"The spark that burns too bright… it's time you saw the ashes."

Those words came from an interloper lurking outside UA one evening. Izuku Midoriya barely had a chance to react before the villain struck. His body moved on instinct—shoving Uraraka and Iida back as he absorbed the wave of energy hurtling toward him.

That wave flung him face-first into dirt, far from Shizuoka-ken, into a world more futuristic than home—more utopic, too. Hovering vehicles were the first jarring hint, followed by holographic billboards as he wandered from sprawling plains into a city. The scenery, pristine and postcard-perfect, rivaled Japan's renowned orderliness.

And its inhabitants. All smiles, all full of joy. Serene, crime-free. It should've been ideal, yet it unnerved him. He wasn't a cynic—far from it. Optimism was his default, but he wasn't naive. Japan, for all its structure, had flaws. This place couldn't be flawless either. There had to be a catch.

Junior high memories—ostracism, isolation, apathetic teachers—rarely surfaced willingly, but a book sprang to mind as he explored: No. 6. That's the vibe this place radiated. And he was already piecing together its dark secret.

Suspicion solidified fast. "Norma" echoed in passersby's chatter and holographic news, spat with disdain. Mana, this world's quirk equivalent, flowed uniformly through everyone—or nearly everyone. Wield it, and you belonged. Lack it, and you were a Norma: incompatible with Mana entirely. People spoke of dodging a bullet they'd never seen coming—a princess of this nation exposed as a Norma during a ceremony, branded a traitor.

The parallels hit hard. He'd been quirkless once—a Norma in his own world of quirked "Mana." But back home, quirklessness wasn't a crime, nor a death sentence—just a barrier to heroism, a nudge toward a mundane life. If this world scorned its "quirkless" this much, he dreaded how it treated heteromorphs—those facing steeper discrimination back home—if such existed here.

Could he pass One For All off as Mana? Its green glow might align, but quirks, especially his, were chaotic compared to Mana's uniformity. Everyone here seemed to understand Mana implicitly—a stark contrast.

The world answered soon enough. He'd kept his first two heroic acts subtle (helping others was non-negotiable, no matter where he was) while learning this place's rules, plotting survival and a way home. But subtlety failed him in the marketplace.

A young girl, pinned under a cart, screamed and sobbed. A crowd gawked, motionless. "Waiting for the guards," one sneered. The inaction burned him—too close to his world's bystanders banking on pro heroes. At least Japan lacked robust Good Samaritan laws. Maybe this place did too, but that didn't matter.

He acted. Lifting the cart with his quirk drew instant scrutiny. "Not Mana. Not a Norma. An aberration," a uniformed man barked. Guards swarmed. He tapped his quirk again, escaping through the sewers into the unknown.

He evaded them for a day, hiding in a forest, leaning on UA survival training to endure while crafting a plan—head to a nearby village. That plan died in the night.

A gut feeling jolted him awake. Embryo—his name—arrived, prepared. "Guards," he said, and they appeared, guns trained. Embryo's gaze dissected him, piecing together an "anomaly." Then, a spark of realization: "Arzenal." As guards hauled Izuku to a metallic airship, Embryo's voice followed: "Prove your worth, Izuku Midoriya. Anomalies like you are… precious to my design."

The flight to Arzenal stretched endlessly. Cuffed at takeoff, he rode a rattling, windowless hull—darkness hiding their path. Guards stifled chatter, eyes anywhere but him.

It touched down on a runway feeding into a stark steel complex—jarring against the city's quaint, European flair. Male guards passed him to an all-female squad, ushering him inside. The utilitarian chill ran deep.

They photographed him against a mugshot backdrop. He stifled a laugh—absurdity hitting hard. Aizawa's deadpan glare flashed in his mind. Class 1-A's golden boy, arrested for being in the wrong place. He managed a weak smile for the camera despite it all.

Now, here he was… at the one place where cooperation was key. The guards led him here to this room—no, a cell—but not his cell.

