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The sky was split with streaks of lightning and the glowing embers of a battle that had ended in hellfire.
Midoriya Izuku was falling.
The last threads of One For All clung to his body as he dropped from the sky, limbs slack, vision blurred with exhaustion and blood. He had done it—he had ended it. Shigaraki was gone. Evil was over. But the price hadn’t yet made itself known.
Until a blinding explosion of orange light erupted below him.
A familiar force slammed into his side midair, and then they were crashing into the cracked earth. A body wrapped around his, shielding him from the worst of the impact. Dirt flew. Pain bloomed. Then—stillness.
Katsuki Bakugou was next to him.
Unmoving.
They’d landed together, but only one of them was breathing.
"Bakugou " Kirishima calls out his voice soft as he comes close to the two boys who were unconscious. For some reason, he felt like he had to call out to his bestfriend.
“No… no no no—Bakugou?” Kirishima crawled toward him, ignoring the screaming pain in his arms. “Come on, get up. You can't do this Again. Like always.”
Bakugou’s eyes were closed. His hands were burned and bloodied, lips pale. The pulse at his neck was faint—almost gone.
He had used his last breath like he'd known after this it was the end. Protected Midoriya. One last explosion, one last reckless moment of heroism. The final thing he ever did.
“Katsuki!” Kirishima sobbed, shaking him. “Don’t—you can’t—please! Please!” Kaminari dropped to the floor broken.
The medics arrived minutes later. Too late.
---
One Week Later
The hero funeral was a national event. A mass service for those lost in the final battle.
Dozens of coffins lined the ceremonial stage. Names engraved in silver. Faces captured in framed photos. Some had no bodies to bury.
But only one casket drew every eye. Only one had flowers piled waist-high, letters from children, photos from old classmates, badges from sidekicks and mentors.
'Katsuki Bakugou.'
Midoriya stood off to the side in a black suit that didn’t fit properly, sleeves wrinkled, shoulders slumped. He hadn’t spoken much since waking. He hadn’t cried, either—not in public. But the haunted look in his eyes spoke louder than any scream.
He remembered the last words they ever said to each other. Bakugou hadn’t even been awake. He’d smiled, in that way he always did when Midoriya exceeded expectations. And then he was gone.
The crowd was endless
Shoto Todoroki, standing still, rain dripping from his bangs. Ochako, supported Mina, her face puffy and pale. Kirishima, fists clenched, trembling beside Kaminari.
Yuei staff. Pro heroes. Survivors. Families of the fallen.
All gathered to honor the ones who gave everything.
Aizawa spoke slowly, voice deep and cracking with grief:
“We have lost many heroes. Too many. Among them whose light burned the brightest, whose anger carved a path for justice. Katsuki Bakugou, known to all as Dynamight, gave us not only victory… but hope.”
Kirishima had told Aizawa that Bakugou had told him what his hero name would officially be 'Dynamight'. Midoriya gripped the edges of his jacket, knuckles white.
When the moment came to lower the coffins into the ground, Midoriya moved slowly. He placed a single yellow tulip on Katsuki’s casket. Then, he touched the photo. Bakugou's parents stood at the side his mother sobbing barely standing and supported by his father.
They buried him beneath the cherry tree at the memorial park, alongside others who died heroes.
The plaque read:
KATSUKI BAKUGOU
Hero Name: Dynamight
“He burned brightest so we could see the light.”
Midoriya knelt beside the grave long after the crowd had gone. The sun was beginning to set.
And for the first time in years, he cried like the boy he used to be.
----
The wind howled as dusk settled over the city, painting the broken skyline in hues of rust and ash. The war was over, but the air still tasted of sorrow. Buildings stood half-torn, their shadows stretching across cracked pavement where blood had long since dried. Victory had come — but it had come limping, bleeding, dragging the dead behind it.
Midoriya Izuku had disappeared.
Not in the literal sense. Heroes caught glimpses of him — fleeting shadows on rooftops, green lightning flickering through alleyways. He appeared only to defeat villains that slipped through the cracks of the fallen system, and vanished before backup arrived. They started calling him something new. Not Deku. Not the Symbol of Peace.
