Toshinori Yagi couldn't quite bring himself to believe what he was staring at. His whole body felt cold; numb to the inescapable emotions that pursued him like heat-seeking missiles zeroed in on his heart. Surely he could keep them at bay. Surely he could convince himself that they were a lie, that such things were simply his old, overly-sensitive self, giving into his own self-serving emotions. The tears that stung at his eyes… He had not shed such tears for those that he'd failed to save before. So why? Why now? This was not his own family that had been taken from him, yet it felt like his heart was being torn asunder by grief and guilt and other emotions he couldn't even begin to describe. It was as though he were hanging his head over the freshly-dug grave of his own flesh-and-blood son, yet…
He heard the sob of a grieving mother next to him. He dared not look. He knew who it was, and he knew he couldn't bear to look her in the eye. After all, this was all his fault. He was the one who had led this mother's child to his early grave. More than the villain who had struck the final blow, more than the society that praised those select few to put their lives on the line for so little progress… It was his fault. It was All Might's fault.
He'd tried so hard. He'd fought for decades. He'd become the Symbol of Peace. But what did that really mean? He'd single-handedly smashed the crime rate of Japan down to its lowest level ever recorded, yet… Every day, even before he retired, a new villain would emerge to try to best him. He fought them all, carrying the burden of Japan – no, the world – on his shoulders. And what should he expect when he inevitably found that he could no longer support such a heavy load?
He could no longer stop the hot tears that burned their way down his gaunt, hollow cheeks. What had he done in all those years of fighting? He'd perpetuated that age-old theme that only violence could thwart violence, that the only answer to a punch was an even more lethal punch. How many children had he led down this path by inspiring them to perpetuate that same cycle of violence?
But what was the alternative? He didn't know. He couldn't think of anything, no matter how much he tried, and it only made his heart hurt all the more. After all, he'd been raised in that same society that had always said that 'might is right,' that any challenge could be answered with an even bigger weapon. And so he'd spent his life chiseling himself away until he'd been sculpted into that weapon that he thought the world needed. And that's what he was. In the end, he was just another weapon. Just another gun. Just another tank. Just another bomb. Just another drone. The only difference was that he could slap a shining smile on top of it all. Did that make him better or worse than the cold steel of the past centuries, before the rise of heroes?
His knees hit the rain-soaked pavement below, the deluge from above like a million bullets raining from the heavens, each one inscribed with the name of some soul he couldn't save; someone he'd inspired to take up his mantle even after he himself couldn't find the strength to fight on anymore. They'd all taken up his cause. And just what legacy had they all continued? He was violence incarnate, the right hand of vengeance hiding behind the gleaming visage of peace. He'd perpetuated the same old routine of fighting fire with a bigger fire, and he could still see the world burning for it, the heat of it all blistering his frail skin, burning through the pathetic remains of his muscles, threatening to turn his bones to ash.
The sobbing of the mother faded into eternity, and he was left in silence, the echoes of her endless grief reverberating in his head. The 'Symbol of Peace' was a joke. He was not the Symbol of Peace. Who was he trying to fool all these years? He was a Symbol of War by another name. He was just pretty enough to hide the ugliness of it all behind a socially-acceptable façade.
He looked out over the vast field of standing stones; of fallen heroes; of discarded, broken weapons; of mothers' children buried before their time, snatched from the world far too soon. And whose fault was it? The howling of a thousand grieving mothers edged in all around him. Thin, emaciated hands clamped over his ears to try to block them out, but he could still hear them crying out in his head. Once again, the burden of the world weighed heavily on his shoulders, but this time it was the endlessly increasing world of the dead that clawed at his flesh and demanded more; demanded a salvation that he was incapable of giving. Demanded an answer.
He had no answer. No answer to the grieving families of those who were lost. No answer for those whose lives had been given to his aimless cause. No answer for all of his dear, precious students who had given everything trying in vain to retrace his extraordinary steps. Yet the violence continued, an unyielding deluge of pain as endless as the rain above, and his own silence in the face of it all was deafening.
His forehead touched the sacred stone inscribed with his successor's name. The chill of a thousand more souls chasing the same end sapped away the remaining strength from his shriveled, atrophied muscles. A thousand more chasing his back. A thousand more grasping at his heels. A thousand more reaching desperately after his fading shadow. He was not the hero they looked up to. He was not the legend they all made him out to be. He was hardly even a man. He was an empty corpse, a zombie stubbornly walking this Earth long after he should be gone.
He could still see those bright green eyes staring up at him, still so filled with fire; the same fire he himself had ignited long ago. He could still remember what they looked like when that fire reluctantly faded, taking all the light with it as the last embers of life slowly flickered and died. That should have been him. He had no business remaining here – especially after so many younger than him had passed – yet here he was. He didn't dare ask why. He knew.
Yet in his head, he could see him so clearly. He could see them all so clearly – following right after him; fighting with all their strength, perpetuating the same old theme of endless violence; fighting for their lives. Dying. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't get that image out of his head; of all those promising young kids dying, over and over, for a cause they didn't fully understand; chasing a promised glory that they couldn't completely comprehend.
And, kneeling there in front of all their graves, he could swear he could hear them all crying his name.