Prologue: Promise
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Izuku knelt quietly in front of the grave, his legs folded beneath him as the early morning sun bathed the cemetery in a golden light. In one hand, he held a small, weathered bottle of sake—liberated from someone who probably wouldn't miss it anytime soon—and in the other, a vibrant red sakazuki cup. The color reminded him of the ones they used in old traditions, and he liked to think Kuina would have appreciated the gesture. His fingers brushed over the rim of the cup absently, his gaze soft as it lingered on the gravestone before him. It was smooth and cold, but in his mind's eye, he didn't see polished granite engraved with her name—he saw her face. That familiar, determined smile. The one that had always pushed him to be better.
A fond smile tugged at his lips, though his throat felt tight. He exhaled slowly, steadying his voice as he spoke.
"I'm finally doing it, Kuina," Izuku began, his tone warm but laced with a bittersweet edge. "Just like I promised. I'm going to UA… for both of us."
He shifted slightly, uncorking the sake bottle and carefully pouring the clear liquid into the red cup. The sake sloshed a little as his hands trembled, but he managed to fill it without spilling. Once it was full, he set the bottle aside and cradled the cup in both hands for a moment, staring down into it as though searching for something. Then, with a quiet breath, he raised the cup high—toward the heavens, toward her.
"I've come to make another promise," he continued softly, the wind catching his words and carrying them beyond the quiet rows of graves. "From this day forward, I swear I'll become the number one swordsman in the world. A name so great, so undeniable, that it'll reach even up there—so you'll know I did it. Thatwedid it."
Without hesitation, he tipped the cup back and took a deep swallow of the sake. The sharp burn hit his throat instantly, making him cough, his face twisting briefly in discomfort. He forced it down anyway, his determination stronger than the fire spreading through his chest. When he finally set the empty cup back on his knee, he let out a wheezing breath, followed by a short, breathless laugh.
"Whew! Okay… that was awful," Izuku admitted with a sheepish grin, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "I don't know how anyone drinks this stuff for fun…"
He glanced back at the gravestone, his smile softer now, more relaxed. His fingers traced the edge of the sakazuki cup absentmindedly as he spoke again, his tone light but filled with affection.
"I'd better get going. Captain's waiting for me at the train station, and you canguesshow she gets when I'm late," He chuckled quietly, rising slowly to his feet. Brushing the dirt from his knees, Izuku gave the grave one last look and a respectful bow.
"I'll come back soon," he promised. "With stories you wouldn't believe."
With that, he turned and walked away, the wind gently tugging at his green hair as though giving him one last push forward.
As Izuku left the quiet solitude of the cemetery behind, his pace steadily quickened, each step pounding harder against the worn stone path until he broke into an all-out sprint. His breath came in sharp bursts, but he welcomed the burn in his lungs. There wasn't time to slow down—not now. The train to Musutafu wouldn't wait for him, and UA was calling.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the city streets, and as Izuku weaved through crowds and side alleys, more than a few people turned to stare. His appearance wasn't exactly subtle.
He wore a plain white henley shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with lean muscle and faint scars from years of training. Around his midsection was a deep green haramaki, snug against his waist, both a practical support and a traditional mark of his discipline. His black pants were simple and functional, tucked into scuffed black boots that hit the pavement with a rhythmic thud as he ran. Tied just above his left bicep was a black bandana, faded from sun and sweat but carefully knotted, a small token of remembrance he rarely took off.
But it wasn't the clothes that drew the wary glances. It was the swords.
Strapped securely to the right side of his haramaki were three katana, their sheaths shifting with his movements, the faint metallic clink of their hilts bumping together punctuating his hurried steps. Two of the swords were his own—sleek black scabbards dulled by years of use but meticulously cared for. They had been his constant companions since childhood, extensions of his will, sharpened and refined alongside his own growth.
But the third sword was different.
Its sheath was a brilliant white, immaculate and gleaming even in the fading light. The Wado Ichimonji. Its presence carried a quiet, undeniable gravity. More than a weapon, it was a legacy. It had once belonged to Kuina, his closest friend and fiercest rival. Before her untimely death, she had wielded the Wado Ichimonji with unmatched grace, her skill and determination inspiring Izuku to push beyond his own limits.
