What If Deku Was a Jedi and Bakugo Was a Sith?

 The twin suns of Tatooine, Tatoo I and Tatoo II, hung in the bleached, copper-colored sky like a pair of unforgiving, fiery eyes. They glared down upon the Jundland Wastes, baking the sandstone canyons until the air itself shimmered and danced with heat haze. It was a harsh, unforgiving world, a planet of dust and moisture farmers, of smugglers and scavengers. It was a place where dreams went to dry up and blow away like so much loose sand. 

But for ten-year-old Izuku Midoriya, the endless expanse of the Dune Sea was not a wasteland. It was a canvas for his imagination, a boundless arena where the legendary tales of the Jedi Order played out in his mind’s eye.

Izuku sat on the edge of a jagged canyon cliff, his legs dangling over the precipice. He was a small, unassuming boy with a mop of unruly, dark green hair that seemed to defy the arid desert winds. He wore a patched, oversized tunic that vaguely resembled the robes of the Jedi Knights he idolized, stitched together from discarded moisture-vaporator canvas by his ever-patient mother, Inko. 

In his lap rested a battered, heavily modified datapad. The screen was cracked, the casing scuffed with sand, but it was Izuku’s most prized possession. With a careful, reverent touch, he pressed the activation stud. A flickering, blue holographic projection sprang to life, stuttering with static before stabilizing. 

It was a recording of the Battle of Naboo, decades old, highly compressed and illegal to possess in certain sectors of the Outer Rim. But Izuku didn’t care about the politics of the Republic or the Senate. His wide, emerald eyes were locked onto a single figure moving through the chaotic crossfire of battle droids.

The figure was a towering Jedi Knight, wielding a blade of brilliant, sun-forged gold. He didn’t just deflect blaster bolts; he moved like a force of nature, a localized hurricane of peace and justice. With a sweeping gesture of his hand, a localized concussive wave of Force energy shattered a dozen battle droids into scrap metal. Even through the low-fidelity audio of the holocron, Izuku could hear the booming, reassuring laugh of the Jedi Master.

"Fear not, citizens of the Republic!" the holographic Jedi bellowed, turning his dazzling, fearless smile toward the camera droid. "Why? Because I am here!"

Izuku mouthed the words in perfect synchronization, a massive grin splitting his freckled face. This was Master Toshinori Yagi, known across the galaxy as "All Might." He was the Jedi Order’s greatest champion, the Symbol of Peace, and Izuku’s ultimate hero.

"I’m going to be a Jedi just like him," Izuku whispered to the empty desert, his small hands clenching into fists. "I’ll protect everyone with a smile. I’ll bring peace to the galaxy."

"You? A Jedi? Don't make me laugh, Deku!"

The harsh, grating voice shattered the quiet reverence of the moment. Izuku jumped, fumbling with his datapad as the hologram fizzled out. He scrambled to his feet, spinning around to face the source of the voice.

Standing a few yards away, flanked by two larger, sycophantic boys from the local moisture farming settlement, was Katsuki Bakugo. 

Katsuki was Izuku’s age, but he carried himself with the swagger and menace of a hardened mercenary. He had spiky, ash-blond hair and sharp, crimson eyes that always seemed to be looking for a fight. He wore a modified flight suit, the sleeves torn off to expose his arms, and a sneer of absolute, unadulterated superiority twisted his features. 

"K-Kacchan," Izuku stammered, using his childhood nickname for the boy. He instinctively took a step back, clutching the datapad to his chest like a shield.

"What are you doing out here, Deku?" Katsuki sneered, closing the distance between them with slow, predatory steps. "Looking for scrap to sell? Or just dreaming about things you can never have?"

"I was just... watching the holos," Izuku muttered, his eyes dropping to the sand. 

Katsuki snatched the datapad from Izuku’s grasp before the green-haired boy could even blink. "Master Toshinori again?" Katsuki scoffed, tossing the device from hand to hand as if weighing its worth, contemplating whether to throw it over the cliff. "You're pathetic, Deku. You think staring at a screen is going to magically give you a connection to the Force?"

"Give it back, Kacchan, please," Izuku pleaded, taking a hesitant step forward. 

"You want to be a Jedi?" Katsuki’s voice dropped to a dangerous, mocking whisper. "A Jedi is power. A Jedi commands the universe. You? You're a genetic dead-end."

It was a cruel statement, but it wasn't a lie. In a galaxy where the Force flowed through all living things, where even ordinary citizens possessed a baseline midi-chlorian count that connected them to the universe, Izuku was an anomaly. 

He remembered the day perfectly. He was four years old, sitting in a sterile medical clinic in Mos Eisley, swinging his legs off the examination table. The medical droid had run the blood tests three times. The results were always the same. 

"I am sorry, Mrs. Midoriya," the droid had droned in its monotone, synthesized voice. "Your son’s midi-chlorian count is negligible. It is virtually non-existent. He is what colloquially might be termed 'Force-deaf.' He will never be able to sense the Force, let alone manipulate it. I suggest he looks into a career in droid maintenance or hydro-farming."

Izuku’s mother had cried, apologizing to him over and over again, as if she had somehow failed him. But her apologies only hurt more. Izuku didn't want apologies; he wanted to be a hero. He wanted to reach out and feel the life of the galaxy humming beneath his fingertips. 

Katsuki, on the other hand, was born with a midi-chlorian count that made the local doctors gasp. He was a prodigy. Even without formal training, he could manipulate the world around him. But unlike the telekinetic nudges of typical Force-sensitive children, Katsuki’s connection to the Force was aggressive, volatile, and deeply unique. 

To demonstrate his point, Katsuki held up his right hand, pointing his palm toward a cluster of rusted, abandoned speeder-bike parts resting near the canyon wall. He didn't close his eyes. He didn't seek tranquility or peace. He simply frowned, tapping into a well of fierce, burning passion and arrogance inside his chest.

The air around Katsuki’s hand visibly warped, the heat shimmering in a concentrated sphere. He thrust his palm forward. 

BOOM!

A concussive shockwave of hyper-compressed Force energy erupted from his hand. The blast was so violent it shattered the silence of the Wastes, a localized telekinetic explosion that tore the rusted speeder parts into shrapnel, sending twisted metal raining down against the canyon walls. The smell of ozone and burnt sand filled the air. 

Izuku covered his face, coughing as the dust settled. 

Katsuki lowered his smoking hand, a feral, triumphant grin on his face. "See that, Deku? That’s power. That’s what the Republic needs. They don't need peacekeepers; they need warriors who can crush the Sith and bring absolute order. And when the Jedi recruiters come, they're going to take me. I'm going to be the greatest Jedi who ever lived. I'll even surpass All Might."

He tossed the datapad casually over his shoulder. Izuku dove for it, catching it just before it hit a rock, clutching it tight. 

"You don't have a drop of the Force in you," Katsuki continued, turning his back on Izuku and motioning for his lackeys to follow. "You're useless. 'Deku'. That’s what it means. You're just a pebble on the side of the road. Don't ever forget your place."

Izuku watched them walk away, the harsh suns beating down on his back. His eyes burned, but he refused to let the tears fall. He looked down at his calloused hands. They were empty. There was no hum of energy, no invisible strings connecting him to the rocks or the sky. There was just flesh and bone. 

He's right, a small, treacherous voice whispered in his mind. You have no power. You have nothing.

Izuku gripped his datapad tighter, gritting his teeth. "No," he whispered to the wind. "Even if I don't have the Force... I can still help people. I have to."

Miles away, in the bustling, wretched hive of scum and villainy known as the Mos Eisley spaceport, a stranger walked through the crowded, sandy streets. 

He wore a heavy, ragged brown cloak, the hood pulled low over his face to obscure his features. To the casual observer, he was just another weary traveler, perhaps an aging smuggler down on his luck, or a spice miner seeking refuge from the twin suns. He was tall, but incredibly gaunt, his shoulders hunched, his steps measured and deliberate. 

Beneath the cloak, Toshinori Yagi coughed into a handkerchief, pulling it away to see a speck of blood. He wiped his mouth, his sunken, shadowed eyes scanning the cantinas and merchant stalls. 

Toshinori was tired. More tired than the galaxy knew. The public saw Master All Might as an invincible titan of the Light Side, an ever-smiling bastion of hope. But the public did not know of the grievous wound hidden beneath his robes—a horrific, spiraling scar on his left side, a gift from a duel five years ago with a Dark Lord of the Sith so terrifying that history had tried to erase his name. The Sith Lord known only as All For One. 

Toshinori had won that battle, destroying the Sith Lord, but the cost had been catastrophic. His connection to the Force had been severely fractured, and his physical body was slowly failing him. He could only channel the Force to maintain his "muscle form"—his peak physical appearance—for a few hours a day. The rest of the time, he was this withered, skeletal shadow of his former self.

He had come to Tatooine following faint, fragmented whispers in the criminal underworld. Rumors of Sith artifacts, dark holocrons, and corrupted Kyber crystals being smuggled through the Outer Rim. The Jedi Council had dismissed the rumors, believing the Sith extinct following All For One's defeat, but Toshinori knew better. The Dark Side was insidious. It did not die; it merely festered in the shadows, waiting for a new vessel.

As he navigated the crowded marketplace, sidestepping Jawas and ignoring the aggressive pitches of Toydarian merchants, Toshinori paused. 

He closed his eyes, centering himself. Through the chaotic noise of the spaceport—the revving of repulsorlifts, the chatter of a dozen alien dialects, the blare of cantina music—he felt a ripple in the Force. 

It was faint, distant, but undeniably potent. 

It was not the cold, cloying darkness of a Sith artifact. It was something raw, explosive, and aggressively untamed. A flare of pure, kinetic anger. 

A child, Toshinori realized, his brow furrowing beneath his hood. A Force-sensitive of immense power, completely untrained, and dangerously close to the edge of rage.

Toshinori opened his eyes, gazing out toward the distant, jagged peaks of the Jundland Wastes. The Force was moving. It was calling him, tugging at the fraying edges of his own power. 

He had not intended to take a Padawan. His time was running out, and the burden he carried was too heavy for a child to bear. But a power like that, left alone in a place like this, was a prime target for the remaining acolytes of the Dark Side. He had to investigate. 

Pulling his cloak tighter around his frail frame, the Jedi Master set off into the desert, following the invisible currents of the Force.

Deep in the winding, treacherous canyons of the Jundland Wastes, the air grew noticeably cooler as the shadows lengthened. The twin suns were beginning their descent, casting long, eerie silhouettes against the sandstone walls. 

Katsuki Bakugo marched at the head of his small group, kicking a loose rock with a huff of irritation. "There’s nothing out here," he complained, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Old man Gobi said there was a downed Republic cruiser in this sector. Said there were lightsabers just lying in the sand. He lied."

"Maybe we should head back, Katsuki," one of his friends, a boy with small, bat-like wings on his back, said nervously. "The suns are going down. The Sand People come out at night. And... and there are worse things."

