what if deku was reborn with all his memories and joined marvel

 

The rhythmic, steady beep… beep… beep… of the heart monitor was a comforting metronome in the otherwise silent room.

 

Izuku Midoriya lay back against the crisp, white hospital pillows, his eyes tracing the familiar, sterile ceiling tiles. He was tired. It was a profound, bone-deep exhaustion that had nothing to do with the lack of sleep and everything to do with ninety-two years of a life lived at full throttle.

 

His hands rested atop the thin blanket. They were a roadmap of his history, twisted with severe arthritis and laced with thick, jagged scars that had long since faded from angry red to a dull, pearlescent white. Each scar was a memory. The webbing between his thumb and forefinger from Todoroki in the Sports Festival. The jagged lines tearing up his forearms from Muscular. The deep, starburst burns near his shoulders from the final, world-shaking war against Tomura Shigaraki and All For One.

 

He didn’t regret a single one of them.

 

"Deku?"

 

The voice was soft, slightly tremulous with age, but it still held that same gravity-defying warmth that had anchored him since he was fifteen years old. Izuku turned his head slowly, the joints in his neck popping in protest. Ochako sat beside his bed, her own hair entirely silver, her face lined with the beautiful evidence of a lifetime of smiles. She held his scarred hand in both of hers, her thumbs gently stroking his knuckles.

 

"I'm here, Uraraka," Izuku rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves rustling against pavement. He managed a small, reassuring smile.

 

"You're pushing yourself just by staying awake, nerd."

 

The gruff, gravelly voice came from the corner of the room. Katsuki Bakugo sat in a vinyl armchair, leaning heavily on a cane with a customized grenade-pin handle. His spiky hair was white and thinning, and his posture was hunched, but his crimson eyes were just as sharp and piercing as they had been on the playground seventy years ago. He scowled at Izuku, though there was no heat in it. Only a fiercely guarded, reluctant grief.

 

"Kacchan," Izuku chuckled, which devolved into a wet cough. Ochako quickly helped him sip some water from a straw. "I have to stay awake. It's rude to fall asleep when you have guests."

 

"We aren't guests, we're your family, you idiot," Bakugo muttered, looking away toward the window, where the neon lights of a peaceful, rebuilt Tokyo painted the night sky. "And you've earned a nap."

 

Izuku’s gaze drifted to the foot of the bed. Standing there, trying valiantly to hold back tears, was a young man in his early twenties. He had bright, determined eyes and a posture that was a dead ringer for a young All Might. This was Daiki, the Tenth User of One For All.

 

"Midoriya-sensei," Daiki said, his voice cracking. He bowed at a sharp ninety-degree angle. "I… I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I can do it without you."

 

Izuku felt a familiar warmth flare in his chest. It wasn't the roaring bonfire of One For All—he had passed that flame on over a decade ago when his aging body could no longer handle the embers. But the residual warmth, the memory of the power, still resided in his heart.

 

"Lift your head, Daiki," Izuku commanded gently. The young man straightened up, wiping at his eyes. "You are more than ready. You don't need to be me. You don't need to be All Might. You just need to be you. The world doesn't need a Pillar of Peace anymore. We built a world where everyone holds up the sky together. You're just… one of the hands keeping it steady."

 

Daiki nodded, fresh tears spilling over his cheeks. "Yes, Sensei. I promise. I won't let you down. I'll go beyond."

 

"Plus Ultra," Izuku whispered, closing his eyes.

 

He could feel the edges of his consciousness beginning to fray. The pain in his chest, a constant companion for the last few months as his heart slowly gave out, was beginning to recede into a numb, airy lightness.

 

"Izuku," Ochako whispered. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. He felt a single, hot tear soak through his hospital gown.

 

"Don't cry, Ochako," he murmured, his breath hitching. "It's a good day. It's… a really good day. The world is safe."

 

"Yeah, it is," Bakugo's voice was closer now. The old explosive hero had moved to the other side of the bed. Izuku felt a heavy, warm hand grip his shoulder. "You did good, Deku. You did good. Now go see the old man. I'm sure All Might's been waiting to talk your ear off for twenty years."

 

Izuku smiled, a genuine, blinding smile that made his wrinkled face look momentarily like the starry-eyed teenager he used to be. "I'll tell him you said hello, Kacchan."

 

The beeping of the heart monitor began to slow.

 

Beep…

 

He thought of his mother, Inko, who had passed away peacefully decades ago. He thought of Aizawa-sensei, of Todoroki, of Iida, of Tsu. He thought of all the lives saved, the villains redeemed, the society they had painfully torn down and rebuilt into something genuinely just and kind. He had done it. The Quirkless boy from Musutafu had saved the world.

 

Beep…

 

His vision began to darken at the edges, a soft, welcoming vignette of shadows. The physical world was slipping away. The smell of antiseptic, the hum of the city, the warmth of Ochako's hand—it was all fading into a vast, echoing silence.

 

Beep…

 

He wasn't afraid. He was just so very ready to rest.

 

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep—

 

The sound stretched into infinity, and Izuku let go.

 

 

 

There was no sudden flash of light. No pearly gates, no choir of angels.

 

There was only the void.

 

It was a familiar void, actually. It was the deep, velvety expanse of his inner mind, the place where the Vestiges of One For All used to reside. Izuku found himself standing in the center of the dark expanse. He looked down at his hands. They were no longer the gnarled, arthritis-ridden hands of a dying ninety-two-year-old man. They were strong, calloused, wrapped in his signature green gloves. He was wearing his final hero costume, the one he had worn during his prime.

 

"Midoriya Izuku."

 

Izuku turned. Sitting in the gloom were the nine thrones. Most of them were empty, but sitting in the very first chair, glowing with a soft, ethereal light, was Yoichi Shigaraki. The First User.

 

"Yoichi?" Izuku asked, his voice sounding strong and clear in the void. He stepped forward. "Why are you here? I passed the Quirk to Daiki. The Vestige realm should be with him."

 

Yoichi smiled, a sad, knowing expression on his pale face. He stood up, his white hair floating as if caught in an unseen current. "You did pass the torch, Ninth. Daiki holds the flame. But you held the power longer than anyone else. You mastered it. You completed it. One For All did not just reside in your body, Izuku. It fused with your soul."

 

Izuku frowned, processing this. "Fused? But I was Quirkless. I'm dead now. Shouldn't I just… move on?"

 

"You are moving on," Yoichi said, stepping closer and placing a gentle hand on Izuku’s chest. "But a soul as heavy as yours, a will as dense as yours… it cannot simply dissipate into the ether. You changed the fundamental fabric of our world, Izuku. The universe demands balance. And right now… another universe is severely lacking it."

 

"Another universe?" Izuku’s analytical mind, which had never truly dulled with age, immediately kicked into high gear. "Wait, multiverse theory? Parallel dimensions? Are you saying I'm not going to the afterlife?"

 

Yoichi chuckled, a sound like wind chimes. "Always the thinker. I do not know the exact mechanics, Ninth. I only know that the pull of the cosmos is dragging us elsewhere. And because we are fused to your soul, we are coming with you."

 

Before Izuku could ask another question, the void began to crack. Brilliant, blinding shards of white light tore through the darkness, accompanied by a sound like tearing metal and shattering glass. The force of it knocked Izuku off his feet.

 

"Wait!" Izuku yelled over the roaring cacophony. "I don't understand! I did my job! I saved my world! I just want to rest!"

 

Yoichi looked down at him as the void shattered completely. The First User’s smile was gentle, filled with a mixture of pride and profound apology.

 

"I know, Izuku. I am sorry. But a true hero never rests for long. And this new world… it is going to need you."

 

The white light consumed everything.

 

 

 

The first sensation was cold.

 

It was a shocking, biting cold that felt entirely alien. Then came the noise. It wasn't the quiet hum of a hospital room or the ethereal silence of the Vestige void. It was a chaotic, overwhelming assault of sound. Voices, muffled and distorted, shouting in a language that his brain struggled to parse. The sharp wail of a siren in the distance. The blinding sting of artificial lights piercing his closed eyelids.

 

Izuku tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt like they were glued shut, impossibly heavy. He tried to speak, to ask where he was, to ask for Ochako or Bakugo, but what came out of his throat wasn't words.

 

It was a high-pitched, desperate wail.

 

Panic seized him. His mind, the mind of a tactical genius, a veteran of a hundred wars, was suddenly drowning in a sea of primal, uncontrollable instinct. He couldn't control his breathing. He couldn't control his limbs. When he tried to clench his fists, his fingers barely moved, feeling soft and uncoordinated.

 

Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted. Huge, warm hands wrapped around him, wiping something wet and sticky from his skin. He was swaddled in something impossibly soft and warm, cocooning him tightly.

 

The panic began to subside, replaced by a deep, terrifying confusion.

 

What is happening? his mind screamed, trapped inside a sensory experience he couldn't control. Why can't I see? Why can't I move my arms? Am I paralyzed? Was I hit by a Villain's Quirk? No, I died. I know I died.

 

"There we go… shhh, there we go, little guy."

 

The voice was colossal, echoing from above him. It spoke English. Izuku knew English perfectly—he had studied in America for a time during his twenties—but the accent was distinctly New York. Rough, nasal, but currently pitched in a gentle, soothing tone.

 

"He's beautiful. Can I hold him?"

 

Another voice. This one sent a shockwave of pure electricity down Izuku’s spine. It was a woman’s voice. Soft, tremulous, laced with exhaustion and overwhelming love. It was speaking Japanese.

 

It was a voice he hadn't heard in thirty years.

 

Izuku forced his eyes open. The world was a blurry, unfocused mess of shapes and colors. His optical nerves literally hadn't developed enough to process light properly. But as the giant, blurry shape of a woman leaned over him, he caught the scent of her. It was the scent of cheap lavender soap and warm linen.

 

Mom?

 

He was passed into a new pair of arms. They held him with a desperate, trembling care.

 

"Oh, my sweet boy," the woman whispered in Japanese, a tear falling from her face to splash warmly against Izuku’s cheek. "You're finally here."

 

Izuku stopped crying. His infant brain, flooded with hormones and underdeveloped synapses, clashed violently with the consciousness of a ninety-year-old man. The sheer impossibility of the situation slammed into him like a physical blow.

 

He wasn't paralyzed. He wasn't captured.

 

He was a baby.

 

"What are we naming him, Inko?" the male voice asked gently, stepping into Izuku’s limited field of view. He spoke in heavily accented Japanese, clearly trying his best for the woman holding him.

 

The woman—Inko—smiled, her blurry face radiant. "Izuku. His name is Izuku."

 

For the second time in an hour, Izuku Midoriya passed out.

 

 

 

The first two years of his new life were, quite frankly, a psychological nightmare.

 

Having the fully developed, highly analytical, and trauma-burdened mind of a veteran hero trapped inside the body of a drooling, uncoordinated infant was a form of torture Izuku wouldn't wish on All For One.

 

He was trapped in a meat suit that refused to obey his commands. When he wanted to formulate a hypothesis about his dimensional displacement, he babbled. When he wanted to explore his surroundings to gather intel, he collapsed on his face because his neck muscles couldn't support his oversized toddler head. When he felt the deep, melancholic grief of missing his wife, his best friend, and the world he had left behind, his infantile body translated it into screaming temper tantrums that he couldn't stop.

