Rain slicked the sidewalks of Musutafu, turning the neon signs into rivers of color that ran through the puddles. Izuku Midoriya hunched under his backpack, notebook pressed to his chest, trying to pretend that the drizzle was not just another reflection of his mood.
A warm sun peeked out from behind the late afternoon clouds, close to sunset, creating a harrowing dichotomy of light rays beaming through the water droplets. The mix of different weather conditions reminded Izuku of the strange whirlwind of emotions that permeated his soul that day. And every other day, given his condition. Just another reminder that he did not belong.
Bakugo's words still echoed in his head: A quirkless loser like you could never be a hero.
The words had followed him for years, lingering like a scar that refused to fade.
He could still remember the first time someone said that to him. It certainly was not Bakugo; he had been too young at that point. It was a doctor in a white coat, adjusting his glasses as he explained that Izuku's pinkie toe joints were just too… normal. That he would never develop a Quirk.
He had been four. He did not even understand what "never" meant yet.
His mother had cried that night, whispering apologies while hugging him too tightly. He had tried to tell her it was okay, that he could still be like All Might, but his small voice had cracked halfway through.
Then came kindergarten.
While the other kids showed off sparks, flames, and little telekinetic tricks, Izuku held up empty hands and said, "I… don't have one."
They laughed.
Years blurred together after that. The notebooks filled with diagrams and hero statistics. The late nights watching All Might rescues on his cracked tablet. The quiet mornings walking to school early to avoid the other kids.
And always, Bakugo. Loud, bright, unstoppable, reminding him of the distance between them.
Sometimes with words, sometimes with a shove.
"Face it, Deku," Bakugo would sneer. "You can't fight villains with dreams."
But even as the memories pressed down on him, there were others, softer ones that refused to fade.
All Might's smile on the screen, the moment he saved hundreds with that effortless pose.
The feeling that heroes were not born because of quirks, but because of hearts.
That belief had been his light for so long.
And yet now, standing in the rain, even that light felt dimmer than usual.
He took the long way home, hoping the walk would clear his thoughts. It was just the beginning of the school year and he already felt exhausted. Thankfully, the people at Aldera, both students and teachers, elected to ignore him most of the time. Even Bakugo himself would usually just skim past him during lunch or when meeting him in the corridors, but he was very quick to remind him of his place when he expressed the slightest hint at his old dream.
Becoming a hero.
How could one be a hero if he was quirkless?
Izuku could not tell you the answer, but he still held on to that glimmer of hope like it was his lifeline.
Luckily it was his second year of middle school already. Just two more years and then I will get my shot at UA! he used to think on days when he was not feeling particularly gloomy.
Yeah sure, and they will accept a quirkless student in the hero course. As if.
The route led him through an older district, a narrow street where modern hero billboards gave way to shuttered shops and faded awnings. This place seemed to always be immutable, as if outside the grasp of time. The same old street, the same old shops.
To his surprise, he noticed a new addition to the row.
Izuku hesitated.
The narrow street was one he had walked a dozen times before, yet he was certain this little shop had not been here yesterday. Between a shuttered tailor and an empty café stood a narrow wooden storefront, wedged like a secret between friends, a little white lie. The sign above the door read Kagemoto Curiosities, its painted letters faded but neat, and a faint scent of cedar drifted from the half-open window.
He adjusted his backpack and squinted at the dusty glass display. Inside, he caught glimpses of things that did not belong together: a cracked lantern beside an old police badge, a stack of ancient books, a porcelain mask smiling faintly in the gloom. A small paper tag fluttered against the glass: Antiques from forgotten eras.
He frowned. How had he never noticed this place? He took this shortcut home almost every day. He remembered the cracked wall beside the tailor, the vending machine with the broken cola button, even the faint graffiti of a cartoon All Might giving a thumb-up. But this shop… it was as if it had slipped into existence when he was not looking.
For a moment he considered walking away. Normal people did not wander into strange, half-lit stores in back alleys. Heroes did not waste time chasing curiosities when they should be focusing, right?
But the thought made him wince. Heroes. That word still had a sting.
He looked down at his reflection in the rain-slick window, messy green hair plastered to his forehead, his school uniform damp at the edges, eyes tired but restless. He saw the same kid who had spent years taking notes about people who would never know his name.
Something inside him whispered: Go on. Just look.
Curiosity had always been stronger than fear for him. It was what kept him watching hero analyses until three in the morning, what made him fill notebook after notebook even when everyone laughed. Maybe this was just another kind of curiosity, one that wanted to see what lay behind that warped glass and flickering sign.
He placed his hand on the doorknob. It was cool to the touch, smooth with age. The moment he turned it, a faint tingle ran up his arm, like static, or maybe nerves, he could not tell.
The bell above the door chimed softly, not a bright jingle but a delicate, almost human sound, like someone sighing in relief. Warm air greeted him, carrying the scent of old paper, wood polish, and something else, something faintly metallic, like ozone after lightning.
As the door closed behind him, the city's noise vanished. Only the low hum of a ceiling fan and the distant creak of wood remained. Shadows stretched long across the floor, and glass cases glittered with reflections of relics from forgotten ages.
Izuku took a cautious step inside. His heart was beating faster now, not in fear, but almost in excitement. He had no clue as to why that was, but the strange place seemed to emanate a peaceful aura. Something that made him feel like… he belonged.
Inside smelled of dust and polished wood, as shelves bent under the weight of ancient books, glass jars, and strange trinkets. Behind the counter sat an elderly man with silver hair tied in a short tail, spectacles glinting in the dim light.
"Welcome," the man said, voice calm and almost theatrical, as if he had been expecting someone. He did not rise from his seat, just lifted his chin slightly, the lamplight catching on the rims of his round spectacles. His silver hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and his long fingers rested on an open ledger filled with handwriting so neat it looked printed.
Izuku froze, startled. "Ah, sorry! I did not mean to, um, intrude- " he said quickly, bowing without thinking.
The man chuckled softly, a sound almost like the turning of pages. "Intrude? My boy, curiosity does not intrude. It wanders. It whispers. It brings the right people to the right places."
Izuku felt heat rise to his cheeks. Right people? Me?
"I- I was just looking," he managed, trying not to trip over the words.
"Then look closely."
The man leaned forward, folding his hands under his chin. His smile was warm but his eyes were sharp, almost too sharp, as if they saw more than the shop around them. "Most people glance and rush along, never noticing the things that watch them back."
Izuku swallowed.
"That… sounds kind of creepy," he said before he could stop himself, then flinched. "I mean! Not in a bad way! Just, uh, different!"
The man laughed a second time, deeper now. "Different is good. The world is full of ordinary. What is rare is a young one who pauses long enough to see the extraordinary."
Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, unsure what to say. His mother always told him he apologized too much, but it was hard not to around people who seemed so composed.
The man tilted his head, studying him with a slight squint, an appraising look, almost like a craftsman examining a piece of metal before forging it.
"You have searching eyes," he said. "Eyes that are always asking questions. That kind of gaze is drawn to strange things… and strange things are drawn to it."
"I just like learning about stuff," Izuku said quietly. It felt silly to say it out loud, but it was true. "I'm not really… special."
"Hmm."
