Chapter Text
The morning light came early through the dorm window, spilling across Izuku’s bed. He lay there for a long while, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The sounds of UA waking up drifted faintly through the walls — footsteps in the hallway, the distant hum of teachers talking somewhere down the corridor.
He turned his head toward the mirror by the desk.
The boy staring back at him still didn’t feel like him.
White hair streaked with green.
Pale skin marked with faint glowing lines that traced his jaw like cracks in porcelain.
Eyes that looked older than they had any right to be.
First day back to class, he thought. First day everyone gets to see how broken I am now.
He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. His body felt fine — healed, stable — but something in his chest still ached like a phantom wound.
He got dressed in silence, buttoning the UA uniform with mechanical care. Every motion felt deliberate, practiced, like he was trying to convince himself that normalcy could be worn like armor.
From the kitchenette, his mother called softly:
“You’re going to be late, sweetie.”
“Yeah… I know,” he murmured.
He took one last glance at his reflection — the hollow look, the faint tremor in his fingers — then shouldered his bag and opened the door.
The hallway outside buzzed faintly with energy again. Students were back. Teachers were moving. The world kept spinning, even when he felt like he’d stopped somewhere along the way.
He took a breath.
And started walking.
Izuku locked the door behind him, still adjusting the strap of his bag when a figure stepped into his peripheral vision. For a split second, his heart jumped—bandages, scarf, dark hair hanging limp—and then tired eyes met his.
“A–Aizawa-sensei?”
The man blinked slowly, looking like he’d barely escaped the hospital bed. His scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other clutching a coffee cup like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Izuku asked, startled.
Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same thing to you, problem child.”
They fell into step together down the quiet dorm hallway. The sound of their shoes on tile was the only thing filling the silence for a while.
“You feeling okay today?” Aizawa asked, voice low but not unkind.
Izuku exhaled through his nose. “I guess. A little nervous to see everyone.”
Aizawa hummed, eyes half-lidded. “Understandable. You’ve been through a lot. Most of them have, but you—” He stopped himself, waving it off. “You’ll handle it.”
Izuku gave a small nod, glancing sideways. “How are your eyes, sensei?”
“They’re fine,” Aizawa replied. “I lost a little time between blinks, but I can handle that.”
He sipped his coffee, then added after a pause, “Are you okay though? I noticed your hair. It’s… different.”
Izuku blinked, surprised. “Oh. Uh… yeah. Magic thing. It happens when I push too hard.”
Aizawa grunted in reply, shifting his scarf. “Not in a bad way.”
Izuku looked up, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s… kind of you to say, sensei.”
Aizawa’s face twitched. “Don’t get used to it.”
For a second, Izuku almost laughed—just a soft, quiet sound—but it was the first real one he’d made in weeks.
As they stepped out into the morning sunlight, Aizawa spoke again, voice steady but gentler than before.
“You’re not alone in this, Midoriya. Remember that.”
Izuku nodded, gripping his bag a little tighter.
“I’ll try to.”
And together, they started toward the main building.
The door to Class 1-A slid open slowly.
Izuku stood frozen in the doorway for a heartbeat, heart hammering in his chest.
The murmur of conversation died instantly. Every pair of eyes turned toward him.
He’d told himself to be ready for this — the looks, the whispers, the weight of what everyone knew now.
But the silence still hit harder than he expected.
The first voice to break it was soft and shaking.
“Midoriya…?”
Tsuyu stood from her seat near the middle row, hands gripping the desk. Her wide eyes shimmered, and her throat bobbed before she spoke again.
“I—I thought you were going to die, ribbit. You and Aizawa-sensei… and Thirteen. We all did.”
Her voice cracked, and she quickly wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just—seeing you standing there…”
Izuku swallowed hard, the tightness in his chest almost painful.
“I’m okay, Tsu,” he said softly. “You all made it through. That’s what matters.”
Ochaco stood next, still walking carefully — her leg not fully healed, a faint brace visible beneath her skirt. She moved slower than usual, but there was no hesitation as she came up and wrapped her arms around him.
“You scared me, Deku,” she said, voice muffled against his shoulder. “You can’t just throw yourself into explosions like that, okay?”
He blinked fast, trying not to cry.
“I’ll… try not to,” he said, half-laughing.
Mineta piped up quietly from behind his desk.
“She’s not kidding, dude. You almost blew yourself apart out there. We were hiding and—” He stopped, shaking his head. “Glad you didn’t.”
The rest of the class slowly came alive around them. Iida straightened his glasses, bowing formally.
