Just as All Might's voice echoed, and the heroes were ready to stop the villains, suddenly the lights flickered.
Maki's quirk reached them as well. It wasn't gradual—it hit all at once. The moment it surged, everything shifted. A ripple of invisible force swept across the summit hall—leaving every hero and every other human who was present in that facility totally silent.
All Might stood mid-sentence, one hand pressed gently to his chest, when the world around him shattered like glass.
The summit vanished.
The golden light of peace was replaced by a sky choked in smoke, the faint smell of ash and charred rubble clogging his breath. His feet sank slightly into cracked concrete as he turned in slow horror.
A ruined city stretched out before him.
Not Tokyo. Not New York. A blend of both—a twisted hybrid of landmarks and memories, torn apart by fire and decay.
Statues of heroes lay broken, arms outstretched in useless valor. Buildings stood half-collapsed, burning from within. Sirens wailed in the distance, echoing endlessly, as if the city itself were crying.
And then—he saw the bodies.
Civilians. Children. Heroes. Piled in twisted positions across the streets. He recognized faces. Old friends. Former students. Even Mirio. Nighteye. Endeavor. Tsuyu. Yaoyorozu. All scattered like forgotten toys.
In the center of the wreckage, a young boy sat among the corpses, hunched over, cradling something. As All Might stepped closer, his breath caught. The child held a tattered All Might trading card, smudged with blood. Half his face was burned. His small hand trembled.
The boy looked up.
His eyes—cloudy, lifeless—locked with All Might's.
"Why didn't you save us?"
"You smiled… but you didn't come."
All Might froze. The words cut deeper than any wound ever had. His throat worked, but no sound came out.
"You were our Symbol of Peace," the boy whispered, blood slipping from his lips.
"But you weren't there when we needed peace the most."
All Might's knees buckled. His arms fell limp at his sides. His muscles shrank. His iconic suit began to gray and fade, torn and stained. He tried to speak, but only a rasp escaped.
"I… I tried… I swear…"
Suddenly, the sound of crumbling stone echoed behind him.
He turned—and the boy was gone.
Now, across the horizon, stood another figure. A lone silhouette walking through the destruction. Izuku Midoriya.
But it wasn't the Izuku All Might knew.
This one was older, taller—but his eyes were wrong. Cold. Empty. His costume was torn, splattered with blood. His arms glowed faintly with a warped version of One For All—crackling, unstable, corrupted. His hands twitched, muscles spasming with barely contained fury.
As All Might stared, Izuku raised one hand—and a skyscraper exploded in the distance.
Bodies flew. Screams followed.
"You told me I could be a hero," Izuku said, still walking, never looking directly at him.
"But then totally neglected me… look around you now, I'm the monster that caused all this, while you, the so-called symbol of peace, couldn't do anything about it."
All Might took a shaky step forward.
"Izuku—no… that's not—"
Izuku turned. His face was streaked with ash and blood, his eyes now fully glowing—green, but toxic.
"You chose me… but then you left me," Izuku snarled.
"Now look around you. All this around you, that's you who made me do it."
Around them, the bodies of Class 1-A appeared. Ochako, Iida, Todoroki. All dead. All lifeless.
All Might screamed.
"NO! I would NEVER abandon you! I—I tried—!"
But the destruction continued. Izuku raised his hand again—and the city kept burning. All Might tried to move, to stop him, but he couldn't. His legs were too weak. His breath was too shallow.
The city dissolved again.
Now he stood in a dark alley. Wet pavement. Flickering lights.
He looked down—and saw another version of Izuku. Ten years old. Fragile. Bloody. A cracked notebook clutched to his chest. His green curls were matted with dirt and dried blood. His clothes were torn. One eye swollen shut. Hands trembling.
"Why did you discriminate?" the boy whispered.
All Might froze.
"I… I didn't… I—"
"You smiled at others. You encouraged them. But me? You said I couldn't be a hero."
"Why did you smile at my pain? Shouldn't the parents be blamed for the lack of quirk a child has?"
"I didn't know," All Might choked out.
"Back then—I didn't know you were suffering. I didn't see it."
"But you saw me fall," the boy said. "You saw me cry. You saw me leap into danger. And still—you hesitated."
The boy stepped closer.
"Was I not good enough to inherit your quirk? Not strong enough? You could have trained me right? Aren't you also quirkless by origin as well? So what is it that you still got a quirk and became the symbol of hope while I was left quirkless."
All Might's heart shattered.
He reached for the boy—but his hand passed through him like smoke. The child's face twisted, not in hate, but in betrayal.
"You're supposed to be the Symbol of Peace…" he whispered, tears mixing with blood.
"But you're just a man who chooses who to save."
Then he vanished.
