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This story ends with a press conference. It ends with a proclamation, a declaration, a cry of I am here! It ends with a beginning— the genesis of the legend that is Deku.
It begins very differently. It begins with a whisper, the scream of a newborn. It begins with too-old eyes and the haunted dreams of a child.
It begins with a resurrection.
Midoriya Izuku was born a hero. That is not to say he was meant to become one, nor was it to say he had the traits of one. Both these things are true, but they are not the whole truth.
Many children came into the world with the conviction of a hero, the dream. Bakugou Katsuki was one— skilled, motivated, oh so eager. Katsuki had the talent and motivation, but he was not born a hero.
Izuku was not born with talent but experience. He was not born with a dream but the broken shards of one. He was born a hero, the light of kindled justice burning fully fledged in his eyes.
He would shake the world, but this was no surprise— he had already changed the shape of the future, more than 200 years ago.
Sometimes, Izuku wakes up shaking, body covered in the chill of night-sweat. He is witness to unspeakable horrors. His dreams are filled with evil, with the greatest evil any human has ever seen—
His slim shoulders tremble with the weight of the world. They also tremble with his failure.
On these nights, Midoriya Inko holds her fifteen-year-old son who has seen thirty years of atrocities. She pets his wild hair, shushes his hiccupping sobs, and wonders.
She never asks.
One for All had never just been a quirk. It was hope incarnate, a weapon against the evils of the world— a weapon to use against All for One.
Yagi Toshinori knew this intimately.
Still, there were times when it was easy to just forget— forget that One for All was alive in a way no other quirk was. Forget that it came with seven personalities, seven people who had helped forge it into something unbreakably strong.
Five years ago, broken and half the man he had once been, Toshinori had remembered this. He knew his duty, knew it was time to pass the torch along— to become a part of One for All. That didn’t mean he wanted to, of course— he knew the world still needed the Symbol of Peace. People had to know there was a beacon in the dark.
But Toshinori also knew it could no longer be him.
So began his search for a successor. It took him four years to come to terms with this, and one to put the bare-bones of a plan into action. UA should have felt like a good choice, but instead it just felt— clinical. Yes, Toshinori should go to the factory that produced heroes and select a successor. Yes, he should pick the strongest, the most genuine— the most ready-made.
But he did not want to. How could he tell if they had the heart, the passion? How could he tell if they were right?
Meeting Midoriya Izuku had been a quirk of fate— something so fitting that Toshinori thanked everything out there it had happened. This quirkless boy— this brilliant, brave, heroic boy— was meant to be his successor.
And if sometimes, Midoriya’s eyes flashed with a weight they should not have, if he grimaced in something between pain and anguish, if he trained harder and longer than he should have— Toshinori said nothing. There was something odd about the boy, to be sure, but Toshinori had also never been more confident in a decision.
So instead of remarking on it, he started a campaign of small reliefs. Midoriya came to the beach with a tired smile and shaky hands? Toshinori had tea, steaming and calming. Midoriya mentioned a bad dream, with haunted eyes? Toshinori had chocolate, tucked into the pockets of his suit.
Unshed tears lingered in Midoriya’s eyes? Well, that was the norm. Not much Toshinori could do about that, but he did start carrying tissues.
After nearly a year, Toshinori was confident he’d made the ideal choice. Midoriya had the soul of a hero.
(Toshinori didn’t know how right he was. He’d find out eventually.)
And the boy seemed happier— his shoulders were set higher, seemed lighter. His smile— which was ever kind— now shone like the stars. Perhaps it was the realization of his dream to be a hero, the promise of a quirk and someone to believe in him.
(This was all correct, but it was also Toshinori that made Izuku smile. And if Toshinori himself was feeling more at ease, happier with a successor he had picked, nearly content with retirement? That was for his heart alone.)
So, as he stood on the beach, watching the morning sun rise over clean sand, Toshinori knew that he had been right.
This action, this action, was indescribably vital. Toshinori had never done anything more important than hand Midoriya a strand of his hair. Izuku swallowed One for All with a grimace and Toshinori laughed, low and amused.
Deep inside Izuku though, something unfurled.