“Midoriya! It does my heart good to see you well. Your courage at the USJ was extraordinary.”
Kirishima crossed his arms, grinning despite the seriousness of his words.
“Yeah, man. You were totally badass. Don’t know how you pulled it off, but respect.”
Even Todoroki spoke, quiet but clear.
“You fought when others couldn’t. That’s strength worth respecting.”
Izuku shifted, embarrassed under all the attention.
“I just… didn’t want anyone else to die.”
That made the room go quiet again. Then Ochaco’s hand tightened on his sleeve.
“You didn’t let that happen.”
Before he could say more, the door opened behind him.
Aizawa stepped in, bandages trailing from his neck, scarf hanging loose. He looked like death warmed over, but his eyes were steady as they swept across the room.
“Alright, problem children,” he rasped. “Save the reunions for after class.”
No one moved, but the tension eased. A few students laughed softly.
Aizawa met Izuku’s gaze for half a second.
Aizawa met Izuku’s gaze for half a second. His eyes softened, just barely, before his voice cut through the room.
“Because your battle isn’t over yet.”
Half the class froze. A few students let out startled yelps.
Mineta jumped up, eyes wide.
“T-there are more villains already?!”
Aizawa’s scarf twitched like a living thing as his hair lifted and his eyes flashed red.
“Calm down,” he said flatly. “I meant the Sports Festival is coming up.”
The sudden shift made the entire room groan in unison. Mina dropped her head against her desk.
“You can’t just say it like that, Sensei!”
Aizawa ignored her entirely, continuing in his usual monotone.
“Normally it would’ve been canceled after what happened at the USJ. But The Commission insisted it go on. They wants to remind the public that U.A. doesn’t break that easily.”
He scanned the room, his gaze landing briefly on Izuku again.
“This is your chance to show the world what kind of heroes you’re going to be. All of you.”
The class exchanged glances — a mix of nerves and excitement.
Bakugo leaned back in his chair with a snort.
“Heh. Finally, something worth my time.”
Ochaco smiled faintly, rubbing the brace under her skirt.
“Guess we’re really doing this, huh?”
Izuku swallowed, a flutter of nerves in his chest — but also something else.
Hope.
A chance to prove I can still stand.
Aizawa adjusted his scarf.
“Get some rest tonight. Training starts tomorrow.”
And just like that, class 1-A began buzzing again, laughter and chatter filling the space where silence used to be.
Izuku stayed quiet at his desk, staring out the window, the morning sun catching on his white-green hair.
The battle wasn’t over — not even close — but for the first time in a long while, it didn’t scare him.
Izuku was still trying to process Aizawa’s announcement when Iida raised his hand, completely serious.
“Uh, Sensei? Class has only just started…”
Aizawa blinked once, clearly unimpressed.
“I know.”
He pulled his yellow sleeping bag from behind the desk with practiced ease and stepped inside it in one motion.
“Do something productive. I’m going to sleep.”
The entire class just stared for a moment.
“Wait—you’re just—going to—?” Mina started, gesturing helplessly.
“Don’t wake me,” Aizawa mumbled, already burritoed up on the floor.
Silence.
Then Kaminari leaned toward Jiro. “I think this guy’s my spirit animal.”
Jiro rolled her eyes. “You don’t have one.”
The room stayed quiet for all of three minutes before Mina whispered,
“So… are we just gonna not talk about what happened at the USJ?”
Sero leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, seriously. It’s been eating at me.”
Jiro crossed her arms, tapping her pen against the desk. “It feels weird talking about it now, but… we should.”
Iida nodded solemnly. “Indeed. As heroes-in-training, reflecting on crisis management is crucial.”
Mina rolled her eyes. “Iida, you could make anything sound like homework.”
He sputtered, “W–well, it is!”
The laughter that followed was soft, tired — but real.
Ochaco shifted in her seat near Izuku, looking thoughtful before turning to Tsuyu and Mineta.
“Hey… I never really got to say it properly, but thank you. Both of you.”
Tsuyu blinked. “For what, ribbit?”
Ochaco smiled faintly, brushing her fingers over the brace hidden under her skirt.
“For getting me out of there. I don’t remember much after I fell — just blood, noise, and then you two dragging me behind cover. You probably saved my life.”
Mineta looked startled. “O-oh! I mean—yeah, I did what any gentleman would do!”
Kaminari snorted. “Gentleman, huh? You screamed the loudest.”
Mineta puffed up. “Fear is a survival instinct!”
The class chuckled again, and even Tsuyu smiled softly.
“You don’t need to thank us, Uraraka. We were just doing what heroes do. We protect each other.”
