Kacchan," Izuku said. "Work on your left hook."
He walked out of the classroom, leaving twenty students and one future explosion god in stunned silence.
Bakugo stood there, vibrating with rage, but he didn't chase him. He looked at his right hand. He looked at his stance.
"Telegraphing..." Bakugo muttered, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "I don't telegraph."
He threw a left hook at the air. It felt awkward.
"Damn it!" he screamed, blasting a hole in the cleaning locker. But he didn't go after Deku. For the first time, the "pebble" hadn't just been kicked aside. It had tripped him.
The Green Crayon Files
Detective Naomasa Tsukauchi was a man who lived on coffee and skepticism. His Quirk, Lie Detector, made him cynical by nature. He knew when people were hiding things. He knew the world was full of deceit.
But the file on his desk was baffling him.
"Another one, sir," Officer Sansa said, dropping a piece of paper onto the desk. "Found taped to the bottom of a park bench in Musutafu."
Tsukauchi rubbed his temples. "Read it."
Sansa cleared his throat. "It says: 'Villain: Chainsaw-Man (Not the manga one). Real Name: Kenji Hiki. Location: Apartment 4B, 22nd Street. Quirk: Rotary Blades. Weakness: His chains jam if exposed to quick-drying cement or heavy adhesive. Do not engage in melee. He is planning to rob the jewelry store on Thursday at 2:00 PM. P.S. Please tell All Might to watch his left side, his scar is bothering him today.'"
Tsukauchi stared at the note. It was written in green crayon. The handwriting was blocky, childish, but the kanji were advanced.
"The jewelry store robbery hasn't happened yet," Tsukauchi noted.
"No, sir. Today is Tuesday."
"Set up a stakeout," Tsukauchi ordered. "Bring the cement gun team. And... check if Kenji Hiki has a record."
"Already did. He's a petty thief, fallen off the radar for two years. We had no idea he had upgraded to rotary blades."
Tsukauchi picked up the note. This was the twelfth tip in six months. They were getting more specific. The "Green Crayon" informant—as the station had dubbed him—knew things that shouldn't be known.
But the last line...
Tell All Might to watch his left side.
Only a handful of people knew about All Might’s injury. Recovery Girl, Nezu, Gran Torino, Nighteye... and Tsukauchi himself.
"Sansa," Tsukauchi said, his voice serious. "I want surveillance on the drop sites. I don't care if it's a kid or a midget or a ghost. Find out who is leaving these notes."
Izuku knew they were watching.
He sat on a swing in the park, swaying gently back and forth. It was twilight. The streetlights were flickering on, casting long shadows across the playground.
He had expected the surveillance. In fact, he was counting on it. He needed the police to trust the intel, but he couldn't reveal his identity yet. A ten-year-old boy knowing the inner workings of criminal organizations would raise flags that led to Tartarus, or worse, a lab.
He had to be a phantom.
He pulled a small notepad from his pocket. He had one more note to deliver tonight. It wasn't for the police. It was for a specific hero agency.
Sir Nighteye.
Re: Overhaul (Kai Chisaki).
Current Status: Consolidating power within the Shie Hassaikai.
Note: Keep an eye on the production of a drug triggered by human blood. Do not engage yet. Gather evidence on the distribution routes.
Izuku hesitated. If he sent this, Nighteye would investigate. Nighteye might die earlier. Or... Nighteye might live.
Izuku gripped the crayon until it snapped.
The Butterfly Effect, he thought. If I change too much, my knowledge of the future becomes useless. If I stop Overhaul now, Eri might be moved to a location I don't know. I can't risk losing Eri.
He shoved the note back into his pocket. Not yet. He had to wait until he had power. Until he had One For All back. Or at least until he was physically capable of intervening if things went wrong.
"Patience," he whispered. "The hardest Quirk to master."
Age 13: The Girl in the Sailor Uniform
The encounter happened on a Tuesday.
Izuku was walking home from the library, carrying a stack of books on pre-Quirk martial arts and advanced chemistry. He took the shortcut through the old shopping district, a rundown area where the neon lights buzzed with a dying hum.
He smelled the blood before he saw it.
It wasn't a lot of blood. Just a metallic tang in the air, mixed with the scent of rust and damp cardboard.
He turned into an alleyway.
Standing there, bathed in the sickly yellow light of a flickering streetlamp, was a girl. She was wearing a middle school sailor uniform—a different school from his. Her blonde hair was messy, tied up in two buns.
She was crouching over a stray cat.
The cat was injured, bleeding from a cut on its leg. The girl wasn't hurting it. She was staring at the wound, entranced. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing heavy and erratic.
"It's so pretty," she whispered, her voice trembling. "So red... so warm..."
Izuku stopped. He knew that silhouette. He knew that voice.
Himiko Toga.
She was young. She hadn't snapped yet. She hadn't killed the boy she liked. She was just a girl with a Quirk that demanded blood, living in a society that called her a monster for it.
Izuku set his books down quietly.
In his previous life, he had fought her. He had seen Ochako try to reach her. He had seen her die—or at least, sacrifice herself—in the final war. He remembered her tearful confession: “I just wanted to live like a normal person.”
He stepped forward.
Toga flinched. She spun around, eyes wide and manic, a small box cutter held defensively in her hand.
"Don't look at me!" she hissed. "Go away! I'm normal! I'm a normal girl!"
She was terrified. She was waiting for the revulsion. She was waiting for him to call her a freak.
Izuku didn't flinch. He didn't look at the knife. He looked at her eyes.
"The cat," Izuku said softly. "It's bleeding."
Toga froze. "I... I didn't do it! It was hurt when I found it! I just... I was looking at it!"
"I know," Izuku said. He walked closer, his hands open and visible. "The blood smells sweet to you, doesn't it?"
Toga’s breath hitched. She lowered the knife slightly. "What?"
"Like sugar and iron," Izuku said, recalling what she had told Ochako once. "It makes your heart race. It makes you feel... thirsty."
Toga stared at him. No one had ever described it like that. Her parents called it 'deviant behavior.' Her teachers called it 'disturbing.'
"You... you think I'm gross," she whispered, tears pricking her eyes. "Everyone says I'm gross."
Izuku stopped three feet from her. He knelt down, putting himself at her eye level.
"I don't think you're gross," he said. "I think you have a Transform type Quirk that relies on blood ingestion. Your body craves it because it's fuel. It’s a biological imperative, not a moral failing."
He spoke with the authority of a doctor and the kindness of a friend.
"It’s like being hungry," Izuku continued. "If you don't eat, you starve. And when you starve, you lose control."
Toga dropped the knife. It clattered on the pavement. She brought her hands to her mouth to stifle a sob. "I just... I want to be them. When I see someone pretty, or hurt... I want to be them. Is that wrong? Am I a villain?"
