Yo!
It's been a long time since my last update. In that time, I moved houses, graduated from college, quit my old job, and now barely make enough to live on. Life doesn't stop, and honestly, I've had little to no time to keep up with this.
I have no idea what the future holds, and to be honest, I don't really care. I've always lived by taking things one day at a time. As Freddie Mercury once said, the show must go on.
But enough about me—I won't bore you with my life story. Here's Chapter 26!
This one's on the shorter side, at least compared to my usual 10,000-word monsters.
As I mentioned last chapter, I'll be taking time at the beginning of each update to shift perspectives away from Izuku. For this first "saga," we'll be following Ibara and her Force training. No need to overthink the timeline—I'll just say this particular segment takes place between the end of Chapter 25 and the second scene of this chapter. (Can I even call them scenes?)
Anyway, as a treat for the delay, this chapter includes two fights. Hope you enjoy them!
Hope you all enjoy the chapter!
Before I go—if you like this fic, please share it with your friends! That would seriously make my day. Leave a review, add it to your favorites, and follow the story.
See you at the end!
Disclaimer: You already know this; MHA is owned by Kohei Horikoshi. The Force and everything related to Star Wars are the intellectual property of George Lucas and the evil multi-billion-dollar company. (Yup, that one)
Underlined and italicized text= thoughts and/or internal dialogues.
Underlined, italicized, and bold text= Force ghosts dialogues.
Italicized and bold text =The Force dialogues.
Bold Text =Powerful characters dialogues (Like All-Might).
"The search for truth begins with belief."
Mini Story N1: Ibara's Force Training
Ghostly Encounter
Ibara stepped into her room in Naruhata's church, the weight of another long but satisfactory day settling on her shoulders like a cloak. The faint scent of incense from the afternoon prayer service lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of potted ivy and rosemary that curled lazily over her windowsill. Moonlight streamed through the glass, fracturing into hues of silver and cobalt that danced over the wooden floorboards.
After setting down her satchel, she slipped into a loose linen dress. Her eyes drifted to the Bible resting atop the small oak desk—its leather cover worn soft by years of study, gleamed faintly under the lamplight.
She closed her eyes, extending her hand toward the holy book. Focus. Just as Midoriya told you. Her vine-like hair stirred faintly, trembling, as she mimicked the precise arc of Izuku's gestures—palm open, wrist tilted. But like every attempt before, nothing answered. No flutter of pages, not even a tremor in the candle flame. Only silence, thick and pressing.
Her vines slumped, tendrils coiling limply around her shoulders like disappointed serpents. A quiet ache bloomed in her chest. She had watched Izuku lift rubble as if the Force were merely an extension of his body, his faith in it absolute. Why can't I—?
The memory surfaced unbidden: Izuku, sunlight dappling his freckled cheeks as he had a stone in his palm. "It's just practice,"he'd said, his smile soft. "The first time is always the hardest. But you'll get it. His hand had brushed hers, as he guided her wrist into the proper stance. "Trust it. Like you trust your vines."
Now, alone in her room, the silence felt heavier. His assurance felt distant. Is this a test? she wondered, the question thornier than she cared to admit. What I'm doing wrong?
Then, the airhummed—a low, resonant frequency that prickled her skin. The candle flame stilled, frozen mid-flicker, as a faint blue glow pooled like liquid light, merging into a figure robbed in tattered, ephemeral tunics.
Ibara's breath caught. Her vines snapped rigid, thorns bristling in a defensive halo as the apparition's features sharpened—a serene face with eyes crinkling with kindness. It was the same vision she'd glimpsed days prior, after arriving at the helicopter crash. The same presence she'd mistaken for the Lord.
"You're doing nothing wrong, young one." The figure's voice echoed, not in the room, but in her own being. Ibara staggered back, her heel catching the edge of the rug. The Bible slid from the desk with a muffled thud pages splaying open.
"Who are you?" she asked, the words trembling, her vines quivering.
The apparition tilted his head, his form flickering. "A guide,"he said, his tone warm. "My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi and I once walked the same path that you."
Ibara's breath hitched. "You… you're like Midoriya. A Jedi."
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "That I was. As I said you're doing nothing wrong. It's okay to have preconceptions, but your faith—" He gestured to the cross at her throat, its silver chain glinting. "—is not a barrier. It is a bridge."
"The Force does not demand you abandon what you hold sacred," Obi-Wan continued, his voice softening. "It asks only that you listen—to the earth in your vines, to the breath in your lungs, to the quiet truth between your prayers."
Ibara's vines loosened, thorns retracting as she knelt beside the open Bible. Her fingertips brushed the page, the ink humming beneath her touch."Then… why can't I feel it?"
Obi-Wan's form shimmered, his edges blending with the moonlight. "You already do. You just needed the reassurance, to let go of the division you've imagined."
The room seemed to exhale. The ivy on the windowsill unfurled a new tendril, reaching toward the apparition as if in recognition.
"Close your eyes," Obi-Wan murmured."Not to pray. Tolisten."
The scent of rosemary sharpened. The distant murmur of night insects wove into a chorus. And beneath it all—a pulse. Faint, but undeniable. The same rhythm that threaded through her vines, through the scripture on her desk, through her hands.
