The viewing boxes that hovered above the stands buzzed with quiet chatter. Despite them responding to Yoroi Musha's invitation to the event, meant to project an image of a united front among heroes regarding improving young talent, few seemed truly invested in the events unfolding below. Conversations drifted between unrelated topics, the majority of heroes more interested in socializing than in the spectacle they were supposed to support.
"When Edgeshot suggested we come here, I figured he'd show up himself." Mount Lady remarked, sinking into the plush couch. Now at her regular size, she would look somewhat like the average well-built civilian, if not for her skin-tight cream-colored suit with bold purple and orange patterns, mimicking high-knee boots, gloves, and a breastplate. Her horned purple mask sat carelessly on the table beside her, dangerously close to an alcoholic slushy.
"I assumed much the same," Kamui Woods replied, his posture rigid as he dutifully observed the events below. He hadn't removed the wooden mask-like portion of his suit, fueling ongoing speculation among some in the VIP section about whether it was part of his body or not. "I believe he might be giving us some room to grow on our own now that we are no longer under his wing as students."
"Or he's late." She quipped.
"Punctuality was the first lesson he taught you, remember" Kamui countered, shooting her a sidelong glance, she gave him a harmless glare in response. "I doubt he'd break it himself."
"You two talking about Edgeshot?" came a deep voice, followed by a grunt and the groan of a couch protesting under heavy weight. Death Arms settled in his own safe beside Mount Lady's, his massive frame filling the space it offered. "The Ninja is probably kicking his feat up at the Tokyo event."
The younger heroes turned toward their elder. Kamui blinked in disbelief at his statement, while Mount Lady's gaze lingered on Death Arms' outfit—steel-toed boots and tight dark blue track pants clinging to bulging muscles, giving him the look of a construction worker with too many hours at the gym. His upper body was even more eye-catching, with a skin-tight, unzipped crop-top jacket that exposed his abs and chest. The whole ensemble was made from the same reinforced material as Mount Lady's suit, complemented by his slicked-back, greasy gray hair. As she understood, his hero aesthetic was hyper masculine, but designed to be appealing to middle-aged women, not teenage boys.
What caught her attention most, though, was the absence of his iconic heavy metal bracers. They were central to his quirk.
"'Kicking his feet up'?" Kamui asked, skepticism lacing his tone. "I feel that you are perhaps undermining Edgeshot's diligence as a hero."
Death Arms chuckled, reclining further into his seat. "He's a Top 10 hero. If anyone's earned the right to take a break without really taking one, it's him. Hell, that's why I'm here."
Mount Lady shot Kamui a grin, leaning back in her seat. "See? Even the big shots know how to relax. You're way too uptight, Kamui. Nobody's that strict about being the perfect hero."
Kamui frowned, crossing his arms, the sound of groaning wood caused a slight wince as his injured arm protested the movement. "Except All Might."
"Ha!" Death Arms barked out a laugh, reaching for the beer offered by a passing waiter.
"What's so funny?" Kamui asked, his frustration slipping through.
"I've heard that line since my own training days," Death Arms replied with a grin. "All Might's a different breed. You can't compare him to the rest of us."
Mount Lady nodded thoughtfully. "True. He's pushing 65, right? Most heroes retire long before that. Even Yoroi Musha has managed to stay in the national Top 10 his whole career, but All Might was the international number one hero for longer than I've been alive. The fact that he's still in the global Top 10 is a miracle."
"Wait, did you say All Might's in the global Top 10? I thought he was still number one," another hero chimed in from a few seats away.
"No, he's dropped a few spots. What's his current rank, 3rd?" another hero offered.
"4th, actually. Stars and Stripes, Godzillo, and Axel-R8 outrank him now," someone else corrected.
"Damn, two of those are Americans," someone remarked with a whistle of surprise.
As the chatter continued, a figure seated quietly in the middle absorbed every word without drawing attention—or at least, tried his best not to, as he still received a few curious glances. He couldn't blame them. His long, graying blonde hair and business clothes that hung loosely on his beanpole-like made it clear he was far from pulling any feats of heroics short of pulling a muscle.
It wasn't as if the floor was strictly reserved for heroes, but a civilian among them seemed out of place. Thankfully, no one had pressed him for an explanation, though Toshinori Yagi had a solid cover story if anyone asked. Even so, he preferred not being asked at all, it was difficult to pull the wool over the eyes of a suspicious hero.