"No," Izuku said firmly. "You are not a villain. You are a girl with a difficult Quirk."
He reached into his pocket. He didn't have a blood bag. But he had a handkerchief. He reached out and gently pressed it to the cat’s leg, staunching the bleeding.
"But, Himiko-san," Izuku said, using her given name. She started at that. "If you take blood without asking, people get hurt. And if people get hurt, they go away. You don't want them to go away, do you?"
She shook her head violently. "No! I love them!"
"Then you have to ask," Izuku said.
He stood up. He rolled up his sleeve.
Toga’s eyes widened. She looked at his arm. It was scarred—faintly, from his training—and veiny. She could hear the pulse.
"I can't..." she whimpered. "I might hurt you."
"You won't," Izuku said. "Just a drop. To stop the hunger. So you can think clearly."
He produced a small, sterile lancet from his first-aid kit (he always carried one). He pricked his finger. A single bead of crimson welled up.
Toga stared at it. Her pupils dilated. She shook, fighting the urge, fighting the monster her parents told her she was.
"It's okay," Izuku said. "I'm giving it to you. It's a gift. Not a theft."
Toga moved. She didn't lunge. She stepped forward hesitantly, took his hand in both of hers, and brought his finger to her lips. She licked the drop.
Her eyes rolled back for a second, a flush spreading across her face. Her breathing slowed. The manic energy dissipated, replaced by a strange, hazy calm.
She transformed.
For a moment, Izuku was looking at himself. A mirror image, slightly shorter, wearing a sailor uniform.
"Oh," Toga-Izuku said, touching her/his face. "You feel... sad. You feel so tired."
She could feel a fraction of his emotions through the blood. It was a facet of her Quirk she hadn't mastered yet, but Izuku’s emotions were so potent they bled through.
She shifted back to herself. She looked at him with awe.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I'm Izuku," he said. "I'm going to be a hero."
"A hero..." Toga murmured. "Heroes usually beat me up in my dreams."
"Not this hero," Izuku said. He reached into his bag and pulled out a notepad. He wrote down a number. It wasn't his. It was the number for a quirk counseling clinic that he knew was secretly run by a Vigilante sympathizer—someone who wouldn't report her.
"If the hunger gets bad," Izuku said, handing her the paper. "Go here. Ask for Dr. Kemuri. Tell him 'Green' sent you. He has... dietary supplements."
Toga took the paper. She clutched it to her chest.
"Will I see you again, Izuku-kun?" she asked, a hopeful, predatory glint returning to her golden eyes.
Izuku smiled. It was a sad smile. "The world is small, Toga-san. If you stay on this side of the line... yes. We'll meet again."
He picked up his books and walked away.
He didn't know if he had saved her. He didn't know if she would still join the League. But he had given her a choice. He had placed a pebble in her path, diverting the stream just a little.
As he walked out of the alley, he felt a weight lift.
That’s one, he thought. Ten thousand to go.
The Aftermath: Home
When Izuku got home, Inko was waiting.
"You're late," she said, though her voice wasn't angry, just worried. "And you have... blood on your finger?"
Izuku looked at the small prick. "Just a paper cut, Mom. The library books are sharp."
Inko sighed and smiled. She had grown used to her son’s oddities. The late nights, the intense workouts, the way he watched the news with the focus of a general. She missed the bubbly child he used to be, but she loved the serious young man he was becoming.
"Dinner is katsudon," she said.
Izuku’s eyes lit up. For a second, just a second, the mask dropped. The eighty-year-old veteran vanished, and a hungry teenage boy appeared.
"Yes! Thanks, Mom!"
He sat at the table. As he ate, he looked at the calendar on the wall.
Age 14 approaching.
The Sludge Villain was coming. All Might was coming.
Izuku chewed his pork cutlet thoughtfully.
In the original timeline, he had grabbed All Might’s leg out of desperation. He had been a fanboy seeking validation.
This time, the meeting would be different.
This time, it wouldn't be a fan meeting his idol.
It would be a successor meeting his predecessor.
It would be a debriefing.
Izuku finished his bowl and set his chopsticks down.
"Mom," he said.
"Yes, Izuku?"
"I'm going to apply to UA," he said. "I know I'm Quirkless. I know everyone says it's impossible."
Inko stopped washing the dishes. She turned around. Over the years, she had stopped apologizing. She had watched him train until his hands bled. She had watched him study until he passed out.
"I know," she said softly. "And I know you'll get in."
Izuku blinked. "You do?"
"I've seen you, Izuku," she said, her eyes fierce. "I don't know where you get it from. Certainly not from me or your father. But you have something inside you. A fire. It scares me sometimes, but... I believe in it."
She dried her hands and walked over, kissing his forehead.
"You're going to be a hero, Izuku. Quirk or no Quirk."
Izuku felt a lump in his throat. In his first life, she had apologized. In this life, she believed.
I changed the timeline, he realized. I changed her.
And if he could change her, he could change the world.
He went to his room, closed the door, and pulled out a fresh notebook. He uncapped a pen—not a crayon this time.
Operation: One For All - Reclamation.
He stared at the words.
"Get ready, Toshinori," Izuku whispered to the empty room. "I've got a lot to tell you."
Outside, the wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the trees. The city slept, unaware that its savior was doing push-ups in a bedroom, counting down the days until the sky fell.
One. Two. Three...
The pebble had been cast. Now, he waited for the ripples.
The sun hung high over Musutafu, a blinding white disk in a sky so blue it felt artificial. To most, it was just another Tuesday in a superhuman society—a backdrop for the mundane cycle of quirks, commutes, and convenience store runs.
To Izuku Midoriya, it was D-Day.
He sat in his seat at Aldera Junior High, his posture perfect, his breathing regulated. On his desk sat a notebook. It wasn't the charred, haphazardly scribbled Hero Analysis for the Future No. 13 that he had clutched in a previous life. This was a black, leather-bound journal he had purchased with his own allowance. The title was written in a cipher he had developed during the height of the Paranormal Liberation War, a code based on a mixture of Gran Torino’s old ciphers and Pro Hero Hawks’ undercover signals.
The teacher was droning on about career paths. Izuku tuned him out. He knew the script.
12:04 PM. The teacher will throw the papers.
12:05 PM. Bakugo will initiate a dominance display.
12:06 PM. I will be publicly outed as a UA applicant.
"So, I’ve got these career aptitude forms," the teacher said, his voice dripping with the apathy of a man tenure couldn't save from boredom. "But... why bother?"
He threw the papers into the air. They fluttered down like dead birds.
"You all want to be heroes, don't you!"