After she was gone, the sword remained with her family, resting in silent reverence under the watchful care of her father, Koushirou. It was a relic of her strength, a memory carved in steel. But Izuku hadn't been content to let it gather dust on a shrine. He had made a vow—both to Kuina and himself—that he would become the world's greatest swordsman. Not just for him, but for her. To carry her dream alongside his own.
He still remembered the day he stood before Koushirou, bowing low until his forehead nearly touched the tatami mat. His voice had trembled with conviction as he made his plea, his hands clenched tight at his sides.
"I made a promise to her! Let me keep it—for both of us!"
Koushirou had studied him in silence for a long moment, the weight of his gaze as heavy as a mountain. Then, without a word, he had stood and returned with the Wado Ichimonji in his hands. When he offered it to Izuku, it wasn't just a weapon being passed on—it was trust, respect, and the burden of a shared legacy.
Since that day, Izuku had treated the Wado Ichimonji as if it were more precious than his own life. He kept its blade polished to a mirror sheen, its edge honed to perfection. Every morning, he checked its fittings and oiled its parts with a reverence most reserved for sacred relics. The sword wasn't just a tool; it was a promise made tangible, a bond that even death couldn't sever.
As he neared the train station, the world around him seemed to blur, his mind focused only on the goal ahead. But even with the urgency pressing at his back, his hand instinctively dropped to rest lightly on the white hilt at his side, as if to reassure himself it was still there—that she was still with him.
A few commuters gave him a wide berth, their eyes flickering warily to the swords, particularly the pristine white one. He ignored them.
He was used to the stares by now. Let them look. Soon enough, they'd know his name.
Izuku Midoriya. The future world's greatest swordsman.
And the swords at his side—especially the Wado Ichimonji—would make sure the world remembered how far he'd come, and who he carried with him.
By the time Izuku reached the train station, his breath was ragged, each inhale scraping at his throat like sandpaper. He came to a brisk stop near the platform, his boots scuffing against the concrete as he leaned forward slightly, one hand resting on his knee, the other gripping the strap of his swords to steady them. For a moment, all he focused on was dragging air back into his lungs, the adrenaline from his sprint still buzzing in his veins.
He exhaled sharply, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist just as a familiar—and irritating—voice cut through the low murmur of the crowd.
"Oi! Bush Hair! You finally showed up, huh?"
Izuku's head snapped up, his jaw tightening as he followed the voice. Standing a short distance away near one of the station pillars was none other than Neito Monoma, leaning casually with one shoulder against the smooth surface. As always, the blonde had a hand stuffed lazily into the pocket of his black pinstriped slacks, his other arm crossed loosely over his chest. The blue shirt beneath his suit jacket was crisp and immaculately pressed, his tie loose around his neck in a way that screamed effortless style—but Izuku knew better. Monomaalwaysplanned these things.
And of course, there it was: that signature smug look plastered across his face. Unimpressed. Unbothered. Infuriating.
Monoma clicked his tongue and shook his head with exaggerated disappointment. "Some of us like to be on time, you know?" he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk that begged to be wiped off.
Izuku straightened, adjusting the weight of the three swords at his side with an annoyed grunt. "Yeah? What've you been doing this whole time? Let me guess... hitting on girls while you waited for the captain?" His emerald eyes narrowed in challenge as he crossed his arms over his chest.
Monoma's smirk widened into a grin that practically radiated arrogance. "As a matter of fact," he said, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his lapel, "I was. And I'll have you know, I was an absolute gentleman the entire time."
"Oh yeah?" Izuku said, his lips quirking into a sly smile. "And how manydidn'trun away screaming?"
Monoma's eyes twitched. Just barely. But Izuku caught it.
The blonde's smugness evaporated like mist under a hot sun. His jaw clenched as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in an instant. "You wanna go, Broccoli-Head!?" he snapped, his forehead nearly knocking into Izuku's.
Izuku didn't flinch. He stepped in just as close, green eyes gleaming with challenge as his hand casually dropped to rest on the hilt of one of his swords. "Anytime, Copycat."
For a tense moment, neither backed down. Two stubborn wills clashing, neither willing to be the first to blink. Passersby on the platform gave them a wide berth, sensing the crackle of something dangerous—and very stupid—about to happen.
And then a sharpTHWACKrang out.