The Wraith.
He never returned to U.A. He stopped answering comms. No one could reach him. Not Ochako. Not Iida. Not even All Might.
Not even Shoto Todoroki.
It was as if the part of him that smiled — the part that hoped — had died in the same moment Bakugou's heart stopped beating.
Some tried to pull him back. At first. They cornered him in alleyways, begged him to stop. He said nothing. Just turned and walked away, coat flaring behind him, mask shadowing his tired eyes.
And when villains appeared, he fought like he wanted to be destroyed. Not reckless. Not suicidal. Just… hollow.
They said Dynamight died saving the world. That it was noble. That he burned brightest at the end. But Midoriya couldn't forget the look on his face when his heart furst stopped— the blood, the stillness, the silence.
It echoed in his bones.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
And the light that once blazed in Midoriya's chest dimmed to embers.
Until one day, a warehouse near Hosu caught fire — a villain using melted tech and stolen quirks. Midoriya was there before the police even arrived. When the flames died, the villain was in pieces, barely breathing.
And standing in the smoke, waiting at the end of the alley, was Shoto Todoroki.
“Midoriya.”
No response.
Shoto took a step forward. “You’re still doing this. Still running yourself into the ground. You think that’s what he’d want?”
A flicker of green lightning rippled across Midoriya’s arm. His voice, when it came, was low. Flat. “You weren’t there.”
Shoto’s jaw tightened.
“You didn’t see his eyes.”
Midoriya turned. The mask didn’t hide the exhaustion, the grief carved into every line of his face. “You don’t understand, Shoto. He was everything. And I couldn’t save him.”
“I lost him too,” Shoto snapped. “He was my friend.”
Midoriya didn’t reply. Just walked past him.
But Shoto stepped in front of him.
“Enough,” he said. “If I have to beat you into listening, I will.”
And Midoriya’s expression finally cracked. Not with rage. Not even with pain.
Just a hollow, broken smile.
“Then try.”
And the sky split with lightning as fire and frost answered.
Rain began to fall — soft at first, then heavy. It drummed against the shattered pavement as smoke curled into the bruised sky. Two silhouettes faced each other beneath the flickering streetlights of a ghosted city block, where once children played and shops bustled. Now, only echoes remained.
Midoriya didn’t move.
Shoto’s hands were already rising, breath coming slow and steady, steam curling from his palms. There was no fear in his eyes — only quiet, determined grief.
The lightning in Midoriya’s limbs flared.
Then they clashed.
A blast of ice surged forward, jagged and crystalline, meant to pin, not maim. But Midoriya was already gone — green light pulsing through the mist. He struck from the side, a controlled shockwave from a Full Cowling-enhanced kick, sending Shoto skidding across the concrete.
Shoto caught himself, palms scraping the ground, frost biting at his fingers. He didn't hesitate — a wave of searing fire erupted from his left side, slicing across the battlefield.
Midoriya leapt over it, but he moved like a machine — flawless, but lifeless.
No passion. No fire.
Shoto narrowed his eyes. “You're not fighting me. You’re running.”
Midoriya landed silently, One For All crackling around his fists. “No. I’m surviving.”
“You call this survival?” Shoto hurled a torrent of ice, spears forming mid-air, sharper than steel. “You call disappearing on everyone survival? Bakugou died for the world and you’re throwing it all away!”
Midoriya shattered the ice mid-sprint, lightning carving arcs in the downpour. He didn’t answer — he struck. A punch, blinding-fast, meant to disable. Shoto blocked with flame, wincing as the blast forced him back.
Midoriya followed — relentless, blows raining down like thunder. No killing intent, just precision. Like he didn’t care if he won. Like he didn’t care at all.
“I wasn’t enough,” Midoriya muttered through clenched teeth, striking again and again. “I couldn’t save him. I couldn't even hold his hand while he—”
Shoto shouted, voice raw: “You think you were the only one who cared for him?”
The words hit harder than any quirk.
Midoriya faltered.