The class erupted. A cacophony of minor quirks—elongating fingers, small telekinetic bursts, visual mutations—filled the room. It was a display of vanity, not power. Izuku didn't move. He kept his hands folded on the desk, his eyes fixed on the clock.
Three. Two. One.
"Hey, teach!"
Katsuki Bakugo kicked his feet up onto his desk. The sound echoed like a gunshot. "Don't lump me in with these extras. They’ll be lucky to end up as sidekicks to some D-lister. I’m the real deal."
The class groaned, the collective sound of teenage insecurity.
"Oh, right," the teacher said, checking his list, a smirk playing on his lips. "Bakugo, you’re aiming for UA, aren't you?"
"That’s the only place worth my time," Bakugo sneered. "I aced the mock exams. I’m going to be the only one from this trash heap of a school to make it. I’ll surpass All Might and become the richest hero of all time!"
He jumped onto his desk, palms crackling with nitroglycerin. He was radiant in his arrogance, a supernova of unearned confidence. Izuku looked at him, really looked at him. He didn't see the bully. He saw the ghost of the man who would one day take a rivet stab meant for Izuku. He saw the hero who would die of heart failure at age thirty-two because he pushed his body past the breaking point trying to atone for this moment.
"And..." the teacher’s voice dropped, theatrically cruel. "Midoriya is also applying to UA, correct?"
The silence was absolute. It was a vacuum, sucking the air out of the room.
Then, the laughter started. It wasn't the nervous tittering of the past. It was a roar of disbelief.
"Midoriya? No way!"
"You can't get into the Hero Course just by studying!"
"He’s Quirkless! It’s impossible!"
Bakugo didn't laugh. He froze. The sparks on his hands died out. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing into slits of red fury.
"Deku..."
He launched himself off the desk. In the old timeline, Izuku would have flinched. He would have thrown his hands up, stammered an excuse, tried to make himself small.
Izuku didn't move. He simply rotated his pen in his fingers.
Bakugo slammed his hand onto Izuku’s desk. The explosion scorched the wood, sending a wave of heat into Izuku’s face. Smoke curled around them.
"Forget the crappy quirks these extras have," Bakugo hissed, leaning in close. "You’re Quirkless. You’re nothing. You’re a pebble on the side of the road. You think you can stand in the same ring as me?"
Izuku looked up. His green eyes were dull, flat, like the surface of a deep ocean where the light doesn't reach.
"Get your hand off my desk, Katsuki," Izuku said.
It wasn't a command. It was a statement of fact. He didn't use "Kacchan."
Bakugo recoiled as if he’d been slapped. The class went silent again. The "Deku" they knew didn't speak like that. The "Deku" they knew didn't sound like a forty-year-old combat veteran who had seen too many bodies to care about a middle schooler's temper tantrum.
"What did you say?" Bakugo’s voice trembled with rage.
"I said, get your hand off my desk," Izuku repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "You're damaging school property. That’s a mark on your permanent record. UA looks at disciplinary files, you know."
Bakugo stared at him, his mouth slightly open. The logic was sound, but the delivery was alien. He snarled, snatching the black notebook from the desk instead.
"Analysis for the future?" Bakugo read the spine, though the cipher confused him. "What is this trash? Your diary?"
He clapped his hands. BOOM.
The notebook was engulfed in flames. He tossed it out the window.
"Most top heroes have stories about them from their school days," Bakugo said, his voice regaining its swagger. "I want mine to be perfect. So don't apply to UA, nerd."
He walked toward the door, his lackeys trailing behind him. At the threshold, Bakugo stopped. He turned back, a cruel glint in his eye. This was the moment. The line that had haunted Izuku for decades in the previous life.
"If you want to be a hero that badly, there's a quick way to do it."
Izuku stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"Take a swan dive off the roof," Bakugo sneered, "and pray you'll be born with a Quirk in the next life."
The lackeys snickered.
"Stop," Izuku said.
The word cut through the air like a blade.
Izuku walked toward Bakugo. He didn't run. He walked with a measured, predatory gait. He stopped two feet from the blond, invading his personal space. Izuku was shorter, smaller, and weaker. But the pressure radiating off him was suffocating.
"What?" Bakugo growled, sparks popping. "You want to fight?"
"Article 202 of the Japanese Penal Code," Izuku recited, his voice devoid of emotion. "Creating a situation where a person is encouraged to commit suicide. If I jumped, Katsuki, and I left a note detailing what you just said, do you know what would happen?"
Bakugo blinked. "Hah?"
"You would be charged with instigation of suicide. At best, involuntary manslaughter," Izuku continued, his eyes locking onto Bakugo’s. "Your acceptance to UA would be revoked. You would be blacklisted from every hero agency in the country. You would spend your life working a register at a convenience store, watching the news as others saved the world."
Izuku leaned in closer.
"You have a powerful Quirk. But a hero protects life. He doesn't suggest ending it. If you ever say that to anyone again—me, or anyone else—I will personally ensure you never wear a cape. Do you understand?"
The menace in Izuku’s voice wasn't a threat. It was a promise. It was the voice of the man who had ripped All For One out of Shigaraki’s soul.
Bakugo took a step back. He didn't mean to. His body just reacted to the sudden spike in danger. He looked at Izuku, really looked at him, and for a fleeting second, he felt fear. Not of the boy, but of the abyss in the boy's eyes.
"Tch," Bakugo scoffed, turning away to hide his shaken expression. "Whatever. Just stay out of my way, Deku."
He stormed off.
Izuku watched him go. He let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging slightly.
That went... better than last time, he thought. Though my heart rate is 110. Adrenaline response is still too high for a non-combat encounter. I need to meditate more.
He walked outside to retrieve his notebook. It was floating in the koi pond. He fished it out, shaking the water from the burnt edges.
"Stupid fish," he muttered affectionately, feeding them some bread crumbs from his pocket. "It's not food. It's intel."
He checked his watch.
12:45 PM.
The Sludge Villain was currently robbing the store in the shopping district. He was fleeing. He would take the sewer route to avoid the main roads.
He would emerge at the Tatoin Station underpass in approximately ten minutes.
Izuku squeezed the water out of his notebook.
"Time to go to work."
The underpass was cool and damp. The shadows stretched long and thin against the concrete walls. The air smelled of exhaust fumes and stagnant water.
Izuku walked into the tunnel. He was alone.
He adjusted the straps of his yellow backpack. Inside, he had packed two liters of dense water bottles, a small canister of pepper spray (illegal for a middle schooler, but he didn't care), and a heavy-duty flashlight.
He hummed a tune—the UA school anthem.
Step. Step. Step.
He reached the manhole cover. He stopped.
The ground vibrated.
A gurgling sound echoed from the depths.
Here it comes.