 

But worst of all was the guilt.

 

His mother in this world was indeed Inko. She looked identical to the Inko Midoriya of his past life, though perhaps a bit taller and less prone to nervous crying. She was a Japanese immigrant living in Queens, New York. His father, a man named Hisashi (who, in a bizarre twist of fate, was actually present in this universe, working as an accountant for a mid-level tech firm in Manhattan), was a kind, albeit busy, man.

 

Izuku watched Inko constantly. He saw the bags under her eyes when he kept her up at night with his night terrors—dreams of Shigaraki crumbling the earth, of Bakugo being pierced by rivets, of Sir Nighteye dying. He couldn't explain to her that he was having PTSD flashbacks. To her, he was just a colicky baby.

 

I promised myself I would never make her worry again, Izuku thought bitterly one afternoon, lying on his back on a colorful playmat, staring furiously at a dangling plastic star. In my last life, I aged her twenty years with my recklessness. And here I am, ruining her sleep schedule before I can even walk.

 

By the time he was three, things began to improve. His motor skills finally caught up to a basic level of functionality. He learned to walk early, strictly because he forced his body through rigorous, wobbly repetitions while his parents were asleep. He learned to speak English and Japanese flawlessly by the time he was three and a half, though he forced himself to adopt a slight toddler-esque lisp and simplified vocabulary so as not to terrify his parents.

 

It was during these toddler years that he began to piece together the reality of his new world.

 

He lived in an apartment in Queens. It was small, cozy, and smelled of soy sauce and the faint exhaust of the city outside. Through the window, he could see a skyline that looked somewhat similar to the American cities he had visited in his past life, but the energy was different.

 

The most glaring difference, however, was the complete and utter lack of Pro-Heroes.

 

In his original world, hero culture permeated every facet of society. The news was 90% hero rankings, villain fights, and Quirk analysis. Toys were modeled after Endeavor, Hawks, and Mirko. The sky was always filled with the distant sounds of high-flying Quirks.

 

Here? The news was about politics, the stock market, and international conflicts. There were no Quirks. He watched people walk down the street below his apartment window for hours. No one had animal mutations. No one accidentally floated when they sneezed. No one sparked electricity from their fingers.

 

It's a Quirkless world, Izuku concluded, sitting on the living room rug with a chunky crayon in his hand, pretending to color a picture of a dog while actually trying to map out a rudimentary timeline of his current universe. A completely baseline human society. Yoichi said this world needed me. But why? Without Quirks, there are no supervillains. The police and military handle everything. It’s… peaceful.

 

He felt a strange, hollow ache in his chest at the thought. A peaceful world was what he had fought his entire life to achieve. It was what he had died believing he had secured. To be reborn into a world that already had it… it made him feel utterly useless.

 

He was a sword in a world that had forgotten war.

 

That illusion of peace was shattered on a random Tuesday in 2008.

 

Izuku was four years old. He was sitting on the living room floor, meticulously organizing a set of wooden alphabet blocks. Inko was in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared dinner. The television was on, tuned to a 24-hour news network. It was meant to be background noise.

 

"...live from the press conference in Los Angeles," a news anchor's voice droned.

 

Izuku glanced at the screen. A man with a neatly trimmed goatee, wearing a sharp suit and a bruised, arrogant, yet somehow deeply exhausted expression, was standing at a podium. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: TONY STARK PRESS CONFERENCE.

 

Izuku blinked. Tony Stark? He had read about Stark Industries in some of his father's tech magazines. They were a massive weapons manufacturing conglomerate.

 

"Mr. Stark," a reporter called out on the screen. "There have been unconfirmed reports that the 'Iron Man' who appeared in Gulmira and on the Stark Industries roof is, in fact, you."

 

Izuku stopped breathing. Iron Man?

 

On the screen, Tony Stark looked down at his notes. He seemed to debate with himself for a long moment, chewing on his bottom lip. Then, he looked up, directly into the cameras.

 

"The truth is," Stark said, his voice echoing through the small Queens apartment. "I am Iron Man."

 

The press room on the television erupted into chaos. Journalists screamed, flashes went off, and Stark just stood there, looking vaguely smug but undeniably burdened.

 

Izuku dropped his wooden block. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

 

His mind, dormant and starved of its favorite hyper-fixation for four years, suddenly exploded with a billion miles-an-hour calculations.

 

Iron Man. He admitted to being a vigilante on live television. The government didn't arrest him on the spot. A man in a highly advanced, miniaturized mechanized suit of armor, capable of supersonic flight and repulsor-beam weaponry. That level of technology is decades ahead of baseline science. If he exists… what else exists?

 

Izuku stood up, his toddler legs remarkably steady. He toddled over to the coffee table, where his father had left a tablet computer. Hisashi was a tech enthusiast, so the tablet was top-of-the-line. Izuku dragged it off the table, retreating to the corner of the room behind the sofa where Inko couldn't see him from the kitchen.

 

He opened the browser. His tiny, chubby fingers flew across the digital keyboard with terrifying, practiced speed.

 

He didn't search for Iron Man. He searched for history.

 

Search: World War II superhuman.

Result: Captain America - The First Avenger.

 

Izuku stared at the black-and-white photos of a man in a star-spangled uniform lifting a motorcycle over his head. Super Soldier Serum. Not a Quirk. Biological enhancement.

 

Search: Unexplained phenomena, genetic mutations.

Result: 'The Mutant Menace' - Senator Kelly demands registration.

 

Izuku read articles about people born with an X-Gene. People who could shoot lasers from their eyes, control the weather, read minds. Mutants. Functionally identical to Quirks, but heavily stigmatized. A fractured society. Intense prejudice. No Hero Public Safety Commission to regulate them.

 

Search: New York vigilantes.

Result: The Devil of Hell's Kitchen? Rumors of a blind man fighting the mob.

 

He scrolled and scrolled, his emerald eyes wide, reflecting the blue light of the screen.

 

This world wasn't peaceful.

 

It was a powder keg.

 

It was a world teetering on the absolute edge of an explosion. There was no All Might to hold up the sky. There was no organized system to train those with power to protect those without. There were just individuals—flawed, scattered individuals with god-like powers, operating without oversight, clashing against shadow organizations and monstrous threats.

 

Izuku felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.

 

He remembered Yoichi’s words in the void.

 

The universe demands balance. And right now… another universe is severely lacking it.

 

"Izuku, sweetie?" Inko called from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. "Dinner is almost ready. Put your blocks away, please."

 

Izuku quickly closed the browser and pushed the tablet under the sofa. He looked at his small, unscarred hands.

 

He had spent his whole life breaking his body to save his world. He had finally found peace. He had earned his rest. He just wanted to be a normal boy this time. He wanted to make his mother smile, do his homework, maybe become a quirkless police officer or a doctor.

 

But people are going to die, a small, traitorous voice whispered in his mind. This world is unorganized. Villains will rise. Innocents will be caught in the crossfire. You know how to stop it. You know how to save them.

 

"Coming, Mom!" Izuku called back, his voice high and cheerful, completely betraying the swirling vortex of anxiety in his chest.

 

He walked into the kitchen, sat in his high chair, and ate his mashed carrots. But his mind was a million miles away, calculating, analyzing, preparing.

 

The notebook in his mind had been opened once again.

 

Hero Analysis for the Future: Universe Two.

 

 

 

The realization of the world's state triggered a profound existential crisis in the four-year-old.

 

For weeks, Izuku was unusually quiet, even for him. He would sit by the window, watching the rain hit the glass, lost in thought. His parents noticed, taking him to a pediatrician who assured them that Izuku was just a very "contemplative and advanced" child.

 

The truth was, Izuku was grieving again.

 

He was grieving the retirement he had been robbed of. He was angry at the universe, angry at Yoichi, angry at the very concept of heroism that refused to let him go. Why did he have to be the one? Why couldn't someone else step up? Why did the burden of a Symbol always have to fall on his shoulders?

 

It all culminated one rainy night in late November.

 

Izuku was lying in his small bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars his father had stuck to the ceiling. The apartment was silent, save for the distant wail of a police siren.

 

That siren grated on his nerves. In his old world, he would be out there. He would be leaping across rooftops, Blackwhip extending from his arms, Danger Sense keeping him one step ahead of the crime.

 

Stop it, he told himself fiercely. You are four years old. You are quirkless. You don't have One For All anymore. You gave it to Daiki.

 

But did he?

 

Yoichi had said the Quirk had fused with his soul.

 

Izuku sat up in bed. He threw off his Allosaurus-print blanket and crossed his legs, sitting in a lotus position. The room was dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of the streetlights slicing through the blinds.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

He forced his breathing to slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He pushed away the anxiety, the anger, the confusion. He sank deep, deep into his own consciousness, searching for that familiar door in his mind.

 

For a long time, there was nothing. Just the normal, quiet hum of a human brain.

 

It's gone, Izuku thought, feeling a sudden, crushing wave of despair. It was just a dream. Yoichi was a hallucination of a dying brain. I really am just a quirkless kid in a terrifying world.

 

But then, as he began to pull away from his meditation, he felt it.

 

It was faint. So unimaginably faint, like a single ember buried beneath a mountain of ash. But it was there. A tiny, pulsating warmth right behind his sternum.

 

Izuku latched onto that warmth with the desperation of a drowning man.

 

He remembered his training with Gran Torino. The egg in the microwave. He pictured the power not as a localized force, but as a current, flowing through every vein, every capillary, every cell of his body.

 

5 percent, he thought. Just a spark.

 

In the dark of the bedroom, a sound crackled. It was the sound of static electricity, sharp and ozone-scented.

 

Izuku opened his eyes.

 

Dancing across his small, chubby right hand were thin, crackling arcs of emerald green lightning. They were beautiful, illuminating the dark room with a soft, neon glow. The power felt different than it had in his past life. It didn't feel like a borrowed mantle sitting heavy on his shoulders. It felt completely, intrinsically his. Like flexing a muscle he had forgotten he had.

 

Tears welled up in Izuku’s eyes, spilling over his cheeks as he stared at the green lightning.

 

"You're still here," he whispered into the quiet room.

 

As if in response, a voice echoed in the caverns of his mind. Not a hallucination. A distinct, telepathic resonance.

 

We never left, kid.

 

Izuku gasped. "Daigoro?" he whispered, recognizing the boisterous voice of the Fifth User, Banjo.

 

Keep your voice down, you'll wake your mother, another voice chided. Sharp, analytical, cool. Shinomori, the Fourth User. And yes, we are here. Though, 'here' is currently a heavily compressed state. Your new body cannot handle our full presence yet.

 

It's good to see you, Izuku, Nana Shimura’s voice washed over him, warm and maternal, bringing a fresh wave of tears to his eyes. We've been watching. We know you're scared.

 

Izuku let the green lightning fade, clutching his hand to his chest. "I am," he whispered back in his mind. "I don't know what to do. I did my part. Why am I here?"

 

There was a moment of silence in his head, a contemplative pause among the Vestiges.

 

Then, Yoichi spoke.