Pain exploded across Izuku's skull as something hard and fast made contact with the back of his head. He let out a strangled grunt, momentarily dazed, just as Monoma yelped in surprise from a similar strike.
"That's enough, you two!" barked a feminin voice.
Both boys immediately snapped to attention—if only out of reflex—rubbing the fresh lumps forming on their heads as they turned to face their captain.
She stood there with arms crossed, one foot tapping impatiently against the platform. Her light blue eyes burned with exasperation, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth that suggested she was used to this nonsense.
Standing before them, arms crossed and an unmistakable air of authority radiating from her, was Melissa Shield—the one they often, half-seriously and half-respectfully, calledCaptain. She wasn't just a leader in name; she was the reason they were here together in the first place. Months before UA had even been on their horizons, it had been Melissa who found them, brought them together, and forged them into something resembling a team.
And right now, she lookedthis closeto knocking their heads together for real.
Melissa's wavy blonde hair caught the late afternoon light as it swayed in the breeze, the golden strands gleaming like polished metal. It tumbled in soft waves halfway down her back, well-maintained despite her insistence that she wasn't "high maintenance." Two shorter locks framed her face neatly, falling over her shoulders, and side-swept bangs swept gently across her forehead. Her bright aqua blue eyes—sharp and intelligent—were partially hidden behind the wide, oval-shaped glasses perched perfectly on her nose. They didn't dull the intensity of her gaze in the slightest. If anything, they made her stare more calculating, as if she was already three moves ahead of everyone else in the room… or on the battlefield.
Today, she wasn't dressed in any kind of uniform or fancy gear. No, she wore something simple, practical, and completelyMelissa. A red long-sleeved shirt, the sleeves pushed slightly up her forearms, hugged her frame without restricting her movements. Her denim shorts stopped just above her knees, allowing for freedom of movement, and her legs were covered in sleek black compression socks that rose to mid-calf, vanishing beneath a pair of black-and-white sneakers that looked worn but well-cared for.
Despite the casual outfit, there was no mistaking her role. Even in something as simple as shorts and sneakers, she carried herself with a confidence and precision that demanded respect. Her posture was straight-backed and relaxed, but everyone knew from experience that Melissa could move like lightning if she wanted to—and if you messed around too much, shewould.
She gave them both a flat look, her aqua eyes narrowing behind the lenses of her glasses as she let out an exasperated sigh.
"You two are like children," she said, shaking her head. "Honestly, if I had a yen for every time I had to break you up, I could fund my own hero agency by now."
Monoma was the first to recover his usual smugness, offering her a grin as he adjusted his tie. "If you did open your own agency, Captain, I'd be your number one recruit," he said smoothly. "I do have a knack for leadership myself."
Melissa raised a single brow at him. "You have a knack for being a pain," she replied dryly, and then her gaze flicked to Izuku. "And you… need to stop rising to his bait. You're supposed to be my second-in-command, remember? Act like it."
Izuku winced, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. "Sorry, Captain," he muttered. "He started it, though."
Monoma scoffed. "Did not."
"Did too."
Melissa stepped between them before they could devolve again, planting a firm hand on each of their shoulders. Her grip was deceptively strong. "Do I need todragyou two onto this train myself?" she asked, a faint but dangerous smile curving her lips.
Both boys immediately straightened.
"No, ma'am," they chorused in unison.
Satisfied, Melissa gave a small nod and dropped her hands. "Good. Then let's go. We've got work to do."
With that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the platform's edge, the sound of the approaching train rumbling in the distance. Without thinking, both Izuku and Monoma fell into step behind her, their earlier squabble momentarily forgotten in the wake of her commanding presence.
As they moved, Izuku's gaze drifted to Melissa's back. It still amazed him sometimes how she, without a single drop of combat training when they met, had managed to become the glue that held them together. Her mind was her sharpest weapon, but her heart was what made her their Captain.
And as they stepped onto the train that would take them closer to UA—and closer to their dreams—Izuku knew one thing for certain.
With Melissa Shield leading them, they couldn't lose.
Izuku rested his hand lightly on the hilt of the Wado Ichimonji as they looked for a spot to stand or sit. He wasn't sure what UA had in store for them, but he knew one thing for certain.
With a friend and leader like Melissa, rivals like Monoma, and with Kuina's sword at his side, he was ready for anything.