The manhole cover exploded upward. A geyser of dark, viscous green sludge erupted from the sewer, towering over the small boy. Two manic, yellow eyes floated in the muck.
"A medium-sized invisibility cloak..." the villain hissed, his voice wet and gurgling. "Perfect."
In the original timeline, Izuku had frozen. He had turned around, screamed, and been engulfed before he could process the threat.
This time, Izuku didn't turn around.
He dropped.
As the tendril of sludge whipped toward his head, Izuku fell into a squat, the slime passing inches above his hair.
"What?" the villain gurgled.
Izuku spun on his heel, using the momentum to swing his backpack. It was heavy—fifteen kilograms of books and water. He slammed it into the bulk of the sludge.
Thwack.
It didn't do damage—you couldn't bruise a liquid—but it disrupted the villain’s cohesion. The sludge rippled.
"You little brat!" the villain roared, multiple tendrils shooting out to grab him.
Izuku was moving before the villain finished the sentence. He sprinted toward the villain.
Analysis: Fluid body. Weakness: Eyes and mouth are solid points of anchor. Viscosity is high. If I get caught, I drown in 45 seconds. Objective: Delay. All Might is thirty seconds out.
Izuku slid on his knees, passing under the main bulk of the villain. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pepper spray.
"Eat this," Izuku muttered.
He sprayed the canister directly into the mass, aiming for where the respiratory intake would be if the biology mimicked human physiology.
The villain screeched. "MY EYES! IT BURNS!"
The chemical irritant reacted with the mucus membrane of the sludge. The villain thrashed, his form losing stability.
"You little— I'll kill you!"
A massive wave of sludge crashed down. Izuku rolled to the right, scraping his elbow against the concrete. The pain was sharp, grounding. He scrambled up, backing against the wall.
The villain reformed, towering, angry. The eyes were red and weeping.
"I'm going to force myself down your throat and wear you like a suit!" the villain shrieked, lunging.
Izuku braced himself. He had no quirk. No Blackwhip. No Smokescreen. Just a fourteen-year-old body and a mind sharp enough to cut glass.
He saw the attack coming. A pseudopod aimed at his face.
Izuku grabbed the manhole cover—which had landed near the wall—and heaved it up like a shield.
CLANG.
The sludge hit the iron. The impact rattled Izuku’s bones, jarring his teeth. He grunted, sliding back a foot.
"You're slippery!" the villain growled, trying to wrap around the cover.
"And you have poor tactical awareness," Izuku panted. "You're fighting in a tunnel. You've limited your own mobility."
"Shut up!"
The villain enveloped the shield. Izuku let go instantly, leaping backward.
Hold out. Just ten more seconds.
Then, the manhole cover clattered to the ground. The villain loomed over him, ready for the killing blow.
"Game over, kid."
Suddenly, the manhole cover rattled again.
"HAVE NO FEAR!"
The voice boomed through the tunnel, shaking dust from the ceiling. It was a sound that had defined an era. A sound that made villains tremble and civilians weep with relief.
The sludge villain froze. "No... He tracked me?"
A figure exploded from the sewer entrance. He was massive. A mountain of muscle, clad in a white t-shirt and green cargo pants, his blonde hair sweeping back in two distinct wings. His smile was blinding, even in the gloom of the underpass.
"FOR I AM HERE!"
All Might landed. The shockwave of his arrival pushed the sludge villain back.
He saw the villain. He saw the small, green-haired boy backed against the wall, bleeding from his elbow but standing in a defensive fighting stance.
All Might’s smile faltered for a microsecond. The boy... he’s fighting?
"You!" The Sludge Villain panicked. He lashed out with a desperate whip of slime.
All Might didn't dodge. He didn't need to. He pulled his fist back.
"TEXAS..."
The wind pressure alone pinned the villain against the curved wall of the tunnel. Izuku shielded his eyes, bracing his legs. He knew this feeling. The displacement of air. The raw, unadulterated power of One For All.
"...SMASH!"
BOOM.
It wasn't a punch. It was a weather event. The air pressure struck the sludge villain like a freight train. The liquid body exploded, scattering into a thousand globs that splattered against the ceiling, the walls, and the floor.
The wind howled down the tunnel, nearly knocking Izuku off his feet. He dug his heels in, squinting against the gale.
Then, silence.
Only the sound of dripping sludge remained.
All Might stood tall, steam rising from his body. He quickly began gathering the scattered pieces of the villain into empty soda bottles he had produced from his grocery bag.
"Good grief," All Might laughed, his voice booming. "I got a little carried away! But you're safe now, young man! Apologies for getting you caught up in my justice-ing!"
Izuku stood up straight. He brushed the dust off his uniform. His heart was pounding, but not from fear. It was grief.
Seeing All Might this strong... it hurt. It hurt because Izuku knew how fragile that strength really was.
"All Might," Izuku said.
All Might turned, giving a thumbs up. "Indeed! And you, young man! You showed incredible bravery! Most would have frozen, but you fought back! Excellent survival instincts!"
He finished bottling the villain. "Well, I must be off! Need to get this guy to the police!"
He crouched down, preparing to jump.
"Wait," Izuku said.
"No time! Evil never sleeps!" All Might grinned.
He launched himself into the air.
In the original timeline, Izuku had grabbed his leg in a panic.
This time, Izuku grabbed his leg with intent. He locked his arms around the hero’s massive calf, burying his face in the fabric of the cargo pants.
"Hey! heavy!" All Might shouted, realizing he had a stowaway mid-air. "Young man! This is dangerous! Let go!"
"If I let go now, I'll die!" Izuku shouted back, the wind whipping his words away. "Land on a roof!"
"Fine! Close your eyes and mouth!"
They soared over the city. Izuku didn't close his eyes. He watched the skyline. He watched the world he had failed to save once, spread out below him like a toy set.
They landed on the roof of a nondescript office building. All Might skidded to a halt.
"That was reckless!" All Might scolded, shaking his leg to dislodge the boy. "You could have been killed!"
Izuku let go. He stepped back, straightening his uniform again. He looked at All Might.
"I needed to talk to you," Izuku said. "Alone."
"I don't have time for autographs right now, my boy! I have to—"
All Might stopped. A puff of steam exploded from his body.
Izuku didn't gasp. He didn't look away. He watched with a solemn expression as the muscle melted away. The Greek god vanished, replaced by a scarecrow. Sharp angles, sunken eyes, clothes hanging off a skeletal frame.
Blood sprayed from his mouth.
All Might wiped it away, hunched over. He looked up, expecting the boy to be screaming in horror.
Izuku wasn't screaming. He was holding out a handkerchief.
"You're pushing the time limit," Izuku said softly. "You used too much power on that smash. Your respiratory system is inflamed."
All Might—Toshinori Yagi—froze. He stared at the handkerchief. He stared at the boy.