"Shut up," Katsuki snapped, glaring over his shoulder. "Are you scared? If a Tusken shows up, I'll blow his face off. I'm not afraid of anything."

Behind them, trailing at a safe distance, was Izuku. He had followed them, partly because he didn't want to walk back to the settlement alone, and partly because a strange, inexplicable feeling in his gut told him not to leave Katsuki alone. Izuku couldn't sense the Force, but he had sharp instincts, honed by years of watching and analyzing everything around him. The canyon was too quiet. The usual chirps of desert insects were gone.

"Kacchan," Izuku called out, his voice echoing slightly off the rock walls. "Maybe they're right. The wind is picking up, and... the sand feels wrong here."

Katsuki stopped in his tracks, slowly turning around. His red eyes narrowed into slits of pure venom. "I didn't invite you, Deku. Why are you following me like a stray tooka-cat? I told you to get lost."

"I-I just think we should go back," Izuku stammered, stepping back. 

"I don't take orders from a quirk of nature who can't even lift a pebble," Katsuki growled. He raised his hand, the air around his palm beginning to distort with heat and pressure. "I told you to—"

Katsuki stopped. 

The aggressive hum of his power sputtered and died. The ash-blond boy froze, his eyes widening. For the first time all day, Katsuki was tapping into the deeper currents of the Force, and what he felt was a sudden, paralyzing wave of pure, predatory intent. It was like a physical weight pressing down on his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

The ground began to vibrate. 

It started as a low, rhythmic thrumming, vibrating up through the soles of their boots. Pebbles danced on the sandstone floor. A cascade of dust fell from the canyon walls. 

"What is that?" the winged boy squeaked, backing away.

Before anyone could answer, the canyon wall thirty yards ahead of them exploded. 

A massive shower of boulders and sand rained down as a colossal, terrifying shape burst from a hidden, subterranean cave. It was a Krayt Dragon, but not a full-grown ancient. It was an adolescent, though that hardly mattered to the children. It was easily forty feet long, a serpentine nightmare of thick, armored scales the color of dried blood. Its massive, horned head swung back and forth, its jaws lined with rows of razor-sharp, translucent teeth dripping with corrosive saliva.

The beast let out a deafening, echoing roar that sounded like grinding metal and a screaming banshee, a sound that shook the very air and sent a shockwave of terror straight into the hearts of the boys.

The two lackeys shrieked and bolted, scrambling back up the canyon trail as fast as their legs could carry them, completely abandoning their leader.

Katsuki didn't run. He couldn't. 

For all his bluster, for all his raw, explosive power, Katsuki Bakugo was still just a ten-year-old boy. And right now, the Force was screaming at him in a language he didn't fully understand. His hyper-sensitivity to the Force, usually a source of immense pride, was suddenly his undoing. The Krayt Dragon was an apex predator, naturally resistant to the Force and exuding a primal aura of death. Katsuki felt the beast's hunger, its predatory intent, magnified a hundred times in his mind. 

His brain overloaded. His legs locked into place. The invincible prodigy of Mos Eisley was paralyzed by an abject, suffocating fear. He stood frozen, his eyes wide and trembling, as the massive dragon zeroed in on him, its slitted yellow eyes locking onto the small, trembling morsel.

The dragon hissed, uncoiling its massive body, preparing to strike.

Izuku, standing twenty yards back, saw it all unfold in agonizing slow motion. 

He didn't have the Force. He didn't have a weapon. He had no combat training, no armor, and no chance of surviving an encounter with a Krayt Dragon. Logic, reason, and every instinct of self-preservation screamed at him to run away, to hide, to survive.

You are useless, the voice in his head repeated. You are a Deku.

But as Izuku watched the dragon draw back its massive head, ready to snap Katsuki in half, something inside him snapped.

He didn't think. He didn't plan. He didn't weigh the odds. 

His legs moved on their own.

With a desperate cry that tore from his throat, Izuku sprinted forward. He kicked up sand in his wake, his small legs pumping as fast as they could. As he ran, his eyes darted to the ground. Sticking out of the sand was a piece of the wreckage Katsuki had blasted earlier—a jagged, rusted piece of durasteel, roughly the length of a short sword.

Izuku snatched it up on the run, the rough metal biting into his palms. 

"Kacchan!" Izuku screamed.

Katsuki snapped out of his trance just in time to see the dragon lunge forward, its massive jaws opening wide to swallow him whole. 

And then, a blur of green and brown threw itself between Katsuki and the beast. 

Izuku hurled the rusted piece of durasteel with all his meager strength directly into the Krayt Dragon's right eye. 

The metal didn't penetrate deeply—the dragon's thick, translucent eyelid clamped down, catching the makeshift weapon—but it was enough. The beast roared in pain and surprise, its head jerking wildly to the side. Its massive jaws snapped shut on empty air, a mere foot away from Katsuki's face. The sheer force of the dragon's movement created a gust of wind that knocked both boys backward into the sand.

Katsuki scrambled backward on his elbows, gasping for air, his eyes wide with shock. He looked at Izuku, who was lying in the dirt, trembling violently, his face pale, but his arms thrown out wide as if to shield Katsuki from the monster.

"Deku...?" Katsuki breathed, his voice cracking. "What the hell are you doing? You're going to die!"

"I... I don't know!" Izuku cried, tears streaming down his face. "My legs just moved! You looked like you were asking for help!"

That sentence—You looked like you were asking for help—hit Katsuki harder than any physical blow. The absolute humiliation, the realization that he, the prodigy, had frozen in terror, and that the useless, Force-deaf Deku had stepped in to save him. A toxic mixture of shame, confusion, and bubbling, irrational anger began to brew in Katsuki's chest.

But there was no time for revelations. The Krayt Dragon shook off the piece of scrap metal, its yellow eyes now burning with fury. It locked its gaze on Izuku, letting out a low, guttural hiss that vibrated the ground. It reared up, expanding the frills on its neck, preparing to crush the boy who had dared to strike it.

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable. I'm sorry, Mom, he thought. 

But the strike never came. 

Instead, the air pressure in the canyon suddenly changed. The harsh, howling wind died down, replaced by a profound, heavy silence. It was as if the canyon itself was holding its breath. 

“TEXAS SMASH!”

A voice boomed through the canyon—a voice like thunder, deep and resonant and filled with absolute, unyielding authority.

Izuku opened his eyes just in time to see a massive shadow drop from the canyon ridge above. 

It was the stranger in the brown cloak, but he was no longer gaunt or hunched. The cloak whipped away in the wind, revealing a towering, muscular figure clad in the traditional, practical tunics of a Jedi Master, adorned with red, white, and blue armor plating. 

Master Toshinori landed between the boys and the dragon. He didn't draw a lightsaber. He didn't need to. 

With blinding speed, Toshinori pulled his right fist back. The air around his arm seemed to warp and compress, glowing with a brilliant, blinding white light. It was the Force, channeled into its purest, most devastating physical form. 

He threw a punch into the empty air. 

The resulting shockwave was catastrophic. A localized, targeted hurricane of telekinetic force erupted from Toshinori's fist. The blast hit the Krayt Dragon squarely in the chest with the force of a crashing starship. 

The forty-foot beast didn't even have time to roar. It was lifted entirely off the ground and hurled backward through the air, sailing fifty yards down the canyon before slamming into the rock wall with a sickening crunch. The wall caved in, burying the unconscious predator beneath tons of rubble. 

Silence descended upon the canyon once more, save for the settling of dust and the heavy, ragged breathing of the boys. 

Toshinori stood perfectly still, his fist extended. Slowly, he lowered his arm, the glowing aura of the Force fading from his body. He turned around, looking down at the two boys in the dirt. 

Izuku’s jaw hung open. He recognized the man immediately. The golden blond hair, swept back into two prominent tufts. The piercing blue eyes. The heroic, square jaw. It wasn't just a Jedi. It was the Jedi. 

"A-All Might?" Izuku whispered, completely starstruck. 

Toshinori offered a wide, reassuring smile. "I apologize for the delay, young ones. The sands of this planet are tricky to navigate. Are you injured?"

"N-no," Izuku stammered, scrambling to his knees. "I'm fine. We're fine."

Katsuki, however, remained on the ground, staring at Toshinori’s fist. His crimson eyes were wide, but not with awe. They were burning with a terrifying, covetous hunger. That power, Katsuki thought, his heart hammering in his chest. One punch. He defeated a Krayt Dragon without even drawing a weapon. That is absolute power. That is what I need.

Toshinori’s gaze shifted from Katsuki to Izuku. He had sensed Katsuki's immense, explosive potential from miles away. The boy was a powder keg of raw Force energy, waiting for a spark. He was exactly the kind of recruit the Jedi Council would covet, and exactly the kind of soul the Dark Side would try to corrupt. 

But Toshinori's eyes lingered on the green-haired boy. 

He had watched the entire encounter from the ridge. He had felt the absolute void in the boy—the complete lack of midi-chlorian resonance. Izuku was, for all intents and purposes, entirely disconnected from the Force. 

Yet, when the boy with all the power in the world had frozen in fear, the boy with no power at all had thrown himself into the jaws of death to save a life. 

Fascinating, Toshinori thought, a profound sense of wonder stirring in his weary heart. 

"Young man," Toshinori said, stepping toward Izuku and crouching down to meet him at eye level. "What is your name?"

"I-Izuku Midoriya, sir."

"Tell me, young Midoriya," Toshinori asked, his voice gentle but probing. "Why did you run toward the beast? You possess no connection to the Force. You had no weapon. You knew you could not defeat it."

Izuku looked down at his scraped hands. He felt a blush of embarrassment creep up his neck. "I... I didn't think about it. I know I'm quirkless—I mean, Force-deaf. I know I'm weak. But... Kacchan looked so scared. My legs just moved on their own before I could even think."

Toshinori’s breath caught in his throat. 

My legs just moved on their own.

It was the ultimate truth of the Jedi Order. The Jedi Code spoke of peace, of serenity, of protecting life. But over the millennia, the Order had become bogged down in politics, in dogma, in the rigid measurement of midi-chlorians and bloodlines. They had forgotten that true strength did not come from a microscopic organism in the blood. It came from the heart. The willingness to sacrifice oneself for another, without hesitation, without thought of reward.

This boy, this "Deku," possessed the spirit of a true Jedi Knight. 

Toshinori stood up, his towering figure casting a shadow over the boys. He looked at Katsuki, who was finally climbing to his feet, scowling and brushing the sand off his clothes, refusing to meet the Jedi's eyes. Then he looked back at Izuku.

"Izuku Midoriya," Toshinori said, his voice ringing with solemnity. "You are correct. You do not possess the Force as others do. The path of a Jedi would be impossible for someone with your physical limitations."

Izuku flinched. The words were a physical blow, validating every cruel thing Katsuki and the doctors had ever said. Tears welled up in his eyes, his childhood dream shattering into dust. "I... I know. I'm sorry to bother you, Master Jedi."

