The morning after the press conference did not begin in peace.
Before the sun even touched the rooftops of Musutafu, my name was already plastered across international networks. Screens in Times Square. News reports in Seoul. Headlines in London. Articles in Portuguese, Arabic, French. All with variations of the same title:
"The Flagless""The Silent Threat of the New Generation""Revan Whitmore: The Hero Who Ignored the Rules"
Some called me a symbol of hope. Others, a ticking time bomb. A UN analyst said I represented "the greatest diplomatic challenge since the emergence of Quirks." Another, less diplomatic, called me "a potential disaster disguised as a savior."
The media was divided. Some wanted to interview me, understand my side. Others wanted to interrogate me.
And the most ironic part ? I never asked for any of this.
I didn't ask for applause. I didn't ask for a spotlight. I just acted. When I saw people about to die in the open sea, I went. Without permission. Without consultation. Without waiting.
And because of that, now the entire world seemed to demand an apology.
But I didn't apologize.
And I think… that's what bothered them the most.
Governments began pressuring U.A., claiming the school was allowing "unauthorized international actions." Laws were cited. Articles invoked. The entire bureaucracy turned against me, as if I had crossed an invisible line everyone knew existed — but no one dared challenge.
Veteran heroes began giving interviews. Some defended me, saying my actions were noble, courageous. Others were harsh. Called me arrogant, impulsive, irresponsible. Said I compromised the authority of licensed heroes, that I sent the wrong message to the youth.
And it was in that moment, amid all the chaos… that I felt it.
For the first time, I felt the true political weight of doing the right thing — the wrong way.
I became inconvenient. A mirror that reflected what others didn't have the courage to do. A reminder that the system is slow. And that sometimes… acting too quickly, even to save lives, is seen as an offense.
I wasn't idolized. I was debated.
And maybe… that's exactly what I needed to understand.
The administration didn't take long to react. I was summoned the next morning. Closed room. Curtains drawn. Bitter tea served in silence.
Aizawa was there. Serious as always, but there was something different in his eyes. A weight he seemed to carry for me.
"Revan, do you understand why you're here ?"
I nodded. Of course I understood. I knew since the moment I fired those beams into the gray Pacific sky, destroying the submarine's hatch.
"It was the right thing to do," I replied bluntly. "But I know it wasn't… approved."
Aizawa sighed and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"You didn't do wrong saving those people. The problem is… you saved them before the world had a chance to process what was happening. That makes you dangerous — not because of what you did, but because you represent the idea that we don't need approval to do the right thing."
I remained silent. That hurt more than a punch. More than the heat pulsing behind my eyes during training.
"The world fears symbols it can't control," he added.
The decision was formalized the same day: Special Supervision.
No leaving the city without direct authorization from the school board. No using my abilities in public without a validated emergency. My movements would be monitored. My training, evaluated more strictly.
Basically, a subtle reminder that even in freedom, political leashes were still around.
But Aizawa didn't turn his back on me.
Neither did Mirio, Nejire, or Tamaki.
"You did what any of us would've done, Revan," Mirio said as we clapped during a physical drill. "The difference is, you didn't have the chance to hide it. And now, the truth is out there. And it shines."
Nejire was more direct.
"If they fear you, it's because they know what you represent: change. And change scares them."
Tamaki, more reserved, only said:
"They're scared because… you don't act like one of them. And yet, you act better than most."
Training with them became even more intense. Heavier. Not out of a need for strength — but survival. It was like we were all preparing not just for battle… but to endure the weight of being who I was.
At school, whispers started.
"Is he the one who destroyed the zero-point robot with a look ?"
"Did you see the press conference ? He didn't even apologize…"
The school became divided.
Some approached with silent respect. Others kept their distance. And me? I just trained. Observed. And tried, every day, not to lose who I was in this new role: the boy who dared to act — and didn't apologize for it.
But the calm never lasts. It never does.
Because somewhere in the world… someone was watching me.
And liked what they saw.
It was on a strangely silent night that the first message arrived.
It didn't come by email or phone. It came through U.A.'s internal system — encrypted, coded, with a signature no one could trace.
Just one line of text:
"You did what no hero had the courage to do: you acted. Without asking permission. Without waiting. But the world will hate you for it… as it hated me. Are you ready to see the truth, Hero ?"
The message vanished seconds later.
U.A. immediately increased security. Aizawa and Principal Nezu activated internal investigation protocols. But no one — absolutely no one — could trace the source.
It was as if… he was inside everything. The system, the cameras, the networks. And somehow, inside my story.
The villain didn't reveal himself right away. He didn't declare war. He didn't threaten to destroy cities.
He just… started testing.
Isolated attacks. Precise. Carefully positioned events in zones I somehow always heard about — with my super-hearing, with the damn sensitivity of someone who can't ignore the sound of pain anymore.
A fire in an abandoned factory. A bridge collapsing during a storm. A kidnapped child in a rural village.
Always on the edge.
Always in places I wasn't supposed to be. Where my orders were clear: don't get involved.
But the problem was… I heard it.
I felt it.
And the world watched.