"You..." Toshinori’s voice was raspy, weak. "You’re not surprised."
"No," Izuku said.
"You know about my form?"
"I know a lot of things," Izuku said. He didn't hand over the handkerchief. He stepped closer. "I know about the injury you got five years ago. Not from Toxic Chainsaw, but from him."
Toshinori’s eyes widened. The blue irises shrank into pinpricks of pure terror. The air around him grew cold.
"Who are you?" Toshinori whispered. The comical hero persona was gone. This was the man who hunted evil in the shadows. "Are you with him? Did All For One send you?"
Izuku flinched at the name, but he held his ground.
"No," Izuku said. "I am the enemy of All For One. My name is Izuku Midoriya. And I am the Ninth."
Toshinori blinked. "The... Ninth?"
"The Ninth Holder of One For All," Izuku clarified. "Or rather... I will be. I came back."
The silence on the roof was heavy. A pigeon cooed nearby, oblivious to the metaphysical bomb that had just been dropped.
Toshinori stared at the boy. He looked for the lie. He looked for the tell. But the boy’s eyes... they were ancient. They held a depth of sorrow that a fourteen-year-old shouldn't possess.
"Time travel?" Toshinori scoffed, trying to rationalize it. "That’s impossible. No Quirk can rewind time that far."
"It wasn't a Quirk," Izuku said. "It was... a second chance. Listen to me, All Might. I don't have time to convince you slowly. The Sludge Villain incident was supposed to happen differently. You were supposed to drop the bottle. The villain was supposed to escape and attack Katsuki Bakugo. You were supposed to watch me run in to save him, and that would inspire you to act."
Toshinori frowned. "But... I have the villain right here." He patted his pocket. "The bottle is secure."
"Because I changed it," Izuku said. "Because I couldn't risk you burning out your embers saving us again. We need those embers."
"Embers..." Toshinori touched his chest.
"I know about Nana Shimura," Izuku said.
The name hit Toshinori like a physical blow. He staggered back, clutching the railing.
"How..."
"I know she floated," Izuku continued, his voice steady but gentle. "I know she had a mole on her chin. I know she told you that a true hero smiles to save the hearts of others, not just their lives. I know she left her son, Kotaro, in foster care to protect him, and that decision broke her heart."
Toshinori was trembling. Tears welled in his sunken eyes. "Stop... how do you know that?"
"Because I met her," Izuku said. "Inside One For All. In the vestige world."
"The vestige world..." Toshinori whispered. "I... I’ve seen them. Shadows. Mist. But you spoke to them?"
"Yes. And I know about Sir Nighteye," Izuku pressed on. "I know you fought. I know he looked into the future and saw you dying. A gruesome death, fighting a villain, your intestines spilled out."
Toshinori slumped against the railing. He looked defeated. "He... he told no one but me and Nezu. You... you really are..."
"I am your student," Izuku said, his voice cracking with emotion. He took a step forward, fighting the urge to cry. "In the future, you pick me. You train me. You become the father I never had. We fight a war, All Might. A terrible war. Shigaraki Tomura... he is Nana’s grandson. Tenko Shimura."
Toshinori gasped. "What? No... that can't be..."
"It is. All For One found him. Groomed him. Turned him into a monster to spite you." Izuku’s fists clenched. "We win, eventually. But the cost... the cost was too high. The world broke. You broke. I broke."
Izuku looked down at his hands—his unscarred, weak hands.
"I came back to fix it. I came back to save Tenko before he’s gone. To save you. To save everyone."
He looked up, meeting Toshinori’s gaze with a burning intensity.
"But I can't do it without One For All. I am Quirkless, Toshinori. Just like you were."
Toshinori’s head snapped up. "You know that too?"
"I know everything."
Izuku took a deep breath. "I know you are looking for a successor. You were going to UA to find one. Nighteye wanted you to give it to Mirio Togata."
Toshinori nodded slowly. "Yes. That was the plan."
"Mirio is a great hero," Izuku said honestly. "He would have been a worthy holder. But... One For All is changing. It’s growing too strong. The singularity is approaching. If you give it to someone who already has a Quirk, it will kill them. It will burn their lifespan away in a few years."
Toshinori looked horrified. "What?"
"The Fourth User, Hikage Shinomori, died of old age at forty because the quirk burned him out," Izuku explained quickly. "I can hold it because I am an empty vessel. Because I am Quirkless. I am the only one who can carry it now."
Toshinori slid down the railing until he was sitting on the concrete roof. He put his head in his hands. It was too much. The boy spoke with such conviction, such detail. The secrets he knew were impossible to fabricate.
"So..." Toshinori’s voice was muffled. "You want the power? Now?"
"Yes," Izuku said. "Not because I want glory. But because I need to start cultivating it. My body..." He gestured to his scrawny frame. "It’s not ready. I can't handle 100%. I can't even handle 5% yet. I need to train. I need you to train me."
Toshinori looked up. He saw the boy—no, the man—standing before him. He saw the spirit of a hero. He felt the familiar pull of One For All, as if the quirk itself was singing, recognizing its master.
"You said... in the future... I picked you?" Toshinori asked softly.
"You did," Izuku smiled, a tear finally escaping. "You told me, 'You can be a hero.' It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me."
Toshinori stared at him. He felt a warmth in his chest he hadn't felt since his injury. A spark of hope.
"You have the eyes," Toshinori murmured. "The eyes of someone who has run into the fire a thousand times."
He stood up. He wobbled slightly, but he stood. He inflated, just for a moment, into his muscle form, then deflated back down. It was a gesture of respect.
"Izuku Midoriya," All Might said. "I don't understand everything. Time travel... wars... Shigaraki... it’s a nightmare I hoped to avoid. But I trust my instincts. And my instincts scream that you are telling the truth."
He reached up and plucked a long, blonde hair from his head.
Izuku watched the motion. He remembered this moment. The awkwardness. The "Eat this."
"I believe you," All Might said. "And if the future is as dark as you say... we have no time to waste."
He held out the hair.
"Normally, I would give you a speech. I would tell you about the burden. But you already know the burden, don't you?"
"Better than anyone," Izuku whispered.
"Then take it," All Might said. "Take it, and let’s rewrite this story."
Izuku reached out. His hand didn't tremble. He took the hair.
"Wait," Izuku said, pausing. "I can't eat this yet."
All Might blinked. "Huh?"
"My body," Izuku said, gesturing to himself. "If I eat this now, my limbs will explode the moment I try to use it. I need to prepare the vessel first."
"Ah. Right," All Might scratched his head sheepishly. "I forgot about the... popping factor."
"I have a plan," Izuku said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket (his backup plan if the notebook was destroyed). "The Dagobah Municipal Beach Park. It’s a trash heap."