That half-second was all Shoto needed.
A pillar of ice exploded beneath Midoriya’s feet, slamming him upward, then a wall of flame arced around to catch him mid-air. Midoriya twisted, took the hit on his shoulder, crashed into the ground with a grunt.
Shoto landed across from him, panting, blood dripping from a cut above his brow.
Midoriya pushed himself up, barely.
Shoto stepped forward. “He was loud, and annoying, and reckless… but he was my friend. He made me laugh, even when I didn’t want to. He told me I looked stupid calling me half and half. He told me he’d kill me then make me cold soba.”
The rain kept falling.
Midoriya stared at him, green eyes wide.
“I miss him too,” Shoto said, voice shaking, Shoto had lost someone who was his friend, someone who made his 'I made my first friends' list which made him sad but he had also lost a brother in that war. If anything he feels like he should've been the one to go vigilante, it was a selfish thought but that week had been hard on him very hard.
“But this — this ghost you’ve become — it’s not what he died for.”
Midoriya clenched his jaw. “He’s gone, Shoto. Nothing I do will change that.”
“No,” Shoto whispered, stepping closer. “But you’re still here.”
The storm eased. Somewhere in the distance, sirens cried.
Midoriya sank to his knees, trembling.
For the first time since that day, his voice cracked.
“I don’t know how to be without him.”
Shoto knelt beside him, hand resting on his shoulder. “Neither do i, but we can try to learn.”
Midoriya closed his eyes.
And for the first time in months… he let himself feel.
---
The hospital room was too white. Too clean. Too quiet.
Midoriya stared out the window, IV in his arm, bandages wrapping half his body. The city beyond moved like a distant world — one he hadn’t belonged to in a long time.
Weeks had passed since Shoto dragged him back.
The League was gone. All For One was dead. And yet, the weight on his chest hadn't lifted.
The door creaked open. Recovery Girl gave him a gentle nod before stepping aside.
In came Mina, Kaminari, Shoto… and Kirishima.
No one spoke at first. They just sat. Existing with him. Holding space in the silence.
Kirishima was the first to break.
“He’d kill us if he knew we were sitting around sulking,” he said with a weak grin. “He’d say, ‘You extras better get up and move.’”
Midoriya didn’t smile, but his fingers twitched in memory.
“I still hear his voice sometimes,” Kaminari admitted. “Yelling about being first. About not letting anyone beat him"
“His room’s still the same,” Mina whispered, eyes glistening. “Untouched. Like he might walk in and scream if we’ve moved his crap.”
A soft, broken laugh escaped Midoriya’s throat. “He hated it when people cried over him. Said it was a waste of energy.”
Shoto folded his arms, staring at the floor. “He cried for you, you know. When you disappeared during the first war.”
Midoriya blinked.
“Not out loud. Never out loud. But I saw it,” Shoto continued, voice quiet. “He thought you were dead. He blamed himself.”
The silence turned heavy again.
Midoriya exhaled. “He saved me. When I fell from the sky after defeating Shigaraki… he caught me. And we both passed out.”
No one interrupted.
“When I woke up, I thought I’d dreamed it. That maybe I was already dead too. But the doctors said… his heart just stopped. No injuries that should’ve killed him. He just… stopped.”
Mina wiped her eyes. “He gave everything he had.”
For a long moment, Midoriya didn’t answer. Then he turned to the others.
"The embers.....one for all it's gone."
Shoto walked over, pulled him into a rough, brotherly hug.
---
Weeks Later
Midoriya stood outside the remains of U.A., now under reconstruction. Heroes and workers bustled around, rebuilding what war had broken.
He stood alone for a while, watching.
Then he pulled something from his pocket.
It was a weathered, scratched up All Might card — the one Bakugou used to carry so that he could ask All Might for an autograph.
He pressed it against his chest.
“I’m still here, Kacchan,” he whispered. “Still breathing. Still trying.”
Behind him, he heard voices — friends calling his name.
"Catch you later, Kacchan. "
He turned, smiled faintly, and walked toward them.
Not whole.
But not broken beyond repair.