(This did not change who Izuku was. He had always been— and will always be— a hero.)
Izuku ate his second bowl of rice with the static power of One for All buzzing just underneath his skin. It was a familiar power, pleasant like the quiet company of an old friend. In the pale of early morning, he almost thought he could see green lightning coursing across his hand.
Without comment, Inko passed him another bowl, filled to the brim with fluffy rice and a mother’s love.
(Sometimes, Izuku had trouble remembering that he wasn’t starving, wasn’t trapped inside his own home with only the clawing voice of hunger to keep him company. Sometimes, he struggled to remember he wasn’t at the mercy of a brother he didn’t have, a prisoner of his own blood. Sometimes, Izuku would stare into a plate of food like it was the sweetest treasure he had ever seen. Inko always made sure he had seconds on those days.
And thirds.)
He left the house without fanfare, Inko’s pride making him buoyant. His steps to UA were sure. His purpose was sure.
(That didn’t stop Izuku from almost falling on his face, and it certainly didn’t stop him from making a fool of himself twice. Just because he was a hero did not mean he was suave.)
The exam started with a bang, and Izuku stumbled after his classmates with his skin too tight and power too hot. Chaos had erupted across the fake city, robots scattered across the street like ragdolls.
He looked across the scene with purposeful eyes. Points, he had to earn points. A 3-pointer rolled towards him, fast but far from lethal. Izuku balled a fist, waiting.
It only took one punch for Izuku to realize something was wrong.
With a burst of wind and a creak of bone, the robot was blown away. He blinked and absently felt his jaw drop. His arm was aching with dull pain— not the sharp sensation of a broken bone, but nothing comfortable, nothing pleasant. It was the feeling of strained muscles, of a fresh bruise— it was a feeling Izuku knew too well.
Around him, a hush fell, the silence stunned and breathless.
On any other day, Izuku would have flushed at the attention, grown nervous and fidgety. Today he was too distracted, staring down at his arm with disquiet.
One for All had never hurt to use, before. Izuku was surprised, and unpleasantly so. He probed the flame of power burning inside him, at his core. It had changed.
What had once been a spark was now a wildfire. One for All had grown stronger, grown personality. It almost felt foreign to Izuku, almost a power that hadn’t once been his. He clenched a fist, feeling the restless movement of energy under his skin.
But he was the root of the great tree that was One for All, and always would be— so, when he was drawn from his ill-timed reverie by a scream, when he sees a girl in need of rescue and a hulking robot plowing towards her—
Izuku did not need to think twice. He channeled his power with his conviction, eyes burning with justice. I cannot fall, he told the flame, I have to protect. The energy shook through him in answer, cowling him in green lightning.
The first and ninth wielder of One for All raised his fist and punched. The world shook.
(Oh, and a robot was destroyed. That is really more of a side note, at this point.)
He got into UA. This was no surprise, not with the quirk pulsing under his skin. In the end, he didn’t even care— it would not take UA to make him a hero. It wouldn’t take UA to make him bring justice to his brother. But it would be a little easier.
His expectations were quickly overturned by Aizawa-sensei. A test on the first day— that was a surprise.
As Izuku stood, baseball clenched in a hand, he felt his future settling into place. His road to becoming a hero— officially, at least— was crystalizing into place, stones lining the path he would walk.
This was the start.
He’d had time to test his quirk’s power since the exam. More importantly, he’d had time to re-learn how to control it.
(Yagi-san had helped with that, so like what an older brother should be that Izuku had to repress tears at the sight of him.
It had been hard work, and incredibly bittersweet— training with his successor and predecessor always would be.)
The power was his, the control was his, but he had no combat experience. Learning how to punch, dodge, kick— it was all new. This is what Izuku would have to focus on.
The struggle had paid off. One for All sat shallowly beneath his skin, an old friend and a new power. The wildfire had been contained, banked with sand until it could be molded. That made it easy, now, to call it up. Painless, even.
The energy, emerald and shockingly bright, coursed over him in a wave. He heard a snarl from the students— ah, that was Kacchan, wasn’t it?— and a few gasps. He paid no attention.