"We have the prisoner," one of the guards said.

"Send him in," came a deep, sultry reply.

"Move it, newbie," a guard said, voice sharp but weary.

Izuku jerked a quick nod. "Yes, ma'am!" He shuffled inside; the door crashed shut behind him. His eyes darted between the two women ahead—the commander, legs kicked up on a desk, and… her second? The guards hadn't dropped names. Assumptions swirled—titles, ranks—bits he'd piece together soon enough.

The scene tugged a stray memory—an album cover, some Austrian rapper sprawled in a shadowed cell, moonlight leaking through a tiny barred slit. This felt close—her chair angled under a vent's wider glow—but the light flickered, unreliable. He shook off the thought.

The second stepped toward him, high-heeled boots clipping the floor. Up close, her look sharpened—a woman, early 20s maybe, green hair paler than his swept into a tight bun. That naval uniform clung to her, crisp and commanding, like some UA trainer gone rogue. His cheeks twitched warmly.

She closed the gap fast. Instinct kicked in—he edged aside, pure courtesy.

"Hold still, runt," the second-in-command said, in a voice that sounded like she was commanding a dog, not a human being.

"Y-yes, ma'am!" He instantly readjusted, staying still, but her tone gave him pause.

The second-in-command held up a hand and instantly a screen… popped up. His eyes widened a bit. How does it work? Where is it coming from?

"Shut it."

"S-sorry!" He flinched.

Her fingers swipe the screen, mirrored from his spot. A few flicks landed on his profile, mugshots pinned beside it. "Norma #1203-78, Izuku Midoriya. No birthplace, no ID, popped up yesterday. Nothing else." Her glasses glinted as she looked up—sharp, like she'd caught him staring. "Age. Now."

"S-sixteen." His throat bobbed.

The commander shifted, legs still kicked up. "Sixteen, huh? Just like that last little firecracker." Her chair creaked as she leaned forward, ponytail spilling over one shoulder. That uniform—sleek, tight—framed curves he couldn't unsee. A slow smirk curled her lips. "So, a phantom slips into my ranks."

Before he even had a chance to respond, the commander swiveled in her chair, facing him. A gasp as she stood up, closing the gap, and her—metallic hand—grasping his chin. An eep escaped him. Her eyes peered into his soul… Boundaries, it seemed, were not a thing here.

"Embryo's tossing me a boy now?" Her voice curled, dark and mocking, a sneer tugging her lips. "First time for everything, I suppose." Her gaze sliced through him, cold steel behind the smirk. "What's that snake playing at? Hmm."

Izuku stiffened, spine locking. She knows… Embryo. His words echoed sharply—"Plans… for anomalies like you"—cutting through his skull.

"W-who is he?" His voice quaked. "W-what does he want from me?"

Her tongue clicked—tsk. "Who's he?" Her metallic grip held his chin, voice curling around his stutter, mocking it. "The bastard who thinks he owns us all." She dropped him then, stepping back with a lazy sway. "What he wants? Ask him when you're dead."

Not helpful. His jaw clenched. She cocked her head toward her second—a flicker of a signal. The second nodded, boots clipping forward as the commander drifted back.

Moonlight gleamed off the second's gloves. "Belongings. Now." Her tone flat, she lunged—fingers digging through his pockets, unbuttoning his jacket, yanking his tie loose. His stuff hit a metal tray—clink, clink—before he could blink.

Then… his cheeks flared as he saw where those gloved hands were going next—down his shirt, toward his belt. His breath hitched, a squeak escaping.

His head jerked up. "W-wait? Y—you're no—"

"Squirm all you like, phantom." Her ponytail swayed as she leaned against the desk. "Shame's dead here. No secrets."

"B—but"

Her lip curled, sharp. "Are you resisting?"