The man tapped his ledger with a single finger. "Special is a word people use when they do not know the right one. I prefer attuned."
"Attuned… to what?" Izuku asked before he could stop himself.
The man's smile widened, slow, deliberate, almost pleased.
"To possibilities."
He gestured with an elegant sweep of his hand toward the aisles behind Izuku.
"Go on. Explore. Let your eyes settle on whatever calls to you. There are things here that have been waiting a long time."
Izuku blinked, glancing over his shoulder at the maze of shadowed shelves. Something waiting? For me?That sounded ridiculous. He was just… himself.
But for some reason… the man's words did not feel like flattery or a sales pitch. They felt like an invitation.
"Th-thank you," Izuku murmured, giving a small bow.
As he turned to wander the aisles, the old man spoke again softly, almost to himself, though Izuku's ears caught every word.
"Let us see," he whispered, "what your curiosity awakens."
A chill ran up Izuku's spine, but not a frightening one, more like a foreboding sensation. Maybe it was just the atmosphere of the weird shop, or maybe, just maybe, it could have been something… else. He did not know where that thought went from, but he decided not to indulge on it.
Izuku stepped deeper into the shop, the wooden floor creaking beneath his shoes like an old house breathing. The aisles were narrow, forcing him to turn sideways between tall cabinets stacked with objects from eras he could not name. Dust motes drifted lazily in the lamplight, glowing like tiny sparks in the dim air.
He let his fingers trail along a shelf, brushing over uneven textures, cold metal, chipped ceramic, the dried leather of a cracked book cover. Everything felt aged, as if each item carried a story that was just waiting to be asked.
Attuned to possibilities, the antiquary had said. Izuku was not sure what that meant, but the words clung to him like static.
He paused at a display case holding several old-fashioned toys: a spinning top carved with constellations, a wooden puzzle box with a faintly shifting pattern, and a row of marbles that seemed to shimmer faintly even in the low light.
"These aren't… normal," he whispered to himself.
But curiosity tugged him onward.
To his left stood a tall, glass-doored cabinet filled with strange artifacts. An old police badge dulled by time. A military medal lined with faded ribbons. A rusted compass that pointed nowhere and everywhere at once. Each item felt like it belonged to a different person, a different life.
Izuku found himself imagining the kind of heroes who might have used these things, unsung ones, forgotten by history. His chest tightened with that familiar ache. Would he be forgotten too? Or would he never even be known at all?
He shook the thought away. He was used to pushing those feelings aside.
A glint of something else caught his eye, a porcelain mask painted in vibrant red and gold. The mask's expression was serene, but the longer he looked at it, the more he felt as though its eyes were fixed on him.
He stepped back instinctively.
From the corner of the shop, he heard the antiquary humming softly, an old tune that did not quite fit any melody Izuku knew. It was gentle, but unsettling in a nostalgic way, like a lullaby from someone else's childhood.
Izuku made his way to the back of the shop, where the shelves seemed older than the rest, heavy oak lined with books whose titles had long faded from their spines. When he brushed one with his fingertips, a thin layer of dust puffed into the air, carrying the scent of old paper.
On a lower shelf, half-hidden beneath an iron lantern, laid a carved wooden box.
It did not look like the others.
While everything else in the shop bore signs of age, scratches, dull surfaces, rust, this box was strangely… preserved. The wood was smooth, with swirling engravings that mirrored each other like mirrored flames or wings. A subtle glow, or maybe just a trick of the light, pulsed along the edges.
Izuku crouched down, his heart beating a little faster.
"What's this…?" he murmured.
His fingers hovered above the box, hesitant. The carvings seemed to shift slightly with the angle of his gaze, forming patterns he did not recognize. They reminded him of something between mathematical symbols and ancient glyphs.
He reached out and lifted the lid.
Inside lay a deck of cards, arranged neatly as though someone had placed them there moments ago. They were not glossy like modern cards, but thick and weighty, the edges trimmed in faded gold. The top card showed a figure in a dynamic pose, a masked hero, drawn in a style that felt both old and timeless.
Izuku's breath caught in his throat.
A hero card…?
He picked it up, and for a moment, the card felt warm. His fingers tingled faintly, a buzzing sensation traveling up his wrist.
He swallowed hard.
"This… doesn't look like any game I've seen."
Behind him, the antiquary's voice drifted through the quiet:
"Ah… so that's the one that chose you."
Izuku nearly dropped the card.
"Ch-Chose me?!"
The man stepped out from behind a shelf, hands folded calmly behind his back. His eyes glinted with an unreadable expression.
"Some artifacts do that," he said simply. "Though they only reveal themselves to those who still believe in the extraordinary."
Izuku's heart pounded. The card seemed to pulse in his hand again, just faint enough that he could not tell if it was real or nerves.
He looked down at the deck, then back up at the man.
"I… I do not understand."
"You will," the antiquary replied. "In time."
And somehow, Izuku believed him.
Izuku stared down at the card he had picked, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.
It depicted a towering warrior clad in red armor, plates interlocking like the segments of a living furnace. Lines of gold energy pulsed through the joints, outlining a muscular form that radiated raw power. The hero's cape, jagged, almost torn, fluttered behind him as if caught in a battlefield wind.
His name was written in bold, stylized letters across the top of the card:
Super HERO Balance Breaker
Izuku mouthed the words silently.
Super… HERO?
He had seen dozens of trading card games online. None used this naming style. None had this art. None had this design.
He flipped the card gently, hands trembling. The back was embossed with a circular crest, a core of swirling light and shadow. Tiny markings etched along the edges caught the lamplight, almost shimmering like circuitry or ancient runes.
"What… what is this?" Izuku whispered.
He looked up, almost as if asking the air itself for an answer.
Instead, the antiquary answered for him.
"That," the old man said, stepping quietly beside him, "is one of the few relics left from a game long forgotten."
Izuku blinked.
"A… game?"
"A game, or something more." the man confirmed with a soft nod. "Before quirks. Before hero society. Before the age you know." He leaned slightly on his cane; gaze fixed on the red-armored warrior as though greeting an old friend. "People once battled not with powers of their own bodies, but with their wit and willpower projected into monsters like him."
Izuku felt a shiver crawl up his spine.
"Monsters… like… him?"
He did not dare look away from the card.
The antiquary smiled. "Super HERO. Champions created from the spirit's potential. They were symbols, ideals, made manifest."
Izuku's mouth went dry. "S-symbols of… of what?"
"Balance, conflict, justice, ambition…" The man waved a hand casually. "Whatever the duelist believed in most. In the old stories, anyway."
Izuku stared again at Balance Breaker. The name made sense now. The armor. The power. The imagery of red, of intensity, passion, the edge between creation and destruction.
He swallowed. It feels… alive.
"Does anyone… still know how to play?" Izuku asked, voice small, hopeful, scared of the answer.
The antiquary tilted his head. "Very few. And fewer still who can feel the cards respond to them. When quirks first came under the limelight, somehow people forgot about this game, and the technology it carried with him."
Izuku's heart thudded hard.
"R-respond?"
The old man only smiled. That same unreadable, almost knowing smile.
"You felt it, didn't you? A pull. A warmth. A whisper that said, 'Pick me up.'"
Izuku looked down again at the card in his hands.
He had not told him about the warmth.