All Might stood alone, knees on the ground, hands trembling, eyes wide in horror.
"No…" he whispered. "No no no no no…"
He looked at his hands.
Blood.
Izuku's blood. The child's blood. His students'. His friends'.
The sound of burning. Screaming. The smell of regret.
All Might—the Symbol of Peace—wept in the ruins of both the world, and himself.
Maki's voice hissed with anger, "You were the Symbol of Peace. Now you're the face of failure. Especially after what you did to my dear Izuku and what you did to him."
Endeavor
He stood beside All Might when it hit.
It wasn't an explosion. It wasn't an attack.
It was something deeper—hotter. A wave of raw emotional heat, far beyond anything he'd ever summoned himself.
Suddenly, flames erupted around him—but not his own. These were wild, alien, angry flames, lashing out in violent bursts. He spun in confusion, trying to contain them, but they refused to obey.
In the flickering inferno stood his family.
Shoto. Rei. Fuyumi. Natsuo.
Each of them stood in the fire, untouched by the heat—but staring at him with cold, distant eyes.
"Shoto—? What is this?"
"Rei? Please—I didn't mean—"
But they didn't respond.
Shoto turned first. His voice came out sharp and flat, like ice cracking beneath boots.
"You turned me into a weapon. Not a son."
The flames around him turned blue—his own flames—but they flared in fury, rising like waves behind him.
"You trained me until I bled. Made me hate half of myself. You called it 'purpose'—but it was just your ego."
"I didn't ask to be your legacy," Shoto finished, eyes glowing.
"I just wanted to be a child."
Endeavor took a step forward.
"I know. I know I failed. But I've changed—I've tried to—"
Fuyumi stepped in next, her hands trembling.
"Do you know what it's like being ten years old and trying to cook dinner while Mom was locked away crying?"
"Do you know how many nights I stayed awake wondering if you'd hurt her again?"
"I gave up my childhood to hold this family together."
Her voice cracked—but she didn't cry.
"You broke us, and then you tried to pretend you didn't."
Then came Natsuo, arms folded, rage burning quietly behind his glare.
"You think because you say 'sorry' now, it means something?"
"You were never a father. Just a nameplate on a wall. Just a loud voice and a heavy hand."
"You let Touya burn."
The name hit Endeavor like a punch to the gut.
"You saw him crumbling, and you did nothing."
The flames thickened.
And then, she stepped forward—Rei. Her eyes weren't angry. They were hollow. Her face pale. Distant.
"I trusted you once."
"I believed your strength would protect us. That you'd grow into the man you claimed to be."
"But all I got was silence. Walls. Screams. And eventually… a hospital bed."
"You blamed me. You blamed my blood. You blamed everyone but yourself."
Her voice softened, but her words turned sharper.
"You say you're not that man anymore…"
She leaned in, her breath cold as frost.
"Then why does he still live in your reflection?"
Suddenly, a mirror rose up in front of him—tall, cracked, made of blackened glass.
Inside it stood the other him. Not Endeavor the Number One Hero. But Enji Todoroki, the abuser. The furious father. The cold, calculating man who measured love in results and worth in power.
He stared at the mirror. At the version of himself he thought he'd buried. But the man inside smiled back.
Endeavor looked back over his shoulder—but they were already walking away.
Shoto. Fuyumi. Natsuo. Rei.
None of them looked back.
"Wait—PLEASE!" he shouted, reaching out. "Let me fix it—LET ME FIX IT!"
But the flames rose between them, a curtain of heat and sorrow. They disappeared into it—leaving him alone.
Alone in a fire he couldn't control.
Alone with the man he once was.
As the mirror cracked wider, his reflection whispered:
"You can't fix what's already burned."
And then the glass shattered—falling like ash.
Endeavor fell to his knees, swallowed by flames not even he could douse.
His scream echoed into the silence.
Maki whispered:
"You were never saving them. You were shaping them… to suit them to your liking. And this is for Fuyumi and Rei."
----
Best Jeanist
It began with a thread.
Just one.
It snapped—a whisper-soft twang—and then his sleeve came undone. The finely tailored fabric unwound itself like it had a mind of its own. His uniform, always pristine, began to fray and melt into the air, threads drifting like ash on the wind.
Then the world itself began to unravel.
The cityscape around him twisted and convulsed like a broken zipper. Skyscrapers bent at impossible angles. Streets folded like crumpled denim. The sky turned inside out—clouds falling, not rising, and the sun smeared across the horizon like spilled ink.
Nothing stayed in place.
People walked backwards.
Voices echoed before mouths moved.
One man screamed in colors.
Another dissolved into syllables.
Best Jeanist reached out with his quirk, instinctively sending tendrils of fiber to bind the chaos—but they slipped through his fingers like threads made of smoke. Useless. Weak. Disobedient.