She extended her palm again, and this time, the airthrummed. The Bible levitated gently, its pages fanning open as if lifted by a divine wind, before settling into her grasp. When she opened her eyes, Obi-Wan was gone. But the candle still burned steady, and the text lay open to a verse etched in light:
"Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding."
Chapter XXVI: Shadows
Six days.
For six days, Hawks had chased a ghost through the arteries of the city, his every effort swallowed by the urban terrain. Stain was a shadow slipping between cracks, dissolving before he could even catch him. Every lead withered. Every whisper led to empty alleys. He had searched tirelessly in parks, buildings and back streets, but his hunt always ended up in frustration.
Now, perched atop a rooftop, his golden eyes cut through the night. The city pulsed beneath him, a living thing, restless, humming with neon and distant murmurs. The weight of exhaustion pressed at the edges of his vision, but he couldn't afford to close his eyes, not even for a second. His wings twitched, feathers ruffling with irritation. Six days. Six days of nothing.
And then there was Tobikage.
aThat insufferable bastard stood a few feet away, leaning lazily against a rusted ventilation unit, a smirk playing at his lips. "For a bird of prey, you really suck at hunting." His voice was smooth, laced with mocking amusement. "If I were you, I'd be worried. Madam President doesn't tolerate failure."
Hawks inhaled slowly, jaw tightening. His feathers bristled, a few slipping free—too sharp, too fast. His control was fraying. He could end Tobikage here and now, silence that smug voice forever. It would be so easy.
Tobikage chuckled, the sound low and grating. "Careful, Tweety. I heard Lady's got some powerful enemies down there. Graze me with a single feather, and that backstabbing bitch gets it."
The words struck deep, way too deeper than they should have, precise as a dagger between Hawks' ribs. His fists clenched. His wings trembled for a fraction of a second before his feathers stilled, reattaching.
Without a word, he launched himself into the sky.
The wind tore at him, cold and biting, but it couldn't strip away the words burrowed deep in his mind. Six days. Six days of relentless pursuit, of Tobikage's gaze like a knife at his back. Six days of Kaina's voice echoing in his skull.
Endure
The word wrapped around his thoughts, a bitter mantra. He had endured everything—the Commission's training, the razor-thin tightrope walk between hero and pawn. But this? This wasn't just about him. This was about her. The only person who had believed in him.
The person he had condemned to a cage.
His wings burned, the ache of exhaustion buried beneath urgency. The city blurred beneath him—flickers of movement in his periphery, ghosts in the neon haze. He pushed harder, faster.
Tobikage was still on that rooftop, watching. He could feel it. Even now, even up here, those eyes were at his back, a weight he couldn't shake.
"I'm sorry, Keigo."
The memory hit like a blade to the ribs. A different night. A different place. A suffocating room, bathed in sterile light. Kaina was kneeling, shoulders hunched, trembling.
She was holding him, her arms locked around him as if she could shield him from what was coming. But her hands were shaking. Her breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, breaking against his skin. "I did it for you."
Her voice was barely more than a whisper. Her eyes, wide and shattered, locked onto his—pleading. Begging him to understand. Tears traced silent paths down her face, catching the artificial glow above them. He had never seen her cry before. She had always been untouchable, unshaken. The sniper who never missed. The shadow no one could outrun.
But in that moment, she was just a woman who had lost everything. "The only thing I regret—" Her voice cracked, barely audible over the pounding on the door. Frantic shouts, growing louder. "is that I will leave you alone with them."
The memory dissolved, leaving Hawks adrift in the cold night air. His wings faltered for a moment, the ache in his chest sharper than the burn in his muscles. He forced himself to focus, to push the pain down, to keep flying.
Then he saw it. A flicker of motion below—too quick, too deliberate. His pulse spiked. His wings angled sharply, cutting through the air as he dove toward the ground.
The shadow darted between buildings, slipping through the labyrinth of alleys with practiced ease. Hawks followed, heart hammering, feathers trembling with anticipation.
This is it.
He dropped lower, skimming the rooftops, his feathers fanning out like sensors. The city's noise faded—car horns muffled, voices swallowed by the rush of blood in his ears. His vision tunneled. There. A figure cloaked in tattered fabric, moving with precision.
Hawks' feathers tore free in a whip-crack of motion, slicing through the night air like crimson daggers. They struck true—not at flesh, but fabric, skewering the Hero Killer's tattered cloak with surgical precision. The force wrenched Stain backward, his boots scraping furrows in the asphalt before he collided with the brick wall. A hollow crunch echoed as mortar dust rained down, the alley trembling under the impact.
Finally, he thought. A weight lifted from Hawks' shoulders as he landed in a crouch boots crunching gravel. Six days of sleepless nights, of gnawing dread, dissolved into a single, jagged exhale.
Stain's head snapped up, eyes burning like coals in the gloom. Blood trickled from a split lip, but his grin was a predator's—wide, manic, feral.
Then the laughter began.
It started as a wet, guttural rasp—the sound of a man choking on his own blood— but it morphed into something shrill, unhinged. It echoed off the alley walls, bouncing back in distorted waves, a cacophony that made Hawks' feathers bristle. Stain's shoulders shook, his body convulsing with the force of it, his laughter growing louder, more deranged.