He'd secured his spot through his secret identy's position as a staff member at Might Tower, granting him access to observe the junior high sports event from the safety of the VIP section. Though the press wasn't as relentless at these smaller events, part of him still worried about potential headlines: All Might Associate Spotted at Junior High Competition—New Protégé on the Rise?
That risk was usually managed by sending lesser-known employees to scout events like these. Avoiding unwanted media attention wasn't a mandatory skill in his line of work, but it was one Toshinori had learned to appreciate.
Some might see his secret attendance as indulgent, a frivolous errand for someone of his stature. But Toshinori had his reasons. Chief among them was a blue-and-white envelope sitting unopened on his desk. Its sender had been in touch recently, and their conversations echoed the very topic that had dominated the chatter around him.
All Might was fading. No one understood that better than Toshinori Yagi. Age spared no one, and though he had once dared to believe that the Symbol of Peace might defy that truth, he knew now that he had been wrong.
All Might was human—just like Toshinori Yagi.
The unopened letter on his desk back at Might Tower weighed on his mind. An offer from Nezu to join UA's faculty, surely.
In their recent, almost weekly conversations, the principal had mentioned more than once that retiring on a high note might be wise, stepping down before All Might slipped out of the global top ten. Doing so would allow them to control the narrative— showing the world that he trusted the younger generation to bear the weight he could no longer carry alone. That he was willing to take a step to the side and allow a "spiritual successor" to take up his mantle.
Toshinori suspected Nezu intended to use those conversations as a subtle attempt at nudging him to make a literal successor rather than merely a spiritual one. Preferably, that successor would be a student at UA.
Admittedly, Toshinori was still uncomfortable with passing the torch that was One for All, even if it had been around a decade since it fulfilled its purpose. Still, the idea that he would be able to help raise the next user of One for All, to have a hand in shaping the leader of the new hero generation... did somewhat appeal to him.
Izuku buried his face in his hands, steam practically rising from his head as Tsubasa relished in his successful teasing. "I really did that?" Izuku mumbled, his voice muffled by his palms.
"Yeah, you did," Tsubasa replied with a grin, shifting his gaze to the stadium below. Only a handful of people were scattered across the track, field, and stands. It was still early; most spectators wouldn't arrive until much closer to the semi-finals and finals. The rest of participants would only show themselves when it was time for their events.
"Aggh!" Izuku groaned, slumping further into his seat. "I feel so dumb."
"Hey, no worries, man. It's still better than that one time—"
"Please don't," Izuku begged, peeking through his fingers. "I don't even like her anymore." He flopped backward, staring up at the stadium ceiling. The support beams above weren't particularly interesting, but counting them seemed like a good way to avoid the current topic.
"Yeah, right," Tsubasa said, clearly not buying it.
"It's true!"
"Izuku, I've been telling you for months that your hair looks better without the gel," Tsubasa pointed out, his tone teasing. "All it took was one offhand comment about her liking scruffy hair, and you showed up the next day without the gel."
"..."
"See?"
"Fine! I still like her, okay?" Izuku snapped, sitting upright and glaring at his friend. "But it's not like it matters anyway."
"If you say so," Tsubasa sighed, growing bored with the conversation. He shifted gears. "So, is your mom cool with you hanging out with me again?"
"I think so. She didn't say anything when I mentioned it, but I smoothed it over by saying I was hanging out with Katchan." Izuku's mouth feels a bit dry, so he starts fishing out his water bottle from his bag.
"Seriously?" Tsubasa raised an eyebrow. "She still thinks you're best buddies with him? The guy barely acknowledges you're alive half the time, and if he does, it's to berate you."
"Yeah, he kind of made a deal with me when we started junior high," Izuku admitted, looking down at his hands. "I'm just making the most of it."
"What kind of deal?"
"If his mom thinks he was up to no good, she'll ask where he was. If he says he was with me, she usually backs off because she thinks I keep him out of trouble. If she doesn't believe him, she'll ask my mom, who will ask me. My job is to lie and say I was with him."
"And his end of the deal?"
"He does the same. My mom worries that I'll get hurt because I'm 'innocent, frail, and quirkless.' She feels better if she thinks I'm with Katchan."
Tsubasa couldn't hold back his laughter. "That's hilarious! It's like they think you're some cute, innocent cinnamon-roll little twink who keeps Bakugo in check, and Bakugo's the mean alpha strong manly man who secretly cares about and protects you."