Or the tingling.
Or how the card almost seemed to pulse faintly with his heartbeat.
"…I… did."
The confession slipped out before he could stop it.
The antiquary's eyes gleamed.
"Then it seems the deck has chosen its new bearer."
Izuku's breath caught.
"D-deck? You mean…?"
He looked inside the box again. Beneath Balance Breaker lay the rest of the cards, neatly stacked, their edges glinting with the same faded gold. The top few showed silhouettes, heroes of different shapes, each with dynamic poses and bold color.
He did not recognize any of them.
Not a single name.
Not a single design.
This was not from any game he had ever heard of.
"How… how much is it?" Izuku asked before he could stop himself.
The words jumped from his mouth the moment the thought appeared.
The antiquary watched him for a long, quiet moment, studying him the way a mathematician might study a strange but promising equation.
Finally, he said, "For a boy who listens so closely to things most people no longer hear…"
A soft chuckle.
"…one thousand yen."
Izuku nearly dropped the box.
"One thousand!? Are… are you sure?"
Cards this unique, this intricate, should have been thousands. Tens of thousands. Collectible cards alone could bankrupt someone.
"One thousand," the man repeated. "No more, no less. Consider it… a discount for potential."
Izuku stared down at the deck again.
The red-armored hero stared back.
A faint pressure settled in Izuku's chest, not fear. Anticipation. A feeling he had only ever felt watching All Might videos:
Maybe something is finally about to change.
"I'll take it," Izuku whispered.
As he brought the box to the counter, the antiquary closed his ledger slowly, as though signalling the end of a chapter and the beginning of something new.
When he handed Izuku the wrapped box, his fingers brushed Izuku's own, and for a split second, Izuku felt a spark. A flash. A flicker of something ancient and vast.
"Treat those cards with respect," the old man said, voice low. "They carry more memories than any of us."
Izuku nodded, clutching the box to his chest as if it might vanish.
As he stepped back into the rainy street, he could not help looking over his shoulder.
For a moment, only a moment, the shop's sign seemed to flicker with a faint red glow, the same shade as Balance Breaker's armor.
Then the wind shifted, the light changed, and everything looked normal again.
Izuku stood there, box in hand, heart racing.
He had no idea what he had just brought home.
But something told him that the world, his world, was never going to be the same.
Boy, was he right.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Izuku closed the apartment door as quietly as he could, slipping off his shoes so his mother would not notice how late he was. The lights in the living room were already off, and a warm line of light peeked out from under his mother's bedroom door. She had probably fallen asleep while watching TV again.
He clutched the small wrapped box to his chest and tip-toed into his room.
The moment he shut the door behind him; he finally let out the breath he had been holding.
He set the box on his desk. It looked so ordinary sitting there. Simple brown paper, short string, like something someone might toss away without thinking.
But Izuku could not look away from it.
He sat down slowly, heart thudding with a mix of anticipation and nervous excitement.
Okay… okay, calm down. It is just a card game… probably. Just… just open it.
He untied the string carefully, reverently, and peeled back the paper.
The deck box slid out.
Black background. The gold-etched crest. The swirling emblem.
Izuku felt his fingers tingle in excitement, just out of sheer curiosity.
He opened the lid.
The smell of old cardstock drifted up, faint, dusty, comforting.
"Right…" Izuku whispered. "First step: look at all the cards."
He took the stack from the box as if it might crumble in his hands if he moved too fast, and laid it on the desk with the kind of care he usually reserved for old hero magazines.
The cards were heavier than he expected. Not heavy like metal, heavy almost like importance. Like each rectangle of ink and paper had been waiting for someone to look at it properly.
Izuku hovered for a second, fingers resting on the top card. His pulse was annoyingly loud in his ears.
Okay. Breathe. It's just… cards.
But he didn't believe himself. Not when the shop lights seemed too bright, not when the silence of his room made every tiny sound, paper sliding, his chair creaking, feel like a signal.
He finally pulled the top card free and turned it over.
Super HERO Balance Breaker
Izuku swallowed.
There he was again: red armor, a stance that looked mid-strike, as if the artist had caught him in the split second between decision and impact. The pose was dynamic in that old-school way, like the covers of All Might-era comics he'd devoured until the pages softened at the corners.
It hit him, stupidly, in the chest.
This guy… looks like he stepped out of my dreams.
Before reality had gotten teeth. Before Bakugo's laughter had sharpened into a habit. Before Izuku had learned that wanting something didn't mean the world would let you have it.
He stared at the hero's confident eyes.
No fear. No doubt. No hesitation.
Just… motion.
This guy seems to have an ability written on the card. It's probably better if I try to understand a bit more about the generalities of this game before throwing myself onto that though.
Izuku placed Balance Breaker aside in a separate pile, hands moving on autopilot, copying something he'd seen in videos: deck analysis, sorting, "priority cards." It was almost funny, the way he was imitating a hobbyist routine like it was normal.
He wrote in his head as he did it: suspected important cards.
He pulled the next card.
Super HERO Alloy Guarder
A silver hero stood firm, armor smooth and reflective, holding a shield so large it looked almost comically heavy, except the pose made it believable. Not a showy stance. A protective one. Someone you'd put between civilians and a collapsing building.
Izuku's brain clicked into place, the familiar analytical hum rising. It always did, when he found something to categorize. Something to understand.
"Okay…" he murmured, more to anchor himself than anything else, and his hand reached for his notebook before he even decided to.
Two HERO-type cards.
His pencil hovered, then scratched.
Both look like Warriors. Both armor-themed. Different roles?
He didn't say it out loud, but the thought slid in anyway: Like a team.
He flipped another card.
Super HERO Burst Medic
Orange armor. Sleek lines. Hands glowing with energy, but not in a flashy attack pose, more precise, more controlled. Tools strapped around her waist, practical and grounded in a way that made Izuku's throat tighten.
Because he could picture it so clearly: the hero sprinting into the aftermath of a fight, kneeling beside someone hurt, making the choice to save rather than strike.
Izuku's eyes warmed. His grip on the card softened unconsciously.
"A support unit…" he whispered.
And then, because his thoughts never stayed quiet for long, they raced ahead.
So, it isn't just about hitting harder. It's about surviving. Coordinating. Protecting.
His pencil flew, excited enough to make the graphite squeak.
Offense/defense/recovery. Roles. Team structure.
The next few cards only fed the fire.
Super HERO Quake Driver: heavy, armored, gauntlets like pistons, built for impact.
Super HERO Spectral Scout: slim blue hero, digital lenses, posture alert like he lived for information.
Super HERO Core Charger: green armor, a reactor glowing in the chest like a heart you could see.
Izuku's breathing picked up before he even noticed.
It was embarrassing how quickly he got invested. How quickly his mind started building connections like it was laying tracks.
This is… this is like… he thought, startled by how true it was.
Not just the heroes, but the concept behind them: different strengths, different roles, people working together toward something bigger than any one of them.
"A whole team…" he murmured, and he couldn't stop the smile that spread over his face, wide and bright and a little too hopeful. "Like a patrol squad."
He imagined them moving through a city: Scout spotting danger first, Guarder holding the line, Medic patching people up, Driver smashing through obstacles, Charger pushing everyone forward…
And for one glorious second his mind slid him into that formation, like it didn't matter what reality had stamped on his forehead.