The sound clawed at Hawks' nerves, a primal unease settling in his chest. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Stain's face began to melt.
It started at the edges—his jawline sagging, skin sloughing off like wax dripping from a candle. His grin widened unnaturally, stretching beyond human limits as his cheeks collapsed inward. His eyes, once burning with manic intensity, liquefied into black sludge, oozing down his face in thick, viscous streams.
Hawks took a step back, his feathers instinctively fanning out in a defensive arc. "What the hell—"
Stain's body kept melting, his laughter now a gurgling, wet sound as his form dissolved into another—smaller, lithe, unmistakably feminine, revealing a girl with golden eyes and a grin too sharp, too hungry to belong to anyone sane. Hawks' feathers clattered to the ground, slick with a sticky, whitish fluid that slowly dripped to the floor.
"Surprise!" the girl trilled, her voice syrup-sweet. She twirled, arms spread wide, as if awaiting applause, unfazed by her own nakedness. "Bet you thought you'd bagged Mister Stain, huh? Sorry, little birdie—I'm the one who's been playing tag!"
Hawks' breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. His brain refused to process what he was seeing. His breath hitched, wings tensing with disbelief. His target was gone. This wasn't Stain. It was just a girl. A stranger.
No. No. Six fucking days for this?
It couldn't be real. The weight that had lifted—the fragile, momentary relief of six days finally leading somewhere—came crashing back down with crushing force. A coil tightened in his gut. His feathers twitched, detaching and hovering at his side like they were caught in a tornado. His mind screamed for him to act, to do something, to unleash violence against this interruption, this nuisance. To keep searching.
But he hesitated.
Kaina's voice whispered in his ear, soft and broken. "You've got more potential than anybody, Keigo. You can be a hero, a real one. But for now… endure."
The girl tilted her head, watching him with something between amusement and curiosity, and something more. Something lurking beneath the surface of her calmness. Not fear. Anticipation.
She wanted him to lash out. She expected it.
The realization forced him to exhale, long and slow. His feathers stilled, reattaching to his wings with a faint rustle. He straightened, his golden eyes narrowing as he studied her.
The girl's grin faltered, just for a second. Then she pouted, rocking back. "You're no fun, little birdie." She sighed, stretching her arms above her head before letting them fall limply to her sides. Then, almost absently, she tilted her head. "I guess the game is over, right, Mr. Stain?"
The sound of feet hitting the ground made Hawks whirl. A figure dropped from a window above him, landing with the grace of a predator. His crimson scarf fluttered in the night breeze, eyes gleaming like shards of obsidian. Stain was here.
Hawks' wings flared, feathers splaying like daggers as he shifted into a defensive stance. His heart hammered against his ribs. Six days, all funneling into this moment. Face-to-face with the Hero Killer, the air itself seemed to thicken, metallic and charged, like the seconds before a lightning strike.
Stain stood motionless, he wasn't poised to fight. He didn't He didn't even grip his katana. Instead, he stood rooted, his crimson eyes burning through Hawks like a scientist solving a problem. Studying. Judging.
Hawks swallowed, the dryness in his throat scraping like sandpaper. "I have something for you," he said, forcing his voice to stay level, though every instinct screamed to retreat.
He reached into his jacket, fingers brushing the dossier's edge. The list of names felt heavier than stone. Stain's gaze flicked to the movement, but he didn't speak. Didn't blink.
Hawks took a cautious step forward, gravel crunching beneath his boots. "This isn't a trick. I need you to—"
A sharp, whistling sound split the air.
Hawks' feathers reacted before his mind could—snapping into position, poised to intercept. But the blade wasn't meant for him. It cut through the air beside his face, so close he felt the rush of wind but not the sting of steel. A single strand of hair fluttered away as the knife buried itself in the brick wall behind him with a deep, resonant thunk, the hilt quivering.
Stain's voice shattered the silence, rough as rusted chains dragged over stone. "Liar."
Hawks stilled. Across the alley, the Hero Killer tilted his head, his scarred mouth curling into something between a grin and a snarl. "You stink of desperation, false hero. Do you think delivering a list washes the filth from your hands? That it makes you worthy?"
Hawks clenched his jaw. Somewhere above, Tobikage was watching, unseen but ever-present—a vulture circling. Kaina's life dangled from the edge of this exchange. He forced himself to breathe evenly. "I don't care about absolution, and I don't need your approval. Take the list or don't. But you'll want what's on it."
Stain's fingers twitched toward the knives at his belt. "You mistake me for one of your kind, puppet. I don't hunt at the Commission's whim."
"This isn't for them," Hawks shot back, gripping the dossier tight. The edges crumpled under his fingers. "You and I both know the people on this list deserve what's coming."
A beat.
Stain's eyes narrowed, something flickering behind them—interest? Contempt? His boots made no sound against the asphalt as he stepped forward, slow and calculated. "And you? Where do you stand, little bird? Hero… or accomplice?"
Hawks' wings trembled. Where do I stand? Always Trapped. Caught in the middle. But he met Stain's gaze head-on, gold against crimson. "I'm here. That's all that matters."
