Chapter 69: Shards of the Past Wound Lee's Feet...
The night was a vast, silent ocean of ink, sprinkled with the cold, distant light of a million stars. Through this profound stillness, a single, silver needle stitched its way across the darkness. It was the heroes' private VTOL jet, a marvel of engineering, its engines a low, constant hum that was the only sound for miles. Inside, the atmosphere was as cold and quiet as the stratosphere outside, a shared space of grim, professional tension.
The soft, blue glow of a holographic map was the only significant light in the main cabin, illuminating the grim faces of the heroes assembled. Best Jeanist stood before it, calm and precise, his Quirk manipulating shimmering threads of denim that formed a perfect, three-dimensional representation of the coastal highway below.
"Our intelligence confirms the target is a single refrigerator truck, flanked by two sedans," he explained, his voice a smooth, even baritone. "My role will be to disable the escort vehicles from the air. We will descend using my fibers to ensure a silent approach." He glanced at the towering figure sitting in the corner. "With one exception, of course. All Might, you are clear to make your own descent. I doubt a man of your caliber needs the assistance."
All Might did not reply. He sat alone, a colossal figure of muscle and regret in his iconic hero suit, his brilliant blue eyes staring out the window into the endless darkness. His chiseled, smiling face was a mask, but his eyes betrayed him. They were filled with the heavy, crushing weight of responsibility, the image of Lee's earnest face and his own promise to protect him replaying in his mind like a phantom.
In another corner of the cabin, Sora Aokawa sat in silence, her posture rigid. She stared down at the palm of her own hand, at the calluses and scars that told the story of a lifetime of grueling training. But she was not seeing her own hand. She was seeing a memory. A flash of a small boy in a library, his eyes shining with a desperate, impossible hope as he promised to work a hundred times harder than anyone else. A flash of that same boy, years older, collapsing in the dojo, his body trembling with exhaustion but his spirit unbroken. A flash of his smile, so full of pure, unadulterated passion.
She clenched her hand into a fist, so tightly her knuckles went white. A wave of shame and cold, hard fury washed over her. She looked up, and her sharp, blue gaze fell upon the solitary, brooding figure of All Might. The seat beside him was empty.
With quiet, deliberate steps, she crossed the cabin and sat a meter away from him. He did not move, his gaze still fixed on the darkness outside.
"That look on your face," she said, her voice a low, cutting whisper. "Don't tell me you feel that this is your responsibility."
All Might finally turned his head, his blue eyes meeting hers. They were filled with a deep, weary sorrow. "Didn't I make you a promise to protect him?"
"A promise to protect him from the hero society, from the press, from the weight of his own fame," she countered, her voice sharp. "That is a different matter entirely. This… this is a personal story. It is a shard of the past, come back to haunt him."
All Might looked at her, truly looked at her, a silent, profound question in his eyes. The idea that this woman had forged a boy with no power into something so magnificent, so terrifyingly strong, was a miracle that his mind was still struggling to comprehend.
Before he could speak, Aizawa approached them, his expression grim. "Aokawa-san," he said, his voice a low rasp. "This organization you mentioned… the 'Kage-ryu.' What else do you know about them?"
The quiet question drew the attention of everyone in the cabin. Best Jeanist turned from his map. All Might focused his full attention on her.
Sora's gaze turned to ice. "They call themselves the 'Kage-ryu,' the Shadow Style," she began, her voice cold and hard. "They are not mere thieves. They are collectors. They believe that all powerful, unique, and forgotten combat techniques are a sacred heritage that should be preserved under their control, not wasted in the hands of individuals. They see people like myself, and like Lee, as nothing more than temporary 'vessels' for these techniques."
She took a shaky breath, a lifetime of resentment in her eyes. "And the most sacred, most powerful of these techniques, the one they desire above all others, is the Eight Gates. My grandfather… the first known user of this art… he founded their organization. It was not called the Kage-ryu then. It was just a dojo, a place to teach the art of self-defense." Her voice became a bitter whisper. "He never passed the Eight Gates to anyone but me. And I, in turn, have passed it to no one but Lee. The leader of the Kage-ryu, my grandfather's other, unworthy student, believes he can… extract this power. He thinks he can pull the technique from Lee's body, copy it, and implant it in his followers."
The cabin was filled with a stunned, horrified silence. Aizawa's eyes were wide with disbelief. Best Jeanist's calm facade had finally cracked, a look of grim understanding on his face.
"Are you saying," All Might's voice was a low, dangerous rumble, "that he wants to create an army with the power of Rock Lee?"
"Yes," Sora confirmed. "And none of you have ever seen the true limits of what the Eight Gates can do." She turned to Aizawa. "You are his teacher. What was the highest number you witnessed from him?"
Aizawa swallowed hard. "The Fifth Gate. He was able to destroy a giant robot with it in a single blow."
A cold, mirthless smile touched Sora's lips. "Lee can open six."
All Might's eyes widened. "He could have used more power at the festival?" he asked, shocked.
"Yes," Sora said. "What exhausted him was the number of consecutive fights. In a single, direct battle… none of his classmates would have ever stood a chance."
A sharp, jarring cut to absolute darkness.
Lee awoke not to a sound, but to a feeling. A dull, throbbing pain in the back of his head, and the low, constant rumble of an engine vibrating through his entire body. His first coherent thought was of the cold. A deep, biting cold that seemed to seep into his bones from the metal surface he was lying on.
He opened his eyes. Blurry, disorienting darkness. As his vision slowly focused, he made out the dark, metallic interior of a truck, the walls slick with condensation. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him as he tried to move and found that he couldn't.
He was bound tightly to a cold, metal seat, thick iron ropes digging into his wrists, his ankles, and his chest. A thick cloth gag was tied tightly over his mouth, held in place by a wrap of heavy-duty tape. He was completely, utterly helpless. His body felt weak, sluggish, a lingering fogginess in his mind telling him he had been drugged after he had passed out. On top of that, the deep, cellular exhaustion from the festival was a heavy, leaden blanket weighing him down.
The chains… he thought, his warrior's mind taking over from the panic. My base strength isn't enough. But the Fourth Gate… maybe the Fifth…
He focused his will, reaching inward for the familiar, burning wellspring of his power. He tried to force the first gate open.
A bolt of pure, white-hot agony shot through his chest. It was a sharp, tearing sensation, as if a fiery hand were squeezing his heart, threatening to crush it. A scream was ripped from his throat, but it was caught and muffled by the gag, turning into a pained, guttural groan. Sweat poured down his forehead, his body arching against the ropes in a silent spasm of pain.
He realized the horrifying truth. He couldn't use the Gates. His body, pushed so far past its limits, was completely broken. If he tried again, it might actually kill him.
He remembered Sora's training. Endure. Survive. There is always a way. He began to subtly test his bonds, flexing his muscles against the iron ropes, searching for any give, any point of weakness. But there was no flaw. There was no escape.
For the first time since the wheels, the sound of the engine, he heard something else. Voices. They were muffled, coming from the driver's cabin through a small, grated vent near the floor.
"…the Master will be pleased. The vessel is secure."
"Once we're on the ship, it's all over. The 'Heir' will finally serve his purpose."
The words were meaningless to him. Vessel? Heir? But the tone, cold and clinical, sent a fresh wave of terror through him, a terror far colder than the metal walls of his prison. He was not just a captive. He was cargo.