"I know it," All Might nodded.
"I’m going to clean it," Izuku said. "Completely. It will build my core, my back, and my legs. But we’re not doing it in ten months."
"We're not?"
"No," Izuku’s eyes narrowed. "We’re doing it in three. I know the most efficient lifting techniques. I know how to optimize my diet. I need you to spot me, help me with the heaviest items, and... help me intercept some threats along the way."
"Threats?"
"We’ll get to that," Izuku said, pocketing the hair carefully in his notebook. "For now... we need to get you to UA. You have a meeting with Principal Nezu, don't you?"
All Might stared at him. "How do you even know my schedule?"
"I told you," Izuku smiled, a genuine, terrifyingly competent smile. "I’m the Ninth."
That Evening
Izuku walked home. The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.
He felt light. Lighter than he had felt in decades.
The Sludge Villain was captured. Bakugo was safe (and sufficiently traumatized by the lecture). All Might was on board. The hair was safe in his pocket.
He stopped at a convenience store. He bought a bottle of water and a taiyaki.
He sat on a park bench—the same park where he had played as a child. He looked at the taiyaki.
"Gran Torino," he whispered. "I'll be seeing you soon, too."
He took a bite. It was sweet.
He pulled out his phone. He had a contact list to build.
To-Do List:
1. Dagobah Beach (Start tomorrow).
2. Analyze AFO's current movements based on news reports.
3. Find Touya Todoroki.
He tapped the screen, his thumb hovering over the calendar app.
Entrance Exam: 10 Months.
"Three months to clean the beach," he muttered to himself. "One month to integrate the Quirk. That leaves six months."
Six months of free time.
Izuku grinned.
"Six months to hunt."
He stood up, tossed the wrapper in the trash can, and began to jog home. The shadow of the future was long and dark, but for the first time, Izuku Midoriya wasn't running away from it. He was running toward it, and he was bringing the sun with him.
As he ran, he felt a phantom sensation in his arms. The crackle of Blackwhip. The hum of Fa Jin.
They're waiting, he thought. The vestiges are waiting for me to come back.
"I'm coming," he whispered. "Hold on."
He turned the corner, the streetlights flickering on one by one, lighting his path home. The pebble had started the avalanche. Now, he just had to ride it.
The Dagobah Municipal Beach Park was less a beach and more a graveyard of the Anthropocene. Mountains of tires, rusted appliances, and driftwood choked the sand, hiding the horizon behind a wall of refuse. In the original timeline, this place had been a symbol of despair until a scrawny boy and a skeletal man turned it into a symbol of hope over ten grueling months.
In this timeline, it was a logistics problem.
"Young Midoriya," All Might said, staring at the clipboard Izuku had shoved into his hands. The hero—currently in his deflated, skeletal form—squinted at the spreadsheet. "This schedule... are you certain? The American Dream Plan was designed to be a gradual—"
"The American Dream Plan is excellent for building a foundation from zero," Izuku interrupted, not rudely, but with the clipped efficiency of a project manager. He was currently dragging a refrigerator through the sand with a rope tied around his waist. He didn't stop moving. "But my foundation isn't zero. My muscle memory is intact. My neural pathways for pain tolerance are already developed. I don't need to learn how to push; I need to condition the vessel to survive the output."
He stopped, wiping sweat from his forehead. Even at fourteen, his eyes held the hardness of a diamond.
"We aren't clearing this beach in ten months, All Might. We're doing it in two."
All Might choked on air. "Two? But—"
"If we take ten," Izuku said, turning to face his mentor, "we waste eight months of potential quirk synchronization. I need the One For All core to settle before UA begins. I need to unlock the percentiles. If I enter the exam with a volatile quirk, I’m a liability. If I enter with 20% mastery, I’m an asset."
He grabbed the rope again.
"Besides," Izuku muttered, a dark amusement coloring his tone, "I know exactly where the heavy stuff is hidden. I don't have to search for it."
Week 3: The Grind
It wasn't training; it was terraforming.
Izuku moved with the terrifying precision of a machine. He didn't just lift trash; he categorized it. Metals for recycling, burnables for the incinerator. He created a workflow.
All Might found himself less of a coach and more of a bewildered assistant.
"Young Midoriya! You've been hauling those truck tires for four hours! Hydrate!"
"Two more sets," Izuku grunted. His shirt was soaked through. His muscles, previously nonexistent, were knitting themselves together with alarming speed. It was painful—agony, really—to force a pubescent body to bulk up this fast. But Izuku welcomed the pain. It was a grounding tether. It reminded him he was alive.
Every time his arms shook, he remembered Shigaraki’s hand on his face. Every time his legs burned, he remembered the crush of the collapsing hospital.
Pain is information, he told himself. It tells you the limit. And then you step over it.
Week 8: The Conclusion
The sun was setting, casting long, golden shadows across the pristine white sand. The ocean, visible for the first time in years, lapped gently at the shore.
There was no trash. Not a single wrapper.
Izuku stood at the top of the concrete steps, shirtless, panting heavily. He wasn't the bulked-up tank he had been at his peak, but he was lean, wiry, and dense. He looked like a whipcord made of steel.
All Might stood beside him, holding a plastic bag of groceries. The Number One Hero looked at the beach, then at the boy.
"I..." All Might started, then cleared his throat. "I have never seen anything like this. You didn't just clean it. You... obliterated the mess."
"Phase One complete," Izuku said. He looked at his hands. They were calloused, scarred from rusty metal, but steady.
"You're ready," All Might said softly. The skepticism was gone. In its place was a profound, slightly terrifying respect. "Physically, you are ready. Perhaps even more ready than... well, than anyone I've ever seen at this age."
All Might reached up. He plucked a single, long strand of golden hair from his head.
The wind picked up. The moment was heavy with destiny, or perhaps just the sheer absurdity of the ritual.
"Izuku Midoriya," All Might said, his voice deepening into his hero persona even in his weak form. "You have proven yourself worthy not just in spirit, but in discipline. Inherit this power. Inherit my will."
He held out the hair.
"Eat this."
In the past, Izuku had been confused. “Gross!” he had thought.
Now, Izuku took the hair. He looked at it with the reverence one might show a holy relic, or perhaps a loaded gun.
"Thank you, Toshinori," Izuku said quietly.
He didn't hesitate. He swallowed it dry.
He waited.
It didn't hit him immediately. Digestion took time. But he felt the spiritual connection instantly. It was like plugging a live wire into a dead socket.
Thump.
A heartbeat. Not his.
Thump-thump.
The Vestiges.
They were faint, distant, like voices in another room. But they were there. He could feel the First’s gentle warmth. He could feel the Fourth’s anxiety. He could feel the smoking rage of the Second.