Instead, he drew back his hand and threw with all his strength. A sonic boom rang through the air, hitting Izuku’s ears like a bullet. Wind almost swept him off his feet, but he stayed firm. The other students were not so lucky.
Aizawa-sensei was silent for a moment, staring expressionless at the screen in his hand. Then he grinned, wide and wild and frankly terrifying.
He showed Izuku the screen, and Izuku felt his jaw drop.
(The device couldn’t measure anything. How could it? What was there to measure outside of the pull of gravity?)
There was something strange about Deku. Ochako had not noticed at first— happy to have made a friend, and one so kind, she was quick to overlook anything unusual.
(But Ochako was a fundamentally perceptive person, and this blindness did not last.)
The first inklings came when Deku sat at lunch, one arm hunched around his tray of food like he thought it would be taken away. It came when he mentioned a brother he’d never had. It came when Ochako saw him staring out the window, something vicious across his face, wreathed in green lightning.
Then USJ happened, and all those inklings became the brushstrokes of a giant painting. While some panicked— while Ochako panicked, if she was being honest— Deku leapt forward without hesitation.
It was astonishing, how easily the villains were immobilized between two pro-heroes and Deku.
(That was giving Izuku too much credit— he’d faltered against the Nomu, felt his punch connect with no effect and almost stumbled into an early grave.
But Iida was as fast as a race horse, and this time no one hampered him. All Might and a score of teachers arrived before any serious harm could be done. Aizawa— awake and scuffed but not broken— froze Kurogiri before a portal could open.)
As the police swarmed USJ, as the villains were escorted away in quirk-suppressors and chains, Ochako stared at Deku, cheerful eyes pensive. Hair fell across her face, tracing swirls across her cheeks with a light touch. What did it take to leap into danger? What had Deku experienced that had forged him like that?
But most importantly, Ochako looked at Deku and thought Think of the life my parents could have, were I that strong.
The first thing Todoroki Shoto had noticed about Midoriya was his eyes. They were old eyes, weary with the weight of something, and burning with anger.
They were familiar eyes— Shoto saw them in the mirror every morning. What weighed Midoriya down, Shoto did not know. He had guesses— All Might’s interest in the boy was telling, after all— but nothing concrete.
The second thing Shoto noticed was his overwhelming strength. Shoto had come to UA expecting to be the strongest. This wasn’t hubris or overconfidence, but payment— payment for enduring the hellscape of his father’s training for the past decade.
(It was a reasonable expectation, and he would have been right if not for Midoriya.)
The thing was, Shoto couldn’t even compete with the sheer power of Midoriya’s quirk. The boy had an earthshaking force in the twitch of a finger. At USJ, he had proved his worth, his undeniable strength.
Then came the Sports Festival, and Shoto realized it wasn’t just power— it was control. Midoriya could level buildings with a flick of a finger, and instead he was delivering carefully restrained blows across the arena.
As Shoto attacked Midoriya, as his ice was deflected casually time after time, as the other kept talking, he could not help but notice— the only reason Shoto was still in the arena was because Midoriya wanted him to be. The anger that was kept at a perpetual simmer began to boil over inside Shoto, a torrent of heat that had him sending a wave of ice across the arena. He would win.
He had to win.
Frustrated, Shoto sent a wall of ice higher than any before. A chill spread through the stadium in its wake, cold and potent.
Midoriya shattered the attack with a blasé flick of fingers, a shockwave spreading out to shake the foundations of the building. Then— then he had the gall to deflect some of the shards of ice away from Shoto.
Shoto had never felt such hopeless anger. The gap between their skills was too large.
He stood, a glare set deep in the lines of his face.
Midoriya just kept talking. “This is your power, not your father’s!” There was an edge to his words, a sharpness that spoke of personal experience. There was truth to them, too. For a moment, Shoto forgot—
His mother’s words rang through him, strong and clear for the first time in a decade.
You decide…
His flame didn’t change the tide of the battle, but Shoto didn’t care. Midoriya’s grin was fresh in his mind, his words seared into Shoto’s very soul.
After that, after Midoriya wiped the floor with him, Shoto couldn’t help but stare at the other boy. The weight of his eyes called to him. The strength of his conviction called to him.