"However," Toshinori continued, his voice rising, commanding attention. "A true Jedi is not defined by their power, but by their heart. And today, I saw the heart of a hero."

Izuku stopped, blinking away his tears, looking up at the giant man. 

"There are many ways the Force works, young one," Toshinori said, a warm, genuine smile gracing his features. "Some are born with it. And some... inherit it. I have been searching for a long time for someone worthy. Izuku Midoriya... you too can become a Jedi."

The world seemed to stop spinning. Izuku gasped, his hands flying to his mouth as the tears spilled over, tracing tracks through the dirt on his cheeks. He fell to his knees, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the words. He was crying, sobbing loudly, mourning the years of pain and embracing the sudden, blinding light of hope.

But a few feet away, another reaction was taking place. 

Katsuki Bakugo stared at Toshinori, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth threatened to crack. The Jedi Master—the legendary All Might, the greatest warrior in the galaxy—was ignoring him. He was ignoring Katsuki's undeniable, overwhelming power, and offering praise to Deku. 

He's praising the weakling, Katsuki thought, a cold, dark fury twisting in his gut. He's validating weakness. The Jedi... the Jedi are flawed. If they think someone like Deku is worthy, then their code is garbage.

Deep within Katsuki, the Force responded to his anger. The air around him grew slightly warmer, the shadows at his feet deepening. It was subtle, barely noticeable to anyone but himself, but it felt... good. It felt empowering. 

Toshinori sensed the sudden shift in temperature, the spike in negative emotion. He turned his gaze to Katsuki, his smile faltering slightly into a look of concern. 

"And you, young Bakugo," Toshinori said gently. "You possess incredible raw power. More than I have seen in a child in decades. I would like to offer you a place at the U.A. Jedi Temple on Coruscant. With proper training, you could become a great protector of the Republic."

Katsuki looked at the Jedi Master, then down at the weeping Izuku. He felt disgusted. If being a Jedi meant being lumped in with a pathetic loser like Deku, he didn't want any part of it. 

But... Coruscant. The Jedi Temple. That was where the knowledge was. That was where he could learn to hone his power, to become stronger than All Might, to prove to the entire galaxy that he was the undisputed best. 

"Fine," Katsuki spat, crossing his arms and glaring at the ground. "I'll go. But don't think for a second I'm doing it to play peacekeeper. I'm going to be the strongest. I'll make sure everyone knows my name."

Toshinori frowned slightly at the boy's aggression, but nodded. He is walking a dangerous line. I must keep a close eye on him. If his pride is left unchecked, it will consume him.

"Very well," Toshinori said, his physical form beginning to waver slightly. A sharp pain lanced through his side, a reminder of his waning time. He let out a puff of steam, quickly suppressing a cough. "Gather your things and say goodbye to your families. We leave for Coruscant at dawn."

The departure was swift and tearful. Inko Midoriya wept openly at the spaceport, clutching Izuku tightly to her chest. She couldn't understand how her Force-deaf son had been accepted into the Jedi Order, but seeing the radiant joy in Izuku's eyes, she couldn't deny him his dream. 

Mitsuki Bakugo, Katsuki's mother, merely smacked her son on the back of the head, telling him not to embarrass the family and to listen to his teachers. Katsuki scoffed, swatting her hand away and boarding the sleek, Republic-issued starship without looking back.

As the ship broke through the atmosphere of Tatooine, leaving the harsh twin suns behind for the cool, infinite expanse of stars, Izuku pressed his face against the viewport. He was leaving the only home he had ever known, journeying into a vast, unknown galaxy. But he wasn't afraid. For the first time in his life, he felt a sense of belonging. 

In the ship's main hold, Katsuki sat cross-legged on a meditation mat, his eyes closed, aggressively trying to force a nearby datapad to levitate. He was straining, his brow furrowed, tapping into his frustration. The datapad shuddered, sparked, and was suddenly blown halfway across the room by a miniature concussive blast. 

Katsuki cursed under his breath. He needed absolute control, not just destruction. 

From the cockpit, Toshinori watched the boys through the internal monitors. His massive, muscular form suddenly deflated in a hiss of steam, leaving behind the skeletal, coughing man in the oversized tunic. He slumped into the pilot's chair, wiping a spot of blood from his chin. 

He waited until Katsuki had grown tired and retired to his bunk. Then, over the internal comms, he called for Izuku.

"Young Midoriya, please join me in the private quarters."

Izuku hurried through the ship, practically vibrating with excitement. He entered the small, dimly lit room and stopped short, his eyes wide with shock. 

Instead of the towering, invincible All Might, a frail, emaciated man sat on the bed. 

"W-Who are you?" Izuku asked, glancing around frantically. "Where is Master Toshinori?"

The skeletal man let out a weak, raspy laugh. "I am Toshinori, my boy. This... is my true form."

Izuku listened in stunned silence as Toshinori explained the truth. He explained the battle with the Sith Lord All For One, the grievous injury that had shattered his connection to the Force, and the secret he had hidden from the galaxy to maintain the illusion of an invincible Symbol of Peace. 

"The galaxy is a fragile place, Izuku," Toshinori said softly, leaning forward. "The Republic relies on the Jedi, and the Jedi rely on the belief that the Light will always triumph. If they knew how weak I have become, chaos would reign. The remnants of the Sith would rise from the shadows."

"Why are you telling me this?" Izuku asked, his voice trembling. "I'm just a kid from Tatooine."

"Because, Izuku, I cannot be the Symbol of Peace forever. My time is coming to an end. The Force brought me to that canyon today for a reason. Not to save young Bakugo, but to find you."

Toshinori reached into his robes and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden box. He opened it, and a soft, pulsing emerald light bathed the dim room. 

Resting on a bed of velvet was a Kyber crystal. But it was unlike any crystal Izuku had ever seen or read about. It wasn't just glowing; it seemed to be breathing. A faint, harmonious chorus of whispers echoed in Izuku's mind as he looked at it—voices of past Jedi, a lineage of champions.

"This is the One For All crystal," Toshinori explained, his voice thick with reverence. "It is an ancient, unique artifact. Most Kyber crystals align with a Force-sensitive user, focusing their innate power. But this crystal is different. Long ago, a Jedi Master discovered a way to pour his own living Force into the crystal, passing it on to his Padawan. That Padawan did the same, compounding the power, generation after generation."

Toshinori looked Izuku in the eye. "It does not require the user to have a high midi-chlorian count, Izuku. It requires the user to be a pure vessel, a conduit of selflessness and bravery. It holds the accumulated Force energy of eight generations of Jedi Masters. I am the eighth wielder. And I want you to be the ninth."

Izuku stared at the glowing green stone. He felt an inexplicable warmth radiating from it, a feeling of acceptance and profound responsibility. 

"Me?" Izuku whispered. "But... Kacchan is so much stronger. He's a prodigy. Wouldn't he be a better choice?"

Toshinori shook his head slowly. "Power without a moral compass is a path to the Dark Side, Izuku. Young Bakugo is strong, yes. But his strength is rooted in pride, in the desire for dominance. If he were given this crystal, the sheer volume of power would corrupt him absolutely. He must learn humility at the Temple before he can truly be great."

Toshinori reached out, placing his large, bony hand on Izuku's small shoulder. "You, Izuku, have known what it is to be weak. You know the pain of being overlooked. Because of that, you will never take this power for granted, and you will use it to protect those who cannot protect themselves. You are worthy."

Tears pricked Izuku's eyes again, but this time, he didn't cry. He reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the green crystal. 

The moment his skin touched the Kyber, a jolt of pure energy surged up his arm. It was like plunging his hand into a river of liquid lightning. He gasped as the Force—the living, breathing essence of the galaxy—rushed into his body. He felt the ship humming around him. He felt the distant stars. He felt Toshinori’s fading, noble spirit. For the first time in his life, Izuku Midoriya was not deaf to the universe. 

He was connected to everything.

"Thank you, Master," Izuku vowed, clutching the crystal to his chest. "I won't let you down. I'll become a Jedi."

Toshinori smiled, the heavy burden on his soul lifting just a fraction. "I know you will, my boy. Now, get some rest. When we reach Coruscant, your training truly begins. It will be the hardest thing you have ever done."

Izuku bowed deeply and left the quarters, his heart soaring. He held the crystal tightly in his fist, feeling its warm pulse matching his own heartbeat. He walked down the narrow corridor toward the passenger bunks, a bright, hopeful smile on his face. 

He didn't notice the shadow peeling away from the bulkhead near the ventilation grate. 

Katsuki Bakugo stood in the dimly lit corridor, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He had woken up to use the refresher and had heard voices in the master cabin. He had pressed his ear to the grate, listening to every word. 

He had heard All Might confess his weakness. He had heard about the One For All crystal. 

And, most damning of all, he had heard All Might say that Katsuki was unfit for the power. That Katsuki's pride would corrupt him. That Deku was the chosen one.

Katsuki stood motionless in the quiet hum of the starship. His face was devoid of expression, but beneath the surface, a violent storm was raging. 

The hero he had idolized his entire life had just looked at his unrivaled talent and called it a liability. He had chosen the useless, pathetic, quirkless pebble over the prodigy. 

Power without a moral compass is a path to the Dark Side. 

The words echoed in Katsuki's mind, twisting and distorting. 

If they think I'm a villain waiting to happen, Katsuki thought, his crimson eyes narrowing in the darkness, if they think my power is something to be feared and suppressed... then they have no idea what true power is. I don't need his handed-down crystal. I don't need his blessing. 

Katsuki raised his hand, staring at his palm. The air around it warped, a spark of pure, aggressive heat dancing across his fingertips. 

I will be the strongest, Katsuki promised himself, a chilling, absolute resolve settling over his heart. I will crush the Jedi Code. I will crush All Might. And I will crush Deku.

In the depths of hyperspace, as the Republic starship hurtled toward the shining, ancient spires of the U.A. Jedi Temple on Coruscant, the Force rippled once more. It was a subtle shift, a quiet fracturing of destiny.

On one side of the ship, a boy with no natural power drifted to sleep, clutching a crystal of green light, dreaming of saving the galaxy.

On the other side, a boy of immense, volatile power stared into the blackness of space, listening to the faintest, seductive whisper of the Dark Side calling his name. 

The journey of the Ninth Jedi and the Explosive Sith had begun.

The Coruscant sky was a tapestry of infinite motion, a relentless, glittering stream of air-traffic flowing between mile-high skyscrapers of glass and durasteel. But within the ancient, hallowed halls of the U.A. Jedi Temple, there was only a profound, echoing stillness. The Temple was a sanctuary of learning, a bastion of the Light Side that had stood for millennia. Its grand pillars and vast, sunlit corridors were designed to inspire peace, serenity, and a deep connection to the living Force.