Then he hit the first non-monster card.
At the top, it clearly said it: Spell.
Izuku's fingers trembled slightly as he turned it.
Heroic Recruitment
The art showed Balance Breaker extending a hand to a shadowy figure.
Not pulling. Not dragging.
Offering.
An invitation to rise.
Something in Izuku's chest twanged, the way a string did when it was tuned too tight and someone touched it anyway.
"…Like All Might," he whispered before he could stop himself.
He remembered a broadcast from years ago: All Might smiling through injuries he hadn't understood at the time, reaching toward a scared child in the rubble. He remembered the way his own heart had cracked open with certainty: That's what a hero is.
To people like me, he almost added, and that was the dangerous part. The part he didn't like admitting.
Because it implied there was still a version of him who belonged in that sentence.
He forced himself to keep going, to treat it like analysis instead of longing.
Next:
Heroic Reinforcement
Emergency Boost
Unbreakable Code
Justice Sync Formation
Each card looked like a frozen moment from a highlight reel: movement, teamwork, impossible timing. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't cynical. It was heroic in a way that felt almost naive.
And Izuku devoured them anyway.
He wasn't playing a game.
Not yet.
He was studying a language he'd somehow been handed, one he didn't understand, but could feel the shape of. Symbols, stat lines, keywords he couldn't translate. A grammar made of rules he didn't have.
And piece by piece, the meaning started to emerge at the edges, like dawn bleeding into night.
After what might've been forty minutes, long enough for his tea to go cold and his hand to cramp, Izuku leaned back and rubbed his eyes.
His notebook was already half-filled.
Diagrams. Theories. Connections. Arrows connecting cards like he was mapping a villain's weakness. Scribbles in the margins, question marks stacked on question marks.
Okay… okay.
He tapped the pencil against the page, anxious.
"If spells help the heroes coordinate," he murmured, "and the HERO units each fill a role…"
His mind raced ahead again.
"Then what's the win condition? Combat mechanics? Summoning rules?"
He opened the box, searching for an instruction sheet like someone searching for a lifeline.
Nothing.
Just empty cardboard and the faint smell of old paper.
Izuku flipped Balance Breaker again, squinting at the tiny text. Stats. Descriptions. Symbols. A whole system squeezed into a few lines.
But no explanations.
"Is this… was this game really lost to time?" he asked the room, and the room didn't answer.
Silence pressed in. The kind that invited old thoughts back.
Bakugo's voice, sharp as ever in his memory.
A quirkless loser like you could never be a hero.
Izuku's fingers tightened on the pencil. He didn't snap it, but he wanted to. He wanted to do something loud with the frustration, something that proved it didn't hurt.
It did hurt.
It had always hurt.
He looked down at the red warrior again.
Balance Breaker's stance was fearless. Unshakable. The pose of someone who moved first and didn't apologize for taking space.
If this were a hero…
What would he do first?
"Probably… appear at the start," Izuku muttered, clinging to logic because logic was safer than wishing. "He looks like the main attacker. Maybe there's a way to bring him out early?"
He scribbled summoning cost? with a question mark so aggressive it tore the paper slightly.
Then his thoughts drifted, unbidden, into softer territory.
I may not have a quirk.
The sentence formed quietly in his mind, familiar and heavy.
He swallowed around it.
He stared at the heroes again, at their roles, their teamwork, their stylized confidence.
And something small flickered inside him.
Not a power.
Not a miracle.
Just… stubbornness.
"But heroes come in all kinds of forms," he whispered, voice barely there.
It sounded childish. It sounded like the kind of thing he would've said at four years old, before life taught him to be careful with hope.
And yet it was true.
Heroes weren't just quirks.
Heroes were choices. Positions. Timing. Protecting others. Standing up again. Finding a way to fight even when the world told you you couldn't.
He smiled to himself, small, sad, but real.
"And maybe…" he breathed, "maybe I can learn to fight like this."
He gathered the cards into a neat stack, smoothing the edges with trembling thumbs until they were aligned. He placed Super HERO Balance Breakeron top again, like a cover on a book he wasn't ready to close.
Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he hugged the deck to his chest.
Just for a moment.
It felt ridiculous.
It also felt… right.
Warm through paper. Heavy with possibility.
Tomorrow, he decided.
Tomorrow he would start truly figuring out how to play.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
that would be the first step toward becoming the hero he had always dreamed of being.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Bakugo Katsuki did not try to overhear people.
It was not his fault their voices were annoying enough to slip through the cracks.
He walked into homeroom that morning with his usual stride: confident, irritated, bored. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were already testing his patience.
Same old class. Same stupid chatter. Same extras.
Though today, something felt… off.
He could not immediately place it, but there was a faint itch behind his temples, the feeling he got when something in his environment was different, and he had not identified it yet. He hated that.
And that is when he saw him.
Midoriya.
Sitting at his desk.
Staring down at something in his hands.
Bakugo slowed his pace just a fraction. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but he felt the shift in his muscles, the instinctive tension of a predator narrowing in on something unusual.
What is that nerd doing now?
Usually, he would be scribbling in that stupid hero notebook, muttering under his breath like a malfunctioning engine. But today…
Midoriya was not muttering.
Midoriya was not writing.
Midoriya was not even looking up to flinch when Bakugo entered, and that alone was weird.
He was too focused on… whatever he was holding.
Bakugo slid into his seat, tossing his bag down with a grunt. He did not look at Midoriya directly, no reason to. But he had good peripheral vision, sharper than most people gave him credit for.
A stack of cards.
Rectangular, with stylized art.
Bakugo scowled internally.
A card game? Seriously? The hell is wrong with him?
He waited for Midoriya to start muttering. To get lost in his own nerd-brain spiral.
But Izuku stayed quiet, eyes moving with intent, almost like he was analysing a battlefield.
That annoyed Bakugo more.
Why did it bother him?
It was not like he cared what Deku did.
It was just weird. Too weird.
Midoriya was predictable, annoyingly, pathetically predictable.
So seeing him… focused?
Silent?
Not time-bombing into nervous rambling?
It crawled under Bakugo's skin.
He grabbed a textbook, slamming it louder than necessary onto his desk. A few extras jumped.
Midoriya did not.
Bakugo's eye twitched.
Oi. At least pretend you are afraid, nerd.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, pretending to tune out the classroom noise. But his attention kept drifting back.
Midoriya picked up one card, some red-armored warrior, and turned it slightly, like he was checking every detail. Eyes narrowed. Brows furrowed with concentration.
That was another thing that irritated Bakugo.
Midoriya was not stupid.
He acted stupid, but he was not.
Bakugo hated that about him too.
The teacher walked in, calling order. Kids scrambled to put away their stuff.
Midoriya flinched a little, finally stuffing the cards into his bag.
Bakugo's eyes caught the movement.
He felt the itch again, sharper this time.
He clicked his tongue.
"What's with the cards, Deku?"
The words came out low, almost lazy, but they cut through the surrounding chatter like a knife.
Midoriya froze.
Slowly, he turned in his seat.
"Ah, Kacchan! I-I was just, uh, nothing! Just something I bought… j-just some old game!"
There it was.
The muttering.
The fluster.