A low, rasping chuckle left Stain's throat. "No. You're here because they clipped your wings." He nodded toward the knife lodged deep in the brick. "A warning. The next one won't miss."
Hawks' voice was barely above a whisper, raw and unguarded. "You're right." He extended the dossier, his hand steady despite the storm raging inside him. "And that's why you need to take this."
Stain's gaze lingered on the dossier, then flicked back to Hawks. The glow in his eyes was sharp, dissecting. "Tell me, little bird," he murmured, voice serrated, "how much blood are you willing to drown in for one person? You call yourself a hero while delivering others to the slaughter. What does that make you?"
Before Hawks could respond, Stain moved.
The alley exploded into chaos.
Stain lunged, katana flashing in the dim light. Hawks' feathers snapped into a shield, deflecting the strike in a burst of sparks. The impact rattled through his bones, sending him skidding backward.
"Condemn?" Hawks spat, feathers detaching in a violent storm of crimson. "They abandoned their posts while civilians died. You would've gutted them anyway—don't pretend otherwise!"
Stain's blades became a blur, slicing through the air, parrying each feather with surgical precision. The alley rang with the clash of steel and crimson. He vaulted off the wall, flipping mid-air to avoid a volley.
"You think that absolves you?" His voice was a growl, raw and relentless. "You're just another puppet, dancing for your masters."
Hawks surged upward, wings roaring against the night. Stain's katana sliced through empty space where his head had been. Hawks retaliated, feathers spiraling like razors, forcing Stain into a crouch. One clipped his arm, drawing blood, sending a katana clattering to the ground.
"And you?" Hawks' voice was ice. "You talk about ideals but leave corpses in your wake. How many real heroes have you killed for your crusade?" He dove, talon-like feathers slicing through the air, aiming for Stain's legs.
The Hero Killer rolled clear of the strike, a dagger slipping from his boot in a flash of steel. Hawks twisted, the blade grazing his ribs—stopped only by the reinforced layers of his suit. A deeper cut and he'd be bleeding out. He hissed, feathers retaliating in a deadly arc, but Stain was already gone, scaling the wall like a spider.
"I'm no hero." Stain's voice echoed from above. "That's the difference between us. Real heroes don't bargain with lives. And you—" his voice curled with disdain "—aren't a hero either, puppet."
He dropped, blade singing toward Hawks' throat. Hawks barely intercepted in time, wings locking under the force of the strike.
"And you're a hypocrite!" Hawks snarled, feathers cutting the air between them. The shockwave sent Stain stumbling back.
Stain's eyes burned. His voice was a low, guttural snarl. "I. Cull. Weakness."
He surged forward, katana flashing.
Hawks met him head-on. Steel and feathers clashed in rapid succession, the alley trembling under the force of their battle. Stain flicked a knife toward his chest—a feather intercepted, shattering the blade mid-air.
"You save no one," Stain hissed, pressing closer. The scent of blood and iron clung to him. "You fakes insist on walking the same path as that man, yet you lack his conviction."
The words struck deeper than any blade. Hawks' wings faltered for a fraction of a second—doubt creeping in. Was this worth it? Would Kaina hate him for this? But then he remembered her voice. "Endure."
Her voice rang in his head.
Stain saw the hesitation. He lunged. His katana swept low, aiming to cut Hawks down. The HPSC sponsored hero twisted, feathers flaring. The strike grazed past, carving deep into the concrete instead. But Stain didn't pause, yanking it free and lunging again.
"You talk about conviction," Hawks snapped, wings bursting outward. Stain leapt back, but Hawks was faster. He dropped low, sweeping a wing beneath Stain's legs. The Hero Killer stumbled—just enough. Hawks struck, a brutal kick to the ribs.
"Here's mine!"
Stain crashed back, ribs creaking under the force. But instead of faltering, he grinned, blood streaking his teeth. "Conviction?" he spat. "Or desperation?"
He moved like a phantom, ducking low, katana sweeping for Hawks' knees. Feathers snapped downward to intercept, but Stain was already shifting, hooking his boot behind Hawks' ankle.
Hawks lost his balance, trying to regain balance—but Stain was already airborne, rebounding off the alley wall. He spun, slamming a kick into Hawk's ribs.
Pain exploded through Hawks' chest as he skidded back, gravel biting into his skin. Stain pounced, blade plunging toward his heart.
Instinct roared to life.
Hawks' wings screamed as he shot upward. The katana carved into the ground where he'd lain seconds before. Above, Hawks unleashed a hail of feathers—not at Stain, but at the walls. The alley trembled as bricks shattered, sending debris cascading down.
Stain twisted clear, katana a blur against falling rubble. "Where's your conviction now, puppet?" he growled. "Run, birdie, run."
Hawks landed, chest heaving, blood smeared across his lip. He gripped the dossier tight, the paper crushed in his grasp.
"I'm not running." He hurled the list at Stain's feet.
For a brief moment the alley lay silent. Stain studied the dossier, then Hawks. Slowly, he bent down and picked it up, his grip firm but unreadable. "You're drowning in your own lies, bird." He tucked the list into his cloak. "But I'll use this. Not for you. To purge those unfit."
He turned, melting into the shadows, his final words lingering like smoke. "But don't mistake this. Pray we never meet again."