For nineteen-year-old Padawan Izuku Midoriya, however, serenity was currently a very painful, elusive concept.

Deep in one of the Temple’s private meditation chambers, Izuku sat cross-legged on a woven mat, sweat beading on his forehead. The air around him hummed with an unstable, erratic energy. Floating in the center of the room, held aloft by the Force, was a heavy training sphere made of solid duranium. 

Izuku’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face contorted in intense concentration. Beneath his standard-issue, earth-toned Jedi tunics, his muscles were coiled tight as bowstrings. 

Peace is a lie, there is only... no, wait, that’s the other guys, Izuku’s mind raced, struggling to grasp the mantras Master Toshinori had taught him. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. Let it flow. Don't force it. Let it flow.

He reached inward, searching for the connection to the One For All Kyber crystal resting securely in the hilt of his lightsaber at his belt. Most Padawans tapped into the Force like drawing water from a gentle, endless stream. For Izuku, tapping into the Force was like trying to drink from a cracked dam just as it burst. 

The crystal he had inherited ten years ago on that starship departing Tatooine was a reservoir of immense, generational power. The living Force of eight past Jedi Masters resided within it. Because Izuku had been born with no natural midi-chlorian resonance, his body was not organically adapted to channel such raw energy. When he called upon the Force, he wasn't just directing it; he was forced to act as a physical conduit for it. 

"Move," Izuku grunted, extending his right hand toward the duranium sphere. 

He didn't just want it to float; he wanted to push it across the room into the designated capture netting. A simple, fundamental telekinetic strike. 

He pulled the energy from the crystal. Instantly, a feeling of blinding, searing heat rushed up his arm. It was too much. The power was absolute, unrefined, and catastrophic. Glowing, luminescent green veins of pure Force energy flared beneath his skin, illuminating the darkness of the chamber. 

Control it! Limit the output! Five percent! Izuku mentally screamed at himself. 

But the dam broke. 

With a deafening CRACK, a concussive shockwave of Force energy erupted from Izuku’s outstretched palm. It didn't just push the training sphere; it obliterated the air pressure in the room. The duranium sphere was launched backward at the speed of a blaster bolt, tearing clean through the capture netting, shattering against the reinforced stone wall of the chamber, and raining shrapnel across the floor.

"Gah!" 

Izuku collapsed backward, clutching his right arm. The sleeve of his tunic was singed, and his forearm throbbed with a sickening, deep-bone agony. He rolled onto his side, panting heavily, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He had channeled too much. Again. He had essentially used the Force to shatter his own arm from the inside out just to perform a basic telekinetic push.

"Your output is still completely uncalibrated, Midoriya."

The voice, dry, exhausted, and devoid of any coddling warmth, came from the entrance of the chamber. Izuku cracked one eye open, wincing in pain, to see Jedi Master Shota Aizawa standing in the doorway. 

Master Aizawa, known in the Outer Rim during the Clone Wars as the feared combatant "Eraserhead," was an unconventional Jedi. He wore loose, dark, unkempt robes, and his long, black hair hung in messy strands over his bloodshot eyes. Around his neck was a thick, multi-layered scarf woven from a unique, cortosis-laced capture-cloth. 

"Master Aizawa," Izuku wheezed, struggling to sit up and bowing his head respectfully. "I... I lost focus."

Aizawa stepped into the room, his boots crunching softly on the duranium debris. He crouched beside Izuku, his dark eyes analyzing the trembling, bruised arm. Without a word, Aizawa reached out, placing his hand over Izuku’s forearm. He closed his eyes, drawing upon the Force, and a soothing, cool wave of healing energy washed over Izuku’s torn muscles and fractured bone. 

"You didn't lose focus. You focused too hard," Aizawa corrected, his tone flat. "You view the Force as a weapon to be swung, Midoriya. You are trying to command an ocean to fit into a teacup. If you continue to channel the Force in this self-destructive manner, you will permanently cripple yourself before you ever reach the rank of Knight."

"I know," Izuku said, staring at his lap, shame flushing his freckled cheeks. "But Master Toshinori... All Might... he could do it. He could channel the full power of the Light without hurting himself."

"Master Toshinori is Master Toshinori," Aizawa sighed, standing back up. "You are Izuku Midoriya. You cannot emulate his style. Your connection to the Force is... unique. If you rely on brute-force amplification, your body will break. You need to learn how to let the energy cycle through you, not bottle up in your limbs and detonate."

"Yes, Master."

"Go to the Healing Halls. Have Recovery Girl properly mend the micro-fractures I couldn't seal," Aizawa ordered, turning toward the door. "And be quick about it. The Padawan Sparring Tournament begins in two standard hours. I expect you to be ready."

Izuku’s heart did a nervous flip. The Sparring Tournament. It was an annual event where the older Padawans showcased their lightsaber combat and Force integration before the Jedi Council. It was a crucial step toward being selected for the Trials of Knighthood. 

And, more importantly, Katsuki Bakugo was going to be there. 

"I'll be ready," Izuku promised, clutching his aching arm and bowing deeply.

The Healing Halls of the U.A. Temple were bathed in a pristine, sterile white light, smelling faintly of bacta and soothing incense. Izuku sat on a medical cot while the elderly, diminutive Jedi Medical Officer known as Recovery Girl scolded him.

"You're a foolish boy, Midoriya!" she chided, tapping him on the head with her cane. "If you keep shattering your bones with these reckless Force pushes, I'll have to replace your arm with a cybernetic prosthetic! Is that what you want?"

"No, Master Chiyo," Izuku apologized, rubbing his head. 

"Midoriya! Are you alright?"

Izuku looked up as the doors to the ward slid open with a soft hiss. Walking in were two of his closest friends and fellow Padawans: Ochaco Uraraka and Tenya Iida. 

Ochaco was a bright, deeply empathetic Padawan with short, bobbed brown hair and large, expressive eyes. Her connection to the Force was highly specialized; she excelled at Force Alteration, specifically localized gravity manipulation. She could levitate massive objects—and herself—with virtually zero strain. 

Tenya Iida, on the other hand, was the picture of rigid Jedi discipline. Tall, bespectacled, and possessing a serious, unyielding demeanor, Iida came from a long, prestigious lineage of Jedi Knights. His specialty was Force Dash; he could channel the Force into his legs to achieve blinding bursts of superhuman speed. 

"I'm fine, Uraraka, Iida," Izuku smiled, hopping off the cot and adjusting his tunic. "Just a minor miscalculation during meditation."

"You must learn to exercise greater restraint, Midoriya!" Iida declared, chopping the air with his hand in a robotic, disciplined gesture. "The Jedi Code demands self-control! If you cannot control your own power within the safety of a meditation chamber, how will you fare on a chaotic battlefield?"

"I know, I know," Izuku sighed, a bit embarrassed. "I'm working on it."

"Don't listen to him, Deku," Ochaco smiled, using the nickname that Izuku had reclaimed and turned into a badge of honor. "You're getting better every day! I saw you deflect those remote blasters last week. You were amazing!"

"Thanks, Uraraka," Izuku said, feeling a warmth in his chest. His friends were a stark contrast to the isolation he had felt on Tatooine. Here, he was accepted. Here, he was part of a team. 

"We should proceed to the Grand Dojo," Iida announced, checking a chronometer on his wrist. "The tournament is about to commence. I hear Padawan Todoroki has finally mastered integrating his Cryokinesis into his lightsaber forms."

"Todoroki is scary," Ochaco shivered playfully. "But I'm more worried about Bakugo. I passed by his training room earlier. It sounded like he was tearing the Temple apart."

At the mention of that name, Izuku’s smile faded. A heavy, complicated knot tightened in his stomach. Ten years had passed since they left the desert planet. Ten years of rigorous training, of learning the philosophies of the Jedi, of meditating on peace and harmony. 

But Katsuki Bakugo had not found peace. 

Two levels down, in a high-intensity combat simulator chamber, the air was thick with the smell of ozone, scorched metal, and burning sweat. 

Katsuki Bakugo moved like a demon unleashed. 

He was nineteen now, tall, fiercely muscular, and radiating a predatory, suffocating intensity. He wore no Jedi robes; he had discarded the traditional outer tunics, fighting only in a sleeveless, dark grey undershirt and combat trousers. In his hands, a lightsaber with a brilliant, blazing blue blade hissed and cracked against the armor of three heavily modified IG-100 MagnaGuards. 

The training droids were programmed to Jedi Master level, wielding electrostaffs that sparked with lethal intent. For any normal Padawan, surviving one was a test of endurance. Bakugo was fighting three, and he was bored. 

He didn't fight like a Jedi. The Temple masters taught Form III, Soresu, the resilient way of the defensive blade. They taught Form I, Shii-Cho, the basics of flowing movement. 

Bakugo had rejected them all. He had sought out the forbidden texts, learning Form VII, Juyo. It was the most aggressive, demanding, and dangerous of all lightsaber forms, dubbed the "Ferocity Form." It required the user to channel their own internal passions and anger into the fight, a practice that danced dangerously close to the Dark Side. The Jedi Council heavily restricted its teaching. Bakugo had taught it to himself. 

A MagnaGuard swung a crackling electrostaff at Bakugo’s head. 

Instead of parrying, Bakugo sidestepped with blinding speed, a feral grin twisting his features. He didn't just dodge; he used the Force. But not to push or pull. Bakugo’s unique application of the Force involved hyper-compressing telekinetic energy at localized points and releasing it instantaneously. 

He slammed his left palm into the droid’s armored chest. 

BOOM!

A concussive shockwave of Force energy erupted from his hand, mimicking a high-yield thermal detonator. The MagnaGuard’s chest plate caved in, its internal circuitry shattering as it was blown backward into the wall, sparking and dying. 

The other two droids lunged. Bakugo spun, his blue lightsaber a blur of savage, sweeping arcs. He didn't flow like water; he erupted like a volcano. He struck with such ferocious, kinetic power that every clash of his blade drove the droids backward. He wasn't looking for an opening; he was battering down their defenses through sheer, overwhelming offense. 

He leaped into the air, using a localized Force blast from his feet to propel himself higher, spinning in a corkscrew motion. He landed behind the second droid, slicing it clean in half at the waist. 

The final droid thrust its staff forward. Bakugo caught the staff with his bare hand, ignoring the searing pain of the electrical discharge. He glared into the droid's unblinking optical sensors, his crimson eyes blazing with absolute, untamed fury. 

"Die," Bakugo snarled. 

He funneled a massive surge of concussive Force energy down the length of the staff. The energy traveled into the droid's core, overloading its power cell in a fraction of a second. The droid exploded from the inside out, showering Bakugo in a rain of sparks and shattered metal.

Bakugo stood amid the wreckage, his chest heaving, his blue lightsaber humming in his hand. He looked at the blade, a sneer curling his lip. 

Blue, he thought with disgust. The color of peace. The color of restraint. It’s pathetic. It doesn't represent me. It holds me back.