Izuku's response was immediate—a spit-take followed by a coughing fit. "I did not need that image!" He shot Tsubasa a glare, regretting that his friend was the only option available and wishing, just for a moment, that he could trade him in for a less embarrassing model.
This only made Tsubasa laugh harder, and Izuku decided it was time to change the topic.
"You said you wanted to hang out early before my events start, but that plan seems to have fallen through," Izuku remarked.
Tsubasa looked at his analog watch, an older model—digital watches were rare these days unless they had some kind of protective casing. "Yeah, they could call your group at any moment now. That villain attack outside ate through most of our time."
"And all that time buying those spicy snacks at the tuck-shop?" Izuku raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the empty snack wrappers piling up next to Tsubasa.
"Hey!" Tsubasa protested. "I had to make sure Bakugo couldn't get any. And besides, you know I stress eat."
"Stress eat?" Izuku asked, surprised. "I thought you didn't care about doing well at your shot put event since you're not going into heroics. Why would you be stress eating?"
Tsubasa's playful demeanor faltered, the grin slipping from his face. He hesitated, looking down at the wrappers before gathering the courage to speak. "Izuku, you know how my grandfather helps support my family, right?"
"Did he die!?" Izuku's face went pale with worry.
"No, no, you're jumping the gun there, pal." Tsubasa chuckled softly, though there was a sadness to his voice. "But… he's added a new condition to the payments."
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the intercom announcer. "Non-Heteromorph Boys, 14 and Under for the 100-meter dash, please report to the changing rooms. I repeat—"
Izuku scrambled for his bag. "That's me," he said, ready to dash off, but Tsubasa grabbed his arm, his grip unexpectedly firm and maybe even a bit painful. The desperation in Tsubasa's eyes made Izuku pause.
"But I—"
"I get it, today's big for you," Tsubasa said, his voice strained. "But I need to tell you this in person now, or I might not get another chance."
"Okay," Izuku replied, not really sure what to expect.
"My grandfather wants me to come live with him. In some area in northern Kyoto."
The news hit Izuku like a truck, leaving him speechless. The idea of Tsubasa moving away was too much to process in the moment.
"Attention Please, this is our final call. Non-Heteromorph Boys, 14 and Under for the 100-meter dash, please report to the changing rooms. I repeat—"
Tsubasa gently ushered Izuku toward the stairs. "Hey, chin up. We can talk about this later. Right now, you have a race to run."
"S-sure," Izuku stammered, still reeling from the news as he headed toward the changing rooms.
"What did you say his time was?"
"10.4."
"Dang, that's fast."
"It's not really, though. Most finalists our age run 10 flat."
"Yeah, but he's quirkless."
"No way! Isn't that like record-breaking for them? Why's he so fast?"
"Imagine how fast he would be if he had a quirk."
(I want a quirk.)
The background chatter, usually just a low hum to Izuku, drilled into his mind, although only the latest comment was truly registered in his brain. His brain begain turning the thought in his brain. His eyes were wide with anxiety as he stared at the checkered blue and white tiles of the changing room floor, blurring under his unfocused gaze. His hand tightened around the race number he'd been assigned.
"Does that really change much? All Reggie's quirk does is turn him to stone. Is that really going to make you faster?"
If he had a quirk, he could be running in the finals.
"Yeah, if he used his quirk while running. But if he didn't, he'd still be faster than the average quirkless person. Stronger too."
If he had a quirk, his mother wouldn't treat him like he was so fragile
"Smarter too."
"Hey! That's rude. He's sitting right there, and is it even true?"
If he had a quirk, his teachers would respect him.
"It's true."
"Yeah, imagine how dumb you would be without a quirk, right, fellas?"
Laughter echoed around the room, mingling with an indignant cry from someone who was the butt of the joke.
If he had a quirk, people wouldn't look at him with pity.
"But being serious, people with quirks are way tougher than those without. It's why in those old movies, they die so easily."
Maybe… Dad wouldn't have left.
"Yeah! I always wondered about that. Like, really? You broke your arm falling down some stairs?"
"Or died getting hit by a car in a slow zone?"
If he had a quirk, he would have friends besides Tsubasa.
"OI! Will you idiots shut up!" Bakugo's voice cut through the chatter like a knife. "I'm sick of your yapping. People in here like ME," he mocked, gesturing to himself as if talking to cavemen, "And HIM." He made the same exaggerated gesture toward Izuku, "Are trying to focus because we actually have our heads in the game."
The room fell into a tense silence, save for a few grumbles of "rude" and "asshole" under breath.