Hawks collapsed against the wall, wings sagging. Tobikage's laughter echoed from the rooftops, but it felt distant, muffled. He stared at the blood on his hands—Kaina's blood, Stain's blood, the Deserter's blood, his own—and wondered if any of it would ever wash away.
He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't flinch when the girl slipped beside him. Her eyes gleamed like shattered glass in the dim light as she plucked a loose feather from his wing, humming a nursery rhyme. He didn't stir, not even when she pricked his finger with a needle, the sting dulled by the numbness he was feeling.
By the time he blinked back to awareness, she was already skipping after Stain. The feather twirled between her fingers like a precious coin.
- THE FORCE AWAKENS –
Izuku stepped off the train at Bacara Station under a relentless morning sun. Two weeks had blurred into a relentless routine: School, Force-training sessions with Ibara that felt less like instruction and more like teaching her to decipher ancient runes, and sparring matches with Koichi—now prepping for the hero license exam under Nezu's patronage. Between stolen hours helping Mei tinker with abandoned babies and honing his lightsaber forms until his muscles screamed, time had slipped through his fingers like desert sand.
And Ojiro.
Guilt and shame coiled in his chest, sharp and serpentine. They'd exchanged messages—polite, clipped updates about school and sparring forms—but Ojiro remained the sole exception. A friend untouched by the now blurred edges of his double life. A friend who didn't know about the Force's whispers, the looming shadow of All for One, or the extent of his participation and blood he had spilled in Naruhata's ashes.
"I'll tell him everything,"Izuku repeated silently, the mantra a fraying lifeline as henavigated the streets of Mygeeto toward the dojo. His throat burned, dry as the cracked pavement beneath his boots."Today. No more lies."
After minutes the scent of sandalwood incense hit him first, mingling with the tang of sweat and polished oak. Somewhere inside he felt Ojiro drilling katas, his tail slicing the air with the precision only a master of the martials arts possessed. No secrets. No shadows. Just the honest ache of muscle and discipline.
Izuku's hand hovered at the dojo door, the wood warm under his palm and after a heartbeat he shoved it open.
The air vibrated with the rhythmicwhooshof Ojiro's tail cutting through the stillness, each swing precise as a pendulum. Izuku moved silently, the Force threading through his senses like a compass needle, guiding him to the training hall. He paused at the threshold, shadows clinging to his frame as he watched.
Ojiro flowed through his kata with the grace of a river carving stone—hips pivoting, fists arcing, tail slicing air into ribbons. Sweat glistened on his brow, catching the sunlight slanting through high windows, his breathing steady as a heartbeat. Izuku's chest tightened. To interrupt this sacred calculus of motion felt unthinkable.
He slipped into the room, soundless as a breath, and sank into a cross-legged pose beside a scroll rack worn smooth by generations of calloused hands. Closing his eyes, he let the Force swell around him—the crisp snap of Ojiro's gi, the creak of floorboards groaning underfoot, the faint hum of resolve radiating from his friend.
Minutes bled into an hour. The sun crawled across the tatami mats, painting the room in molten gold, until Ojiro's final strike rang out—a thunderclap of force that sent the practice dummy shuddering on its post. Izuku's eyes fluttered open.
Ojiro spun, towel already in hand, and froze. "Midoriya?! How long have you—"
"A while," Izuku said, rising. "Didn't want to interrupt."
Ojiro's tail flicked, skeptical. "Stealth mode, huh? You'd make a killer ninja. Or a really creepy stalker." He lobbed a water bottle at Izuku's head with a smirk. "Mei's invention keeping you busy?
Izuku caught it, thumb tracing the condensation. "Sorta."
"Busy? Let me guess—kenjutsu." Ojiro dabbed his neck, eyeing Izuku's twitching fingers. "Still struggling with that first form? What's it called—Shii-Cho?"
Izuku nodded. "Yeah, but—"
"—But you're pushing yourself too hard," Ojiro cut in, tail swishing in a slow, measured arc. "You've got that look. The one where you're carrying the weight of three prefectures on your back." He crossed his arms, brow furrowing. "Out with it. What's going on?"
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, tail tapping the floor with a rhythmic thud.
"Out with it, Midoriya."
Izuku blinked."Wh-what?"
"Your look." Ojiro jabbed a finger at him. "Your left eye's twitching and your ears are burning."
Izuku choked on his water.
"See, you're shifty." Ojiro's tail smacked the floor, a whip-crack of impatience. "Did you accidentally burn Shinso books while helping Mei? Join a space wizard cult?"
"What? No! And the cult thing is weirdly specific?!"
"So it's the cult, huh. Ojiro uncrossed his arms, stance shifting into something sharper. "Talk. Now."
Izuku set the bottle down, plastic crackling like brittle bones. The scent of sandalwood turned cloying. He inhaled, the truth a live wire on his tongue, and told him everything.
Half an hour later, Izuku's final words hung in the air like smoke after a detonation. Ojiro blinked. Once. Twice. His tail lashed behind him in slow, measured arcs, betraying his calm exterior.
"Let me make sure I understand," Ojiro said, voice steady but strained. He held up a hand, fingers ticking off points with methodical precision. "You're the vigilante from Naruhata—the one the news callsSpecter."