He deactivated the blade with an angry flick of his thumb, the hiss of the retracting plasma echoing in the silent room. 

"Lethal force against training droids. Unnecessary property damage. Excessive emotional projection."

Bakugo stiffened. He slowly turned his head to see Master Aizawa standing on the observation balcony above, staring down at him with cold, unimpressed eyes. 

"You're fighting with anger again, Bakugo," Aizawa said, his voice echoing in the chamber. "You are treating a sparring session as an execution. That is not the Jedi way."

"The droids are scrap metal, Master," Bakugo retorted, his voice dripping with condescension. "And I defeated them in record time. Efficiency. Power. That’s what matters in a fight. Not playing nice."

Aizawa jumped down from the balcony, landing silently on the grated floor. "A Jedi's life is not just about 'fights,' Bakugo. It is about keeping the peace. Your power is undeniable, but your spirit is a storm. You rely on Form VII, a form that requires a serene mind to balance its aggressive physical nature. You do not have a serene mind. You fight to dominate, to humiliate, to destroy. That path leads to the Dark Side."

"The Dark Side is a boogeyman you masters use to keep us on leashes!" Bakugo snapped, taking a step toward Aizawa. "You preach restraint because you're afraid of what true power looks like! If the Sith ever returned, your precious 'peace' wouldn't stop a lightsaber from cutting your head off. My power would."

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed. Suddenly, the Force in the room shifted. 

Bakugo felt a terrifying, hollow sensation wash over him. The ever-present hum of the universe, the fiery well of energy he drew upon constantly, simply vanished. It was as if a heavy, soundproof blanket had been thrown over his mind. 

Master Aizawa’s eyes were glowing a faint, eerie red. He was using his unique Force ability: Sever Force. By locking his gaze on a target, Aizawa could temporarily block an individual's connection to the Force, rendering them as ordinary as a moisture farmer on Tatooine. 

Bakugo stumbled back, a spike of genuine panic piercing his heart. Without the Force, he felt naked. Weak. Vulnerable. 

"Power," Aizawa said softly, stepping closer to the suddenly powerless boy, "is a tool. Without the wisdom to wield it, it is a liability. You think your anger makes you strong? It makes you predictable. It makes you blind. If you cannot control your emotions, Katsuki Bakugo, you will never pass the Trials. You will remain a Padawan forever. Or worse, you will be expelled from the Order."

Aizawa blinked, breaking the connection. 

The Force rushed back into Bakugo like a tidal wave. He gasped, dropping to one knee, clutching his chest as his heart hammered against his ribs. The fear instantly evaporated, replaced by a surge of pure, venomous hatred. 

"The tournament begins soon," Aizawa said, turning his back on Bakugo and walking toward the exit. "Show me that you can control yourself. Show me that you are a Jedi."

The doors hissed shut. 

Bakugo remained on the floor for a long moment. His hands balled into fists, his fingernails digging so hard into his palms that they drew blood. He looked up at the closed doors, his eyes burning with an intense, suffocating rage. 

Expelled? he thought, his teeth grinding. You think you can cast me out? You think you can take my power away and put me in my place?

He stood up, retrieving his lightsaber hilt. The cold metal felt like a chain around his wrist. 

I am not a weapon to be kept in a sheath. I am the explosion.

The Grand Dojo of the U.A. Temple was a massive, circular arena bathed in the golden light of the Coruscant afternoon sun. High above, on a grand stone balcony, sat the masters of the Jedi Council, observing the proceedings. Among them was Master Toshinori. He looked far worse than he had ten years ago. He sat slumped in his chair, his robes hanging off his frail frame, a heavy cloak draped over him to hide his deterioration. Yet, his blue eyes still held a spark of unyielding hope as he watched the arena below.

The lower tiers of the dojo were packed with Padawans, Knights, and Temple Guards, all gathered to watch the next generation of Jedi showcase their skills. 

The early rounds had been impressive. Iida had demonstrated a flawless mastery of Form I, using his Force Dash to outmaneuver an older, bulkier opponent. Uraraka had managed to cleverly use her levitation abilities to disarm an opponent wielding a double-bladed lightsaber. Padawan Shoto Todoroki, a boy with dual-colored hair and a tragic lineage, had left the audience breathless, seamlessly blending scorching Force Pyrokinesis and freezing Cryokinesis into his lightsaber strikes, completely immobilizing his opponent in a prison of ice.

But the anticipation in the room reached its peak when the master of ceremonies, an exceptionally loud Jedi Master known as Present Mic, stepped into the center of the ring.

"AND NOW, FOR THE FINAL MATCH OF THE PADAWAN EXHIBITION!" Present Mic’s voice, artificially amplified by the Force, boomed through the dojo. "WE HAVE A CLASH OF TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT STYLES! IN THE EAST CORNER, THE EXPLOSIVE PRODIGY, PADAWAN KATSUKI BAKUGO!"

Bakugo stepped onto the sparring floor. The crowd’s applause was polite but tense. Everyone in the Temple knew of Bakugo’s reputation. He didn't bow. He didn't acknowledge the Masters. He simply ignited his lightsaber. The snap-hiss of the blue blade echoed loudly, and Bakugo dropped into an aggressive, low stance, the blade pointed directly forward.

"AND IN THE WEST CORNER," Present Mic announced, "THE LATE BLOOMER, PADAWAN IZUKU MIDORIYA!"

Izuku walked onto the floor, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was sweating, his repaired right arm wrapped in a compression bandage beneath his tunic. He looked up at the balcony, meeting Master Toshinori’s gaze. The old master offered a small, reassuring nod. 

Izuku took a deep breath, letting the stale air of his lungs out in a slow, measured exhale. He unclipped his lightsaber from his belt. He bowed deeply, first to the Masters, then to Bakugo. 

"I look forward to our match, Kacchan," Izuku said, his voice steady despite his nerves. He ignited his blade. 

A brilliant, emerald green plasma blade erupted from the hilt with a deep, resonant hum. Izuku fell into a defensive stance, Form III, Soresu. He held the blade close to his body, turning sideways to present a smaller target. 

Bakugo’s eyes twitched. The sight of Izuku standing there, holding a lightsaber, being treated as an equal, made his blood boil. This was the useless, Force-deaf pebble from Tatooine. The boy who had needed saving. The boy who All Might had chosen over him. 

"Don't call me that, Deku," Bakugo growled, his voice carrying across the silent arena. "I'm going to expose you today. I'm going to show everyone that you're a fake. You don't belong here."

On the balcony, Aizawa leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

"BEGIN!" Present Mic shouted.

Before the echo of the word faded, Bakugo attacked. 

He didn't run; he used a concussive Force blast from his palms behind his back to launch himself forward like a torpedo. He crossed the fifty-foot arena in a fraction of a second.

Izuku’s eyes widened. He barely had time to bring his green blade up to block. 

CLANG!

The impact was monstrous. The blue and green blades clashed, showering the floor in white-hot sparks. The sheer kinetic force behind Bakugo’s strike drove Izuku to his knees. The floor beneath them cracked.

Bakugo didn't let up. He unleashed a terrifying, relentless barrage of strikes. Left, right, overhead, a spinning backhand. His blue blade was a blur of lethal intent. He was using Form VII to its absolute maximum, completely abandoning defense for pure, unadulterated aggression. 

Izuku gritted his teeth, shifting his weight backward, letting the Force guide his hands. He was entirely on the defensive, parrying, deflecting, and redirecting Bakugo’s chaotic strikes. 

Clang! Clang! Hiss! 

Sparks rained down on Izuku’s tunics, burning small holes in the fabric. He was being pushed back toward the edge of the ring. Every time he blocked a strike, he felt the brutal, concussive telekinetic shockwaves Bakugo was weaving into his attacks. Bakugo wasn't just hitting his lightsaber; he was trying to shatter Izuku’s bones through the blade.

"Is that all you've got, Deku?!" Bakugo roared, spinning and delivering a devastating overhead strike. "Block! Hide! That’s all you're good for! You're a coward!"

Izuku parried the overhead strike, the two blades locking in a vicious bind, illuminating both their faces in a wash of blue and green light. They were mere inches apart. Izuku could see the raw, unhinged fury in Bakugo’s crimson eyes.

"I'm not hiding, Kacchan!" Izuku grunted, straining against Bakugo’s superior physical strength. "A Jedi's duty is to protect! Not to destroy!"

"Spoken like a true weakling!" Bakugo spat. 

Bakugo suddenly deactivated his lightsaber. 

Izuku, who had been pushing back with all his might against the locked blades, stumbled forward off-balance. 

It was a brilliant, highly illegal street-fighting tactic. In that split second of vulnerability, Bakugo thrust his open left palm directly at Izuku’s chest. 

BOOM!

A massive, point-blank concussive Force blast hit Izuku square in the sternum. The impact felt like being hit by a speeding speeder bike. Izuku the breath driven from his lungs in a violent rush as he was launched backward, tumbling end over end across the stone floor, his lightsaber skittering away. 

The crowd gasped. Several Knights stood up in alarm. On the balcony, Master Toshinori gripped the armrests of his chair. 

Izuku rolled to a halt near the edge of the ring. He coughed violently, tasting blood in his mouth. His chest felt bruised, his ribs agonizingly tender. 

"Stay down, Deku," Bakugo snarled, reigniting his blue blade and stalking forward, pointing the tip at the downed boy. "You lost. Just like you always do. You're nothing but a fraud parading around with a borrowed crystal."

Izuku wiped the blood from his chin. He looked at Bakugo, and then he looked at his own right hand. 

He's too fast, Izuku thought, his mind racing. His Form VII is overwhelming my Form III. I can't beat him in a prolonged duel. I have to create an opening. I have to use the power.

Izuku reached inward. He bypassed the gentle, flowing mantras of the Jedi Code and plunged straight into the deep, terrifying well of the One For All crystal. 

Immediately, the raw, unbridled energy surged into his arm. The glowing green veins illuminated his skin once more, pulsing with catastrophic power. 

"I'm not staying down, Kacchan," Izuku said, slowly getting to his feet. He didn't reach for his lightsaber. Instead, he pulled his right hand back, bringing his thumb and middle finger together in a flicking motion. 

Bakugo stopped, his eyes narrowing. He could feel the sudden, massive spike in the Force. It was suffocating, heavy, and immense. But Bakugo was not one to back down from a challenge. He bared his teeth, raising his left hand to charge his own massive, explosive blast. 

"I'll blow you away!" Bakugo roared. 

"Delaware Smash!" Izuku yelled. 

Izuku flicked his finger. 

He channeled 100% of the crystal's raw, kinetic Force energy into that single, tiny motion. 

The result was apocalyptic. 

The sheer volume of Force energy expelled from Izuku’s fingers created a shockwave so powerful it compressed the air in the arena into a visible, rippling dome of destructive force. The wind howled like a hurricane, tearing the banners from the walls of the dojo. 