The panic.
Bakugo exhaled through his nose, annoyance, relief, and something else tangled together.
Right. Back to normal, then.
Still… something in the way Midoriya clutched his bag bothered him. Protective.
Not scared-of-Bakugo protective… protective-of-the-cards protective.
Like they mattered to him.
"An old game?" Bakugo repeated, voice flat.
Midoriya nodded way too quickly. "Y-yeah, I just thought it was interesting, actually, it's really unique, the art style is-"
Bakugo shut him up with a glare.
He did not care about the cards.
He did not care about Deku's stupid hobbies.
But something in his chest twisted. Irritation mixed with a spark of… curiosity?
Midoriya had never brought anything like this to school before. Never showed interest in anything that was not hero-related. And this was not a notebook. It was not analysis.
He was… enjoying it.
Bakugo hated how noticeable that was.
He turned away, clicking his tongue again.
"Tch. Whatever. Do not get your nerd germs on me."
It should have ended there.
He should have stopped thinking about it.
But as class went on, Bakugo found his gaze drifting - once, twice, too many times - to Midoriya's bag.
To the corner where the cards were tucked away.
Why did he care?
Why was it bothering him?
Maybe because Midoriya had never kept secrets before.
Maybe because Bakugo was used to knowing exactly what Deku thought, felt and, most importantly, feared.
Maybe because seeing him obsess over something new, something Bakugo did not recognize, felt like losing grip on something he had always controlled.
Or maybe-
Maybe-
It was because when Midoriya looked at those cards…
He had the same look he got when watching All Might.
And Bakugo could not stand it.
He leaned against the hallway wall during the mid-morning break, arms crossed, jaw set. Kids passed by, laughing, shoving, talking about weekend plans or hero gossip.
Noise. Pointless, irritating noise.
Normally, Bakugo did not mind background stupidity. It helped him feel like the only real person in the room, someone destined for clearly bigger things.
But today his mind kept circling back like a defective spark wheel.
Those cards.
He clicked his tongue, annoyed that the thought even surfaced.
He hated when things did not add up.
Maybe he hated when people changed without his permission? And Midoriya, Deku, had always been constant. Predictable.
A useless, quirkless nerd with a head full of pipe dreams.
But this morning… something had been different.
Midoriya had not looked at Bakugo with fear.
He had not stared at him at all.
His eyes had been glued to those cards: analysing, thinking, muttering under his breath only when forced.
And that bothered Bakugo more than he wanted to admit.
Midoriya had no quirk.
Midoriya had no future.
Midoriya was supposed to cling to him, follow behind him like a shadow, begging for scraps of validation.
That was the natural order.
That was how it had always been.
So why the hell did Bakugo feel like something was slipping?
He scowled deeper, arms tightening across his chest.
It is just a stupid game. Who cares. It is not like it matters.
He told himself that again.
And again.
Until the bell rang, rattling in his ears.
But the itch did not go away.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Bakugo usually spent lunch with his supposed "friends," who mostly existed to hype him up and not get in his way. Today, though, he peeled off early, something dragging him back toward the classroom as if by gravity.
When he slid the door open, he paused.
Midoriya was alone.
Desk cleared.
Lunch unopened.
Cards spread out across the surface in neat rows, each grouped into piles.
He was mumbling to himself in that same breathless, rapid-fire way, but this time, Bakugo did not immediately want to explode at him.
Midoriya was not doing his usual panicking or obsessing over heroes.
No, instead he looked focused.
Determined.
And most importantly, completely absorbed.
Bakugo slipped in quietly, dropping into his own seat with more force than necessary to announce his presence. The chair screeched.
Midoriya flinched, but only for a moment.
His eyes did not dart away from the cards.
Bakugo narrowed his gaze.
That was new.
Midoriya placed three cards in a row:
Balance Breaker
Alloy Guarder
Burst Medic
He tapped each one, muttering.
"If attacker types work together, then maybe formations matter… or maybe there is a cost system… but if spells support coordination, then… ah, but what about counters? There has got to be some defensive mechanic-"
Bakugo's brow twitched.
He recognized that tone.
It was the same tone Midoriya used when analysing All Might's fights.
The same obsessive energy.
The same passion.
Except it was not aimed at a hero this time.
It was aimed at something new.
Something Bakugo did not understand.
Something Bakugo did not have.
Bakugo felt something in his chest tighten: irritation, heat, and confusion.
Midoriya scribbled diagrams in a notebook, flipping cards back and forth, comparing symbols, making little victory noises when he connected two concepts.
Bakugo found himself leaning forward slightly.
Why does he look so… into this?
He hated the thought immediately.
He was not curious.
He was not interested.
He just needed to know what kind of stupid nonsense Deku was wasting his time on.
Midoriya picked up Balance Breaker again, staring at the art with an almost reverent expression.
"He really does look like a hero," he whispered to himself, smiling unconsciously. "Strong… confident… like he would protect anyone. If he is the main attacker, then maybe the whole deck is built around forming a team…"
Bakugo's hand curled into a fist on his desk.
That smile, that quiet, hopeful smile, burned into the back of his skull.
Because that was the smile Deku only ever had when talking about becoming a hero.
And now he was giving it to a card?
Bakugo's stomach twisted.
He did not like this.
He did not like this at all.
He slammed his hand onto his desk before he could stop himself.
Midoriya jolted upright, nearly knocking over Burst Medic.
"K-Kacchan!"
Bakugo glared at him, electricity practically sparking off his skin.
"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped.
Midoriya swallowed, staring down at his hands.
"I-I'm trying to figure out the rules," he said quietly. "I do not… I do not know how to play, so… I am trying to learn."
Bakugo grits his teeth.
Of course that is what he would say.
Of course, Deku would pour his whole soul into something no one else cared about.
Of course, he would get all bright-eyed and hopeful about something stupid and useless.
But-
Bakugo's heartbeat thudded, too loud.
But why did it bother him so much that Midoriya was doing it without him?
Was it another way of looking down on him? He did not have an answer to that.
He clicked his tongue sharply.
"Tch. You are wasting your time, nerd."
Midoriya bit his lip, but did not put the cards away.
That irritated Bakugo enough to stand.
Without fully realizing why, he walked toward Midoriya's desk, looming over the cards.
The card Deku referred as Balance Breaker stared back at him.
Bakugo stared at it for a long, heavy moment.
He hated the weird pull he felt toward it.
He hated that Deku had something new to be passionate about.
He hated that he was not the center of it.
He hated-
He hated that the hero on the card reminded him of something he wanted to become.
He turned away abruptly, hands shoved into his pockets.
"Don't get too into it," he muttered, voice low and clipped. "You will just disappoint yourself. Like always."
He walked to the door.
But before leaving, he glanced over his shoulder.
Midoriya had not put the cards away.
He was still studying them.
Still thinking.
Still dreaming.
Bakugo's chest burned with something unfamiliar and ugly.
He slammed the door behind him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Izuku sat alone at his desk with the kind of posture he usually only had when he was watching an All Might compilation for the twentieth time: leaning forward, elbows close, shoulders tense with focus. Except this time there was no screen glowing in front of him, no cheering crowd audio bleeding through speakers, no slow-motion highlight reel to lose himself in.