 

I told you, Izuku. The universe demands balance. We did not choose this path, but the cosmos chose us. Look at this world through the eyes you have gained. Look at the pain that is coming. Can you honestly say, with all the power resting in your soul, that you can simply watch?

 

Izuku looked out the window. The siren was still wailing in the distance, a lonely, desperate sound in the massive, uncaring city.

 

He thought of the people who would be caught in the crossfire of gods and monsters in this universe. He thought of the little boys and girls who would feel as helpless as he once did, staring up at a sky with no Symbol of Peace to save them.

 

He remembered the core of his being. Before he was Deku, before he was the World's Greatest Hero, he was just a boy who wanted to save people with a smile.

 

That hadn't changed. Death hadn't changed it. Rebirth hadn't changed it.

 

Izuku wiped his tears away. His jaw set, his emerald eyes hardening into a glare of pure, unadulterated resolve. The four-year-old child vanished, replaced by the hardened spirit of a veteran who had stared down the devil and won.

 

"No," Izuku whispered. "I can't just watch. When people need help... my body moves on its own."

 

That's our boy, Daigoro chuckled.

 

We have time, Shinomori advised. Your physical vessel is incredibly frail. If you were to use even one percent of One For All in a combat scenario right now, your bones would turn to dust. You must prepare. You must build a vessel capable of holding the ocean once again.

 

"I know," Izuku thought back. "I'll train. I'll study this world. I'll learn everything about their technology, their heroes, their villains. I'll be ready when the time comes."

 

We are with you, Izuku, Nana said softly. Every step of the way.

 

The voices faded back into the depths of his mind, leaving a comforting, warm hum in his chest.

 

Izuku lay back down on his bed, pulling the dinosaur blanket up to his chin. The anxiety that had plagued him for the last few months was gone. The existential dread was replaced by a familiar, comforting sense of purpose.

 

He had a mission.

 

He wasn't going to be the Number One Hero in this world. This world didn't need a ranked system or a singular Pillar to rely on—that was a flawed system he had already dismantled once. This world needed someone to operate in the shadows, to catch the people who fell through the cracks, to guide the chaotic heroes of this age toward a better path.

 

He would be a phantom. He would be the safety net.

 

He closed his eyes, a genuine smile touching his lips for the first time since his rebirth.

 

My name is Izuku Midoriya, he thought as sleep finally claimed him. And this is the story of how I became a hero... again.

 

 

 

The years that followed were a masterclass in deception.

 

To Inko and Hisashi Midoriya, their son was a quiet, brilliant, somewhat eccentric prodigy. He excelled in school to an absurd degree, easily skipping grades and absorbing information like a sponge. He was fiercely protective of his mother, always helping with chores and never throwing tantrums.

 

But Izuku lived a double life.

 

By the time he was seven, he had converted a small, unused corner of his bedroom closet into a command center. He built a custom, heavily encrypted computer using spare parts he scavenged from his father's discarded tech and items he bought from local thrift stores with his allowance.

 

He hacked—a skill he had never needed in his past life, but one he realized was essential in this new, technologically driven universe. He didn't do anything malicious; he simply slipped into police databases, SHIELD encrypted files (which took him the better part of a year to crack, much to his frustration), and news archives.

 

He compiled notebooks. Not physical ones this time—he couldn't risk his mother finding them—but massive, encrypted digital files.

 

File 01: STARK, TONY. (Iron Man).

Threat Level: Low (Heroic alignment). High volatility. Narcissistic tendencies mask severe underlying trauma and a hero complex. Technology is revolutionary. Weakness: Arrogance, lack of foresight in collateral damage.

 

File 02: MUTANT CLASSIFICATIONS.

Threat Level: Variable. Society's treatment of the X-Gene mirrors the early days of the Meta-Liberation War. Potential for a mutant uprising is dangerously high. Note: Keep an eye on the figure known as 'Magneto'. His rhetoric is terrifyingly similar to Destro's.

 

File 03: SHIELD.

Threat Level: Moderate. Government espionage agency. High resources. Leader: Nicholas J. Fury. Operating procedures are highly secretive, morally grey. Note: Avoid their radar at all costs. They do not tolerate wildcards.

 

While his mind expanded, he also prepared his body.

 

He couldn't go to Takoba Municipal Beach in this world. There was no trash-filled beach in Queens. But there were junkyards. There were abandoned lots in the rougher parts of the borough.

 

Every day after school, starting when he was eight years old, Izuku would don a worn-out hoodie and sweatpants, tell his mother he was going to explore the city, and run.

 

He ran for miles. He found an illegal dumping ground near the industrial edge of Queens, surrounded by rusted chain-link fences. It was filled with old car parts, discarded refrigerators, and heavy construction debris.

 

It was perfect.

 

He started small. Dragging tires. Lifting cinder blocks. His body was young, but he had the distinct advantage of knowing exactly how to build muscle effectively without stunting his growth. He knew the precise nutritional requirements, which he managed by cooking his own meals under the guise of wanting to help Inko.

 

By the time he was ten, Izuku was easily the most physically fit child in New York. Underneath his baggy school uniforms, his body was a coil of dense, compact muscle. He had begun to integrate martial arts into his routine, practicing the forms of Shoot Style in the rusted shadows of the junkyard.

 

He also began to test his Quirk.

 

He was incredibly careful. He knew the toll One For All could take. He started by activating Full Cowling at literally 1%. Just enough to let the green lightning dance across his skin, getting his new nerve endings accustomed to the flow of raw power. He practiced maintaining it for hours, letting the power become as natural as breathing.

 

Over the years, he slowly pushed it. 2%. Then 3%.

 

By his tenth birthday, he could comfortably hold Full Cowling at 5% without any physical strain. It gave him enhanced speed, enough strength to dent a car door with a punch, and agility that defied gravity.

 

He was getting ready.

 

But isolation was a dangerous thing. Izuku knew from his past life that a hero who worked entirely alone, disconnected from society, was doomed to fall into darkness. He needed an anchor. He needed someone in this world to ground him, to remind him of the mundane beauty of humanity he was fighting to protect.

 

He found that anchor in a boy named Peter.

 

It happened on the first day of middle school at Midtown Tech. Izuku, now ten years old (having skipped a grade due to his academic records), was navigating the crowded hallways with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He was observing the students, mentally categorizing their behaviors, keeping his usual low profile.

 

He turned a corner and saw a commotion near a row of lockers.

 

A larger, older boy—a bully whose jacket read 'Thompson'—was shoving a much smaller, painfully skinny boy with messy brown hair and oversized glasses into the metal lockers.

 

"Come on, Puny Parker," Thompson sneered, knocking a stack of textbooks out of the boy's hands. They hit the linoleum floor with a loud smack. "You really think you belong in the robotics club? You're a freak."

 

The boy, Parker, kept his eyes on the floor, his face flushed red. He knelt down to pick up his books, his hands shaking slightly. "Just leave me alone, Flash," he muttered.

 

Flash raised his foot, preparing to kick the books down the hallway.

 

Izuku didn't think. His body moved on its own.

 

He didn't use One For All. He didn't need to. In a blur of motion honed by years of combat and recent physical conditioning, Izuku closed the distance. He slid between Flash and Peter, smoothly catching Flash’s raised foot with his left hand, absorbing the momentum perfectly so the bully didn't even realize he was stopped until it was too late.

 

Flash blinked, looking down at the green-haired kid who had materialized out of nowhere and was casually holding his ankle.

 

"Hey," Izuku said, his voice mild, friendly, but carrying a terrifying, unyielding undertone that made Flash’s spine suddenly tingle. "I think he asked you to leave him alone."

 

"Let go of me, you freak," Flash spat, trying to yank his leg back.

 

Izuku didn't budge. He just looked up at Flash. He didn't glare. He didn't scowl. He just offered a calm, dead-eyed stare that had once cowed hardened Yakuza bosses and A-Rank villains. It was the look of a predator warning a very small, very stupid prey to back off.

 

Izuku released the foot, subtly twisting his wrist to throw Flash slightly off balance. The bully stumbled back, his face pale. He looked at Izuku, looked at the quiet intensity in his emerald eyes, and decided whatever this kid's deal was, it wasn't worth it.

 

"Whatever," Flash muttered, adjusting his jacket and storming off down the hall. "Losers."

 

Izuku watched him go, ensuring he was out of sight, before letting the intense aura drop. He turned around, offering a bright, warm smile to the boy on the floor.

 

He crouched down, picking up two of the textbooks and handing them over.

 

"Are you okay?" Izuku asked gently.

 

The boy looked up through his smudged glasses. He looked bewildered, as if someone stepping in to help him was an alien concept. He took the books, clutching them to his chest.

 

"Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay," the boy stammered, his voice cracking slightly. "You... you move really fast."

 

Izuku chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in a bashful gesture he hadn't used in a long time. "Ah, I just have good reflexes. I'm Izuku Midoriya. I just transferred here."

 

The boy stood up, and Izuku stood with him. "I'm Peter. Peter Parker." Peter extended a hand, then awkwardly pulled it back, realizing he was holding his books, before finally offering a shy smile. "Thanks for... you know. The assist. Flash is a jerk."

 

"Bullies usually are," Izuku said softly, looking at Peter.

 

As Izuku looked at the skinny, nervous, undeniably brilliant boy in front of him, a profound sense of déjà vu washed over him. He saw the slumped shoulders, the defensive posture, the sharp intelligence hidden behind a wall of insecurity.

 

He saw himself. He saw the Quirkless Deku who used to flinch at the sound of Bakugo's explosions.

 

In that moment, Izuku made a silent vow. He had sworn to protect this world from the shadows, to fight the monsters and the villains. But right here, right now, this boy needed a friend.

 

"Hey, Peter," Izuku said, his smile widening into something genuinely bright. "I was actually looking for the robotics club room. Do you think you could show me the way?"

 

Peter's eyes lit up, the insecurity melting away into genuine enthusiasm. "Oh! Yeah! It's, uh, it's down the hall in the science wing. They have this crazy new 3D printer I was hoping to check out—I mean, if you're into that sort of thing?"

 

"I am definitely into that sort of thing," Izuku laughed, walking alongside Peter as the boy began to eagerly ramble about circuitry and coding.

 

As they walked down the hallway, Izuku felt a profound sense of peace settle in his chest.

 

He was far from home. He was in a universe filled with gods, aliens, and mutants, hurtling toward conflicts he couldn't yet predict. He was carrying the weight of nine souls and the most powerful Quirk in existence in a body that was still years away from maturity.

 

But as he listened to Peter Parker talk about science with the same breathless enthusiasm Izuku used to reserve for hero analysis, he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

 

You're right, Yoichi, Izuku thought, glancing out the hallway window at the New York skyline. This world needs me. And I think I'm going to need them, too.

 

The next adventure had truly begun.

 

The pen moved across the paper with a speed that bordered on the superhuman.

 

Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch.

 

Eleven-year-old Izuku Midoriya sat cross-legged on his bed, hunched over a thick, wire-bound notebook. His emerald eyes were locked onto the glowing screen of his heavily modified laptop, which was currently playing a shaky, low-resolution video loop of a massive, green behemoth tearing up a street in Harlem.