Izuku nodded, shoulders creeping toward his ears.
"The same vigilante who faced down those creatures, saved civilians, and… used a weapon that isn't a quirk." Ojiro's tail stilled, his brow furrowing. "And now you're tangled up with someone that calls himself All For One. A man who collects quirks like trophies."
Izuku winced. "It's more complicated than—"
"Complicated?" Ojiro's tail smacked a nearby training post, thethudsharp but controlled. He paced, not like a caged tiger, but like a strategist dissecting a problem. "You're training with a sword thatisn'ta sword. About to fight a war that's been brewing in another galaxy." He stopped, turning to face Izuku. "And you're doing it alone."
Silence pooled between them, thick and heavy.
"So," Ojiro said, crossing his arms, "you're saying these Jedi teachings—thisForce—is what's kept you alive?"
Izuku's blush deepened. "It's not just me. There's Shiozaki, and—"
"—And you're trusting her with this," Ojiro finished, tail flicking once in acknowledgment. "But not me. Until now."
Izuku flinched. "It's not like that. She and I share the same sensitivity to the Force. At first it was because I didn't want to put anybody in danger. But then I realized people are going to be in danger just by being close to me. I've already told my mother, Mei and Hitoshi."
Ojiro sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Danger's part of being a hero. You know that." He sat on a bench, tail curling neatly beside him. "Let's recap: You're fighting a centuries-old villain with a power that is not a quirk, guided by voices of monastical warriors who've been dead longer than this All For One's been alive. And you're doing it while balancing school, Mei's chaos, and…" He hesitated, voice softening. "And carrying all of this alone."
Izuku buried his face in his hands. "It's not a cult—"
"I know," Ojiro said, cutting him off with a raised palm. "But it's a lot, Midoriya. Even for you." He stood abruptly, grabbing a wooden sword from the rack. "You're my friend. If this 'Force' is what's keeping you standing…" He tossed the weapon to Izuku, his gaze sharpening. "Then train with me.Properly. No more secrets."
Izuku caught the sword, the grain rough against his palm. "Thanks Ojiro, but there's more. The voices, they're ghosts.
Ojiro froze mid-stretch, tail stiffening briefly before resuming its calm sway. "Ghosts. Actual ghosts." He exhaled, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Of course. Only you'd have dead mentors." He shook his head, raising his own training sword. "But if they're helping you survive, I'll take it."
Izuku hesitated. "You're not… freaking out?"
"Oh, I'm freaking out," Ojiro said, tail swishing in a rare show of dry humor. "But you're here. You're alive. And if sparring with me helps you face whatever's coming…" He shifted into a battle stance, focus unwavering. "Then let's get to work."
"Rules?" Izuku asked, the bokken felt alien in Izuku's hands—too light, too blunt compared to the humming weight of his lightsaber. But he adjusted his grip, knuckles whitening. Across from him, Ojiro exhaled through his nose, tail curling behind him in a slow, sinuous arc. Poised. Lethal. A scorpion ready to strike.
"No holding back," Ojiro said, voice calm but eyes alight. "Quirks included."
Izuku nodded. His feet slid into the opening form ofShii-Cho, the tatami mats shifting beneath him like to accommodate his stance. The dojo air hummed—wood polish, sweat, the electric charge of two fighters coiled to spring.
Then—
Ojiro struck.
No warning. No hesitation. His bokken became a blur, arcing downward in a perfectmenstrike. The airsplitwith acrack like a gunshotas wood met wood. Izuku parried, the impact shuddering up his arms. But Ojiro wasn't done.
Feint left. Izuku's muscles tensed. Pivot right. Ojiro's blade sliced toward his ribs.
Izuku twisted, bokken scraping against bokken in a shower of splinters. The deflection was barely enough, sending him stumbling back, feet skidding across the mats. His pulse roared in his ears.
Ojiro smirked, tail flicking. "C'mon, Midoriya." He reset, stance low, predatory. "Show me what those ghosts taught you."
Izuku smirked as he lunged forward.
Shii-Cho's movements flowed through him like water—smooth, relentless. His bokken became a maroon streak, cutting high, low, a wide horizontal slash. Each strike forced Ojiro back, step by step, the dojo echoing with the staccato rhythm of their clash.
Ojiro's tail twitched. "You're holding back."
Feint right. Izuku's eyes tracked the shift of Ojiro's shoulder—
Then the tail moved.
A spinning low sweep, the muscular appendage whipping toward his ankles like a living weapon. Izuku barely leapt clear, the tail's tip grazing his pants with a hiss of fabric.
Ojiro grinned. "C'mon, Midoriya. This is all your Force can do?"
Izuku's breath steadied. The world slowed. Ojiro's next strike telegraphed itself—the minute tension in his thighs, the twitch of his tail before the lunge.
Izuku parried. Then countered.
An upward slash, faster than thought. The bokken nicked the fur of Ojiro's tail, shearing a few golden strands.
Ojiro blinked. "Better." His tail flicked, assessing. "But still not enough."
He darted forward, bokken spiraling in a tight, unpredictable pattern—high, low, a diagonal cut that forced Izuku to block left.
The tail lashed out.