That made something in Izuku’s chest tighten. He looked down at his hands — the faint cracks along his skin — and listened as everyone else began to share their memories.
Kirishima leaned forward. “That Nomu thing, though. I thought Aizawa-sensei was done for. And then Midoriya—” He stopped himself, realizing Izuku was already tensing. “You, uh, really came through, man.”
Izuku smiled weakly. “I just moved before thinking.”
“Yeah,” Sero said quietly. “That’s what makes it hero work, right?”
For a long while, the class just talked — about fear, confusion, the chaos of the attack. About Thirteen’s injuries, about Aizawa’s bravery, about the moment the teachers arrived.
And under it all, there was something unspoken but shared between them:
They were still alive. They’d survived something that could have broken them.
Even Aizawa, half-asleep in his yellow sleeping bag, cracked one eye open and listened.
Maybe, just maybe, his class of problem children was growing stronger in all the right ways.
Todoroki sat quietly near the window, half-distracted as Hagakure’s gloves waved animatedly from across the room.
“Todoroki totally saved me!” she announced, her voice bright and echoing slightly from where her body shimmered faintly. “He caught all the nasty villains with his ice—like shoom!”
She mimed throwing punches, or at least it seemed that way from how her uniform sleeves fluttered through the air.
“It was so cool! Literally!”
Kaminari groaned. “Please don’t encourage yourself.”
Hagakure laughed, the invisible sound of her moving closer to Todoroki’s desk.
“Don’t be jealous, Kaminari! You were busy zapping yourself in the face!”
The class burst into laughter. Even Todoroki’s expression softened for a moment.
“It was… nothing special,” he said quietly. “Anyone would’ve done the same.”
“Yeah,” Jiro said with a smirk. “But none of us can freeze an entire villain squad in two seconds, so maybe take the compliment.”
The days after Aizawa’s “wakeful nap” passed in a strange blur of normalcy.
Classes resumed. Training schedules were posted. The halls of U.A. slowly filled again with laughter and nerves about the Sports Festival.
Izuku tried to sink into the rhythm of it—notes, study sessions, shared lunches in the courtyard with Ochaco, Iida, and Tsuyu. For the first time since the USJ, it actually felt normal.
Almost.
The halls of U.A. were quiet after lunch — that strange lull between energy and exhaustion. Izuku walked with his hands in his pockets, the faint hum of nerves buzzing beneath his skin.
He was headed toward Hound Dog’s office again. Another session. Another hour of questions he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer.
He turned the corner near the counseling wing—and froze.
Up ahead, the door to Hound Dog’s office opened.
Ochaco stepped out first, her hair a little messier than usual and her expression somewhere between tired and relieved.
Iida followed right after, adjusting his glasses with his usual precision, but his face was softer — less rigid.
Tsuyu came last, quiet as always, hands clasped behind her back.
Izuku blinked. “You guys… were here?”
Ochaco looked up, surprised but smiling faintly. “Oh—yeah. Hound Dog’s been seeing a few of us since the attack.”
Tsuyu nodded. “He said it’s normal, ribbit. Helps us process things.”
Iida gave a quick, reassuring nod. “Indeed! U.A. takes mental health very seriously. It’s important we address the psychological aftermath of the USJ incident.”
Izuku tilted his head, still processing. “I didn’t know you guys were seeing him too.”
“You’re not the only one who’s been having nightmares,” Ochaco said softly, glancing down.
Tsuyu’s voice followed, calm but honest. “We all got scared, Midoriya. We just don’t show it the same way.”
Izuku’s chest tightened. For so long, he’d been carrying it like it was his burden alone — the guilt, the memories, the fear.
But seeing them there — all fighting the same invisible weight — it made something inside him unclench.
He smiled a little, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Guess that makes me a little less weird, huh?”
Ochaco grinned. “Weird? Deku, you fought a monster twice your size. I think you earned weird.”
Hound Dog’s voice barked from the office.
“Midoriya! You’re up, kit!”
Izuku waved awkwardly to his friends as they passed him in the hall.
“See you guys later.”
And for the first time since the sessions began, he didn’t dread walking through that door.
Inui leaned back slightly in his chair, the ever-so-faint rumble of his voice filling the quiet room.
“So, kit… how’ve you been fairing since our last talk?”
Izuku fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve before answering.
“I—well… it’s been okay, I guess. People weren’t as weird as I thought they were going to be. About my hair, or… the scars.”
He gave a small, shaky laugh.
“Honestly, I was really scared they’d judge me or something.”
Inui tilted his head, ears twitching. “And did they?”
