Chapter Text
The night air was finally warming.
The long, brutal winter — full of shivering bodies and endless snow — was nearing its end.
Patrols had been even harder in the freezing cold, when the ground turned to treacherous ice. But Izuku was used to hardship.
The End had started six years ago, after all.
During the final battle of the War, All for One was killed. Because of the deep, tangled connection between All for One and One for All, Izuku’s Quirk vanished with him.
He was left quirkless once more — helpless — and it was all Shigaraki needed to escape.
More than half the heroes present that day were slaughtered. Thousands of civilians were caught in the crossfire. The world, once filled with noise and hope, fell silent with grief after the battle.
Until the first Nomu was spotted in Kamino Ward.
Then another in Hosu.
And then they were everywhere. Then the world filled with panic.
Shigaraki unleashed an army of Nomu upon Japan — and eventually, the world. Chaos drowned everything, barely any heroes left to save it.
Schools, hospitals, train stations — anything large enough — were hastily turned into shelters. U.A. became one of the largest, its reinforced walls and outdated security systems repurposed into the last desperate defense against extinction. U.A. became a fortress.
The surviving students, staff, and a handful of civilians scraped from the wreckage of the cities holed up inside.
Heroes and hero students alike were sent into the ruins, scavenging for survivors, food, and anything else that could keep them breathing.
That’s when the first attack came.
With almost all the fighters away, a pack of Nomu descended on U.A., tearing through its defenses like paper. By the time the heroes returned, two-thirds of the survivors had been butchered.
The Nomu were no longer mindless beasts. They had evolved — stronger, faster, smarter.
After the massacre, only Class 1-A, Monoma, Shinsou, Komori, Tsunotori, and the remaining faculty were left to protect what few civilians and other students remained.
That’s when survival stopped being a hope and became a strategy.
Two patrols, minimum, at all times — especially near the shattered gates where the Nomu had broken through.
An alarm system, cobbled together by the Support Course, with Momo Yaoyorozu creating what supplies they couldn't scavenge.
Their beloved Principal Nedzu had fallen during the attack. Leadership passed, heavy and unwanted, to Aizawa — with Yamada at his side.
For a time.
Months blurred by. Nomu attacks became a biweekly terror.
The hero students began calling themselves the Hunters.
They learned to kill. They learned to move without sound, without scent, because the Nomu hunted by smell and hearing now.
Heroes carried knives, swords, anything sharp enough to sever a Nomu’s head.
They mourned every death, every shattered dream of becoming heroes. Izuku mourned the loss of One for All.
He learned to fight with a sword, adapting faster than anyone could have imagined.
The blade became his new Quirk — a sharp, unforgiving extension of himself.
Time wore them down.
One by one, they lost more friends, more family with each attack.
In the end, only sixteen civilians and students and eight active Hunters remained: Izuku, Shoto, Katsuki, Momo, Denki, Mina, Hitoshi and Shota.
They had long since abandoned formalities, calling each other by first names — because that’s what they were now. Family.
Every death struck like a hammer blow, but grief was a luxury none of them could afford. Break, and you die.
After Hizashi’s death, Izuku was chosen as Shota’s right hand — another life lost, another heavy mantle none of them should have had to carry.
They had started growing crops at the beginning of The End, and they still were — but in much smaller quantities. There weren’t as many mouths to feed anymore.
They were all dead, after all.
The bond between the Hunters and the civilians was unbreakable now.
They were bound tighter than blood — bound by survival itself.
Each and every one of them was a survivor of The End. Something not many people could claim.
Somewhere along the way — maybe out of madness, or maybe just stubborn hope — Izuku and Hatsume Mei had started working on something insane.
A time machine.
Neither of them truly believed it would work. The science was beyond theoretical, the supplies were barely enough to scrape together functioning prototypes.
But they tried anyway.
Because if there was even a fraction of a chance to change the past — to undo the massacre, to save the lives they had lost — it was worth it.
Most nights, after patrols ended and the others slept restlessly in the barracks, Izuku and Mei would tinker by the dim glow of salvaged generators, soldering broken parts together, drawing formulas they barely understood.
Not because they believed.
But because they had to.
“Hey, 'Zuku, you good?” Katsuki called, approaching him from across the yard.
Huh. He must've gotten lost in his thoughts again.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“Well, your shift’s over. Go sleep. I’m here to switch with you,” Katsuki said — blunt as always.
They had long since abandoned nicknames too; they were relics of a past too painful to remember.
“You and I both know I won’t be able to sleep,” Izuku said quietly.
He hadn’t slept properly in six years. Knowing an attack could come at any moment, knowing the people you loved could be snatched away in the blink of an eye — It made peaceful sleep an impossible dream.
Katsuki just snorted. “Well then, go do some planning or whatever it is you and Shota always scheme about.” And with that, Izuku turned and walked away, heading toward the infirmary.
Eri had become their doctor after Recovery Girl was killed. She was young, but all they had. Izuku loved spending time with her — even if she always scolded him for getting hurt.
(He was her most frequent patient, after all.)
And so, they lived out their days during The End.
Most people think an end is abrupt. That one day, everything simply stops.
But that’s not what The End was like.
The End was a slow, brutal unraveling — a long, painful process where survival became the only thing left to think about.
It wore them down. It hollowed them out.
Day after day, patrol after patrol, loss after loss.
Until tonight.
“IZUKU!”
The shout tore through the evening air. Izuku turned just in time to see Mei sprinting toward him, wild joy lighting up her tear-streaked face.
“Mei? What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, heart lurching as she skidded to a stop in front of him.
“I—I think we did it!” she gasped, practically vibrating with excitement. “I think it’s going to work!”
His heart slammed against his ribs.
“Wait—are you sure?” he asked, breathless. “Like, actually sure?”
“Eighty-seven percent sure!” Mei grinned, bouncing on her toes.
It wasn’t one hundred percent.
But it was hope.
And in The End, that was everything.
A slow, stunned smile spread across Izuku’s face, chased by something he hadn’t felt in years — something close to wonder.
Project Horizon was a go.