 

The footage was a few months old, an incident involving a military intervention, a monstrous creature with bone spurs, and the 'Hulk'—a being of pure, unadulterated rage and muscle.

 

"The biological expansion of his muscle mass defies the law of conservation of mass," Izuku muttered rapidly, his voice a low, buzzing drone that filled the quiet bedroom. "Assuming Dr. Banner's baseline weight is roughly one hundred and sixty pounds, the transformation into the Hulk increases his mass to an estimated fourteen hundred pounds in a matter of seconds. Where does the extra mass come from? Ambient gamma radiation absorption? Extradimensional displacement? If it's the latter, the cellular regeneration must be instantaneous to prevent his skin from tearing. The sheer kinetic force of his leaps implies a leg strength capable of generating hundreds of thousands of pounds of thrust..."

 

Scratch-scratch-scratch.

 

"...but his fighting style is entirely unrefined," Izuku continued to mumble, his eyes tracking the Hulk as the creature smashed a police car in half to use as boxing gloves. "No martial arts. No center of gravity control. He fights purely on instinct and rage, much like Muscular, but on a catastrophic scale. The collateral damage is horrific. The military engaged him in a highly populated urban center. Why didn't they establish a perimeter? Why were there no evacuation sirens? The tactical incompetence of General Ross is staggering. They treated a densely populated borough like a sandbox."

 

His pen snapped under the sudden pressure of his grip.

 

Izuku blinked, pulling himself out of the deep dive of his analysis. He looked down at the ruined pen, black ink staining his calloused fingers. He let out a long, weary sigh, tossing the broken plastic into a small trash can beside his desk.

 

Hero Analysis for the Future: Universe Two. Volume 4.

 

The notebooks had returned.

 

At first, he had tried to keep his analyses purely digital to maintain operational security. But there was something about the tactile sensation of pen on paper that his brain fundamentally craved. Drawing the sketches, writing the margin notes, formulating the equations—it was how he processed trauma, how he understood the world.

 

And this world required a lot of understanding.

 

Izuku opened his desk drawer and pulled out another pen, immediately turning back to the notebook.

 

His muttering was a habit that had driven his old classmates crazy, but here, it was a comfort. It was a bridge to his past life. He flipped the page, staring at a highly detailed sketch he had drawn of the Iron Man Mark III armor.

 

"Stark's repulsor technology is essentially miniaturized particle accelerators," Izuku muttered, tapping the pen against his chin. "But the G-force he experiences inside that suit should turn his internal organs to jelly. He must have some sort of inertial dampening system built into the undersuit, perhaps a localized gravity field or a fluid-based shock absorption layer. But his blatant disregard for secret identity protocol makes him a massive target. He's inviting villains to attack his home, his company, his loved ones. It’s arrogant. It’s reckless."

 

"Izuku, sweetie?"

 

The gentle knock on his bedroom door made Izuku snap the notebook shut in a fraction of a second, sliding it seamlessly under a textbook on advanced calculus.

 

"Yes, Mom?" he called out, his voice instantly shifting from the raspy, intense drone of a tactical analyst to the bright, cheerful tone of an eleven-year-old boy.

 

Inko Midoriya opened the door, a warm smile on her face. She was wiping her hands on a dish towel, the smell of baked salmon and rice wafting in from the kitchen. "Dinner is almost ready. And I heard you mumbling again. Are you getting too stressed over your homework? You know you don't have to push yourself so hard. Skipping a grade is already so much pressure."

 

Izuku offered her a blinding, perfectly practiced smile. "I'm okay, Mom! I was just trying to memorize some historical dates. It helps when I say them out loud."

 

Inko’s smile softened into an expression of pure, unconditional love. "My little genius. Well, wash your hands. Your father is working late again, so it's just the two of us tonight."

 

"Coming!"

 

As the door clicked shut, Izuku’s smile faded into a look of profound, heavy exhaustion. He looked at his reflection in the dark screen of his laptop. He saw a child. Round cheeks, large innocent eyes, a mop of unruly green hair.

 

But behind those eyes was an old man.

 

Being eleven years old again was a unique kind of psychological torture. He had lived a full, rich, agonizingly difficult ninety-two years. He had fought in wars. He had watched friends die and be resurrected. He had dismantled an empire of evil and built a society of peace. He had been a husband, a mentor, a Symbol.

 

Now, he had to ask for permission to use the restroom. He had to sit in middle school classrooms and listen to teachers explain basic algebra. He had to pretend that he cared about the latest video game consoles or cartoon shows.

 

The alienation he felt from his peers was absolute. He couldn't relate to the other kids at Midtown Middle School. When they complained about homework, Izuku was calculating the blast radius of a Stark Jericho missile. When they gossiped about crushes, Izuku was mentally reviewing the urban camouflage tactics of the rumored assassin known as the Winter Soldier.

 

He was a ghost haunting his own childhood.

 

No, Izuku thought, standing up and stretching his small, densely packed muscles. Not entirely alone.

 

He thought of Peter, and a genuine smile finally touched his lips.

 

 

 

Midtown School of Science and Technology was a magnet school for the best and brightest in New York. The curriculum was rigorous, the teachers were demanding, and the student body was a volatile mix of brilliant nerds and legacy rich kids.

 

Izuku navigated the crowded cafeteria with the grace of a seasoned operative moving through a hostile bazaar. He didn't just walk; he flowed. He unconsciously tracked the sightlines of every student, noted the exits, and kept his center of gravity perfectly balanced.

 

He spotted a familiar mop of messy brown hair hunched over a table in the corner.

 

"Hey, Peter," Izuku said, sliding his lunch tray onto the table and taking a seat.

 

Peter Parker jumped, nearly knocking over his carton of milk. He pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, offering Izuku a brilliant, nervous grin. Peter was twelve, a year older than Izuku, but he was so painfully skinny and small for his age that most people assumed Izuku was the older of the two.

 

"Jeez, Izuku, you have to wear a bell or something," Peter stammered, pulling a massive, terrifyingly complex motherboard out of his backpack and setting it next to his sandwich. "You always just... appear. Like a ninja. A green ninja."

 

Izuku chuckled, opening his bento box. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. What are you working on?"

 

Peter’s eyes lit up, the anxiety vanishing instantly. "Okay, so I was looking at the schematics for Oscorp's new biometric scanners, right? And I realized their encryption algorithm is totally flawed. It uses a standard AES-256, but the seed generation is tied to the local time server, which means if you spoof the network packet, you could theoretically bypass the scanner entirely. I'm building a mock-up to see if I can run a brute-force script on it!"

 

Izuku listened intently, his mind easily following Peter’s rapid-fire tech jargon. It was one of the many reasons Izuku had latched onto Peter. The boy was a bona fide genius. His intellect was staggering, easily on par with Melissa Shield or Mei Hatsume, but channeled into software, physics, and biochemistry.

 

"That's incredible, Peter," Izuku said, genuinely impressed. "But why Oscorp's scanners?"

 

Peter shrugged, his cheeks flushing slightly. "I don't know. I guess I just like finding the flaws in big, arrogant systems. Plus, Mr. Stark always says that security is only as good as the guy trying to break it."

 

Izuku's eyes narrowed infinitesimally at the mention of Tony Stark. Peter idolized the billionaire. Izuku, on the other hand, viewed Stark as a massive, unregulated variable.

 

"Just make sure you don't actually hack into Oscorp's servers, Peter," Izuku warned softly. "Corporate espionage carries a heavy federal sentence."

 

"What? No! Never!" Peter waved his hands frantically. "It's purely theoretical! I'm a good guy, I swear!"

 

I know you are, Izuku thought warmly. You might be the best guy in this whole city.

 

Their peaceful lunch was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious laugh.

 

Flash Thompson, a boy who was already hitting his growth spurt and possessed the shoulders of a linebacker, was strolling past their table with his lackeys. Flash stopped, looking down at Peter’s motherboard.

 

"What's this garbage, Parker?" Flash sneered. "Building a girlfriend out of spare parts?"

 

Peter shrank in his seat, his eyes dropping to the table. "Just leave it alone, Flash."

 

Flash reached out, intending to swipe the delicate electronics onto the floor.

 

He never made it.

 

Izuku didn't stand up. He didn't even stop chewing his rice. He simply shifted his left arm, catching Flash’s wrist in a grip that looked casual but felt like a titanium vice.

 

Flash froze, his eyes widening in shock. He tried to pull his arm back, but Izuku’s hand was completely immovable. It was like trying to pull his arm out of a concrete wall.

 

Izuku slowly swallowed his food. He looked up at Flash, his emerald eyes devoid of any warmth. He didn't use a Quirk. He didn't need to. The sheer, overwhelming aura of a man who had stared down All For One radiated from his small, eleven-year-old frame.

 

"He’s eating," Izuku said quietly. The cafeteria around them seemed to suddenly dim, the ambient noise fading away. "We're having a conversation. Walk away, Eugene."

 

Flash’s face paled. He looked at Izuku’s hand, then at Izuku’s dead, veteran eyes. A primal instinct, hardwired into human DNA over millions of years of evolution, screamed at Flash that the green-haired boy sitting in front of him was an apex predator.

 

Izuku released his wrist.

 

Flash stumbled back, rubbing his arm. He opened his mouth to say something tough, but the words died in his throat. He turned and hurried away, his lackeys following in bewildered silence.

 

Peter let out a breath he had been holding. He stared at Izuku in sheer awe.

 

"Dude," Peter whispered. "How do you do that? You didn't even yell. You just... looked at him, and he looked like he was gonna wet his pants. Can you teach me that?"

 

Izuku’s intense aura vanished, replaced by an embarrassed, boyish smile. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, it's nothing, Peter. Bullies are just cowards at heart. If you don't show fear, they don't know what to do."

 

"You're fearless, Izuku," Peter said, shaking his head. "Seriously. You're like... the bravest kid I know."

 

Izuku looked down at his bento box, a pang of ancient sorrow hitting his chest. I'm not brave, Peter, he thought. I'm just incredibly, terribly used to conflict.

 

 

 

The true extent of Izuku’s ingrained veteran instincts made itself known during fifth-period gym class.

 

The gym teacher, Coach Wilson, was a gruff man who believed in the character-building properties of physical trauma. Which meant it was Dodgeball day.

 

Izuku stood in the back of the court, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He hated dodgeball. To an eleven-year-old, it was a game. To a ninety-two-year-old war veteran with PTSD, it was a simulated combat zone with flying projectiles.

 

"Alright, ladies!" Coach Wilson blew his whistle. "No crying, no whining! Go!"

 

The whistle shrieked, and chaos erupted. Red rubber balls flew across the gymnasium at high speeds. Children screamed, ducking and diving.

 

Izuku stood perfectly still.

 

He watched the balls fly. To his trained eyes, the projectiles were moving in slow motion. He saw the shift in the opposing team's shoulders before they threw. He calculated the trajectory, the wind resistance (negligible indoors, but still factored in), and the point of impact.

 

A ball hurdled straight toward his face.

 

Izuku didn't duck. He simply tilted his head two inches to the left. The ball whizzed past his ear, missing him by a hair's breadth.