"N-no, but I'm a… boy and…" His face burned, Mineta's grin flashing in his mind—perv'd be cheering this. He froze, then sagged. No testing them—not here. Resolve hardened—he didn't resist as her gloves went beyond the belt, peeling off his pants, lifting his shirt. In the end, he stood in nothing but boxers, air biting cold against his skin. His cheeks had never heated this much as he turned away from the commander's gaze.

She whistled low. "…Not bad." Her voice purred, slow and sharp. His shame spiked—the beautiful commander eying his muscles, the toned torso he'd earned through sweat. He hunched, arms wrapping tight.

The second cleared her throat. He snapped to attention, eyes flicking to her. "You'll be enlisted here in Arzenal from here on out." Her glasses glinted as she squared her shoulders. "Since you're sixteen, you'll be educated in your new role tomorrow, sharp, with the new girl." Her voice dipped, sour with distaste at "the new girl."

Izuku's jaw dropped. "S-soldier? Fight?!" The cold sank deeper.

The commander snorted. "What else do you think we'd be doing?" Her eyes rolled, smirk twisting as she sank back into her chair. "Knitting?"

"I mean—" He swallowed. His next words had to make it count. "W-who am I fighting, m-miss?"

Her eyebrow arched higher, lips curling into a half-sneer. "Miss?" She let the word linger, voice dripping dark honey. "Polite little phantom, aren't you?" She leaned forward. "DRAGONs, mostly. Nasty things—teeth, things, the works."

Izuku's breath hitched. "D-DRAGONs?" His eyes widened—dragons, real ones?

Her smirk sharpened. "You'll learn about them soon enough." She eased back, arms crossing. "Any more questions, or are we done?"

He couldn't help it—one more gnawed at him. Pointless, maybe, but it didn't hurt to try. His voice quivered, soft against the cold. "C-could I know your names… please?"

Her laugh barked out, short and harsh. "Names?" She tilted her head, smirk twisting wider. "Does it matter? You're cannon fodder, polite or not." A few moments ticked by—her eyes glinted, sizing him up. "Jill, your Arzenal queen, phantom." She jerked her chin at the second, voice curling. "That's Emma Bronson, my leash-holder."

Emma's gaze flicked to Jill, razor-edged. "You've indulged him too long." Her glasses caught the vent's glow, voice clipped.

Jill's lips twitched, a slow sneer blooming. "He's calm, bends nicer than the rest." Her voice sank, dark and lazy. "Why not toy with him a bit?"

Emma's eyes swung to Izuku. "Clothes are in your cell. Sleep if you can, Arzenal won't wait." Her tray rattled as she stepped back.

Jill chuckled, low and dark. "Sleep's a gamble, the screamer across will shred it." She stepped aside, smirk slicing. "Try bowing, phantom, she'll gag on it."

Izuku had no choice but to follow Emma down the hall to his new cell. She clamped his arm, grip steel—boots snapping, cold air stinging his bare legs. He stumbled, almost shoved inside. The cell door clanked shut behind him, her boots fading into the distance. A sharp yell echoed faintly across the hall—his breath caught.

He fumbled into the new clothes—rough fabric scratching his skin—and paced his cell, steps slow. Bigger than he'd thought—cot, bare walls, a sliver of moonlight—but it didn't ease the weight. This life, this place—he sank onto the cot, eyes drifting across the hall. His eyes widened.

There, on her own cot, sat the prisoner from the news—Princess, ex-Princess, Angelise Ikaruga Misurugi. Blonde hair tangled, cheeks streaked with tears, her quiet sobs broke the silence. He froze—he hadn't known this was where they all landed. His heart ached—for her, for the others here, locked away for being quirkless, basically. A death sentence—fighting DRAGONs, never knowing if each clash was their last.

Boiling. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening—Embryo's voice slithered back: "Anomalies like you." Sent here, discarded like trash. They thought he'd just take it? He wasn't their pawn—not anymore.

He'd show them. This sentence wouldn't break him—he'd make it his own.