Izuku shook his head. “No. I mean—some people stared, but mostly everyone’s been… nice. Ochaco, Iida, and Tsu—they’ve been really kind. Like nothing changed.”
“That surprise you?”
Izuku hesitated, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah. I guess it does. I don’t really know how to deal with people being nice to me after I’ve…”
He stopped himself, swallowing hard.
Inui’s tone softened.
“After you’ve what?”
“After I’ve been what I am,” Izuku finished quietly. “Someone who kills when he’s scared.”
The counselor was silent for a long moment, then said,
“You’re not what you’ve done, Midoriya. You’re what you choose to keep doing.”
Izuku blinked, looking up.
“You think people won’t see your scars, but they do. They just see them differently than you do. You see damage. They see proof that you survived.”
Izuku’s throat tightened. “That sounds nice.”
“It’s the truth,” Inui said simply. “And you’re going to have to learn to believe it, kit. Bit by bit.”
Inui leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The faint rumble in his voice softened a little — less growl, more warmth.
“Alright, kit. Before you leave, I’ve got homework for you.”
Izuku groaned immediately. “Homework? From therapy?”
Inui’s muzzle twitched in a small grin. “Two things, actually. First — I want you to write down one thing you like about yourself. Not about your magic, not about saving people. Just you. Something small. Something honest.”
Izuku frowned. “That’s… hard.”
“Yeah,” Inui said simply. “That’s why it’s an assignment.”
He reached for the notepad on his desk and tapped it with a claw. “Second thing: I want you to look in the mirror more often.”
Izuku blinked, confused. “Why?”
“Because right now, every time you look at yourself, you see what you lost,” Inui said. “You see the cracks, the scars, the mistakes. I want you to start seeing the kid who survived.”
Izuku shifted, uneasy. “That feels… weird.”
“It’s supposed to,” Inui replied. “You don’t heal by avoiding your reflection, Midoriya. You heal by reminding yourself you’re still here — and that’s not something to be ashamed of.”
Izuku looked down, then slowly nodded. “Okay… I’ll try.”
Inui smiled faintly, showing a row of sharp teeth.
“That’s all I ask, kit. Try. Now get outta here before I start charging you for my wisdom.”
Izuku let out a weak laugh and stood, clutching his notebook to his chest.
“Thank you, sensei.”
“Go live, kid,” Inui said, waving him off. “And next time, bring me that list.”
The chatter in 1-A was louder than usual that morning.
The Sports Festival was coming up fast, and even Aizawa’s presence in the corner of the room couldn’t keep everyone completely focused.
Izuku sat near his usual seat, half-listening as Ochaco and Iida discussed strategy. Kirishima plopped into the chair in front of him, grin wide as ever.
“Yo, Midoriya! You feeling ready for this festival? Gotta admit, you kinda set the bar high after the USJ, man.”
Izuku laughed softly. “I don’t know if ‘high’ is the word I’d use.”
“Nah, for real,” Kirishima said, leaning on the back of his chair. “That was crazy. Bakugo and I were holding off those villains at the upper level—he actually covered me when that one guy tried to blast us.”
“Bakugo did?” Ochaco asked, surprised.
Kirishima nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! He said something like, ‘You’re not dying before I get my rematch with Deku!’”
Izuku froze mid-breath.
“He—he said that?”
Kirishima blinked, realizing a little too late what he’d just admitted. “Uh… yeah. I mean, don’t tell him I told you. He’d probably explode my desk or something.”
Ochaco giggled. “Aww, so he was worried.”
Iida adjusted his glasses, frowning in thought. “Bakugo’s expression of concern may differ from most, but the sentiment is genuine.”
Izuku stared down at his desk, warmth and confusion mixing in his chest.
“I… didn’t think he even cared.”
“Course he does,” Kirishima said, smiling. “You’re his rival, man. Wouldn’t be the same without you around to push him.”
Before Izuku could respond, Aizawa’s voice broke through the hum of conversation.
“Alright, enough gossip. Training groups are posted. Find your partners and get outside.”
Chairs scraped as everyone jumped up. Kirishima gave Izuku a thumbs-up before heading toward the door.
“Guess that’s our cue. Don’t hold back today, alright?”
Izuku smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Aizawa stood near the edge of the training field, his scarf fluttering faintly in the breeze. Beside him, Yagi watched the students run through drills, his thin frame hidden beneath a UA staff coat that looked two sizes too big.
“How’s young Izuku doing?” Yagi asked quietly, eyes following the green-haired boy as he launched a burst of mana to boost his jump.