 

Three more balls came at him.

 

Izuku moved. He didn't use One For All, but his baseline physical conditioning and decades of combat experience took over. He stepped forward, pirouetted on his right foot, letting two balls sail past his chest and back. As the third ball dropped toward his knees, he casually hopped over it, landing silently on the balls of his feet.

 

The gym slowly fell quiet.

 

Students on both sides of the court stopped throwing, staring in disbelief. Izuku was weaving through a barrage of dodgeballs with the fluid, terrifying grace of a ghost. He wasn't even looking at the balls half the time; he was predicting their paths through environmental awareness.

 

"Midoriya!" Coach Wilson barked, looking deeply unnerved. "Are you gonna throw one back or just dance all day?!"

 

Izuku snapped out of his trance, realizing everyone was staring at him. He felt his cheeks burn. Oops. I stood out too much.

 

A larger kid from the opposing team, taking advantage of Izuku’s distraction, threw a ball with all his might directly at Izuku’s center mass.

 

Before Izuku’s conscious mind could process the need to act normally, his combat instincts flared.

 

Projectile. Lethal velocity. Deflect and neutralize.

 

Izuku stepped into the throw. He brought his hand up, catching the rubber ball with a sharp, twisting martial arts strike. He applied a micro-fraction of torque, utilizing the principles of Gunhead Martial Arts to redirect the kinetic energy inward.

 

POP.

 

The heavy rubber dodgeball exploded in Izuku’s grip, tearing into three jagged pieces of red rubber that fluttered pathetically to the gym floor.

 

Dead silence reigned over the gymnasium.

 

Izuku looked down at the shredded rubber in his hands, then up at the terrified faces of his classmates and the pale, wide-eyed Coach Wilson.

 

"Uh," Izuku squeaked, pitching his voice as high and innocent as possible. "I think this one was over-inflated, Coach."

 

Peter, standing a few feet away, slowly took off his glasses, wiped them on his shirt, and put them back on, staring at Izuku as if he were a completely different species.

 

 

 

By the time the final bell rang, Izuku just wanted to disappear. He had spent the rest of the day deflecting questions about his "secret ninja skills" and playing the role of the clumsy, lucky nerd.

 

"Do you want to come over and work on the science project?" Peter asked as they walked out of the school gates, the crisp New York autumn air hitting their faces.

 

"I can't today, Peter. I have some chores to do for my mom," Izuku lied smoothly. "But how about tonight? You can come over for dinner. My mom is making Katsudon."

 

Peter’s eyes lit up. "Mrs. Midoriya’s Katsudon? Oh, I'm absolutely there. I'll see you at six!"

 

They bumped fists, and Peter hurried off toward the subway.

 

Izuku turned in the opposite direction, pulling up the hood of his drab grey sweatshirt. He walked for nearly three miles, leaving the polished, safe streets of his neighborhood behind, entering a heavy industrial zone near the edges of Queens.

 

He slipped through a gap in a rusted chain-link fence, ducking under a faded sign that read: WARNING - CONDEMNED PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING.

 

Welcome to Takoba Municipal Beach 2.0.

 

It was a massive, illegal dumping ground. Mountains of rusted cars, discarded industrial refrigerators, toxic barrels, and twisted steel beams formed an artificial canyon of garbage. It was dangerous, isolated, and smelled of oil and decay.

 

For Izuku, it was home.

 

He dropped his backpack by a relatively clean tire, rolled his shoulders, and took a deep breath.

 

Aim to Pass: American Dream Plan. Phase Two.

 

He walked over to a rusted-out Ford F-150 chassis. It was missing its engine, but the steel frame and tires still weighed roughly two thousand pounds. It was half-buried in mud and scrap metal.

 

Izuku didn't use gloves. He wanted his hands to callous. He bent his knees, keeping his back perfectly straight, and dug his fingers under the rusted front bumper.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

One For All. Two percent.

 

The power flared to life instantly. It didn't fight him. It didn't threaten to blow his limbs off. It purred in his veins like a finely tuned engine. Faint, emerald-green lightning crackled around his small frame, illuminating the dim junkyard. The red, vein-like lines of power traced across his skin.

 

He didn't need to push to 100%. He wasn't trying to destroy the truck. He was trying to condition his muscles. The micro-tears in his muscle fibers, when healed, would become denser, stronger, capable of holding more of the Quirk's output.

 

"Heave," Izuku grunted, his voice dropping into a harsh rasp.

 

He pulled.

 

The truck groaned, metal shrieking against metal. The mud sucked at the tires, fighting him. Izuku ground his teeth, his boots digging deep into the dirt. With a massive surge of effort, he lifted the front end of the truck, dragging it backward three feet before letting it drop with a deafening CRASH.

 

He panted, wiping sweat from his brow.

 

Good form, kid, Daigoro Banjo’s voice echoed in his mind, booming and cheerful. But you're relying too much on your lower back. Drive through the heels! The power comes from the earth!

 

He is eleven years old, Daigoro, Nana Shimura scolded gently. His bones are still calcifying. Izuku, please be careful. Two percent is safe, but prolonged exposure could stunt your physical growth.

 

"I know, Nana," Izuku whispered out loud, rolling his shoulders to dispel the tension. "But I have to push. I don't have ten months this time. I don't know when the timeline accelerates."

 

He moved on to the next pile. For two hours, he was a machine. He hauled refrigerators on his back. He crushed cinder blocks into dust with precise, controlled punches, practicing his Shoot Style kicks against a stack of tractor tires. He moved with a speed and ferocity that defied human biology, a green blur dancing through the graveyard of metal.

 

He was in the middle of hauling a massive iron girder when his Danger Sense flared.

 

It wasn't a massive spike. It was a dull, localized throbbing in his skull. A minor threat.

 

Izuku immediately dropped the girder and let One For All fade, plunging the junkyard back into shadows. He crouched behind a rusted sedan, controlling his breathing, making himself completely silent.

 

Voices approached from the entrance of the lot.

 

"...told you, nobody comes here," a gruff voice said. "It's the perfect drop spot."

 

"I don't like it, Marco," a higher, more nervous voice replied. "Place gives me the creeps. Let's just dump the crates and get out of here before the cops or that bat-freak from Hell's Kitchen show up."

 

Izuku peered through the shattered windows of the sedan. Two men were walking into the clearing. They were dressed in cheap leather jackets, carrying heavy crowbars. Behind them, they were dragging a large, wooden crate stenciled with Russian lettering.

 

Smugglers, Izuku deduced instantly. Low-level organized crime. Probably moving stolen weapons or narcotics.

 

His first instinct was to call the police. That was the law.

 

But Izuku Midoriya was not a Pro-Hero in this world. He had no license. He had no jurisdiction. And more importantly, he needed to test his baseline combat abilities against live targets without relying on his Quirk.

 

He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a long, heavy length of reinforced climbing rope he had scavenged. He couldn't use Blackwhip without risking severe backlash at his current age, but he had spent years studying under Shota Aizawa. He knew how to use a capture weapon.

 

Izuku moved.

 

He scaled the pile of cars to his left with complete silence, leaping from roof to roof until he was positioned directly above the two men.

 

"Help me open this thing," Marco grunted, jamming his crowbar into the lid of the crate.

 

Izuku dropped.

 

He didn't make a sound until his boots collided squarely with Marco’s shoulders. The impact drove the larger man face-first into the dirt, knocking him unconscious instantly.

 

Izuku didn't pause. Using the momentum from the drop, he rolled forward, springing to his feet and snapping the climbing rope out like a whip. The heavy knot at the end cracked against the second man's wrist, forcing him to drop his crowbar with a yell of pain.

 

"What the—!" the man shouted, stumbling back and reaching inside his jacket for a gun.

 

Izuku closed the distance in a fraction of a second. He was a child, barely coming up to the man's chest, but he fought like a demon. He ducked under the man's clumsy punch, drove his elbow into the man's solar plexus, and used the rope to bind the man's wrists together in a blur of motion.

 

A sharp sweep of his leg brought the man crashing down to the dirt.

 

In less than five seconds, the fight was over.

 

Izuku stood over the groaning man, tying the rope to the heavy iron handles of the crate to secure him. He didn't say a word. He didn't gloat. He simply retrieved Marco's discarded phone, dialed 911, and tossed the phone onto the man's chest.

 

"Operator, what is your emergency?" a tiny voice squeaked from the phone speaker.

 

Izuku turned and vanished into the shadows of the junkyard, moving with the silence of a phantom.

 

As he walked home, the adrenaline fading, he felt a profound sense of satisfaction. His body was young, but his instincts were sharper than ever. He was getting stronger. The Green Rabbit was waking up.

 

 

 

"Oh, Peter, you must be starving! Have some more!"

 

Inko Midoriya practically beamed as she placed a massive, steaming bowl of Katsudon in front of Peter. The boy looked at the food with wide, reverent eyes.

 

"Mrs. Midoriya, you are an angel," Peter breathed, grabbing his chopsticks. "My Aunt May is great, but her meatloaf could be used as structural support for a bridge."

 

Inko laughed, a bright, musical sound. Izuku sat across from Peter, smiling softly as he ate his own meal. Seeing his mother happy, seeing her host his friend, warmed a part of his soul that had been cold for a very long time.

 

After dinner, the boys retreated to Izuku’s bedroom to work on their science project. It was a simple robotics assignment, building a small, remote-controlled rover, but with Peter and Izuku working on it, they were essentially building a miniature Mars rover.

 

"Okay, if we reroute the servo power through this capacitor, we can increase the torque by twenty percent," Peter muttered, soldering a wire with expert precision.

 

Izuku was sitting at his desk, modifying the code on his laptop. "Good idea. I'll adjust the latency in the receiver to compensate for the power draw."

 

Peter finished soldering and set the iron down. He stretched, his eyes wandering around Izuku’s room. It was remarkably sparse. No posters of heroes, no action figures. Just books, tools, and a heavy, locked trunk at the foot of the bed.

 

Peter's eyes landed on a notebook sitting slightly askew under a math textbook. The corner of the page was sticking out, revealing a highly detailed pencil sketch of a mechanical joint.

 

"Whoa, Izuku, did you draw this?" Peter asked, reaching over and pulling the notebook out before Izuku could stop him.

 

Izuku froze. His heart hammered against his ribs. Volume 4. He had forgotten to put it in the safe.

 

"Peter, wait, that's just—"

 

Peter opened the notebook, his eyes scanning the pages. Izuku expected confusion. He expected Peter to ask why he was drawing weapons and writing about mass destruction.

 

Instead, Peter’s jaw dropped.

 

"Izuku..." Peter breathed, flipping the page to the analysis of the Iron Man suit. "Are you... are you kidding me?"

 

Izuku stood up slowly, ready to snatch the book back, his mind racing for an excuse. "It's just a hobby. I like analyzing things I see on the news—"

 

"A hobby?!" Peter interrupted, looking up with wide, manic eyes. "Izuku, this is... this is genius! You calculated the theoretical output of Stark's Arc Reactor using nothing but visual footage of the exhaust flare! And this—" Peter flipped another page, landing on Izuku's analysis of the Super Soldier Serum based on historical data. "You mapped out a theoretical metabolic rate that explains how Captain America survived the ice! The biochemistry here is insane!"