I'm back, Izuku projected the thought inward. We have work to do.
He felt a ripple of shock from the void within him. They recognized him.
Izuku looked up at All Might.
"Now," Izuku said, a green spark flickering across his skin—not the wild, destructive lightning of his first attempt, but a controlled, humming aura. "We have eight months to calibrate."
All Might dropped his grocery bag. "You can use it already?!"
"5%," Izuku said, clenching his fist. The green lines glowed, steady and rhythmic. "Full Cowl. No broken bones. Let's spar."
The Entrance Exam: Morning
The gates of UA High towered over the students, a formidable barrier of steel and reputation. The crowd was a sea of nervous energy, black uniforms, and mutterings.
Izuku Midoriya walked through the crowd. He wore his middle school uniform, but he wore it like tactical gear. His backpack was organized. His shoes were double-knotted.
He didn't look up at the building with wide-eyed wonder. He looked at it like a returning general surveying his old headquarters.
Security cameras have been upgraded, he noted, spotting the new lenses on the perimeter wall. Nezu must have implemented the budget increase early.
"Out of my way, Deku!"
The shout came from behind him. Katsuki Bakugo stormed past, his shoulders set in a line of aggression. But there was a difference. Bakugo didn't shove him. He walked around him.
Since the "Incident" in the classroom, and the subsequent months where Bakugo realized Izuku was getting physically stronger by the day, the bullying had morphed into a tense, silent rivalry. Bakugo was confused, and confusion made him cautious.
"Good luck, Katsuki," Izuku said calmly.
Bakugo stiffened. "Don't tell me what to do! I'll crush this exam!"
He stomped off. Izuku watched him go, a faint smile playing on his lips. He's focused. Good.
Izuku took a step forward and promptly tripped over a slightly raised paving stone.
Old habits, he thought, bracing himself to catch his fall with a handstand.
But he didn't hit the ground.
He floated.
"Are you okay?"
The voice was bubbly, kind, and heartbreakingly familiar.
Izuku looked up. Ochako Uraraka stood there, her fingertips pressed together, her brown eyes wide with concern. She had tapped him, negating his gravity.
"It's bad luck to trip right before the exam!" she said, smiling. "I'm nervous too!"
Izuku righted himself as she released him. He looked at her. He saw the girl who had starved herself to save money for her parents. The girl who had fought Toga. The girl who had held his hand when the world hated him.
He didn't blush. He didn't stammer.
"Thank you," Izuku said. His voice was warm, charming in a way that "Deku" never was. "That's a precision Quirk you have. Zero Gravity? Very useful for rescue ops and structural destabilization."
Ochako blinked, her cheeks turning pink. "Oh! Um, thanks! I just... yeah! I'm Uraraka Ochako."
"Midoriya Izuku," he bowed slightly. "Good luck in there, Uraraka-san. Just remember: in the practical, the robots have a sensor delay of 0.5 seconds if you flank them. Use it."
He gave her a two-finger salute and walked away.
Ochako stood there, stunned. "Whoa," she whispered. "He... he was so cool."
The Written Exam
It was a massacre.
Izuku finished the test in half the allotted time. He knew the history of heroics because he had lived the future of it. He knew the quirk theory laws because he had spent nights debating them with the vestiges. He knew the math because physics was the language of One For All.
He spent the remaining time meditating, visualizing the internal mechanisms of the One For All stockpile. He was currently sitting at a comfortable 15% output capability, with bursts up to 25% if he didn't mind sore muscles the next day. Compared to the 100% bone-breaking of the past, this was a luxury.
The Orientation
"EVERYBODY SAY HEY!"
Present Mic’s voice boomed through the auditorium.
"HEY!" Izuku shouted back, alone in the silence.
Present Mic paused, grinning. "I LIKE THIS LISTENER! A man of culture!"
Izuku smirked. He remembered how much Mic appreciated engagement.
As Mic explained the rules of the three robot types, the inevitable interruption came. Tenya Iida stood up, his hand chopping the air like a metronome.
"Sir! The handout clearly lists four types of villains! If this is a misprint, it is a stain on UA's reputation!" He turned, pointing a stiff finger directly at Izuku. "And you! The one with the curly hair!"
Izuku looked up calmly.
"You've been tapping your pen against your desk in a rhythmic pattern for the last ten minutes!" Iida announced. "It is distracting! If you are here to treat this as a game, please leave!"
The auditorium fell silent. People stared. The old Izuku would have died of shame.
The new Izuku stopped tapping.
"It wasn't a game," Izuku said, his voice projecting clearly without shouting. "I was tapping the Morse code frequency for the standard distress signal used by local rescue units. It helps me focus on the objective: saving lives. But I apologize if it broke your concentration. I'll stop."
Iida froze. His mouth opened, then closed. The sheer professionalism of the answer derailed his lecture.
"I... see," Iida sat down slowly. "My apologies."
Present Mic whistled. "Alright, alright! settle down! The Fourth Robot is a gimmick! An obstacle! Worth zero points! Just avoid it! NOW, GET TO YOUR BATTLE CENTERS!"
Battle Center B
The gates were massive. The simulated city beyond was silent.
Izuku stood at the front of the pack. He was wearing a simple green tracksuit he had bought online—a prototype of his future costume, durable and lightweight. He adjusted his red gloves.
Ochako was nearby, looking nervous. Izuku caught her eye and nodded. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.
Iida was there, too, eyeing Izuku suspiciously.
"AND... START!" Present Mic yelled from the tower. "THERE ARE NO COUNTDOWNS IN REAL BATTLES! GO! GO! GO!"
The other examinees hesitated, confused by the lack of a buzzer.
Izuku was already gone.
He exploded off the starting line. Green lightning crackled around his body—subtle, contained. Full Cowling: 8%.
He hit the main street. A Three-Pointer drone rolled out, its targeting lasers sweeping.
"Target acquired," the robot droned.
"Target destroyed," Izuku whispered.
He didn't punch it. He vaulted over its chassis, grabbed the exposed wiring conduit on its neck—a design flaw he knew intimately—and ripped it out. The robot powered down instantly.
Izuku didn't stop. He kept running.
Two-Pointer on the left.
He slid under its tread, kicking upward into the gyroscope housing. Crash.
One-Pointer on the roof.
He leaped, scaling the wall with parkour efficiency that screamed 'Gran Torino'. He landed on the robot, driving his heel into the central processor.
Points: 6.
It wasn't a fight. It was a speedrun.
Izuku moved through the city like a gale force wind. He didn't waste movement. He didn't waste breath.
"Hey!" another examinee shouted, watching Izuku dismantle a group of three robots in five seconds. "Save some for us!"
"Flank them!" Izuku shouted back, not slowing down. "Their rear armor is thinnest! Aim for the joints!"