There was only a lunch tray gone cold at his side, and a spread of cards arranged with almost reverent care.
He'd lined them up in little clusters the way he organized notes about hero agencies: central figure in the middle, support pieces flanking, anything that looked like "utility" off to one side. It was instinct more than intention: his brain always wanted to sort, to categorize, to impose structure.
And yet he couldn't stop thinking how strange it was that he felt the same rush he got from analyzing hero fights…
…while analyzing a game.
A very old, very strange game.
He picked up the top card again, thumbs smoothing the edges unconsciously, and stared at the art like it might blink.
Super HERO Balance Breaker.
He read the name once, then again, lingering on it.
Balance Breaker.
It sounded like something a headline writer would use after a decisive victory. Like the kind of epithet you earned by showing up and changing the whole pace of a battlefield.
His eyes dropped to the details.
7 stars.
ATK 2400 / DEF 1500.
FIRE.
Warrior.
So, it really is a "hero deck," he thought, amused by the sincerity of it. The creatures, no, monsters, the old clerk had insisted, looked more like costumed fighters than anything monstrous. The word felt weird in his head. He glanced at Balance Breaker's design again: red armor, dynamic stance, that determined tilt of the chin.
If this is a monster, then what does the game call an actual villain?
He swallowed and forced his attention down to the effect text.
It was rather short, as it did not occupy the entirety of the ability box. He squinted, mouthing the words silently the way he did when he read unfamiliar terminology in old hero textbooks.
"If this card was summoned this turn: You can target 1 HERO monster you control; its attack is doubled until the end of the Battle Phase…"
Izuku's pulse jumped.
Not because he understood everything, but because he understood enough.
The card wasn't just a picture with numbers.
It had an action.
A trigger window.
"If this card was summoned this turn…" That meant the way to put monsters on the field was called summoning. And it also meant timing mattered: this turn, not "whenever," not "once in a while." Immediate momentum.
Then there was the phrase that made his brain light up like a circuit finding power:
Battle Phase.
So, combat wasn't just "attack whenever you want." There was a structured section of a turn where fighting happened, like a training drill with designated rounds.
He felt his fingers curl tighter around the card, excitement rising in a way that was almost embarrassing.
This game has phases. This game has timing. This game has rules that reward planning.
His mind immediately tried to build a turn structure from scraps.
The battle phase has to either be at the middle or end of the turn, otherwise this ability would be useless…
He set Balance Breaker down carefully, then reached for the second card.
Super HERO Alloy Guarder.
The artwork hit him differently: less like a star player, more like someone you'd be relieved to see at your side. Silver armor, smooth and reflective. A shield so big it bordered on absurd, but the stance made it believable: grounded, patient, prepared to take hits for someone else.
4 stars.
ATK 1200 / DEF 2000.
EARTH Attribute.
Warrior.
He stared at the DEF number longer than the ATK.
Two thousand was… a lot, wasn't it? At least compared to the attack.
So, defense matters in this game, he thought, and even the idea made him sit up straighter.
He read the effect.
"When this card is in Defense Position, your opponent cannot target other HERO monsters for attacks."
Izuku's eyes widened.
Not just defense. Protection.
This wasn't just a card that survived hits.
It redirected attention.
It forced opponents to deal with it first.
It was a frontline hero in rule form.
"A protector…" Izuku whispered, and the words came out softer than he intended, like he didn't want to disturb the logic he could finally see assembling itself. "Like… like a shield specialist."
His notebook was already open beside the cards, and his pencil moved almost on its own.
Monsters → Stars (maybe called something else?), stats, battle positions
Effects → triggered vs passive
Field → positioning matters (Attack/Defense?)
Combat → structured by phases, possibly like the turn
He paused, pencil hovering, then glanced back at the top of each monster card where the stars sat.
Seven on Balance Breaker.
Four on Alloy Guarder.
He remembered Burst Medic had three. Others had different counts too.
"These must indicate the strength of the card, its level of power." he murmured, and he felt that familiar itch, the one that came when he was close to a theory but didn't have the last piece yet. "Balance Breaker has 7… so maybe he's harder to bring out because he is a bigger payoff."
His mind flicked back to old scraps of information: half-remembered mentions from outdated sites and ancient hobby forums.
Maybe sacrifices? he thought.
A system where you had to offer something you already had to bring out something bigger.
I don't see any other resource indicator so this must be it.
And suddenly it made a kind of intuitive sense that felt satisfying in a deep, logical way.
This game doesn't seem to have a mana bar or energy gauge. The only resource is… cards. So, to progress, you'd have to turn cards into cost. Trade presence for power. Sacrifice the small to call the big.
He tapped the pencil anxiously.
Then he had another thought, smaller and oddly endearing:
And why do they even call them monsters? They all look like people.
He almost smiled at himself.
Maybe "monster" just means "unit." A chess piece. A combatant.
He reached for more cards, flipping through them quickly, not reading every line this time, but confirming what his gut already believed.
The more he looked, the more it reinforced the same idea: this deck wasn't random. It wasn't just a pile of cool hero art.
It was… organized.
A whole team.
Izuku's eyes sparkled with something painfully earnest.
"It is… it is a whole team," he breathed, and he couldn't keep the wonder out of his voice. "Each one has a tactical role… just like a hero squad."
He could practically hear Present Mic narrating it.
"And here comes the tank! Now the support! Watch the formation!"
His grin grew, and he had to swallow down the impulse to start pacing. He didn't want to scatter the cards.
He wanted to keep the "formation" intact.
Then he pulled out a Spell Card and immediately sat still again, focus snapping back into place.
Heroic Reinforcement.
The art style matched the others: bold, kinetic, heroic. But it was the text that mattered, and Izuku read it twice to make sure he wasn't misunderstanding it.
"Add 1 'Super HERO' monster from your Deck to your hand."
Izuku froze.
A search effect.
Not "draw and hope."
Not "wait for luck."
You could go into your deck, the unknown pile of possibilities, and choose.
His mind jumped ahead so fast it almost made him dizzy.
"That means…" he whispered, eyes wide. "That means this game isn't just about what you draw. It's about planning lines."
He grabbed his notebook again and scribbled:
Deck access → consistency
Choose the needed hero → combos
His heart kicked in his chest.
A deck that can search is a deck that can build a gameplan, he thought. It can adapt.
He leaned forward and started scanning the rest of the spells and traps with hungry attention.
Heroic Emergency Boost (Spell)
"Target 1 'Super HERO' monster; it gains 1000 ATK until the end of this turn."
His eyes flicked to the odd symbol besides the words "Spell card". It represented a lightning strike.
So, spells have types, too. This implies… speed. Reaction. Maybe it can be used at different timings.
He didn't know for sure, but the designation alone felt like a promise: this wasn't just "cast it on your turn." It was a tactical tool.
He looked down at the scattered HERO cards again and felt something almost giddy.
So, you build a board. You set up a team. You create a formation.
The deck wasn't just themed like heroes.
It functioned like heroes were supposed to: coordinated, purposeful, filling gaps in each other's weaknesses.
He kept flipping, and then his fingers stalled.
A spell card, specifically its artwork, caught his attention in a way the others hadn't.
It wasn't the usual heroic palette.
Not the bright reds and greens and clean metallics.