Izuku's heart pounded, his grip on the race number loosening as he dared to look up. His eyes met Bakugo's, who, noticing Izuku's gaze, scowled. "What're you looking at? You're still the most annoying idiot in this room to me if that's what you care about."
Maybe Katsuki Bakugo wouldn't treat him like dirt… if he had a quirk.
Izuku wanted to throw up. His legs trembled beneath him, weak as if he'd just run 100 miles, not 100 meters. Every step down the tunnel leading back to the changing rooms echoed with his failure, his chest tight with sadness and shame. Tears dripped down his face, onto the cold cement.
He wanted to disappear. He was done—completely, utterly done.
"Not all men are born equal." The words escaped him, a bitter mutter that hung in the air. Maybe it was time to finally accept it.
He pushed open the door to the changing room, expecting solitude. The rest of the boys had left the track long ago—he'd lingered, hoping the ache of failure would dull before facing anyone.
But the room wasn't empty.
"Tch. Figures you'd waste my time."
Izuku's heart plummeted. He froze, staring at the scowling figure leaning against the lockers.
"K-Katchan?" His voice came out shaky.
Bakugo's arms were crossed, eyes narrowed. "Who else? You think any of the others care enough to wait around for your sorry ass?"
Izuku clenched his fists. He wasn't going to cower—he didn't have the strength or patience anymore. Not after today.
"Why are you even here?" Izuku forced his voice to steady, meeting Bakugo's gaze with a strained defiance.
"Why?" Bakugo pushed off the locker and stepped forward, his presence looming over Izuku. "Because I want to make sure you understand exactly what today was." His voice was devoid of its usual anger, replaced by something sharper. "You messed up. All that 'hard work,' all that 'determination,' and you still choked. Pathetic."
Izuku's fists tightened. "I know I failed, alright?" His voice rose, trembling with frustration. "I don't need you to remind me! Today was my chance to prove that I could—"
POP!
The sound of Bakugo's small explosion echoed off the tiled walls, orange light flashing in Izuku's vision. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his feet.
"Shut up." Bakugo's voice cut through the silence, his hand still sizzling with leftover sparks. "I wasn't done."
Izuku froze, his pulse racing. Bakugo's calm was unnerving, more threatening than any of his outbursts.
"You're lucky," Bakugo continued, voice low. "Today, all that happened was some embarrassment. Out there? In the real world? A screw-up like that means people die. You die." He leaned closer, his eyes cold, analytical. "You're not cut out for this."
Izuku's breath caught. His mind raced, grasping for some excuse, one rose to his lips. "But I-"
"Yeah, I know you had a bad day," Bakugo sneered, "but guess what? Bad days happen. And if you can't even handle your friend moving a few hours away, how are you gonna handle life as a hero?"
"You knew?" Izuku's voice was soft, but filled with surprise.
"Don't ask dumb questions."
"How long ago?"
"A week ago? Why does it matter?" Bakugo's eye twitched in annoyance. "God, it's so frustrating talking to you. You're missing the point. Let me guess—now you feel betrayed because he told me first, right?"
Izuku stayed silent.
"Tch." Bakugo glanced away, lips curling into a sneer. "You're so pathetic."
(I want a quirk.)
"And useless, and stupid, and all the rest," Izuku said, his voice rising in frustration. "Yeah, I get it. You've been saying that ever since I didn't get my quirk. Isn't that what this is about? You wouldn't be on my case so much if I had one."
Bakugo raised his eyebrow "Wow, you are so obsessed with that." He began walking to the door, obviously done with the conversation.
"Can you blame me!? Could you honestly tell me that you'd have such a problem with me if had even the most useless quirk for hero work? Like Aya's nail polish quirk, Tanaka's stretchy neck. Or what about something useful like Tsubasa's dragon mutation?"
Bakugo threw a look back, "I can. Because unlike you they don't seem like they're suicidal enough to into the hero game when they know that they don't stand a chance."
Izuku left the event shortly after, walking along a route he knew should be safe based on the research he did that morning. He avoided the crowded train and bus stops—he needed time alone, a chance to clear his head.
But no matter how far he walked, Bakugo's words echoed in his mind. Or more specifically, one word:
Suicidal.
Was he? Bakugo wasn't entirely wrong—heroes who messed up often faced dire consequences. But real pros, the ones like All Might, always seemed to come out on top in the end.
However, they had quirks, could he really survive in their would without one?
(I want a quirk.)