A brutal whip-crack of muscle and momentum. It slammed into Izuku's chest like a battering ram, knocking the air from his lungs. He skidded back, arms burning, ribs throbbing.
Ojiro didn't relent. Sword and tail moved in tandem, a storm of wood and muscle.
High strike. Izuku blocked. Tail sweep. Izuku jumped just to twist in middle air to evade a thrust of Ojiro's bokken.
Izuku's breath came in ragged gasps. The Force hummed, a distant chorus in his veins.
Stop thinking. Let go.
And heobeyed.
Ojiro lunged again, bokken aimed for Izuku's shoulder. Triumph flickered in his eyes, but it quickly vanished in a blink. Izuku sidestepped, the wooden blade passing harmlessly through empty air.
Another blink. Izuku's hand shot out. Ojiro felt his bokken wiggle—then rip from his grip as if vacuumed away. His eyes snapped up just in time to see Izuku shifting posture, both swords now in hand.
A third blink and Izuku was gone. The hair on Ojiro's body stood up as the air shifted behind him.
Izuku was there. Both bokken lifted high, then wheeled down in a single fluid motion. A heavy thunk filled the dojo as Ojiro felt his tail being pinned to the tatami floor, trapped between crossed wooden blades.
His body gave in and he fell. The dojo felt silent.
Unbeknownst to both, it was now filled with onlookers, every face frozen in awe. Five seconds later, Ojiro's laughter echoed through the dojo, rich and unbothered. His tail twitched, freeing itself from the wooden trap.
"Not bad, Midoriya."
The wooden swords clattered to the floor as Izuku extended his hand. Ojiro took it, hauling himself up with a grin, though his tail flicked experimentally behind him like a cat testing its balance. The murmurs of their audience swelled around them, a hive of excited whispers.
"Cheap move," Ojiro said, brushing dust from his gi, his smirk belying the accusation. "Using my own tail against me like some kind of... living jump rope."
Izuku rubbed his ribs where Ojiro's tail had left a stinging reminder. "Says the man who used me as a human whip-crack target."
Ojiro rolled his shoulders, the vertebrae in his neck popping audibly. "Bokken's child's play. You ready for the main event?" He raised his fists, tail curling into a question mark behind him. "Just flesh and bone this time."
Izuku exhaled through his nose, but his muscles thrummed like plucked guitar strings. The Force hummed in his veins, a gathering storm. "Quirks included?"
Ojiro's tail coiled, muscle rippling under fur. "Wouldn't be a fair fight otherwise."
They circled each other, the worn tatami creaking beneath their feet. The air grew thick—sweat-slick and crackling with anticipation.
Ojiro struck like lightning. Two bounding steps, tail whipping for balance as his fist speared toward Izuku's solar plexus.
Izuku flowed with the Force, his body bending like a reed. Ojiro's knuckles brushed fabric as Izuku seized his wrist.
A sharp tug—using Ojiro's momentum against him. The tailed fighter lurched forward, but his tail stabbed downward like a grappling hook, arresting his fall. In the same motion, he pivoted, driving a knee toward Izuku's ribs.
Too close. Izuku absorbed the impact with a grunt, pain flaring white-hot—but his hands locked onto Ojiro's shoulders. The Force surged, and with a heave worthy of Atlas, he flipped Ojiro over his hip.
Too close. Izuku absorbed the impact with a grunt, pain flaring white-hot—but his hands locked onto Ojiro's shoulders. The Force surged, and with a heave worthy of Atlas, he flipped Ojiro over his hip.
Izuku didn't let him breathe. He lunged, palm striking toward Ojiro's chest. Ojiro crossed his arms—just as Izuku's other hand slipped past his guard.
A Force-enhanced push erupted from his fingertips, sending Ojiro skidding backward like a stone across water.
The crowd erupted in gasps.
Ojiro's tail dug furrows in the mats as he slowed, his grin turning wolfish. "Now you're speaking my language."
A feint left—then Ojiro exploded right, tail coiling and unleashing in a brutal, arcing sweep. Izuku leapt—but the tail adjusted mid-flight, curling upward to snag his ankle. His balance shattered. Ojiro pounced.
A hammer-fist descended—
Izuku smirked. His raised hand twitched—Ojiro's gi collar jerked sideways as if grabbed by invisible fingers. The tailed fighter wobbled.
A second twitch. A Force Push sent Ojiro airborne, crashing onto the mats with a thunderouswhump.
Izuku was moving before the impact faded, Force amplifying his strength as he launched a spinning kick toward Ojiro's ribs.
Ojiro took the blow, but his tail lashed out, looping around Izuku's waist and yanking him down into an undignified heap.
Both combatants scrambled up, chests heaving.
Izuku's mind raced. Adaptable. Unpredictable. Need to—
He let his shoulders slump, dragging a hand across his brow in exaggerated exhaustion. Ojiro took the bait with a predator's grin. He charged, tail cocked like a scorpion's stinger.
Izuku's hand shot up. The Force gripped Ojiro's tail mid-swing, yanking it forward like a snapped leash.
Ojiro's eyes flared wide. Oh, shit.
A single, precise palm-strike to his side. The Force pulsed, gentle as a sigh but inexorable as the tide, depositing Ojiro flat on his back.