 

Izuku blinked. The panic slowly subsided, replaced by a strange, warm shock.

 

In his old world, his notebooks were mocked. Bakugo had called them creepy. His teachers thought it was a waste of time. Only after he became a hero did people value his mind.

 

But Peter wasn't mocking him. Peter was looking at him with absolute, unadulterated awe.

 

"You think it's good?" Izuku asked quietly.

 

"Good? Izuku, you could work for SHIELD with this!" Peter practically yelled, waving the notebook. "Or Oscorp! Or Stark Industries! Your brain works like a supercomputer. You see the mechanics of everything. This tactical breakdown of the Harlem incident... you're pointing out flaws in military strategy that generals probably missed!"

 

Izuku felt a blush creep up his neck. He walked over and gently took the notebook from Peter's hands, looking down at the scarred cover.

 

"Thanks, Peter," Izuku said softly. "I just... I like to understand how things work. Especially the things that protect people. Or the things that hurt them."

 

Peter’s frantic energy softened. He looked at Izuku, really looked at him, noticing the callouses on the boy's hands, the intense, old soul behind his emerald eyes.

 

"You're a really good guy, Izuku," Peter said quietly. "You care so much. You're always looking out for people. Like with Flash today."

 

Izuku looked up. He saw the genuine admiration, the pure heart beating in the skinny chest of Peter Parker.

 

You have no idea, Peter, Izuku thought. You have the heart of a true hero. I can see it. When the time comes, when this world tests you... you're going to shine so bright.

 

"We have to look out for each other, Peter," Izuku said, placing the notebook securely in his desk drawer and locking it. "The world is a big, chaotic place. If we don't use what we have—our brains, our strength—to help the people around us, then what's the point?"

 

Peter nodded slowly, a profound look of understanding passing between them.

 

"Yeah," Peter said, adjusting his glasses. "Yeah, exactly. With great power... there has to come great responsibility, right?"

 

Izuku’s breath hitched. The words hit him like a physical blow, resonating with the very core of One For All. It was a different phrasing, but the sentiment was identical to the creed he had lived his entire life by.

 

Meddling where you don't belong is the essence of being a hero.

 

Izuku smiled, a fierce, blazing smile that made the shadows in the room retreat.

 

"Right, Peter. Exactly right."

 

The boys turned back to their rover, their bond forged in steel. Outside the apartment, the sirens of New York wailed into the night, signaling a city of chaos, of rising villains and unregulated gods.

 

But inside, the Ninth User of One For All felt completely at peace. He had his mission. He had his training. And most importantly, he had a friend to protect.

 

The Green Rabbit was coming. And he was bringing Plus Ultra to Universe Two.

 

Three years can change a lot of things.

 

In the grand scheme of a universe filled with immortal Asgardians and century-old super soldiers, three years was nothing but a blink. But for a teenager, three years was an entire lifetime of evolution.

 

Fourteen-year-old Izuku Midoriya stood shirtless in front of the small, smudged mirror in his bedroom, critically examining his reflection. The soft, round baby fat of his childhood had been completely burned away, replaced by a topography of dense, tightly coiled muscle.

 

His physical conditioning at the junkyard had paid off dividends. Because he possessed the mind of a seasoned Pro-Hero and the absolute pinnacle of quirk-based nutritional and kinesiological science from his past life, he had sculpted his new body with terrifying efficiency. His core was defined, his shoulders were broad, and his arms were corded with wire-like muscle. He looked like an Olympic gymnast crossbred with a welterweight boxer.

 

He clenched his right fist.

 

Five percent, he thought.

 

Immediately, the familiar, comforting warmth of One For All bloomed in his chest, spreading through his vascular system like hot tea on a winter day. Faint, emerald-green lightning crackled across his skin, illuminating the dark bedroom with a soft, neon glow. Red, geometric lines traced their way down his arms.

 

He held it for a minute. Then two. Then five.

 

His breathing remained steady. His heart rate elevated slightly, but there was no pain, no strain.

 

He let the power fade, exhaling a long breath.

 

It's taking longer this time, Izuku noted mentally, pulling a baggy, oversized Midtown High School sweatshirt over his head to hide his physique. By the time I was fifteen in my old world, I could hold five percent constantly, and push to twenty percent with only minor tissue damage. Here, my baseline strength is higher, but my body's resistance to the Quirk's output is strangely lower. It’s like the biological 'container' of this universe is made of slightly more brittle glass.

 

It's the lack of a Quirk Factor, kid, Daigoro Banjo’s voice chimed in his mind, echoing in the quiet morning air. Your old body had the biological hardware for Quirks, even if you were born without one. Evolution, toe joints, all that jazz. This body? It's purely baseline human. You're forcing cosmic energy through a garden hose.

 

Daigoro is correct, Shinomori added, his tone analytical. The physics of this universe are subtly different. The energy displacement doesn't disperse through your cellular structure as smoothly. You must maintain extreme caution, Izuku. If you push past five percent before your bone density naturally matures, the results will be catastrophic.

 

Izuku nodded to the empty room. "I know. I'm being careful. I haven't needed to use it anyway. The junkyard training is mostly baseline physical now. And I haven't started patrolling."

 

You're getting antsy, though, Nana Shimura teased gently. We can feel it. Every time you see a police cruiser speed by, your heart rate jumps.

 

Izuku smiled wryly. "Can you blame me? The world is getting louder."

 

It was true. It was 2012, and the world was changing at a breakneck pace. Tony Stark had privatized world peace. A man with a hammer had supposedly leveled a small town in New Mexico. And the whispers of "Mutants" were growing louder and more vitriolic on the nightly news. The powder keg was beginning to spark.

 

"Izuku! Are you ready? You're going to miss the bus!" Inko’s voice called from the kitchen.

 

"Coming, Mom!"

 

Izuku grabbed his yellow backpack, stuffed a blank notebook inside, and hurried out the door. Today was Friday, which meant a field trip.

 

 

 

The yellow school bus was a cacophony of teenage hormones, loud music, and the smell of cheap body spray. Izuku sat near the middle, perfectly content to gaze out the window at the passing Queens scenery.

 

Next to him, Peter Parker was vibrating with a frequency that threatened to shatter glass.

 

"I still can't believe we got clearance for the New York Hall of Science tech expo," Peter rambled, aggressively adjusting his glasses. He was fifteen now, a sophomore to Izuku's freshman (Izuku had formally skipped another grade to stay in Peter's cohort), and he had finally started to grow vertically, though he was still as skinny as a rail. "Oscorp is unveiling their new localized kinetic-battery prototypes. Do you know what that means, Izuku? Sustainable, self-charging power grids for urban environments! It's revolutionary!"

 

Izuku chuckled, leaning his head against the window. "It is impressive. Though, knowing Oscorp's military contracts, I imagine they're also looking at weaponizing kinetic absorption. Imagine a riot shield that absorbs kinetic impact and re-channels it into a directed concussive blast."

 

Peter paused, blinking. He looked at Izuku with a mixture of awe and mild concern. "Dude, you always jump straight to the tactical applications. It's like you're secretly a four-star general wearing a hoodie."

 

Izuku offered a sheepish, closed-eye smile. "I just like to look at all the angles, Peter."

 

"Yeah, well, leave the military tech to Stark," Peter said, pulling out a battered digital camera. "I just want to get some good pictures for the Decathlon team's blog. Maybe if I get a shot of the battery matrix, Dr. Connors will actually look at my internship application."

 

From the seat behind them, a crumpled-up ball of paper bounced off the back of Peter's head.

 

"Hey, Parker," Flash Thompson jeered, leaning over the seat. He had bulked up significantly over the years, securing his spot as the star of the Midtown football team. "Make sure you get a picture of the janitor's closet while you're at the expo. That's about the only place Oscorp would let a loser like you work."

 

Peter's shoulders slumped. He opened his mouth to reply, but Izuku shifted in his seat.

 

Izuku didn't say a word. He merely turned his head, locking eyes with Flash. His emerald eyes were completely devoid of emotion, a cold, empty void that screamed of a thousand silent threats. It was the same look he had given Flash in the cafeteria three years ago, but polished and sharpened by age.

 

Flash’s smirk vanished instantly. He swallowed hard, leaned back into his seat, and suddenly found the ceiling of the bus incredibly fascinating.

 

"Thanks," Peter muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "You really have a gift for the 'creepy serial killer' stare, you know that?"

 

"It's just a focused glare," Izuku defended mildly, turning back to the window. "He's just easily intimidated."

 

If only he knew, Daigoro laughed in Izuku's head. You've got the stare of a guy who's punched a hole through a demon king.

 

The bus pulled up to the New York Hall of Science in Flushing Meadows-Corona Park. The massive, undulating concrete architecture of the Great Hall loomed over the students as they piled out.

 

The expo was breathtaking. For Peter, it was a wonderland of scientific achievement. For Izuku, it was a tactical nightmare.

 

The massive exhibition hall was packed with thousands of civilians, corporate executives, and high-school students. Booths displaying cutting-edge technology—from Stark Industries drones to Pym Technologies micro-processors—were scattered across the floor in a chaotic maze.

 

"Stay with your assigned buddies!" Mr. Harrington, their perpetually exhausted science teacher, shouted over the din of the crowd. "Do not touch anything that doesn't explicitly say 'Interactive'! Ned, put that down!"

 

Peter and Izuku naturally paired up, weaving through the crowd. Peter was snapping photos a mile a minute, rambling about voltage limits and output matrices. Izuku walked beside him, his eyes constantly scanning.

 

Multiple choke points, Izuku analyzed silently, his eyes darting to the massive glass exits, the overarching catwalks, and the heavy structural pillars. Security is lax. Mostly private contractors with minimal armament. A coordinated strike here would result in massive civilian casualties. If a villain with an area-of-effect Quirk—or in this world's case, heavy ordinance—attacked...

 

His Danger Sense hummed.

 

It wasn't a blaring siren. It was a low, staticky buzz at the base of his skull. Izuku stopped walking, his brow furrowing. He looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A representative from Oscorp was standing on a raised stage in the center of the hall, speaking into a microphone about the new kinetic-battery prototype resting on a pedestal under a glass dome.

 

Buzz.

 

The sensation grew stronger.

 

Izuku’s eyes snapped to the ceiling. Above the Oscorp stage, near the massive ventilation ducts, the shadows seemed... wrong.

 

"Peter," Izuku said, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its teenage awkwardness.

 

"Hold on, let me just get the focal length right—" Peter muttered, aiming his camera at the stage.

 

"Peter, get back to Mr. Harrington," Izuku ordered, grabbing Peter’s arm with a grip that made the older boy wince. "Now."

 

Before Peter could ask why, the glass skylight above the center stage shattered.

 

It wasn't a localized break. The entire ceiling seemed to implode with a deafening CRACK. Shards of heavy, tempered glass rained down upon the crowd like deadly hail.

 

The screams began instantly.

 

Izuku moved. He shoved Peter hard in the chest, sending the skinny boy tumbling backward beneath the sturdy overhang of a Pym Tech display booth, shielding him from the falling debris. Izuku himself dove forward, rolling over a display table as a massive shard of glass embedded itself into the floor where he had just been standing.