Aizawa didn’t answer right away. He watched Midoriya land, stumble, then shake off the dirt with that same stubborn focus he’d seen since day one.
“He’s doing… okay,” Aizawa said finally. “Why do you ask? You’ve seemed more interested in him lately.”
Yagi smiled faintly, still watching the boy. “He reminds me of someone I once knew. Someone who wanted to be a hero more than anything — even before they had the power to do it.”
Aizawa arched an eyebrow. “That so?”
“Yes,” Yagi said softly. “But it’s more than that. There’s something about him. A weight he carries that doesn’t belong to someone his age.”
Aizawa hummed, crossing his arms. “You’re not wrong about that. But he’s learning to handle it. Slowly.”
Yagi’s gaze lingered as Izuku helped Ochaco back to her feet, the two sharing a small laugh. “He has heart,” Yagi said. “That’s something you can’t teach.”
Aizawa gave a faint smirk. “Maybe not. But I can make sure he doesn’t break under the weight of it.”
The two stood there in companionable silence for a moment, the sound of shouting students and crashing training dummies filling the air.
“You really think he can make it?” Aizawa asked at last.
Yagi’s answer came without hesitation.
“I know he will.”
Izuku had just started heading toward the cafeteria when a familiar voice called out behind him.
“Young Izuku!”
He turned, blinking in surprise. “Oh—Mister Yagi! Um, hi.”
Yagi smiled that kind, almost sheepish smile of his. “Do you have a moment to talk with an old man?”
“Uh… yes, sir. Of course.”
They walked together down the empty hallway, sunlight spilling through the tall UA windows. Izuku fidgeted with his sleeves. “So, uh, why are you here today? I haven’t seen All Might around since class earlier.”
Yagi chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, well, All Might had to run off rather suddenly. Hero business, you know how it is.”
Izuku nodded. “Right.”
“I’m just here to help grade a few things for the staff,” Yagi continued. “But honestly, that’s just the excuse I gave Nezu so I could check in on you, my boy.”
Izuku blinked. “On me?”
Yagi nodded. “You’ve been through quite a bit lately. It’s one thing to recover physically, but another to find your footing again after a fight like that.”
Izuku shifted awkwardly. “I’m… trying. Some days it’s easier than others.”
“That’s perfectly natural,” Yagi said gently. “The hardest part of being a hero isn’t the fighting — it’s learning to live with the things you fight for.”
Izuku looked down, then smiled a little. “You sound like Hound Dog-sensei.”
Yagi laughed softly. “Then I’d say you’re in good hands.”
They stopped at the edge of the courtyard, the breeze lifting the ends of Yagi’s coat.
“You remind me of someone,” he said after a pause. “Someone who refused to give up, no matter how heavy the burden got.”
Izuku blushed slightly. “You really think I’m like that?”
“I don’t think so,” Yagi said. “I know so. Keep moving forward, young Midoriya. One step at a time.”
Izuku smiled — a real one this time.
“Thanks, Mister Yagi.”
“Anytime, my boy.”
Yagi’s expression softened, his usual grin replaced with something gentler — almost fatherly.
“And, young Izuku,” he said, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “if you ever need anything — anything at all — you come to me or to All Might, understood? We’ll help you, my boy.”
Izuku blinked, startled by the sincerity in his voice. “O-okay, sir.”
Yagi’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “And don’t forget Togata. That lad seems to have taken quite a liking to you. He speaks highly of your heart.”
Izuku flushed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mirio’s… really something. I wish I could be more like him sometimes.”
“Then you’re already halfway there,” Yagi said with a chuckle. “Now go — lunch is waiting, and I won’t keep you from your friends any longer.”
Izuku hesitated a moment, then bowed slightly. “Thank you, Mister Yagi. Really.”
Yagi waved him off with a grin that didn’t quite hide the emotion behind it.
“Go on, my boy. Keep making us proud.”
As Izuku walked away toward the cafeteria, Yagi watched him go — the smile still on his face, but his eyes shadowed with quiet thought.
Yagi arrived at Might Tower late that night, the building quiet except for the faint hum of the elevator shaft.
He keyed in the private code only a handful of people knew and ascended to the top floor. The city lights flickered below — beautiful, distant, untouchable.
In his room, he moved with the sluggish rhythm of routine.
A small meal.
His medication.
A long sigh into the empty space.
He leaned against the counter, staring out the window as he swallowed the last pill.
Was Nighteye right?
The question haunted him. He’d seen Mirio’s strength firsthand — his heart, his humor, his boundless optimism. He doesn’t need my power, Yagi thought. Maybe no one does.