The blast collided directly with Bakugo’s incoming explosive Force wave. 

The two forces met in the center of the arena. For a fraction of a second, the air stood still, agonizingly caught between two unstoppable telekinetic titans. 

And then, the explosion tore outward. 

A massive, concussive boom echoed through the Temple. The stone floor of the arena shattered completely, huge chunks of rock lifting into the air. The spectators in the lower rows were thrown backward by the sheer wind pressure, raising their arms to shield their faces. 

Bakugo was caught at the edge of the blast radius. His own attack was completely overpowered by the sheer, blunt-force trauma of Izuku’s raw energy. Bakugo was lifted off his feet, screaming in frustration as he was blown backward, crashing heavily into the stone wall of the arena’s boundary. 

Silence descended on the Grand Dojo, save for the sound of falling debris and dust. 

When the dust cleared, the arena was a cratered ruin. 

Bakugo was slumped against the wall, his tunics torn, his face bruised, his lightsaber deactivated on the floor beside him. He was conscious, but visibly stunned, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the center of the ring.

Izuku was still standing. But he was in agony. 

His right hand hung limply at his side. The middle finger he had used to channel the blast was grotesquely broken, swollen and purple, the bones shattered into fragments. He was panting heavily, tears of pain streaming down his face, but his emerald eyes were locked onto Bakugo with unwavering resolve. 

"I... I can still fight," Izuku gasped, taking a shaky step forward. 

Before either of them could make another move, a figure dropped from the balcony, landing seamlessly in the center of the ruined arena. 

Master Aizawa stood between them, his scarf floating ominously around his neck, his eyes glowing a fierce, terrifying red. 

"ENOUGH!" Aizawa’s voice cut through the silence like a vibroblade. "This match is over."

"I can still fight!" Bakugo roared, scrambling to his feet, his face twisted in absolute fury. He reached for the Force to summon his lightsaber, but nothing happened. Aizawa’s Erasure was locking him down. "Give me my power back! I didn't lose to this quirkless freak! Let me finish him!"

"You have already lost, Bakugo," Aizawa said coldly, turning to face the ash-blond boy. "You fought with intent to kill. You utilized an illegal combat maneuver to bypass your opponent's guard. You allowed your anger to blind you to your surroundings. You are a danger to yourself and others."

Aizawa then turned to Izuku. His glowing eyes faded, returning to their tired, black state. "And you, Midoriya. You sacrificed your own physical integrity for a momentary tactical advantage. You utilized an unrefined, highly dangerous burst of Force energy that could have easily killed a lesser opponent, or yourself. You both acted like reckless fools, not Jedi."

Aizawa looked up at the balcony. "Neither Padawan passes this exhibition. The match is a draw."

The crowd murmured, the tension in the room thick and uncomfortable. 

Izuku lowered his head, clutching his broken, throbbing hand to his chest. "Yes, Master Aizawa. I'm sorry." 

He looked over at Bakugo, wanting to offer a hand, wanting to say something, anything, to bridge the massive chasm that had just opened between them. But the look in Bakugo’s eyes froze the words in Izuku’s throat. 

Bakugo wasn't just angry. He looked... hollow. The absolute humiliation of being overpowered by "Deku"—in front of the entire Jedi Council, in front of All Might—was a wound to his pride so deep it touched his very soul. 

Bakugo didn't say a word. He didn't pick up his lightsaber. He turned his back on the arena, on Aizawa, on Izuku, and walked out of the dojo, disappearing into the dark corridors of the Temple. 

That night, a cold, relentless rain lashed against the windows of the U.A. Jedi Temple. 

Katsuki Bakugo sat in the center of his dark, unlit quarters. He hadn't bothered to tend to his bruises. He sat cross-legged, staring at the blue lightsaber hilt resting on his knees. 

The events of the day replayed in his mind like a corrupted holovid. The shockwave. The pain. The sight of Deku standing there, broken but unyielding. And Aizawa’s voice, ringing with judgment. You have already lost.

"I didn't lose," Bakugo whispered to the empty room, his voice shaking with a dangerous, barely contained emotion. "He cheated. He used a power that isn't his."

He gripped the lightsaber tightly. He hated the Jedi. He hated their rules, their lectures on peace, their hypocritical restraint. They were a cult of weakness, hoarding the power of the Force behind ancient texts and boring meditation sessions. They were afraid of him. They were terrified of what he could become, so they tried to neuter him. They tried to elevate a talentless hack like Deku just to prove a point about their precious "heart."

They fear your power, Katsuki.

The voice was not his own. 

It was a whisper, raspy and dry, like dead leaves scraping against stone. It seemed to come from the shadows of the room, from the very air itself. 

Bakugo stood up, his heart pounding. "Who’s there?" he demanded, scanning the darkness. 

We have been watching you. We see the fire in your heart. The Jedi are trying to extinguish it. They are putting chains on a god.

It was a seductive, intoxicating whisper. It spoke to every grievance, every insecurity, and every narcissistic desire in Bakugo’s soul. 

You seek absolute victory. You seek order through strength. The Jedi Code is a flaw. It is a lie. Come to the depths, Katsuki. Break your chains.

Bakugo knew he shouldn't listen. He knew the warnings. The Jedi Archives had extensive protocols regarding Sith artifacts and the lingering whispers of the Dark Side. Any Padawan experiencing such phenomena was strictly ordered to report it to the Council immediately for purification.

But Bakugo didn't want to be purified. He wanted answers. He wanted power.

He clipped his lightsaber to his belt, pulled his dark hood over his head, and slipped out of his quarters. 

The Temple was massive, a sprawling labyrinth of levels and sectors. Bakugo bypassed the main turbo-lifts, using maintenance shafts and localized Force jumps to navigate the silent, sleeping Temple. He was heading deep underground, far beneath the pristine meditation chambers and grand dojos. 

He was heading to the Restricted Section of the Jedi Archives. 

The Restricted Section was a heavily guarded vault containing millennia of dangerous artifacts: cursed weapons, dark holocrons, and texts detailing the philosophies of the Sith. It was guarded by Temple Security, currently overseen by Jedi Knight Ectoplasm, a master of creating Force-illusions and clones to patrol the area. 

Bakugo crept along the ceiling of the grand subterranean corridor, using his telekinesis to adhere himself to the stone like a spider. Below him, two of Ectoplasm’s illusionary guards paced back and forth in front of the massive durasteel blast doors of the vault. 

Bakugo didn't have time for stealth. He dropped from the ceiling, landing directly behind the guards. Before they could even turn around, he unleashed a dual, compressed Force concussive wave from both hands. 

Thwump!

The localized blast was silent but devastating. It completely disrupted the Force-illusions, causing the guards to dissipate into mist. 

Bakugo stepped up to the blast doors. They were locked with complex biometric and Force-attuned puzzles. Bakugo simply placed his palms flat against the durasteel. He closed his eyes, tapping into the absolute, furious depths of his anger. He didn't try to solve the lock; he visualized the internal mechanisms, super-heated the air molecules inside the lock using his Force compression, and blew the tumblers out from the inside. 

The massive doors groaned and slid open a few inches, just enough for Bakugo to slip through. 

Inside, the vault was cold. Freezing cold. The air tasted metallic and stale. Rows upon rows of containment pedestals stretched into the gloom, each holding an artifact bathed in a harsh, suppressing blue light. 

This way, Katsuki. Follow the truth.

Bakugo walked down the central aisle, the hairs on his arms standing on end. The Dark Side was palpable here. It wasn't the chaotic, unrefined energy of his own anger; it was something ancient, calculated, and malevolent. 

He stopped in front of a pedestal at the very back of the vault. The suppressing blue light had flickered and died on this specific display. 

Resting on the pedestal was a Holocron. But it was not the elegant, golden cube of the Jedi. It was a jagged, pyramidal structure made of dark, blood-red crystal. It was covered in strange, unsettling metallic adornments that looked disturbingly like disembodied, grasping hands. 

As Bakugo approached, the Holocron hummed to life. The apex of the pyramid opened, and a projection of crimson light shot upward, coalescing into two distinct figures. 

One figure was young, gaunt, and hunched, his skin terribly scarred and his eyes burning with a chaotic, unhinged red malice. He wore a black cloak covered in the same macabre metallic hands that adorned the Holocron. 

The other figure stood behind the youth. He was imposing, tall, and dressed in immaculate, expensive armor. But he had no face. Where his features should have been, there was only smooth, scarred flesh beneath a dark helmet, save for a terrifying, jagged smile. 

"Welcome, young Bakugo," the young, scarred figure spoke. His voice was the raspy whisper that had been haunting Bakugo’s dreams. "I am Darth Shigaraki. And this is my master... All For One."

Bakugo’s breath hitched. All For One. The Sith Lord who had nearly killed All Might. The phantom the Jedi believed was dead. 

"You're... you're Sith," Bakugo said, keeping his hand near his lightsaber. "You're the enemy of the Republic."

"Enemy? A matter of perspective," the faceless figure, All For One, spoke. His voice was smooth, cultured, and resonated with a terrifying, absolute authority that made the stone floor vibrate. "The Republic is a rotting carcass, Katsuki. And the Jedi are the scavengers picking at its bones. They claim to be peacekeepers, yet they breed weakness. They look at a prodigy like you—a boy with the power to reshape the stars—and they tell you to sit down. They tell you to hide your fire. They tell you to lose to a boy with a borrowed crystal."

Bakugo flinched. The words struck with surgical precision, digging directly into his bleeding pride. "How do you know about that?"

"The Dark Side reveals much to those willing to listen," Shigaraki rasped, stepping forward in the hologram, reaching out with a spectral, decaying hand. "We felt your anger, Katsuki. It is beautiful. It is pure. You hate them for holding you back. You hate them for lying to you. The Jedi Code is a cage built for sheep. Are you a sheep, Katsuki?"

"No," Bakugo growled, his hands balling into fists. "I am not."

"Then why do you stay?" All For One asked softly. "Why do you endure their lectures and their judgment? Aizawa suppresses your power because he envies it. All Might gave his power to Midoriya because Midoriya is weak, easily controlled. A perfect little pawn for their failed religion. They do not want you to succeed, Katsuki. Because if you truly unleashed your potential, you would render them all obsolete."

Every word was a drop of poison, sweet and intoxicating, falling onto the fertile soil of Bakugo’s resentment. 

"What do you want from me?" Bakugo asked, his voice low. 

"We want nothing from you," Shigaraki smiled, a horrific, jagged grin. "We want to give you everything. We want to teach you the true nature of the Force. The passions they tell you to suppress—anger, fear, pride, hatred—these are not things to be feared. They are fuel. They are the keys to absolute power."

"The Sith do not command you to be serene, Katsuki," All For One added, his presence filling the room, wrapping around Bakugo like a warm, suffocating blanket. "We command you to be victorious. We command you to break your chains. We offer you the power to never be humiliated again. To never be second best. To be the undisputed, absolute master of your own destiny."