The media started asking questions:
"Revan was seen near the perimeter of a Japanese police operation. Did he act again ?""Why can't U.A. contain its most powerful student ?""Are we facing a vigilante disguised as a hero-in-training ?"
I saw the headlines like slow-motion bullets. Each one tearing away pieces of me I was trying to hold intact.
Because the dilemma was cruel:
If I went… I proved the rules didn't restrain me.If I didn't… someone might die.
And the villain knew that.
Each attack left a signature. A code. An image. A symbol of what seemed like a distorted ideology — but with almost flawless internal logic.
"You want to save the world, Revan. But have you ever asked what the world wants from you ?"
I started having nightmares.
Not of death. But of people's eyes. The same look I saw after the sea rescue. A mix of fear and reverence. As if they didn't know whether to follow me… or stop me.
And in the middle of it all, U.A. kept me under watch.
Aizawa tried to be fair. But even he knew: there's a limit to how long you can keep someone leashed before it explodes.
And then… the villain struck where it hurt most.
He came for the school.
----
The attack on the school didn't begin with explosions or alarms.
It began with a silent field class.
One of those heavy, dense silences that come before the storm. It was a simple field exercise — a simulation in a controlled urban zone, part of the advanced curriculum. Monitored, safe. At least on paper.
I felt something was off even before we got off the U.A. buses. My ears, always alert, picked up something out of place — subtle metallic sounds, unusual frequencies in the thermal spectrum of the environment. As if someone were forcing their presence into a space that rejected them.
And then he appeared.
First as a shadow between the simulation buildings.Then, fully, in the center of the field.
I knew him from the news — his name was Kairon, or as he preferred to be called: Vox.
A tall man, pale like worn paper, with black hair dripping like watery ink down to his shoulders. His eyes were completely white, no visible pupils — as if they were always listening, always absorbing the world around them.
He wore a long, black, stained coat, made from pieces of old hero uniforms — hand-stitched, almost like trophies. Every fold of his clothing carried marks of battles. Dried blood. Scratched-out insignias.
His voice… was the worst part.
Calm. Warm. Almost gentle. But it vibrated in the air as if it had physical weight. It wasn't just sound. It was presence.
His Quirk: "Resonance."
Kairon could manipulate sound frequencies at the molecular level. Shockwaves, vibrational manipulation, neurosensory disruption. He could collapse buildings with a snap of his fingers, or silence a crowd with a whisper. And worse: he could reach inside the internal vibrations of the human body. Shut down muscles. Affect organs. Leave someone deaf, mute, blind — without ever touching them.
But that day, he didn't want to kill.
He wanted to expose.
"Revan," he said as he appeared before the class, his voice floating through the field like poisonous perfume. "We finally meet. Strange… you're younger than I imagined… and more dangerous."
"Get behind me !" I shouted, instinctively placing myself between him and the others. Mirio, Nejire, and Tamaki were already by my side, in combat stance. But my friends were in shock. And not just because of the villain — but because he was there… for me.
"You want to know why I'm here ?" Kairon continued, walking calmly through the field. "Because you, Revan, are the exception. The mistake too beautiful to ignore. A symbol that slipped out of the hands of those who craft them. And me… I'm just the reflection of what comes after."
I took flight, feeling the heat build behind my eyes. I prepared to strike.
But he merely raised a finger.
PLOM.
The air around me collapsed, slamming me to the ground with brutal force. As if space itself had been pushed. Tamaki fell to his knees, covering his ears. Nejire staggered. Mirio tried to advance, but Kairon clicked his tongue and the ground vibrated like a heart in agony.
"See ?" he said, smiling without teeth. "Just a whisper. One command. And everyone bows. But you… you stand. Even when no one asked you to."
I stood up, teeth clenched. The heat throbbed in my arms, in my eyes, in my chest.
"You talk too much," I replied. "And you understand nothing."
"Ah, but I do understand, Revan," he said, spreading his arms. "I understand that you're a walking paradox. A prodigy who wants to be free. A hero who rejects orders. A symbol who doesn't want to be one. And that… that's going to break the world. Because the world needs leashes. Needs rules. Hierarchies. Walls to keep the dogs in. And you… you are a wide-open gate."
The students — at least three classes — were surrounded by drones rising from the debris. Cameras recording. Broadcasting. Not just to U.A.
But to the entire world.
Kairon had set it all up.
He wanted to force me. Push me to my limit. And make sure everyone saw.
"So, Revan," he said, flashing a crooked smile. "Are you going to stop me ? Destroy me ? Prove to them you're a weapon without a master ? Or are you going to just stand there… and watch ?"
The dilemma was right in front of me.
Obey U.A. and refrain from acting outside protocol ?Or save lives — and lose control of my own narrative ?
I closed my eyes.
I heard my classmates' hearts pounding. Heard Tamaki's trembling breath, Mirio's muscles tensing, the heat of Nejire's hand trying to stay steady.
And then, I heard something else.
Someone… crying. A student, hiding among the rubble.
He was afraid. And no one else saw him.
I opened my eyes.
And I made my choice.
"You want the truth, Kairon ?" I whispered, floating above the field, eyes glowing like two red suns.
"Then I'll show you… who I am."