He ran a hand through his thinning hair and smiled faintly. “If anyone could change the world without One For All… it’s that boy.”
He switched off the light and lay down, hoping for sleep.
But rest didn’t come peacefully anymore.
The wind screamed like it was alive.
Ashes and light tangled together, painting the sky a molten gold.
Yagi—no, Yagaru—stood at the edge of a battlefield unlike any he had ever seen. Towering spires of crystal impaled the clouds. Rivers of light split the ground, and through them pulsed the raw heart of magic itself.
His armor was battered and cracked, the once-holy sigil on his chestplate scorched black. Every breath tasted like smoke and copper.
“Yagaru! Come on!”
He turned. A woman in radiant armor—her wings torn, her blade glowing with sunfire—called to him through the storm.
“We’re almost there! The demon king is faltering!”
He ran to her side, boots slamming into broken stone. All around them, knights and mages fought things that looked human only at a distance—hollowed husks with molten eyes and laughter that made the sky bleed.
At the center of it all was a throne of bone.
And upon it, a being of pure shadow thrashed and roared—a wound in the world itself.
Yagaru raised his sword. The Light burned in his chest, roaring through every nerve, flooding his veins like fire. It hurt. Every heartbeat felt like dying.
“You cannot kill what is eternal,” the demon king bellowed, voice shaking the mountains. “You are only men!”
Yagaru stepped forward, his voice breaking with exhaustion.
“Then I’ll be a man who stands until the end.”
The ground shattered as he drove his blade forward, the Light flaring through the battlefield—consuming both armies in a blinding radiance.
When the light faded, he was standing alone.
The world was gone. Only silence and drifting sparks remained.
A faint whisper curled through the emptiness.
“The torch passes again, Yagaru. It will never die—only change its bearer.”
He looked down. His sword was gone. His hands were cracked with gold light. The flame that had fueled him was burning out, seeking another host—another world.
He fell to his knees, smiling faintly through the pain.
“Then let it burn where it’s needed most.”
Yagi jolted awake, gasping for air. The skyline outside his window blinked with city lights, but the image of that dying world clung to him like smoke.
“The torch passes again…” he whispered, voice trembling.
The teachers’ lounge was unusually quiet that morning. The hum of vending machines filled the silence, broken only by the occasional flick of a newspaper page.
Yagi sat at the far table near the window, a cup of tea cooling untouched in front of him. He’d been staring at it for nearly ten minutes, though his thoughts were a thousand miles away.
That dream.
The battlefield.
The name Yagaru.
He rubbed his temples and let out a long sigh. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered.
The images still clung to him — armor, divine fire, the sound of a dying god. He could still feel the heat on his skin. It wasn’t just a dream; it felt like a memory.
“Maybe I’m finally losing my mind,” he whispered to no one.
The door opened, and Aizawa shuffled in, scarf loose and eyes half-lidded. He glanced at Yagi, then the untouched tea.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” Aizawa said, voice rough.
Yagi blinked, offering a thin smile. “Something like that, my boy.”
Aizawa grunted, dropping onto the couch. “You worried about tomorrow?”
Yagi hesitated, then nodded. “In a way, yes. But it’s not the festival I’m worried about.”
“Midoriya?”
Yagi’s smile faded, replaced by quiet thought. “He carries so much for someone his age. Sometimes I wonder if fate itself is watching him.”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been spending too much time around Nezu.”
That earned a soft laugh from Yagi. “Maybe. Or maybe the universe is stranger than either of us realize.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes distant again. “Still… I can’t shake the feeling that something’s coming.”
Aizawa yawned, already halfway into his sleeping bag. “Something always is.”
Yagi was still staring into the half-empty cup when a familiar, cheerful voice drifted from above.
“Yagi, you seem troubled — more than usual, my friend!”
A metallic clank echoed through the vent system. Before Yagi could respond, a small, white-furred blur fell out of the ceiling, landing neatly — or almost neatly — in Aizawa’s scarf.
Aizawa didn’t even blink. “You’re paying for dry-cleaning.”
Nezu laughed, brushing himself off. “A fair trade for the art of a dramatic entrance!”
Yagi smiled faintly but didn’t hide the fatigue in his eyes. “Morning, Nezu.”
Nezu tilted his head. “You look as if you’ve seen something you can’t quite explain. What’s bothering you, old friend? Is it about him?”
Yagi shook his head slowly. “No. Not about Him….”
He paused, rubbing his temples. “It was a dream. But it felt… real. Too real.”
Aizawa opened one eye, mildly curious despite himself. “A dream?”