Bakugo stared at the red, glowing figures. He thought of Izuku’s green blade. He thought of the pity in Aizawa’s eyes. He thought of the entire galaxy, looking down on him, trying to box him in. 

He didn't want to be a peacekeeper. He wanted to be a conqueror. He wanted to be a god. 

"Teach me," Bakugo whispered, his crimson eyes reflecting the bloody light of the Sith Holocron. 

"Excellent," All For One purred. "Your first lesson is simple, my new apprentice. To embrace the Dark, you must sever your ties to the Light. You must leave this Temple of weakness. And you must bleed."

The red Holocron deactivated, dropping into Bakugo’s waiting hand. It was cold to the touch, but it thrummed with a dark, violent heartbeat that perfectly matched his own. 

Katsuki Bakugo turned around and walked out of the vault. He was no longer a Padawan of the Jedi Order. The final, explosive descent into the Dark Side had begun.

The Coruscant night was weeping. 

Heavy, unrelenting sheets of rain plummeted from the smog-choked upper atmosphere, battering the transparent transparisteel domes and ancient stone spires of the U.A. Jedi Temple. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the sprawling, endless cityscape of the galactic capital in jagged bursts of electric blue and sickly yellow. The thunder that followed was a low, mournful rumble, shaking the very foundations of the Temple.

Within the shadowed, labyrinthine corridors of the Temple’s lower levels, Katsuki Bakugo moved like a phantom. 

He had shed his traditional Jedi tunics, leaving them in a crumpled, discarded heap on the floor of his quarters—a symbolic shedding of his chains. Now, he wore a sleek, midnight-black combat suit, reinforced with lightweight plastoid armor plating along the chest and forearms. A dark grey cloak was draped over his shoulders, the hood pulled low to obscure his sharp features. Clipped to his utility belt was his lightsaber, the heavy metallic cylinder feeling different against his thigh tonight. It no longer felt like a tool of peace. It felt like a detonator waiting to be triggered. 

Safely tucked into a pouch at his waist was the Sith Holocron. Even through the thick fabric, Bakugo could feel it pulsing against his hip, radiating a localized, freezing aura. It thrummed in time with his heartbeat, whispering dark, seductive praises into his mind. 

You are making the right choice, Katsuki. Leave this tomb of stagnation. The galaxy is waiting to be conquered.

Bakugo didn't reply to the voice in his head. He didn't need to. His resolve was absolute, crystallized by the humiliation he had suffered in the Grand Dojo hours earlier. The image of Izuku Midoriya—Deku—standing there with his borrowed green blade, wielding a power he had not earned, burned in Bakugo’s mind like a brand. And Aizawa. The master who had looked down on him, who had dared to strip his connection to the Force away, calling him a danger. 

They want to keep me as a guard dog, Bakugo thought, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. They want to leash my power and use it only when it suits their hypocritical morals. I’m not a dog. I am the explosion that will tear this rotting Republic apart.

He navigated the restricted maintenance shafts with practiced ease, bypassing the standard Temple security checkpoints. His destination was Hangar Bay Aurek-7, a discreet, high-security landing pad reserved for the Jedi Council's covert operations. 

Bakugo reached a heavy blast door guarded by a standard astromech and a biometric scanner. He didn't bother trying to slice it gracefully. He reached out with his left hand, tapping into the seething well of anger in his gut. The air around the terminal warped and hissed. With a sharp twist of his wrist, Bakugo applied a hyper-compressed telekinetic crush to the internal circuitry. The terminal sparked, popped, and short-circuited. The heavy blast doors groaned open in default emergency mode. 

Stepping into the hangar, Bakugo was greeted by the howling wind and the deafening roar of the Coruscant storm. The hangar bay doors were wide open to the night sky, rain blowing inward and pooling on the polished durasteel floor. 

Resting on the landing pad was a Delta-7B Aethersprite-class light interceptor. It was painted a sleek, stealthy black, equipped with an experimental hyperdrive ring. It was the fastest ship in the Temple's armada, capable of slipping past Republic blockades and vanishing into the Unknown Regions. 

It was perfect. 

Bakugo walked toward the ship, the rain instantly plastering his ash-blond hair to his forehead. He accessed the starship’s central computer using a stolen master-override cylinder he had swiped from Aizawa’s office weeks ago. The ship’s engines whined to life, a low, predatory hum that vibrated through the deck plates. 

"Nav-computer online," the ship’s automated voice chimed. "Please input destination coordinates."

Bakugo pulled a datapad from his belt, loaded with the coordinates the Sith Holocron had burned into his mind. The Exegol system. A hidden world of darkness, where All For One and his apprentice Shigaraki waited to forge him into a weapon of absolute destruction.

"Coordinates locked," Bakugo muttered, his fingers flying across the console. 

"Kacchan."

The voice was barely loud enough to be heard over the roaring storm and the whining engines, but to Bakugo, it sounded like a thunderclap. 

He froze. His hands hovered over the console. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The Force signature was unmistakable—a bright, glaring, irritatingly pure beacon of Light that made the dark power in Bakugo’s blood boil with revulsion. 

Slowly, Bakugo turned around. 

Standing thirty yards away, near the entrance of the hangar bay, was Izuku Midoriya. 

Izuku looked awful. He was still wearing his singed, battle-damaged tunics from the tournament. His right arm was heavily bandaged and bound in a medical sling, the result of his self-destructive Delaware Smash. He was entirely soaked by the rain, his wild green hair plastered flat, water running down his pale, freckled face. He was shivering, though whether from the cold or from fear, Bakugo couldn't tell. 

But Izuku’s emerald eyes were wide, desperate, and filled with a crushing, agonizing sorrow. He had felt it. Even with his clumsy connection to the Force, Izuku had felt the sudden, terrifying shift in the Temple's aura. He had felt the dark, suffocating chill emanating from Bakugo’s quarters, and he had followed it here. 

"Kacchan... what are you doing?" Izuku asked, his voice cracking, projecting it over the storm. "Why are you dressed like that? Whose ship is this?"

Bakugo stepped away from the starfighter, turning his body fully toward Izuku. The rain hammered against his black armor, washing away the last physical remnants of his time as a Jedi. 

"I'm leaving, Deku," Bakugo said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of its usual explosive screaming. "I'm leaving this pathetic Temple. I'm leaving the Order. And I'm leaving this weak, dying Republic."

Izuku physically recoiled, stepping back as if he had been struck. "Leaving? Kacchan, you can't! You're a Padawan of the Jedi Order! This is our home. We... we promised each other! Remember Tatooine? Remember the twin suns? We promised we were going to become the greatest Jedi Knights in the galaxy! We were going to be like All Might!"

The mention of All Might—and the childhood dream they had once shared—ignited a fiery, instantaneous rage in Bakugo’s chest. The air around him actually began to steam as the Force reacted to his rising temperature.

"All Might is a fraud!" Bakugo roared, his calm facade shattering instantly. "He's a weak, decaying old man clinging to a title he doesn't deserve! And the Jedi? The Jedi are a cult of cowards, Deku! They preach peace, but all they do is breed complacency. They look at true power—my power—and they try to put it in a box. They tell me to suppress it. To be 'serene.' Serenity is just a pretty word for rolling over and dying!"

Izuku took a step forward, raising his uninjured left hand in a placating gesture. "No, Kacchan, you're wrong! Master Aizawa, the Council... they're trying to help you! They want you to learn control so you don't destroy yourself. The Dark Side... it's pulling at you. I can feel it. It's cold, Kacchan. Please, step away from the ship. Let's go talk to Master Toshinori. We can fix this."

"Fix this?" Bakugo let out a harsh, barking laugh that echoed eerily over the storm. "There’s nothing to fix! I have finally opened my eyes. You want to know the truth, Deku? You want to know why All Might gave you that crystal instead of me?"

Izuku froze, his breath catching in his throat. He had always feared this conversation. 

"He gave it to you because you're pathetic," Bakugo spat, stepping closer, his crimson eyes glowing with an unnatural, sickly yellow rim in the darkness. "He gave it to you because you were a blank slate, a weak little nobody he could mold into his perfect, obedient puppet. If he had given it to me, I would have surpassed him in a day. I would have become a god. And he was terrified of that. They are all terrified of me!"

"That's not true!" Izuku yelled, tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks. "He chose me because... because power isn't everything! A Jedi’s duty is to protect! Without compassion, without a heart, power just becomes tyranny! If you leave... if you go to the Dark Side, you'll become exactly what we swore to fight!"

"I don't care about your childish morality!" Bakugo screamed, throwing his arms wide, welcoming the storm. The Force surged around him, blowing the rain away from his body in a localized repulsor-field. "Peace is a lie, Deku! There is only passion! Through passion, I gain strength! Through strength, I gain power! Through power, I gain victory! And through victory... my chains are broken!"

It was the Sith Code. 

Izuku felt a wave of absolute dread wash over him. The Holocrons he had studied in the Restricted Archives flashed in his mind. Kacchan hadn't just stumbled into the Dark Side; he was embracing its fundamental dogma. Someone—or something—had corrupted him entirely. 

"I won't let you," Izuku said. The tremble left his voice, replaced by a deep, sorrowful steel. He reached with his uninjured left hand and unclipped the lightsaber from his belt. "I won't let you throw your life away, Kacchan. I will stop you. Even if I have to drag you back to the healers myself."

Bakugo stared at Izuku, a feral, terrifying grin spreading across his face. This was it. The final obstacle. The boy who had humiliated him, the boy who had stolen his rightful destiny, standing in his way one last time. 

"You?" Bakugo scoffed softly. "With one broken arm and a borrowed power you can't even control? You're going to stop me?"

Bakugo unclipped his own hilt. 

SNAP-HISS.

The brilliant blue plasma blade erupted into the night, casting a harsh, sapphire glow over Bakugo’s armor. The rain hissed and vaporized as it struck the superheated blade. 

Izuku ignited his lightsaber. The emerald green blade hummed to life, a beacon of defiant Light in the gloomy hangar. Because of his right arm being strapped to his chest, he was forced to hold the hilt awkwardly in his non-dominant left hand. He fell into a modified, one-handed Soresu stance, positioning his body defensively. 

"Last chance, Deku," Bakugo warned, the yellow rim around his crimson irises expanding, bleeding into the whites of his eyes. "Walk away. Or die here."

"I am a Jedi," Izuku said, the green light reflecting in his tears. "I don't walk away from my friends."

With a roar that rivaled the thunder, Bakugo launched himself forward. 

He didn't run; he used his explosive Force telekinesis, blasting concussive waves from his boots to propel himself across the wet durasteel at terrifying speed. He closed the distance in a millisecond, bringing his blue blade down in a devastating, two-handed overhead strike. 

Izuku brought his green blade up to block. 

CLASH!