The room felt silent again.
"Damn." Ojiro wheezed, staring at the ceiling. "You've been holding out on us, Midoriya."
Izuku offered his hand again, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Just a trick or two."
Around them, the onlookers erupted—clapping, cheering.
Ojiro lay sprawled on the tatami, chest heaving like a bellows, but his grin remained stubbornly alive. His tail thumped the mat with exhausted emphasis.
"With this," he wheezed, "We're totally winning the upcoming tournament."
Izuku hauled him up, their shoulders bumping as Ojiro found his footing. "Huh?" he asked, blinking sweat from his lashes.
Ojiro didn't answer. Instead, he jabbed a finger toward the far wall, where a poster hung.
"MARTIAL ARTS CHAMPIONSHIP – MONKARA, OCTOBER 15-20TH"
The bold red letters glared back at them, flanked by smaller text: "Open Division: Quirk-Integrated Combat Allowed."
Izuku's mouth fell open. "Wait—you mean us?"
Ojiro's tail looped around Izuku's wrist, tugging him toward the poster like a leash. "Who else?" He shot Izuku a look—half challenge, half dare—as the crowd's murmurs crescendoed around them. "Unless you're scared of a little real competition."
Izuku stared at the dates. At the rules. At Ojiro's grin, sharp as a blade.
Then he laughed—bright, startled, alive.
"I'm in."
- THE FORCE AWAKENS –
Somewhere in the skeletal remains of an abandoned warehouse, voices murmured like ghosts in the dark. Dozens of figures huddled in the flickering glow of battery-powered lanterns, their forms a tapestry of mutations—scales glinting like broken glass, feathers rustling with nervous energy, claws tapping a staccato rhythm against cracked concrete. The air smelled of damp fur, iron, and the acrid tang of fear.
At the center stood an imposing figure, his six arms outstretched in silent vigilance.
A woman with feline pupils and a coat of tawny fur stepped forward, her twin toddlers clinging to her legs—their tiny tails puffed up like bottle brushes. "They hit the Takamatsu shelter last night," she said, her voice fraying at the edges. "Tore through the doors like paper. Sprayed 'Abomination' on the walls in red paint. My son…" She swallowed hard, her claws unsheathing reflexively. "He won't stop screaming when the lights go out."
A man with serpentine skin hissed, his forked tongue flickering between needle-like fangs. "CRC pamphlets littered the street this morning. They're calling us 'genetic mistakes.' Police won't even file reports—just shrugged and said 'quirk disputes aren't our jurisdiction.'" His scaled fists clenched. "They're letting this happen."
The figure at the center listened, his stillness a counterpoint to the simmering rage in the room. One of his lower hands gently steadied a shaking teenager with slit-pupiled eyes, while another passed a canteen to the feline mother. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, resonant—the kind of voice that could calm a storm or summon one.
"The CRC wants us to fear them. To scatter. To hide." He paused, scanning the room, meeting each pair of eyes—glowing, slitted, compound. "But we are not mistakes. And we are not alone."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. A young girl with moth-like wings fluttered anxiously, her antennae trembling. "What do we do? They have weapons. They have lawyers."
The figure's topmost arm gestured to a map pinned to the wall—a spiderweb of red marks tracing CRC activity across the city. "We document. We protect. We prepare." He turned to a hulking figure near the back, their body encased in jagged crystalline armor. "Hirano. You'll lead patrols at the Oshima shelter. Take those who can fight."
The crystalline man nodded, a low, grinding rumble in his throat. "And if they attack?"
The figure's mask shifted faintly, the only hint of the fury beneath. "You defend. Non-lethally." A beat. "But decisively."
A teenager with gills slashing his neck stood abruptly, water dripping from his clenched fists."Why not fight back? Burn their offices! Make themhurtlike they've hurt us!"
The figure's primary hand rose, palm open—a gesture of restraint. "Violence without purpose makes us the monsters they claim we are." He stepped closer, towering yet gentle, and lowered his voice. "But if they escalate… we will answer. Not with their hatred. With our unity."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling like a tombstone.
Then, from the shadows, a new voice—rasping, raw—cut through: "They won't stop. Not until we're gone."
The figure didn't flinch. "Then we make sure they remember us." His voice hardened, final as a guillotine's drop. "They want a war? Fine. We'll show them how a cornered pack survives."
All done for now.
First off—Ibara finally meets Obi-Wan. I really hope I handled the religious aspect well. I'm not a religious person, so if anything I wrote comes off as offensive, please let me know so I don't make the same mistake twice.
Hawks vs. Stain! They duke it out, and birb boy actually lives to tell the tale. But now, the deserters are royally screwed because Mr. Psycho Killer is on their trail.
Next we got Izuku and Ojiro sparring, and finally, Izuku tells Ojiro about his secrets. Oh, and a tournament is on the horizon.
And last but not least—a mysterious figure rallies mutants to stand strong against bigotry and discrimination. Who could it be?
But hey, what do you think? Did you enjoy the chapter? Let me know your thoughts! As always, I'm eager to hear from you, so please drop your opinions in the review box.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this chapter. Your support and feedback mean the world to me. Stay tuned for the next one—and may the Force be with you!
Until next time,
—FarXs.