Yagi nodded. “I was somewhere else. Another world, maybe. A battlefield — no, a war between light and shadow. And there was this… power, burning in my chest. The people there called me Yagaru.”
Nezu’s ears perked. “That’s a curious name. Go on.”
“I was fighting a creature they called a demon king,” Yagi continued slowly. “There were mages, knights, people shouting for hope, for freedom — and then there was this voice at the end.” He frowned, searching for the right words.
“It told me the torch would pass again — that it never dies, only changes its bearer. And then I woke up.”
The room went quiet.
Aizawa blinked. “So… a dream about being a knight and saving the world. You’ve definitely been hanging around our students too much.”
Nezu, however, wasn’t smiling. He tapped a claw against the table thoughtfully. “A torch that never dies… and a name you’ve never heard. That’s rather specific, don’t you think?”
Yagi exhaled. “It felt like I was him, Nezu. Like it wasn’t just a dream — more like a memory from someone else’s life.”
Nezu’s dark eyes gleamed. “Or perhaps… from another life of your own.”
Yagi froze.
Aizawa groaned softly. “Don’t start with your multiverse theories again.”
But Nezu just smiled, sipping from his tiny teacup.
“Oh, I never said it was just a theory.”
Aizawa stretched, rolling his shoulders with an audible groan. “You know, Nezu, at this point we’ve told nearly everyone else. Maybe it’s time he knows too.”
Nezu tilted his head. “You’re suggesting we tell Yagi what we know about young Midoriya?”
Aizawa sighed, already pulling his scarf tighter. “You’re the one who knows the most. You’ve talked to him more than anyone. I’m heading to class to sleep before the kids show up.”
And just like that, he shuffled out, leaving Nezu perched on the couch beside Yagi.
The silence stretched a long moment before Nezu spoke again, voice low.
“Yagi… what I’m about to tell you does not leave this room. Understood?”
Yagi frowned but nodded. “Of course.”
Nezu folded his paws neatly in his lap. “The boy, Midoriya… he’s not what he seems. Not in the way anyone expected.”
He took a breath. “According to what he’s told me — and what my own observations have supported — Izuku has died. Twice.”
Yagi blinked, startled. “Died?”
Nezu nodded. “The first time was an act of sacrifice. He saved his mother’s life and perished in the process. But death was not the end for him. A god — a true god, from another plane — chose him. Sent him to another world, a world steeped in magic and ruin.”
He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing.
“There, he was trained by a group called the Order. They made him a weapon. A killer of monsters… and of people. They taught him to fight, to destroy. He was forced to kill for their cause until he finally Died again.”
Yagi sat frozen, hands trembling slightly. “That’s… impossible.”
Nezu’s tone was gentle but steady. “Impossible, yes. But true. In that world, he became a hero of sorts — one chosen to end a great evil. And when he did, when he struck down that final monster… it cost him his life again.”
He turned his gaze to the window, where sunlight cut through the blinds.
“And now, Yagi, that monster — that being he destroyed — has found its way here.”
Yagi’s breath caught. “The USJ.”
Nezu nodded. “Exactly. The attack wasn’t random. The leader of the League of Villains — and his master — are connected to that same darkness. It’s why the boy’s magic responded the way it did that day. He wasn’t just fighting villains… he was fighting something ancient.”
Yagi’s face had gone pale. “So… you’re saying the same creature from that world…”
“Is here,” Nezu finished quietly. “And it wants him back.”
Yagi sat forward, elbows on his knees, the weight of Nezu’s words pressing down like a storm.
He stared at the floor for a long time before speaking.
“But what does that mean about my dream, Nezu?”
Nezu tilted his head. “Go on.”
Yagi’s voice came low and uncertain. “Are you saying… maybe I’ve been reincarnated as well? That I lived another life — in another realm — and was brought here like him?”
Nezu’s ears twitched. “It’s a possibility, Yagi. The evidence is circumstantial, but your dream — its imagery, the terminology, the mention of the torch — none of it is random.”
Yagi ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “You mentioned a torch, didn’t you? In my dream, they told me the torch would pass again. That it never dies, only changes its bearer.”
He lowered his hand, looking at Nezu with dawning realization.
“What does that sound like to you?”
Nezu’s eyes gleamed. “One For All.”
The words hung between them, electric.
Yagi leaned back, mind racing. “If that dream was more than a dream — if it was a memory — then maybe One For All isn’t just a quirk. Maybe it’s… older. Something born long before this world ever knew what a quirk was.”
Nezu folded his paws thoughtfully. “A divine inheritance, perhaps. Passed between heroes, across worlds, until it found this one.”