 

From the gaping hole in the ceiling, four figures dropped down onto the stage, connected to heavy rappelling lines.

 

Three of them were dressed in tactical, heavily padded mercenary gear, armed with compact assault rifles.

 

But the fourth figure, the one who landed with a heavy, metallic thud that cracked the concrete stage, drew Izuku's immediate, terrifying focus.

 

The man was wearing a heavily insulated, quilted yellow and brown suit. It looked absurd, almost like a padded mattress, but Izuku’s analytical mind immediately recognized it as a highly advanced kinetic-absorption mesh. But the real threat was on his arms.

 

He wore massive, bulky metallic gauntlets that hummed with a violent, vibrating energy. The air around the gauntlets seemed to distort, rippling with intense sound waves.

 

Herman Schultz. The Shocker, Izuku's mental notebook supplied instantly. Rumored mercenary. Specializes in localized seismic disruptions and vibro-shock technology.

 

"Nobody move!" Schultz bellowed, his voice amplified by the technology in his suit. He raised his right gauntlet toward the ceiling and fired.

 

THOOM.

 

It wasn't a laser or a bullet. It was a concentrated ring of pressurized, vibrating kinetic force. The blast hit the remaining glass of the skylight, instantly vaporizing it into dust. The sheer sound wave created a miniature shockwave that knocked several people in the front row off their feet.

 

"We're here for the Oscorp battery!" Schultz yelled, stepping toward the pedestal as his mercenaries fanned out, training their rifles on the terrified, screaming crowd. "Keep your heads down, keep your mouths shut, and you all get to go home and eat your TV dinners!"

 

Panic. Absolute, unadulterated panic.

 

Civilians scrambled over each other, trampling displays and each other in a desperate bid for the exits. The mercenaries fired warning shots into the ceiling, raining plaster down on the crowd, which only intensified the screaming.

 

Izuku was crouched behind the Pym Tech table. His heart rate was perfectly steady. The chaotic noise, the gunfire, the screaming—it all washed over him, plunging him into the hyper-focused state he hadn't fully accessed in nearly half a century.

 

Threat Assessment: Izuku thought rapidly. Three armed gunmen. One leader with high-tier destructive capability. Civilians trapped in the crossfire. No Pro-Heroes. Police response time in this traffic: minimum eight minutes.

 

They didn't have eight minutes.

 

Izuku peeked over the table. He saw Mr. Harrington desperately trying to herd the Midtown students toward a side exit, but one of the mercenaries stepped into the aisle, raising his rifle.

 

"I said stay down!" the mercenary barked, aiming the weapon directly at Flash Thompson, who had frozen in sheer terror.

 

Izuku couldn't wait.

 

He didn't activate One For All. He couldn't risk the glowing lightning drawing Schultz's attention, and he needed absolute precision.

 

Izuku bolted from behind the table. To the terrified onlookers, the green-haired boy didn't run; he simply vanished. Izuku used the environmental chaos to his advantage. He vaulted over a fallen display board, slid under a toppled Stark Industries drone, and flanked the mercenary aiming at his class.

 

The mercenary never saw him coming.

 

Izuku closed the distance in a second. He sprang upward, pivoting his hips. His left leg lashed out like a whip in a textbook Shoot Style roundhouse. His shin connected with the side of the mercenary's tactical helmet with a sickening CRACK.

 

The man's eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, the assault rifle clattering away.

 

Izuku landed silently, immediately dropping into a low crouch. He looked at Mr. Harrington and the stunned students.

 

"Go!" Izuku hissed, his voice carrying an authority that made the adults unquestioningly obey. "Side exit! Move!"

 

Mr. Harrington snapped out of his shock, grabbing Flash by the collar and shoving him toward the door. The students scrambled away.

 

One down, Izuku thought, his eyes tracking back to the center stage. Two gunmen left. Schultz is extracting the battery.

 

"Hey! Boss! We got a problem!" the second mercenary shouted, noticing his downed comrade. He swung his rifle around, frantically searching the crowd.

 

Izuku used the distraction. He grabbed a heavy metal tablet from the display table next to him. With a perfectly calculated throw, he hurled the tablet across the room. It spun like a frisbee, slamming directly into the second mercenary's wrist.

 

The man screamed, dropping his weapon. Before he could recover, Izuku was already there. A palm strike to the solar plexus drove the air from the man's lungs, followed immediately by a sweeping leg kick that sent him crashing to the floor, unconscious.

 

Izuku stood up, chest heaving slightly.

 

"What the hell is going on down there?!" Schultz roared, securing the glowing blue Oscorp battery into a heavily armored backpack. He turned, raising his gauntlets.

 

He saw his two men on the ground. And standing amidst the terrified, cowering crowd was a fourteen-year-old boy in a baggy sweatshirt, his green eyes locked onto Schultz with the intensity of a laser beam.

 

"You gotta be kidding me," Schultz sneered behind his yellow mask. "A kid? Take him out!"

 

The third and final mercenary, positioned near the stage, took aim at Izuku.

 

Izuku prepared to dodge. His muscles coiled, ready to spring.

 

But then, the unthinkable happened.

 

From the left side of the hall, a skinny figure darted out from behind a pillar. It was Peter.

 

Peter, with his brilliant, reckless, fiercely heroic heart, had seen the mercenary aiming at Izuku. He had seen his best friend standing in the line of fire. And Peter Parker didn't have powers yet. He didn't have enhanced reflexes or spider-sense.

 

He just had courage.

 

"Hey! Leave him alone!" Peter screamed, hurling his heavy digital camera with all his might.

 

The camera sailed through the air and struck the mercenary squarely in the side of the head. It wasn't enough to knock the man out, but it was enough to make him stagger, his shot going wild. The bullet shattered a concrete pillar near Izuku.

 

"Peter, NO!" Izuku screamed, his carefully maintained composure shattering instantly.

 

The mercenary turned his attention to the skinny, defenseless teenager who had just assaulted him. He raised his rifle, stepping toward Peter with murderous intent.

 

"Stupid punk," the mercenary snarled.

 

Schultz, annoyed by the delay, raised his right gauntlet, aiming it directly at Peter.

 

"I don't have time for this. Squash the bug," Schultz commanded. The vibro-shock gauntlet began to whine, a terrifying, high-pitched frequency that vibrated the very air around it.

 

Time seemed to grind to a halt.

 

Izuku saw Schultz's finger tighten on the trigger mechanism. He saw the mercenary aiming the rifle. He saw Peter, frozen in place, his eyes wide behind his glasses, realizing exactly what he had just done.

 

Distance: Izuku calculated in a fraction of a millisecond. Forty feet.

Threat: Lethal concussive blast.

Target: Peter.

 

Five percent wouldn't be fast enough. Even if he moved at his absolute maximum safe limit, he couldn't cross forty feet and displace Peter before the shockwave hit. The blast radius of Schultz's gauntlet was too wide. Peter would be crushed against the concrete wall behind him. His bones would turn to powder. He would die.

 

No.

 

The word echoed in the void of Izuku's mind. It wasn't a thought; it was an absolute, cosmic decree.

 

He had not survived death, crossed dimensions, and spent ten years living in this chaotic universe to watch his best friend die. He would not allow it. Not while he had breath in his lungs.

 

Izuku, wait! Shinomori’s voice screamed in his mind, laced with pure terror. Your body can't—!

 

Izuku ignored him.

 

He closed his eyes, visualizing the egg in the microwave. He visualized the careful, 5% trickle of power he had maintained for years. And then, with a savage, unyielding roar of his soul, he shattered the glass container.

 

He didn't open the valve. He ripped the plumbing out of the wall.

 

ONE HUNDRED PERCENT.

 

The explosion of power within him was so violent it felt as if a miniature sun had detonated behind his ribs. The sheer, unadulterated force of One For All, cultivated over nine generations, flooded his fourteen-year-old, unprepared body.

 

Green lightning didn't just crackle around him; it erupted in a blinding, localized storm. The concrete floor beneath his feet instantly cratered, spider-webbing out for ten feet in every direction. The air pressure in the hall inverted, a massive vacuum created by the sudden, localized surge of cosmic energy.

 

Izuku opened his eyes. They were glowing with a terrifying, ethereal emerald light.

 

Schultz fired the gauntlet.

 

The concussive shockwave ripped across the room, tearing up the carpet and shattering display cases, heading straight for Peter.

 

Izuku moved.

 

He pushed off his right leg. The sound of his movement was like a cannon shot. The sonic boom of his acceleration shattered every remaining pane of glass in the Great Hall.

 

He crossed the forty feet in less than a microsecond.

 

He didn't grab Peter. He couldn't. At the speed he was moving, grabbing Peter would have snapped the boy's neck from whiplash.

 

Instead, Izuku inserted himself directly between Peter and the incoming shockwave. He was a human shield, a wall of flesh and cosmic power.

 

But Izuku Midoriya was not a defensive fighter.

 

As the concussive blast reached him, Izuku pulled his right arm back. The sleeve of his baggy sweatshirt instantly disintegrated into ash from the friction and the raw energy output. His skin glowed a terrifying, angry red. He could feel his muscles tearing, the fibers snapping like over-tightened guitar strings. He could feel the bones in his forearm groaning under the impossible pressure.

 

He didn't care.

 

"SMASH!" Izuku roared, a primal, earth-shattering cry that echoed with the voices of eight other ghosts.

 

Izuku punched the shockwave.

 

The collision of One For All at 100% against the Shocker's vibro-blast defied physics.

 

When Izuku's fist connected with the invisible wall of kinetic energy, the world went white. A deafening, apocalyptic BOOM shook the foundation of Flushing Meadows. The shockwave wasn't just deflected; it was utterly obliterated, swallowed by the sheer, overwhelming kinetic force of Izuku's punch.

 

But the momentum didn't stop there.

 

The wind pressure generated by Izuku's fist—a localized hurricane—tore forward. It hit the mercenary, instantly lifting him off his feet and throwing him fifty feet backward into a reinforced steel pillar, knocking him unconscious immediately.

 

The wind pressure continued, slamming into Herman Schultz.

 

The Shocker, insulated by his kinetic-absorption suit, took the brunt of the air-cannon directly to the chest. The suit tried to absorb the energy, glowing a blinding yellow for a fraction of a second before the technology simply failed. The mesh overloaded, bursting into sparks.

 

Schultz was launched off the stage like a ragdoll. He flew backward with terrifying velocity, crashing through the back wall of the exhibition hall, out into the park, and finally skidding to a halt nearly two hundred feet away, completely incapacitated.

 

The exhibition hall fell dead silent.

 

The ringing in the air was absolute. Papers fluttered down from the ceiling like snow. Dust and debris choked the air.

 

Izuku stood frozen in his punching stance.

 

For two entire seconds, there was no pain. Only the fading rush of adrenaline and the echoing hum of the Vestiges screaming in his mind.

 

Then, his nervous system caught up.

 

Izuku looked down at his right arm.