This one was violet: deep, almost regal, with a faint metallic sheen under the fluorescent light that made it look like it belonged to something ceremonial.
Izuku's breath caught, and he lifted it carefully, as if he were afraid the card might be more fragile than the others.
In the art, Balance Breaker and Alloy Guarderstood back-to-back, framed by a swirling sigil. The energy between them resonating.
Like two distinct forces harmonizing.
The pattern between them was geometric, almost ritualistic.
His skin prickled, and not just from excitement.
This card felt… important.
He read the name.
Heroic Convergence.
Then the text.
"Activate only if you control 2 or more HERO monsters with different Attributes.
Draw 1 card, then you can set a Heroic spell/trap card from your graveyard to your spell/trap zone."
Izuku's jaw dropped.
Not because it was flashy damage. Not because it summoned something massive.
Because it rewarded exactly what he'd been thinking about: teamwork.
Different Attributes.
Different specialties.
Different "people" on the field working together.
"A teamwork bonus card," Izuku whispered, unable to stop the amazement from leaking into his voice. "It literally… pays you back for having a mixed squad."
I wonder if the attribute is…
His gaze darted to the heroes he already knew.
Balance Breaker was FIRE.
Alloy Guarder was EARTH.
Burst Medic was LIGHT.
Spectral Scout was WIND.
"So, the deck encourages mixing," he said, voice rising with excitement, "instead of spamming the same type… it wants you to set up multiple heroes with different strengths to trigger stronger plays."
He paused, staring at the second part of the effect.
Set a Heroic spell/trap card from your graveyard…
His mind latched onto the word graveyard like it was a key.
So, cards didn't just disappear.
There was a discard zone. A used pile. A place where resources went when they were spent.
And Heroic Convergence could reach into that pile and bring something back, set it again, reuse it.
That was… insane, tactically.
Resource management, he thought, voice in his head almost reverent. The game is evidently about cycles.
Everything started fitting together in a way that made him feel almost breathless.
Levels. Stats. Positions. Summoning types. Searching. Reusing. Timing windows.
A system.
A tactical simulation.
He leaned back slightly and stared at the spread of cards like he was looking at a blueprint.
"This is not just a game," he murmured, and the words came out slow, awed. "It's… it's a system. A tactical simulation of teamwork, field control, and resource management."
His eyes shimmered.
He didn't know why that phrase, tactical simulation, felt so important, but it did. Maybe because heroes were always described in stories as symbols and inspiration. But in Izuku's mind, heroes were also… technique. Choice. Positioning. Risk. Timing.
This game understood that.
"It's…" he whispered, voice almost breaking with how much he wanted it to be true, "…it's literally a hero team strategy engine."
He picked up Super HERO Balance Breaker again.
The red warrior stared back, fearless and unshakable.
And for the first time since he was a child, since before the word quirkless had become a sentence people used like a verdict, Izuku felt something he hadn't let himself feel in a long time.
Possibility.
"…Heroes come in all shapes," he whispered.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Bakugo hadn't meant to walk home alone.
Usually, there was always someone orbiting him, two extras trailing behind like they were part of his shadow, talking too much, laughing too loud, making the walk feel shorter whether he liked it or not. But today they'd peeled off with excuses that barely registered: cram school, errands, whatever. Bakugo didn't care about their schedules.
He cared about the knot under his ribs.
It had been there since the morning, tight and ugly, the kind of irritation that didn't burn off no matter how many times he told himself it was nothing. He kept trying to crush it down the way he crushed everything else that didn't serve him: ignore it, outrun it, blow it apart.
But it stayed.
Because it had a name.
Midoriya.
And a shape.
Cards.
And a look.
That stupid, bright look the nerd got sometimes, like the world had handed him a miracle and he was too naïve to be suspicious of it.
Bakugo shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as he walked, shoulders set, jaw tight. He blasted a small explosion against a metal railing as he passed, nothing big, nothing that would draw attention, just a sharp pop of sound and heat to shake the pressure loose.
It didn't help.
Why the hell do I care? he thought, teeth grinding. Why is that dumb deck getting to me?
He clicked his tongue and kicked a stray rock down the sidewalk hard enough that it skipped twice and vanished into the gutter. The noise of it helped for half a second. Then the knot tightened again, like it was laughing at him.
He was still in that mood, half distracted, half furious, when something on the street caught his attention.
A gap.
A storefront he didn't remember.
It was old enough that it looked like it should've been a permanent landmark: dusty glass, paint peeling off the sign in tired flakes, a narrow door with a bell hanging above it. The kind of shop that didn't belong on this route, not on a street he'd walked so many times he could take it in his sleep.
Bakugo slowed without meaning to.
His eyes narrowed, automatically scanning, cataloging. He wasn't the type to get surprised by his environment. He paid attention. He memorized. He could tell you where every vending machine was, which convenience store had the best view of the intersection, which corners were blind, which streets made people easy targets.
This shop?
Nothing.
No memory. No recognition. Like it had been pasted into the street after he turned his head away.
That alone was enough to make his irritation sharpen into something more precise.
Then he saw the front display.
Behind the dusty glass, tucked between old books and strange trinkets and charms that looked like they belonged in a museum instead of a neighborhood street, sat a deck box.
Old. Black. Gold etched. A swirling emblem that seemed to twist the longer he looked at it.
Bakugo's pupils constricted.
His breath caught in a way that made him angry at himself.
No way.
He stepped closer, eyes locked on that emblem. He'd seen it before, not in detail, not like this, but enough to recognize it like a bruise you kept poking.
Midoriya's junk.
So that was where the nerd had gotten it.
Bakugo's lip curled.
He barely noticed the rest of the display after that. The odd books, the dusty charms, the little objects that might've been antiques or might've been garbage. None of it mattered.
Just the box.
Just that feeling crawling under his skin, like the shop was aware of him standing there.
Not dangerous. Not overt.
Just… watching.
Evaluating.
Bakugo hated that.
He pushed the door open hard enough to make the bell ring sharp and angry.
Inside, the shop was dim, cluttered, and too quiet. Shelves rose in uneven lines, packed with strange objects that cast long shadows across the floor. The air smelled faintly of incense and old paper, an old, dry scent that reminded him of libraries and storage rooms and places where things sat untouched.
He hated it on instinct.
And then a voice cut through the stillness.
"Welcome."
Calm. Smooth. Almost theatrical, like it had been practiced in front of a mirror.
Bakugo's eye twitched.
An old man stepped out from behind the counter, posture straight, expression polite. But his eyes were sharp in a way that didn't match the smile, as if he'd been expecting Bakugo specifically, and was only pretending this was a normal customer interaction.
"I rarely get young customers," the man said warmly. "Twice in two days… how unusual."
Bakugo's blood went cold for half a second.
Twice.
So, he meant…
Bakugo clicked his tongue loudly, choosing aggression the way he always did when something unsettled him.
"Tch. You sold something to a green-haired nerd yesterday, didn't you?"
The man's smile didn't change, but something in it deepened, like amusement behind glass.
"I sell many things," he replied, voice mild. "But yes… I recall a very curious boy."
Bakugo took a step closer, posture squared, hands still in his pockets but tension coiled in his shoulders like a spring. He didn't want to look cautious. He refused to look cautious.