Yagi’s throat tightened. “And if that’s true…”
Nezu met his gaze. “Then One For All chose you the same way that god chose Midoriya.”
The room fell silent.
For the first time in years, Yagi felt small — not weak, not unworthy — but part of something vast.
“The torch passes again,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Maybe it’s been burning longer than any of us realized.”
Nezu smiled faintly. “And maybe, my friend, it burns brightest when two bearers meet in the same world.”
Yagi rubbed the back of his neck, his voice low and uncertain.
“Do you think that’s why I feel so… drawn to young Izuku?”
He winced immediately. “That sounds bad. I don’t mean it in a bad way.”
Nezu’s laughter echoed softly through the lounge. “I understand, my friend. You don’t mean like that. You mean something deeper.”
Yagi nodded slowly, grateful for the rescue. “Exactly. It’s… strange. When I’m around him, I feel this pull — like I’ve known him longer than I should have. Sometimes I’ll catch him talking, or see how he pushes himself past breaking, and it’s like… déjà vu. Like I’ve seen it before.”
Nezu folded his paws neatly on the table, eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Describe it to me, then. How do you feel?”
Yagi thought for a moment. “Protective, I suppose. Not just as a teacher or a mentor. More than that. It’s like part of me recognizes something in him — something I used to be. Or maybe something I lost along the way.”
Nezu hummed softly. “Recognition of spirit, then. Two torches drawn to the same flame.”
Yagi gave a faint smile. “You really do have a way with words, Nezu.”
“Only when they fit,” the principal replied. “It would make sense, you know. If your dream was more than a dream, and if One For All is what we believe it might be — perhaps what you feel isn’t coincidence. Perhaps the part of you that once carried that light simply remembers the one who carried it before.”
Yagi looked out the window, his reflection faint in the glass. “You think our souls remember each other?”
Nezu smiled. “I think the light never forgets its own.”
The bell rang, and 1-A erupted in the usual scramble — desks closing, bags slung over shoulders, nervous chatter filling the air. Tomorrow was the Sports Festival, and everyone was feeling it: nerves, adrenaline, pride.
Izuku was halfway through the door when he stopped short.
The hallway beyond wasn’t empty.
It was packed.
Students from other courses lined both sides like an audience waiting for a show. Support Course uniforms, General Studies, Business — even a few upper-year hero trainees. All eyes turned as 1-A filed out.
“Wow…” Mina whispered. “That’s… a lot of people.”
“Why are they just standing there?” Sero muttered.
A tall boy with deep circles under his eyes stepped forward from the crowd, hands tucked in his pockets. His voice was calm, but carried a sharp edge.
“I just wanted to see the class that fought villains and lived to brag about it.”
Izuku blinked. “You’re… from General Studies, right?”
“Hitoshi Shinsō,” the boy said, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You all got handed a spotlight most of us will never touch. I just wanted to see if it was deserved.”
Before anyone could answer, another voice broke through from the back — high, smug, and practically dripping with mockery.
“Oh, please,” Neito Monoma from Class 1-B called out, pushing through the crowd. “You say that like they earned it! If anything, they dragged U.A.’s name through the mud. Real heroes don’t let villains waltz into school grounds.”
Kaminari bristled. “Hey, we didn’t invite them!”
Monoma smirked. “But you let them in.”
A few students murmured in agreement, others looking uncertain. The hallway felt tighter somehow, air heavy with resentment and curiosity alike.
Iida stepped forward, his hand chopping through the air.
“That’s enough! This kind of behavior is completely uncalled for—”
Bakugo cut him off, shoving past.
“Let ’em talk.”
The crowd quieted instantly. Bakugo’s crimson eyes swept over them all like fire.
“You all think you’re better? Prove it at the Festival.”
Monoma’s smirk faltered for half a second. Shinsō’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Bakugo’s lip curled into a grin. “We’ll see who’s still standing when it’s over.”
The hallway went still, then slowly started to clear. Monoma scoffed but turned away, muttering something about “hot-headed idiots.” Shinsō lingered a moment longer, meeting Izuku’s eyes again — curious, almost studying him — before finally walking off with his hands in his pockets.
Kirishima clapped Bakugo on the shoulder. “Man, you’re like… really good at starting wars, huh?”
Bakugo shrugged him off. “Shut it, rock-for-brains.”
As the crowd dispersed, Izuku exhaled and looked around at his classmates. The tension was still there, humming under the surface — but so was something else. Excitement.
They weren’t just the class who survived.
Tomorrow, they’d prove they belonged here.