 

It was utterly, horrifyingly destroyed. The skin was mottled with deep, vicious purple and black bruising that extended from his knuckles all the way to his shoulder. His wrist was bent at a sickening, unnatural angle. The bones inside his forearm hadn't just broken; they had shattered into a hundred jagged pieces, tearing through muscle and pressing dangerously against the skin.

 

It looked exactly like it had when he fought the Zero Pointer.

 

The pain didn't hit him like a wave. It hit him like an ocean collapsing on his head.

 

"AGH!"

 

Izuku collapsed to his knees, clutching his ruined arm to his chest. A wet, agonizing gasp tore from his throat as the world began to spin wildly out of control. Black spots danced across his vision.

 

"Izuku!"

 

A voice pierced through the ringing in his ears. Footsteps scrambled over the debris.

 

Peter dropped to his knees in front of Izuku, his hands hovering over the younger boy, terrified to touch him. Peter's face was ashen, stained with dust and tears.

 

"Izuku, oh my god, your arm," Peter hyperventilated, his eyes wide with raw, unfiltered trauma. "Oh my god, what did you do? How did you do that? Izuku, stay with me!"

 

Izuku looked up at Peter. His vision was blurring heavily. He tried to speak, tried to tell Peter that it was okay, that he had endured this pain a hundred times before, that Recovery Girl would fix it.

 

But there was no Recovery Girl in this world.

 

"P-Peter," Izuku choked out, blood tasting like copper in his mouth. "Are... are you okay?"

 

"I'm fine, I'm fine! You saved me! But you're—you need an ambulance! Help! SOMEBODY HELP!" Peter screamed into the cavernous, ruined hall.

 

Izuku offered a small, broken smile. He's safe, Izuku thought, the panic finally bleeding out of him. He's safe. That's all that matters.

 

The black spots consumed his vision, and Izuku Midoriya fell forward into absolute darkness.

 

 

 

Beep... beep... beep...

 

The sound of the heart monitor was the first thing to return.

 

Izuku floated in a sea of nothingness. He felt warm. He felt numb. The crushing agony in his arm was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing heaviness.

 

He opened his eyes.

 

He was not in a hospital room. He was sitting in a familiar, velvet-lined chair, surrounded by deep, infinite shadows.

 

The Vestige realm.

 

Sitting in a semi-circle around him were the past users of One For All. They did not look happy.

 

"You idiot," Daigoro Banjo said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wasn't yelling, which somehow made it worse. He just sounded incredibly tired.

 

"I had to," Izuku said, his voice echoing in the void. He looked down at his dream-scape right arm. It was wrapped in glowing, ethereal bandages. "He was going to kill Peter. I didn't have a choice."

 

Nana Shimura knelt in front of his chair, placing a warm hand on his knee. Her eyes were sad. "We know, Izuku. We know you did what you had to do. We aren't angry that you saved him. We're angry at what it cost you."

 

"Your physical vessel in this universe does not possess the structural elasticity of your previous body," Yoichi Shigaraki said, stepping forward from the shadows. His white hair flowed ethereally. "I warned you, Ninth. This world's baseline human biology is rigid. When you used 100%, your arm did not just fracture. It exploded from the inside out."

 

Izuku swallowed hard. "How bad is it?"

 

"The doctors in your physical world are currently operating on you," Shinomori stated, crossing his arms. "They are inserting titanium plates and screws to reconstruct the radius and ulna. The nerve damage is extensive. They believe you will lose seventy percent of mobility in your right hand."

 

Izuku closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

 

"Will I?" Izuku asked calmly.

 

Yoichi offered a faint, reassuring smile. "No. You have something medical science in this world cannot account for. You have us. One For All is actively accelerating your cellular regeneration to repair the nerve pathways. Your body will heal. But it will take time. And it will leave scars."

 

"I'm used to scars," Izuku muttered, opening his eyes.

 

"You must learn from this, Izuku," Yoichi said, his voice taking on a heavy, commanding tone. "You cannot treat this body like your old one. You cannot simply break yourself and expect to bounce back. If you do this again, if you shatter your legs or your spine, One For All will not be able to put you back together. This universe is fragile. You are fragile here."

 

Izuku looked at his bandaged hand. He remembered the feeling of 100% coursing through him. It was intoxicating, but it was a poison. He had spent his entire teenage life learning how not to break himself, only to revert to his oldest mistake the moment he was tested.

 

No, Izuku thought, his eyes hardening. I didn't revert. I chose it. It was a calculated sacrifice. But I can't keep making that trade.

 

"I understand," Izuku said, looking up at the Vestiges. "I need to go back to the beginning. I need to spread the power evenly. I need to rely on the tools I have, rather than the raw output."

 

Daigoro grinned, slamming his fists together. "Now you're talking, kid! No more 100% smashes. We gotta build up your tolerance from the ground up."

 

"I'll start training Full Cowling again as soon as I recover," Izuku promised. "I'll master this body. I won't let you down."

 

"You never do, Izuku," Nana smiled, leaning forward and kissing his forehead. "Now, wake up. Your mother is worried sick."

 

The Vestige realm dissolved into blinding white light.

 

 

 

Beep... beep... beep...

 

Izuku blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic stung his nose. The dull throbbing in his arm had intensified into a deep, burning ache, heavily masked by intravenous painkillers.

 

He turned his head slightly.

 

He was in a private hospital room. Sitting in a plastic chair by his bedside, completely hunched over with her face buried in her hands, was Inko Midoriya. Her shoulders were shaking with silent, wracking sobs.

 

A fresh wave of guilt, sharper than the pain in his arm, pierced Izuku’s chest.

 

I promised I wouldn't make her cry again, he thought bitterly.

 

"Mom?" Izuku rasped, his throat dry.

 

Inko’s head snapped up. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face pale with exhaustion. When she saw he was awake, she let out a strangled cry, half-sob, half-laugh, and threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around his uninjured shoulder.

 

"Izuku! Oh, my baby, my sweet boy," Inko cried into his neck, her tears hot against his skin. "You're awake. You're okay. Thank God."

 

"I'm sorry, Mom," Izuku whispered, resting his left hand on her back. "I'm so sorry."

 

Inko pulled back, framing his face with trembling hands. "Don't you ever apologize. The police told me what happened. They said... they said you pushed your friend out of the way of falling debris. They said a pillar collapsed on your arm."

 

Izuku blinked. Falling debris? A pillar?

 

He quickly masked his confusion. "Yeah. Yeah, it happened so fast."

 

"You saved his life, Izuku," Inko said, brushing his green hair out of his eyes. "You're a hero. My brave, foolish little hero. But please... please don't ever scare me like that again. I thought I was going to lose you."

 

"I won't, Mom. I promise," Izuku lied, the weight of the universe settling back onto his shoulders.

 

The door to the hospital room creaked open.

 

Standing in the doorway, looking like a strong breeze would knock him over, was Peter Parker. He was holding a cheap bouquet of bodega flowers. When he saw Izuku was awake, a look of profound relief washed over his face, quickly chased by intense, agonizing guilt.

 

"Mrs. Midoriya?" Peter asked quietly. "Can I... can I talk to him for a second?"

 

Inko stood up, wiping her eyes and offering Peter a watery smile. "Of course, Peter. I'll go find the doctor and tell them you're awake, Izuku. I'll be right back."

 

She kissed Izuku's forehead and left the room.

 

Peter walked over slowly, placing the flowers on the side table. He looked down at Izuku’s right arm, which was encased in a massive, heavy plaster cast from the knuckles to the bicep, elevated on a foam pillow.

 

"Izuku," Peter whispered, his voice cracking.

 

"I'm okay, Peter," Izuku said instantly, offering his brightest, most reassuring smile. "It looks worse than it is."

 

"Don't do that," Peter said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Tears began to freely fall down his cheeks. "Don't smile like that. Don't act like it's okay. Your arm is shattered, Izuku. The doctors said you might never use your hand right again. Because of me."

 

"It's not because of you," Izuku said firmly, his voice dropping the cheerful facade, adopting a serious, unyielding tone. "You threw that camera. You distracted that man. You saved my life first, Peter."

 

"I didn't do anything!" Peter cried, gripping the edge of the bed rail. "I just stood there! And then you... you..."

 

Peter trailed off, looking around the room as if checking for listening devices. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper.

 

"Izuku, I saw it," Peter whispered. "I saw what you did. The police think a pillar fell on you. They think a gas line exploded and blew that villain out the wall. But I was looking right at you. You punched the air. You punched the air, and it glowed green, and a shockwave blew that guy away. You... you have powers. Like a mutant."

 

Izuku looked into Peter's terrified, awe-struck eyes.

 

He could lie. He could say Peter was hallucinating from the stress. He could maintain his cover.

 

But Izuku Midoriya had never been good at lying to the people he cared about. And in this chaotic world, he needed an ally. He needed someone on the ground.

 

Izuku reached out with his good left hand and grasped Peter's arm.

 

"I'm not a mutant, Peter," Izuku said softly, his emerald eyes glowing with a faint, residual light. "But yes. I have powers."

 

Peter gasped, stumbling back half a step. "I knew it. I knew you were different. You move too fast, you know too much... why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you run away? Why did you break your arm for me?!"

 

"Because you're my friend," Izuku said, the absolute sincerity in his voice cutting through Peter's panic like a knife. "And because when I see someone in trouble, my body just moves on its own."

 

Peter stared at him, the tears stopping. He looked at Izuku not as a fourteen-year-old boy, but as something entirely different. Something ancient, noble, and terrifyingly self-destructive.

 

"You're crazy," Peter breathed. "You're a crazy, self-sacrificing idiot."

 

"I've been told that before," Izuku chuckled, wincing as the laughter pulled at his ribs.

 

"What are you going to do?" Peter asked, sitting down heavily in the plastic chair. "If the government finds out... SHIELD, or the military... they'll take you away. They'll study you."

 

"They won't find out," Izuku said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked out the hospital window at the New York skyline. "Because I'm not going to be a public figure. I'm not going to be an Avenger, or a registered hero."

 

"Then what are you going to do?"

 

Izuku thought of his shattered arm. He thought of the Shocker, a man with military-grade tech terrorizing civilians. He thought of the impending storms that were brewing in this universe. He needed to act, but he needed to be a ghost.

 

"I'm going to do what I have to do," Izuku said quietly. "From the shadows. But I can't do it like I am now. I need to get stronger. I need to be smarter. And..." Izuku looked back at Peter, a small smile playing on his lips. "I think I might need a guy in the chair."

 

Peter blinked, the sorrow evaporating, replaced by a sudden, intense spark of excitement. "A guy in the chair? Like... running comms? Hacking security feeds? Building gear?"

 

"Exactly," Izuku nodded. "If you want to, that is. It's going to be dangerous."

 

Peter stood up, pushing his glasses up his nose. The terrified boy was gone. In his place was a brilliant young man who had just been given a purpose.

 

"Are you kidding?" Peter said, a determined grin spreading across his face. "You save my life, and you think I'm gonna let you do this alone? No way, man. We're a team."

 

Izuku smiled, closing his eyes as the pain meds finally began to drag him back to sleep.

 

The flame had been reignited. It had burned him, yes, but it was alive.

 

The Green Rabbit was no longer just a concept in a notebook. He was a necessity. And Universe Two was about to meet him.