And if Shoto also happened to, uh, glance at the rest of Izuku—
No one was the wiser.
(Izuku noticed, of course he noticed— Todoroki was subtle but only for a fifteen-year-old. And too young by half for Izuku, who had lived two lives, seen the world through two sets of eyes. But he was a boy of 15 just as much as he was a man of 23, with a rage of hormones rushing through him and the flutter of a first crush hovering underneath his skin like butterfly wings. And, oh, was Todoroki handsome.
He didn’t want to remember what had happened to his first crush in the life before, but the memory came up, unbidden and painful— his brother had always been so cruel.)
Katsuki was furious. This was unusual— Katsuki was often annoyed, frequently pissed, and perpetually irritated. The world moved too slowly, and people were too damn incompetent for him to deal with. He plowed through life frustrated with everything.
But he was rarely truly angry.
Today was an exception. As he stared at fucking Deku, miserable and useless and strong, rage coursed through him. It was an even match for the confusion. He clenched a gloved fist, feeling sweat build over his skin.
He was going to destroy him.
“Shitty Deku, prepare to be crushed.”
Deku didn’t even blink, eyes firm and gaze full of conviction. Katsuki wanted to grind that face into the dust, erase it from existence. Deku was not allowed to have such confidence. Deku was not allowed to change, not allowed to bear the weight of the world, not allowed to look so tired.
It was un-fucking-acceptable that Katsuki didn’t understand Izuku anymore. He would fix it.
“I’m going to win, Kacchan.” He smiled. “You are an amazing person, so I can’t help but want to beat you.”
How fucking dare he.
Against overwhelming strength, there was little to do but rage at the injustice of the fight. And, oh, did Katsuki rage. Explosions rocked the stadium, greater and more vicious than ever before. He carved craters deep in cement, sent rumble flying high in the air. It was a show of incredible force, far beyond what a student should be able to achieve.
It didn’t matter— Deku was too damn fast to catch. His power— the power he had lied about— was strong and malleable. Still Katsuki didn’t stop— fury was truly the greatest motivator.
“Kacchan.” How dare Deku look that sad, that understanding. Katsuki was going destroy him.
“Don’t fucking talk, you piece of shit. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.” Exhausted muscles protested the movement, and the burn across his palms was excruciating, but Katsuki flung himself forward. He darted up and around, using controlled blasts to pivot mid-air. His hands came down, ready to strike—
But Deku was gone.
“I’m sorry, Kacchan.” A kick came out of nowhere, flinging him out of the arena and into the concrete wall. A resounding crack filled the sudden silence of the stadium, and shocked the audience into holding its breath.
Katsuki didn’t care. His battered body protested but he would stand, damn it. Muscles twitched uselessly, moved slowly, but did move— only to topple him forward, the ground fast approaching.
Deku caught him, strong arms cradling his broken ribs. Of course, he fucking did. Katsuki was so angry.
“I’m sorry, but I had to win. I had to tell the world I am here.” Katsuki’s strength wasn’t working— Deku must be doing something, because the edges of the world were going gray. His cheek connected with soft fabric.
As Katsuki faded from consciousness, he did not hear— “I have to tell him that I am here, that justice is finally here.”
Facing the Hero Killer was objectively terrifying for Izuku. Not because the man was a killer, not because he was a skilled fighter, not even because he was threatening Izuku’s friends.
No, in the dark alley, lit only by a moonlit glow and the sheen of spilled blood, Izuku looked into the Hero Killer’s eyes and saw his own ideals reflected, mirror bright.
Izuku could have been him. Would have been him, if he had been strong enough. He could see it all too easily— driven near madness by his brother, at the edge of starvation, it would have been simple to just. Snap. Kill. And all to create a better world.
Instead, Izuku had failed and become a better hero for it.
As they fought, he thought Stain also saw their kinship. With each punch, Izuku tried to say I understand. With each kick he screamed, this isn’t the way.
As Stain fell, beaten but unbroken, Izuku could only feel sadness. The man— the Hero Killer— could have been among the best and brightest heroes.