He was coaching them. While racking up a high score, he was directing traffic.
Points: 28.
Points: 45.
Points: 60.
In the observation room, the teachers watched the screens.
"Good grief," Midnight murmured. "Who is that kid? He moves like a pro."
"No wasted movement," Vlad King grunted. "He knows the robot designs. Did he hack the files?"
"No," Nezu cackled, sipping his tea. "He's just observant. Look at his eyes. He's not hunting for points. He's clearing a path."
All Might, standing in the back of the room, beamed. That’s my boy. But... show them the heart, Izuku. Show them why you’re the Ninth.
The Zero Pointer
The ground shook.
The buzzer was nearing. Izuku had 72 villain points. It was more than enough to pass. He stood on top of a streetlamp, surveying the chaos.
Then, the true test began.
The pavement cracked. Buildings groaned. The Zero Pointer rose from the ground, a titan of metal and malice. It was comically large, casting a shadow over the entire city block.
"Run!"
"It's huge!"
"Is that really worth zero points?!"
The examinees broke. They turned and fled, screaming. It was the rational response.
Izuku didn't move. He stood on his perch, watching the dust cloud.
There, he thought.
Through the haze, he heard it. A whimper.
Ochako Uraraka was trapped. A piece of debris had pinned her leg. The robot was looming over her, its massive tracks grinding the asphalt into dust.
In the first timeline, Izuku’s body had moved on its own. He had been terrified. He had screamed.
In this timeline, Izuku’s body moved on command.
He dropped from the streetlamp.
One For All: 15%.
He sprinted toward the robot. He passed the fleeing students.
"Get back!" one shouted. "Don't be an idiot!"
Izuku ignored them. He reached the debris. He didn't lift it. He kicked it, applying precisely enough force to shatter the concrete slab without hurting Ochako's leg.
"Stand up," Izuku ordered, extending a hand.
Ochako looked up, teary-eyed. "I... I can't! My ankle!"
The robot’s shadow fell over them. A massive metal fist was descending.
Izuku looked up.
Analysis: The Zero Pointer is designed to intimidate. Its armor is thickest on the chest. But the neck joint... the hydraulic press... it's vulnerable to concussive force.
"Uraraka-san," Izuku said calmly. "Make me weightless."
"What?"
"Touch me. Now."
She slapped his arm. "Release!"
Izuku felt gravity loose its hold.
He crouched.
One For All: 20%.
He launched himself.
He soared upward, a green bullet against the sky. He flew past the fist, spiraling through the air. He reached the robot's face.
He pulled his arm back.
In the past, he had screamed “SMASH!” and broken every bone in his limb.
This time, he breathed in. He tightened his core. He focused the power not into his entire arm, but into the knuckles of his right hand. He aligned his wrist. He reinforced his elbow with Blackwhip—no, he couldn't use Blackwhip yet. He had to use air pressure.
He spun his body, adding torque.
Detroit Smash: Pinpoint.
He punched the robot directly in the central sensor array.
KA-BOOM.
It wasn't a widespread explosion. It was a piercing strike. The force traveled through the robot's neck, shearing the bolts, shattering the hydraulics. The robot’s head snapped back. The internal explosions chained down the torso.
The massive machine groaned, tilted, and then began to fall backward, away from the students.
Izuku was falling now. He was high up.
Gravity is still off, he noted.
He floated in the air, watching the robot crash.
"Release!" Ochako shouted from the ground, pressing her fingers together.
Gravity returned. Izuku plummeted.
In the past, he would have been flailing, legs broken, arm shattered, needing a slap from Ochako to survive.
Now, Izuku adjusted his posture. He saw a building face. He fired a 5% finger flick—delaware smash—at the air, creating a cushion of pressure to slow his descent just enough to grab a flagpole. He swung, flipping once, twice, bleeding off momentum.
He landed on the pavement in a three-point crouch.
Dust settles.
His right arm throbbed. It was bruised. Maybe a hairline fracture in the pinky. But it wasn't broken. It was usable.
He stood up.
The silence was deafening.
The other examinees had stopped running. They were staring at him.
Iida was gaping, his glasses crooked.
Ochako was staring, her mouth wide open.
"Time's up!" Present Mic shouted.
The siren wailed.
Izuku exhaled, steam rising from his skin. He rolled his right shoulder, wincing slightly.
"A bit rusty," he muttered to himself. "Should have used more hip rotation."
The crowd erupted.
"Did you see that?!"
"He one-shotted the Zero Pointer!"
"He didn't even use a quirk until the end!"
"Who is he?!"
Izuku ignored the praise. He walked over to Ochako. She was still on the ground, holding her ankle.
He knelt down.
"It's sprained," he assessed, looking at the swelling. "Not broken. Recovery Girl will fix it in seconds."
" You..." Ochako stammered. "You saved me. You destroyed that thing like it was nothing!"
"It was just a robot," Izuku said gently. He offered her his uninjured hand. "Heroes save people. That's the job."
The Teachers' Lounge
The screen showed a close-up of Izuku's face. He wasn't smiling in triumph. He was checking Uraraka's pulse.
Eraserhead—Shota Aizawa—leaned forward in his sleeping bag. His eyes were bloodshot, narrowed in intense scrutiny.
"He held back," Aizawa said.
"What?" Midnight asked. "He destroyed a giant robot!"
"He held back the impact," Aizawa clarified. "He aimed for a structural weak point. If he had hit the center mass with that much force, the shrapnel would have endangered the other students. He calculated the debris field mid-air."
Aizawa rewound the footage. He watched Izuku's eyes. They scanned the battlefield constantly.
"He doesn't look like a student taking a test," Aizawa muttered. "He looks like a pro clearing a disaster zone."
"Is that a problem?" Nezu asked, delighted.
"No," Aizawa said, a rare, terrifying grin creeping onto his face. "But he’s going to be a nightmare to teach. He thinks he knows everything."
"Maybe he does," All Might whispered to himself.
The Infirmary
"My, my," Recovery Girl said, examining Izuku's arm. "Just some bruising and muscle strain. Usually, kids with strength enhancers shatter their limbs on that robot."
"I practiced," Izuku lied smoothly.
She kissed his arm. Smooch. The fatigue hit him, but he stayed upright.
"You're a tough one," she noted. "Here, take some gummies."
Izuku took the candy.
He walked out of the UA gates. The sun was setting.
He had passed. He knew the score would be ridiculous—combining Villain Points and Rescue Points.
He looked at his hand. He clenched it.
One step closer, he thought. Now for the hard part.
Keeping the secret.
He walked home, the weight of the future resting comfortably on his shoulders. He was ready.
UA High was about to get a student who had already graduated from the school of war. And God help anyone who stood in his way.