"What the hell did you give him?"
"Something he wished for," the old man said simply.
Bakugo's jaw tightened.
"That nerd doesn't deserve anything."
"Oh?" The man tilted his head, as if genuinely interested in that statement. "Is that so? He seemed quite eager to learn."
Bakugo felt something flare in his chest: anger, yes, but also something sharper and more annoying, something he didn't want a name for. He hated the idea of Midoriya being "eager" about anything hero-related, like the kid was allowed to hold that kind of hope without earning it.
"I didn't come here for chit-chat," Bakugo snapped. "I just want to know what kind of game this is."
The shopkeeper's eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light.
"Game?" he echoed, like the word tasted funny. "Is that what you think it is?"
Bakugo bristled immediately.
"What else could it be?"
The man's smile softened into something almost pitying.
"A challenge," he said. "A mirror. A path."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air like incense smoke.
"Depending on who holds the cards."
Bakugo's irritation spiked.
He hated vague answers. Hated being spoken to like he was in a riddle instead of a conversation. Hated how the man acted like he'd already decided Bakugo's role in whatever this was.
The old man turned slightly, reaching behind the counter with deliberate slowness. His hands disappeared for a moment, then returned with a small bundle placed gently on the wood.
Wrapped. Old. Familiar in shape.
Bakugo's breath caught before he could stop it.
Another deck box.
This one was different, etched with a crackling geometric pattern, like lightning frozen mid-explosion. It looked less like an antique and more like a warning sign.
Bakugo felt something jolt low in his stomach. Not fear. Not exactly.
Recognition.
Like the box had been built around him. Like it understood him.
The shopkeeper nodded toward it, as if offering something ordinary.
"This one has been waiting as well."
Bakugo stared, throat tight, palms suddenly damp.
"Waiting…" he repeated, voice lower than he meant it to be. "For who?"
The man looked up at him, calm and certain, and smiled like he'd known the answer since before Bakugo walked through the door.
"You, of course."
Bakugo's heartbeat hitched.
For a second, the shop felt smaller than it had any right to be.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Night in Musutafu was not like in other cities.
By day, the advertisements of top heroes cast their overwhelming glow from every screen and billboard, branding the skyline with optimism. But at night, those same lights dimmed, casting long silhouettes that left deep pockets of shadow between the alleys. Places where the surveillance cameras did not always work. Places where pro heroes never patrolled unless they had a reason.
And places where the old world could breathe again.
Beneath the clattering of elevated trains and the hum of half-asleep neon signs, a quiet meeting was underway in an abandoned industrial lot, a forgotten scar from the pre-quirk era that the city planners had chosen to ignore. The concrete floors were cracked, the iron beams rusted, and the air heavy with dust and something else… something metallic, almost coppery.
Three figures stood around a shipping container, its doors half open, revealing crates stacked inside.
The first was tall and lanky, wearing a patched-up coat that looked two sizes too big. His hands were buried deep in the pockets, fingers tapping a restless rhythm. Weird patterns adorned his hands, almost as if trying to contain something underneath.
The second was shorter, with a gaudy jester-patterned scarf wrapped around his neck and a painted-on smile that did not match his eyes. He carried a suitcase, which he clutched with theatrical flair but a grip too tight to be casual.
The third figure, the one who seemed to lead, stood in the shadows, still as stone. Only the faintest outline of a mask was visible beneath the hood, a porcelain grin stretched across unmoving features.
A voice broke the silence.
Smooth, mocking, almost sing-song.
"You're late."
The tall man flinched. "W-We had to be careful. The heroes downtown have been tightening surveillance-"
"Heroes," the masked figure repeated, as though tasting the word. "They look upward. Only upward. They never bother with the dust beneath their boots."
He stepped closer. Light grazed the lower half of his mask, revealing its painted smile, eternally cheerful and entirely hollow.
"Show me the goods."
The short man with the scarf snapped open the suitcase. Inside, nestled in velvet, were six small objects wrapped in black fabric, each roughly the size and shape of a certain familiar deck box.
A faint shimmer escaped from beneath the cloth. Not light. Not heat. More like… pressure. The air seemed to compress for a moment, then relax.
The masked figure's posture sharpened.
"Finally."
The short man swallowed. "We, uh… we did not open them. Like you said."
"You couldn't have even if you wished to," the masked man replied. "Chaos magic resists unworthy hands. Consider yourselves fortunate."
He reached into the suitcase.
But the moment his gloved fingers brushed the nearest wrapped object, something shifted in the air: subtle, like a change in humidity, but unmistakable. The shadows of the warehouse deepened, pulling at the corners of the room as if reacting to the movement.
The tall man stepped back. "Captain…?"
A faint hum rolled across the concrete, rising through the metal beams.
A resonance.
Low.
Dangerous.
The masked figure paused. His head tilted as though listening to a distant whisper.
Then the hum stopped.
"It's awakening," he murmured. "Good."
He pulled the object out of the suitcase.
The wrapping loosened on its own, fluttering to the ground like torn petals. In his hand now was a deck box, but not like any card game sold in legitimate stores. This one was patterned with spirals and jagged lines that seemed to twist if stared at directly. Its clasp was shaped like a grinning mouth.
The short man swallowed hard. "Are… are you sure it is safe to use here? We should wait until we return to the troupe."
The masked figure chuckled; a soft, breathy sound that felt wrong in the vast empty space.
"Safe? My dear Harlequin… these relics have slept for centuries. They hunger. They do not recognize hesitation."
He lifted the deck box slightly, as though greeting an old friend.
"We must feed them."
The other two men exchanged nervous glances.
The tall one spoke again:
"Captain… the last time we tried to awaken one-"
The masked man did not turn.
He did not raise his voice.
"Do you fear chaos?"
The warehouse fell silent, save for the creak of old steel in the wind.
Finally, the tall man shook his head quickly.
"N-No. Of course not."
The jester-scarf man echoed him.
"N-not at all."
"Good," the masked figure said.
He slid the deck box open.
A gust of cold air burst out, scattering dust in a spiralling pattern. The lights flickered. Somewhere in the rafters, a rusted chain swayed violently as though struck.
The two subordinates stumbled back.
"W-What was-?!"
The masked figure inhaled deeply, savouring the invisible current swirling around him.
"Chaos seeks a host," he said softly. "And chaos has found one."
One of the cards flipped out of the box and landed at his feet, face-up.
The tall man stared at it, horrified.
"S-Sir… that is not a monster card. That's-"
"Yes," the masked figure said. "A challenge."
The card's artwork depicted a silhouette, a hero shape, but distorted, arms elongated, torso fractured, as though breaking apart into shards of darkness.
The masked figure knelt and picked it up with reverence.
"The world above believes quirks define power," he whispered. "They have forgotten what we lost. Forgotten the games that shaped fate itself."
He straightened.
"Soon, the Shadow Circus will remind them."
The warehouse lights cut out completely.
A second later, the laughter began.
Quiet.
Layered.
Dozens of mismatched chuckles echoing through the dark, even though only three men had been in the room.
The tall man sulked in silence.
The jester-scarf man dropped his suitcase.
And the masked figure simply smiled behind porcelain.
"Awaken, little hero," he whispered to the card. "Let us play."