Instead, he had become a killer.
Beside him, Todoroki teetered, and Izuku flashed to his side without a thought. He caught the boy with gentle hands, holding him up against the press of exhaustion. He was clammy, marked with a thousand small cuts, and barely standing. But he was alive— they all were.
A silence had swept the alley, underlaid by harsh panting. Izuku finally broke it, still wary of their enemy on the ground. “We should tie him up.”
There was a nod, the motion moving through Todoroki’s body and into Izuku’s. They stayed pressed together for a moment longer, a beat more than they needed to—
Then, with slow and tired motions, they restrained Stain.
Later, cordoned off in the hospital and thoroughly scolded by Gran Torino, Izuku cast his gaze to his hands. They were mostly unmarked— he was mostly unmarked, with little to show for the encounter he’d just had.
Staring down at his hands, thinking of Stain— the hero who had become a killer, Izuku came to a slow realization. It crept up on him, thoughtful and bitter and so very right.
He could not kill his brother. Not because he didn’t have the desire— oh, did Izuku have the desire, carved into his bones with a hundred small injustices, with each life he’d watched his brother ruin. But Izuku couldn’t let himself go down that path.
The plain sheets felt starchy and unpleasant across his palms. The lights were too bright, the view through the windows too dark. Izuku shifted, ill at ease and agitated. He abruptly wanted to see Yagi-san. He would know what to do, the right words to say to calm Izuku’s heart.
Did Yagi-san know how to overcome hatred? Had he struggled with this? Before he could think twice, Izuku had his phone to his ear.
Click. “Midoriya my boy! Is something wrong?”
A sigh whoosed out of Izuku, content and relieved. “Y-yagi-san.”
“Mi—”
Izuku spoke over him, words coming out in a rush. “How—” He stopped, took a breath, and began again. “Have you ever wanted to kill a villain?”
Then he realized his interruption, and a flush crept up his face. “Ah, sorry for interrupting.”
“It’s fine my boy.” There was a pause. “Everyone deserves justice. Victims, citizens, but also villains. Even the person who has committed the most heinous crimes must be allowed justice, must be protected to see that justice. Of course, I hate villains— how could I not, when they hurt others? Have I wanted to kill them? In the heat of battle, yes. But I cannot be a Symbol of Peace if I do not follow the tenants I wish to enforce.”
There was a beat of silence as Izuku digested his words.
“My greatest regret of the last five years was killing my greatest enemy because it meant he could not face justice for his crimes. I never let the public know about that fight because the Symbol of Peace does not kill, he saves.”
Izuku clenched a fist, knuckles bone-white from tension, before relaxing. He wanted to have hands that saved lives, that spoke of kindness and protection rather than violence. Was that what Yagi-san meant? “I think I understand.”
A booming laugh echoed from the phone, cutting off in a hacking cough. “Good! It is a key lesson for any hero to learn!” A pause. “It might be time for me to tell you about that fight, young man. It did not end as I had thought. When you return to Tokyo, come find me and we’ll talk.”
It was strange, hearing his own story from All Might. Something in him was so glad this had been passed down, that people remembered his sacrifice. It wouldn’t have mattered— justice was the important thing, and in the face of that, Izuku cared little for recognition. But something in him went warm.
On the day the hero Deku made his official debut to the world, at the tender age of eighteen, he accepted an interview. Green haired and bashful, he sat before a microphone. A shy smile bloomed on his face like a sunflower, bright and cheerful. After many questions, the conversation came to a close. But that was not the end.
(That was not how this story ended and the next began.)
Deku leaned forward and said— “Ah, I have just one last message.”
He looked directly into the camera, no sign of nervousness visible— just a hard stare. “You once told me that without power, one cannot even assert their own ideals.” A pause. “You were right, because as long as someone willing to use power for their own selfish ends exists, there cannot be anything but chaos. Justice has come, Brother. It is time for your reckoning.”
(Then he said a name. It was not one anyone knew— records were searched, databases looked through, but nothing came up.
This was not surprising. After all, that name was known to only two people still alive.
Across the city, in a room lit only by the malevolent light of a screen, one of those people sat and wondered.)