"No… hold your form—" he hissed, twisting his fingers with practiced grace.
But the fibers ignored him. They coiled, snapped, or disappeared altogether.
He looked down—his hands were coming apart, thread by thread, unraveling from fingertip to forearm.
His breathing quickened.
"No… I maintain order. I represent form. I—"
The world convulsed again. The walls of nearby buildings collapsed in reverse, bricks flying upward to reform misshapen towers in the sky, then exploding outward in slow-motion shudders. The ground beneath his boots bent like cloth pulled taut, then sagged, forming ripples.
Everywhere he looked: disarray. distortion. disgrace.
His very identity—crafted stitch by stitch over decades of heroic discipline—was unmaking itself.
Then, without form or figure, a voice echoed across the chaos—soft, distant, yet painfully clear, like someone whispering behind the fabric of reality.
"How fashionable is dignity," it murmured, "when nothing obeys your rules?"
Jeanist froze.
He turned toward the sound, but saw no one—only more disorder. Reflections warped in puddles, buildings stitched into the sky, loops of unraveling time.
"Who's there?" he called out, voice tight. "What do you mean?"
But the voice only echoed again, gently, without malice:
"You fear chaos… not because it breaks things, but because it shows you who you are without the threads."
A broken shard of floating glass hovered before him, catching his gaze.
In it—his own reflection. But not the polished, upright figure the world revered.
No.
Messy hair. Crooked collar. Frayed seams. Wrinkled eyes. No symmetry. No control.
Just a man. A scared, hollowed-out man.
"No…"
He reached toward the reflection, hand trembling—but as his fingers neared the glass, they came apart, dissolving into a stream of wispy thread that scattered like smoke.
"I can fix this. I can tie it all back together... I can—"
But the world didn't listen.
Gravity vanished.
He floated upward—helpless, into a swirling sky of screaming color.
Where lines had no symmetry.
And threads had no ends.
---
Hawks
The sky was his sanctuary—endless, free, above it all.
Until it started falling.
At first, it was just a flicker—a crack across the clouds, like broken glass in the heavens. Then the light dimmed, and the blue overhead turned an oppressive gray.
Hawks hovered mid-air, wings beating rhythmically.
But something was wrong.
His feathers felt heavier. Too heavy.
Each flap strained his muscles. Each feather quivered, pulsing not with wind—but with guilt. It weighed on him like iron.
He glanced back.
His wings—his beautiful red wings—dripped. Not blood. Faces.
Twice's wide, heartbroken eyes.
Best Jeanist, slumped in a bag, motionless.
Dabi's mocking smirk, eyes alight with betrayal.
The black-market dealers he'd let go. The children he hadn't saved. The villains he'd sided with—for the mission.
His heart raced.
"I did what I had to," he whispered to himself. "It was the only way."
The wind vanished.
He dropped.
Falling.
Falling faster than he ever had. The city rushed up to meet him.
Then—a sudden stop.
Not on the ground.
Mid-air, frozen, like a puppet on invisible strings.
Before him, a mirror appeared—floating gently in the void like a judge's gavel.
In the reflection—
Not a hero.
Not the number two pro hero, the youngest top-ranked professional in history.
Not Keigo Takami.
But a frightened child. Wide, broken amber eyes. Lips trembling. The old Commission collar still clamped to his neck.
Behind the child in the reflection were faces of civilians—the people he'd manipulated, deceived, misled… all in the name of "peace."
Some had trusted him.
Some had died for it.
"You flew too high, little bird,"
came the voice—, faint, haunting, like it whispered from the folds of memory itself.
"And now the lies weigh more than your wings."
He tried to look away—but the mirror followed him, multiplying, dozens of reflections blooming like feathers across the sky, each showing another version of himself.
One killing Twice.
One laughing with Dabi.
One saluting the Commission.
One staring blankly at Endeavor's orders.
They all whispered:
"You did this."
His wings began to wither.
Feathers molted mid-air, falling like red snow. His body slumped, trembling.
"I didn't want this," he muttered. "I wanted freedom… to be a hero. A real one."
The voice returned.
"You were born a tool," Maki whispered. "And you sharpened yourself… beautifully."
Suddenly, he was back in the dark cell under the Commission headquarters—the child version of himself, watching the television flicker with All Might's image, dreaming of something better.
And then—watching the screen turn off.
"No," Hawks gasped. "No, no, don't—"
He clawed toward it.
But his wings were gone.
He fell.
The sky above collapsed into itself, sucked into a spiral of paperwork, contracts, mission files, and blood-stained feathers.
As he plummeted into the silence, the last thing he heard was Twice's voice—soft, forgiving, almost gentle.
"You could've been my friend, y'know."
Then nothing.
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