The impact was cataclysmic. The sheer kinetic force of Bakugo’s strike sent a shockwave rippling through the puddles around them. Izuku’s knees buckled under the immense weight. Pain shot up his left arm, and his broken right hand throbbed agonizingly against his chest. Bakugo was fighting with Form VII, Juyo, but it was completely devoid of Jedi restraint. It was pure, unadulterated hatred channeled into physical combat. 

Bakugo didn't lock blades. He immediately disengaged, spinning on his heel and delivering a brutal horizontal sweep aimed at Izuku’s neck. 

Izuku ducked, feeling the heat of the blue plasma singe the tips of his green hair. He rolled across the wet floor, coming up onto one knee, and swung his blade upward to parry a descending thrust. 

The hangar bay became a blur of blue and green light. The sound of their sabers clashing—crackle, hiss, boom—overpowered the storm outside. 

"Fight back!" Bakugo screamed, unleashing a flurry of lightning-fast strikes, battering Izuku’s defenses from every angle. "Use that power you stole from me! Give me everything you have!"

Izuku parried, deflected, and retreated. He was at a massive disadvantage. Not only was he fighting one-handed, but he was desperately trying not to hurt Bakugo. He didn't want to strike a lethal blow. He wanted to disarm, to pacify. But against a prodigy wielding the Dark Side, hesitation was a death sentence.

Bakugo feinted a strike to the head, twisting his wrist at the last second to slash at Izuku’s legs. Izuku Force-jumped backward, soaring into the air to evade. 

As Izuku was airborne, Bakugo thrust his empty left hand forward. 

BOOM!

A hyper-compressed blast of explosive Force energy erupted from Bakugo’s palm. It wasn't a standard Force push. The air warped into a localized concussive sphere. It slammed into Izuku mid-air, a devastating invisible explosion. 

Izuku cried out as the blast shattered his telekinetic shield, throwing him violently across the hangar. He crashed into a stack of heavy durasteel cargo crates, the metal denting beneath his weight. He slumped to the floor, gasping for breath, his vision swimming. 

"Is this it?!" Bakugo mocked, stalking toward him slowly, the blue blade casting long, dancing shadows across the bay. "Is this the champion of the Light? The boy who is supposed to save the galaxy?"

Izuku struggled to his feet, leaning heavily against the dented crates. He coughed, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. He could feel the One For All crystal in his lightsaber pulsing frantically, offering him its boundless, destructive power. Use me, the Force whispered. Unleash it.

No, Izuku thought desperately. If I use 100% like I did in the tournament, I'll destroy my other arm. And I might kill Kacchan. I have to find another way.

"I won't... fight you... with anger, Kacchan," Izuku panted, raising his green blade again, his left arm trembling from exhaustion. "I will only defend."

Bakugo’s face twisted in absolute disgust. "You pity me? You look down on me from your high horse of morality and you pity me?!"

The air pressure in the hangar dropped dramatically. The rain outside seemed to freeze in mid-air. Bakugo raised both hands, his lightsaber humming in his right, his left palm open. The Dark Side swirled around him, visible as a faint, purple-black miasma. The yellow in his eyes completely consumed his irises. He was fully surrendering to the abyss. 

"I don't need your pity!" Bakugo roared. "I AM THE PINNACLE OF POWER!"

He unleashed an explosive blast so massive it tore the deck plates from the floor. 

Izuku didn't try to block it. He couldn't. Instead, he tapped into the One For All crystal, not to attack, but to enhance his speed. Green lightning crackled around Izuku’s legs. Full Cowling - 5%, he thought, utilizing the dangerous technique he had been secretly practicing to disperse the crystal's energy evenly throughout his body rather than concentrating it in his limbs. 

Izuku vanished in a blur of green light just as the explosion annihilated the cargo crates where he had been standing. 

He reappeared behind Bakugo, swinging his lightsaber in a wide, sweeping arc aimed at Bakugo’s weapon hand, intending to disarm him. 

But the Dark Side granted Bakugo preternatural reflexes. Without even looking, Bakugo parried the strike behind his back. He spun around, his left hand glowing with crackling, explosive energy. He grabbed Izuku directly by the throat. 

Izuku choked, his lightsaber clattering to the floor as Bakugo lifted him clean off the ground with one hand. 

The heat radiating from Bakugo’s palm was unbearable. It felt like holding a thermal detonator seconds before it exploded. Izuku grabbed Bakugo’s wrist with his good hand, kicking his legs, desperately trying to pry the fingers loose. 

"You lose, Deku," Bakugo whispered, staring into Izuku’s terrified, watering eyes. "You were always a pebble. And I am the avalanche."

Bakugo threw Izuku to the floor with bone-shattering force. 

Izuku slammed into the durasteel, crying out in agony as his ribs cracked. He tried to crawl toward his dropped lightsaber, but a heavy boot slammed down on his wrist, pinning it to the floor. 

Bakugo stood over him, breathing heavily. The fight was over. The Ninth Jedi was beaten, broken, and helpless at the feet of the explosive prodigy. 

Bakugo looked down at Izuku, then slowly raised his blue lightsaber. The plasma hummed, a serene, peaceful sound that sharply contrasted with the murderous intent in Bakugo’s heart. 

Kill him, the voice of All For One whispered from the Holocron at his belt. Sever your ties. Strike down the symbol of your weakness.

Bakugo stared at the blue blade. He felt a sudden, intense revulsion. 

The blue crystal inside the hilt was his original Kyber crystal, given to him when he first arrived at the Temple. It was attuned to the Light Side. It represented everything he was trying to leave behind: restraint, peace, the Jedi Code. It felt cold in his hands. It felt wrong. 

"I'm not using this piece of Jedi trash," Bakugo sneered. 

To Izuku’s horror, Bakugo deactivated the lightsaber. He didn't drop it. Instead, he gripped the metallic cylinder with both hands. He closed his eyes, his face contorting in an expression of absolute, agonizing exertion. 

The Force in the hangar shifted violently. The temperature plummeted, and a foul, oppressive darkness filled the air. It felt like all the oxygen was being sucked out of the room. 

Izuku watched, paralyzed by pain and fear, as he realized what Bakugo was doing. It was a ritual described only in the most forbidden corners of the Jedi Archives. A process so inherently cruel and violent it defied the very nature of the Force. 

Bakugo was Bleeding his crystal. 

Kyber crystals were living entities, naturally aligned with the Light Side of the Force. To wield a red blade, a Sith had to impose their absolute will upon a crystal, flooding it with all their hatred, fear, pain, and malice. They had to dominate it, torturing the living stone until it broke and bled under the weight of the Dark Side. 

Bakugo poured everything he had into the hilt. He poured his humiliation on Tatooine. He poured his hatred of All Might’s rejection. He poured the stinging memory of Izuku’s Delaware Smash. He poured his absolute, unyielding desire to dominate the galaxy. 

The hilt in his hands began to vibrate violently. A high-pitched, ethereal screaming echoed through the hangar—the sound of the Kyber crystal crying out in agony as it was flooded with pure, toxic darkness. 

"Break!" Bakugo roared, veins popping on his neck, his eyes glowing a terrifying, luminous Sith yellow. "Submit to me!"

The crystal fought back. A flash of pure blue light erupted from the seams of the hilt, burning Bakugo’s hands. The Light Side desperately tried to purge the corruption, begging its master to turn back, to find peace. 

But Bakugo had no peace left to give. 

"I SAID BREAK!" 

With a final, catastrophic surge of his explosive, concussive Force power, Bakugo crushed the crystal’s resistance. 

A shockwave of dark energy blasted outward from the hilt, blowing the rainwater away in a massive circle. The blue light died instantly, replaced by a sickly, pulsing, violent crimson hue that bled through the metal seams of the casing. 

Bakugo opened his eyes. They were no longer the eyes of a Padawan. They were the eyes of a monster. 

He pressed the activation stud. 

CRACK-HISS!

The blade that erupted from the hilt was no longer a smooth, humming pillar of plasma. It was a jagged, violently unstable torrent of blood-red energy. It crackled and spit sparks of dark lightning, sounding less like a hum and more like a continuous, roaring explosion. It was the physical manifestation of Katsuki Bakugo’s soul—raw, aggressive, and entirely unstable. 

Izuku stared at the red blade, his heart breaking into a million pieces. The Kacchan he knew—the arrogant but brilliant boy who had once promised to be a hero—was gone. He had been entirely consumed by the flame. 

Bakugo looked down at the red blade, a twisted, euphoric smile spreading across his face. He felt the power coursing through him. He felt limitless. 

"Beautiful," Bakugo whispered. He turned his yellow gaze down to Izuku, still pinned beneath his boot. "The Jedi Katsuki Bakugo is dead. He was weak."

"Kacchan... please..." Izuku wept, staring up at the terrifying figure bathed in red light. "Don't do this."

"I am Darth Ground Zero," Bakugo declared, his voice echoing with dark, terrifying authority. "And I am going to burn your precious Republic to ash."

He raised the unstable, crackling red lightsaber high above his head. He didn't aim for Izuku’s heart. He aimed for the arm that held the One For All crystal. 

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away. 

Bakugo brought the blade down. 

The superheated red plasma cleaved through Izuku’s right shoulder. It didn't amputate the limb, but it sliced deep into the flesh and muscle, instantly cauterizing the wound with explosive, searing heat. The pain was beyond anything Izuku had ever experienced. It felt as if a star had been ignited inside his shoulder joint. 

Izuku screamed, a harrowing, throat-tearing sound that was swallowed by the roaring storm outside. He convulsed in agony, slipping rapidly into unconsciousness as his nervous system overloaded. 

Bakugo deactivated his lightsaber, clipping the smoking hilt back to his belt. He removed his boot from Izuku’s wrist. He didn't look down at the boy writhing on the floor. He had severed his ties. He had spilled blood. The initiation was complete. 

Bakugo turned his back on the fallen Jedi and walked toward the waiting stealth fighter. 

He climbed into the cockpit, the canopy sealing shut, locking out the sound of the storm and the faint, dying whimpers of Izuku Midoriya. Bakugo strapped himself into the pilot's seat, his yellow eyes fixed on the stars above Coruscant. 

"Engaging hyperdrive," the ship's computer announced. 

The ship’s engines flared, the repulsorlifts pushing the sleek black fighter up into the torrential rain. With a blinding flash of blue light, the ship shot into the atmosphere, piercing the cloud cover and vanishing into the infinite void of space. 

Down in the dark, flooded hangar bay, Izuku lay entirely still. The rain beat down on his broken body, washing the blood into the drains. His vision was fading to black. The last thing he felt was the faint, desperate pulse of the green Kyber crystal lying on the floor a few feet away, reaching out to him, trying to keep his fading heart beating. 

I failed him, Izuku thought, a single tear escaping his eye as the darkness finally took him. I'm sorry, Master. I failed.

The Padawan Katsuki Bakugo had fled into the night. But the shadow of Darth Ground Zero would soon fall across the entire galaxy.