Izuku's mind was dragged back to a painful memory from years ago. He'd been on a local online forum for quirkless people, looking for support. But instead, a troll had taken over the space, spewing hate. Taking advantage of the fact that their community was too small to have 24/7 content moderation.
Izuku could still remember the cruel words they'd thrown at someone lamenting the same thing he always did.
"If you're so concerned about not having a quirk, why not just game end yourself and hope for one in the next life?"
The automated filters had stopped the worst of it, but even as a kid, Izuku had understood the message. He'd never seriously considered it back then.
But now, as he replayed Bakugo's accusation, it was harder to push those thoughts away.
(But I really want a quirk.)
He shook his head, trying to snap out of it, but the darker thoughts clung to him, thick and suffocating. Without realizing it, his feet had led him down the wrong street, into a neighborhood he'd meant to avoid.
It was another hero cold spot, although this one had remained one for much longer than a few days.
Izuku didn't notice at first. His dark thoughts blinding him to the surroundings.
That's why he didn't notice it at first—the faint, wet sloshing sound of slime dripping from the metal grate beside him as he waited to cross the street. A thick, sewer-tainted liquid oozed onto the pavement, glistening under the mid-day sun. Then came the teeth—sharp, jagged, dispersed throughout the slime like shards of broken ceramic. Two eyeballs followed, rolling into view, scanning their surroundings frantically.
The creature's shadow loomed over Izuku, a grotesque mass reassembling itself piece by piece. Its form twitched and convulsed, panting from exertion. With a wet squelch, the slime began to shift, teeth and eyes arranging into a nightmarish approximation of a face that threatened to meld back into the body of slime.
"No need to worry, pal," it spat, its voice wet and mocking. "All the heroes are too busy at that dumb sports festival to bother with scum like us. Well I guess the No. 1 isn't a big fan."
Its eyes swirled in the muck, darting around as if hunting for salvation. One of them swiveled, locking onto Izuku.
"Bingo!" The voice warbled, twisted with a glee that pierced through the mental fog, sending a shiver down Izuku's spine. "A medium-sized body to hide in!"
Izuku barely had time to react before the slime surged toward him. His body moved on instinct, leaping back with surprising agility—but not fast enough. The slime crashed into him, the wet slap of its body against his own sending a cold shock through him.
It was like being struck by a wave of sludge. The slime was thick, suffocating, wrapping around him with a strength that Izuku couldn't hope to muster without a quirk.
(I need a quirk)
Izuku's mind raced, his heart hammering in his chest as he thrashed against the suffocating, slick mass. His thoughts kicked into overdrive, his panic feeding into a relentless analysis, driven by instinct to survive.
What kind of quirk is this? No sign that the slime was being controlled by someone outside of it—unlikely to be an Orchestrator type. Definitely not an Emitter. Could it be a full-body transformation or hyper-heteromorphic quirk?
The villain's words echoed in his mind—"a body to hide in." A parasitic ability? Could it infiltrate his body? That made it less likely to be a full-body transformation, which rarely had secondary abilities. No, this was a hyper-heteromorphic quirk. A strong one.
(I want this quirk.)
The slime slithered across his skin, cold and slick, seeping into his clothes. The sharp, nauseating stench of rot and sewage invaded his nostrils, burning his throat. He gagged, and a rancid taste flooded his senses as the slime forced its way into his mouth. He choked, his efforts to fight back growing frantic, hands clawing at the slime with no grip to find.
"No point fighting, kid," the villain's voice slithered through the mass, cold and mocking. "You're just prolonging your pain. Let it happen—this will all be over soon."
Izuku's mind screamed in protest, his body flailing in desperate attempts to resist. His lungs burned, his vision blurred, and for a heart-stopping moment, a terrifying thought took hold.
He was going to die.
(I'm going to get a quirk!)
Unnatural excitement gripped him as though some deep, unspoken part of him was celebrating for his own death. Shame flooded in immediately, crushing the aberrant feeling. His mind jumped to his mother, her worried face, and how devastated she'd be. His brain listing off people he'd be letting down with his death.
Tsubasa. Bakugo.
ALL MIGHT?
Through the haze, his eyes flickered open, catching sight of something golden in the distance. His mind struggled to process it, but the sight was unmistakable—the hair, the towering frame. The shadow of a legend moving swiftly through the chaos. All Might.
But as hope bloomed, his body betrayed him. The last bit of strength drained from his limbs, and the world around him began to fade. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision.