Izuku sat cross-legged on the cold concrete, the seven Dragon Balls arranged in a perfect circle in front of him.
They had appeared the instant he willed them out of dimensional storage: seven flawless orange spheres, each the size of a softball, their red stars glowing like embers.
The air around them thrummed with ancient, patient power. Shenron's presence was already coiling somewhere just beyond the veil, waiting.
Mina and Momo sat behind him in silence, knees touching his back, hands resting lightly on his shoulders. Midnight leaned against the rooftop doorframe, arms folded, eyes soft.
They knew what he was about to do. They had helped him carry the balls up here without a single question.
Izuku took one steadying breath.
"I'm ready."
The Dragon Balls flared. Golden light speared into the sky, punching a perfect cylinder through the clouds. The rooftop shook as reality itself bowed. A colossal serpentine silhouette formed in the light: emerald scales, burning red eyes, antlers of divine fire.
The eternal dragon descended, coiling around the column of light until his massive head hovered ten meters above Izuku. The pressure was immense, like standing at the bottom of the ocean while the sun looked down.
"SPEAK THY WISH, MORTAL."
Izuku's voice did not waver.
"I wish for Toshinori Yagi, All Might, to be restored to his absolute prime: the moment he was at his strongest, completely uninjured, with no time limit on his muscle form, and I wish for him to gain an additional quirk: perfect regeneration that heals any injury instantly, no matter how severe."
The dragon's eyes flashed crimson.
"SUCH A WISH… IS WELL WITHIN MY POWER."
The sky cracked open.
A single bolt of golden lightning, thicker than a skyscraper, lanced down from the heavens and struck the earth miles away, somewhere in the direction of central Musutafu.
The shockwave rolled over U.A. like a warm wind.
"THY WISH IS GRANTED. FAREWELL."
Izuku sagged, suddenly boneless. Momo caught him before he tipped sideways; Mina steadied his other shoulder.
"It's done," he whispered, voice raw. "He's back."
Far away, in a private U.A. training ground lit only by floodlights and moonlight, two figures stood facing each other across scorched earth.
Mirio Togata, golden hair plastered with sweat, stood in a perfect stance. His hero costume was shredded at the sleeves, muscles pumped from hours of 100 % One For All usage with other quirks: Blackwhip, Float, Danger Sense, Smokescreen, Fa jin & GearShift.
Across from him, Toshinori Yagi, skeletal, coughing blood into a handkerchief, watched with shining eyes.
"You've done it, Mirio," All Might rasped, pride thick in his ruined voice. "One hundred percent, every quirk unlocked and controlled. You've surpassed even my prime in versatility. I'm… I'm so proud."
Mirio beamed, sheepish and radiant. "Couldn't have done it without you, Sensei. You're still the Symbol, injuries or not."
All Might opened his mouth to reply, and the world changed.
It started as warmth in his gut, like drinking sunlight. Then it exploded outward.
His emaciated frame filled in an instant, bones thickening, muscles erupting across his frame like time-lapse footage of a god being sculpted.
Skin stretched, scars vanished, the gaping wound in his side sealed without a mark. His spine straightened; height surged; blond hair burst upward in that iconic twin-banged crest.
Power, raw, limitless, perfect power, flooded every cell.
All Might's suit, long hanging loose on his skeletal form, suddenly strained at the seams before the fabric rewove itself into the classic blue-red-white pattern, fitting like it had the day he first wore it.
His eyes, once sunken and tired, now blazed electric blue.
A single heartbeat later, the new quirk ignited: Regeneration. He felt it settle into his marrow like an old friend who'd never left.
A paper cut could appear on his finger and vanish before the same instant. A broken bone would knit before the pain registered.
All Might threw his head back and laughed.
Not the heroic boom the world knew, but a deep, joyful sound that shook the training ground lights.
"Mirio," he said, voice rich and resonant, exactly the voice that once echoed across cities. "Look."
Mirio's jaw dropped. Tears sprang to his eyes instantly.
"S-Sensei… you're… you're back."
All Might flexed one massive hand, watching golden sparks of One For All dance between his fingers.
Then he blurred, faster than Mirio could track, and reappeared behind him, clapping both hands on the boy's shoulders.
"No, young Mirio," he said, grinning so wide it hurt. "I'm better than back. I'm whole."
He leapt.
Not a jump, a detonation of air. All Might rocketed a hundred meters into the sky, hung there for a heartbeat, then came down in a controlled descent that cracked the training ground in a perfect circle but left the grass untouched.
Mirio laughed through tears. "You beautiful, impossible man!"
All Might landed lightly, suit pristine, chest broad enough to block the moon. He placed a hand over his heart, feeling the steady, limitless rhythm.
"I can feel it," he whispered. "No timer. No pain. No end."
Then he looked straight up, as if he could see through kilometers of night and concrete, and spoke to someone only he knew was listening.
"Thank you, my boy."
A single tear, bright as a star, rolled down the Symbol of Peace's cheek.
Back on the rooftop, Izuku felt it.
A pulse of pure, radiant gratitude that wasn't words but emotion, washing over him like sunrise. All Might knew. Somehow, across the distance, he knew who had given him this miracle.
Izuku's own eyes burned. Mina hugged him from behind, chin on his shoulder. Momo pressed a kiss to his temple.
Midnight's voice was soft, proud. "You just saved the world again, kid. And nobody will ever know it was you."
Izuku wiped his face with the heel of his hand and laughed, shaky, relieved, overwhelmed.
"That's okay," he said. "He's back. That's all that matters."
He raised a hand. The seven Dragon Balls, now gray stone, materialized above his palm for a heartbeat, then vanished back into dimensional storage, safe, waiting for the next impossible dream.
Momo laced her fingers through his left hand. Mina took his right.
Together, the four of them watched the stars until the sky began to pale with dawn.
Far below, in the training ground, All Might stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Mirio Togata, two living legends, one reborn, one ascended, both grinning at the same unstoppable grin.
The world had just become infinitely safer.
And somewhere in the quiet of his heart, Izuku Midoriya whispered the only thing left to say:
"Plus… Ultra."
The wind carried it away, but the Symbol of Peace heard it all the same.
___________________
Some days later
The winter wind bit at Izuku's cheeks as he slipped through the rooftop door, the metal latch clicking shut behind him like a secret sealed.
The Heights Alliance dorms slumbered below, a fortress of quiet snores and flickering nightlights, Class 1-A cocooned in the afterglow of a semester's hard-won peace.
.It had been weeks since the training camp—weeks of drills, exams, and the subtle hum of normalcy that Izuku had fought so hard to preserve.
All Might's return had been a thunderclap: the Symbol of Peace striding into U.A.'s assembly hall in full muscle form, grinning that unbreakable grin, Regeneration quirk already mending a "training mishap" before the crowd's eyes. The world had erupted in cheers, headlines, hope.
But Izuku's war was quieter, sharper, waged in shadows his classmates would never see.
He was alone tonight. Mina and Momo slept tangled in his bed, their breaths a synchronized lullaby he could hear even from here, Ocean mapping their heartbeats like a lover's Morse code.
Midnight waited in the shadows near the door, her silhouette a curve of jasmine and leather, but he had waved her back. "Later," he'd murmured. "This one's mine."
The rooftop was barren concrete under a sky bruised purple by city lights, the distant hum of Musutafu a reminder that heroes never truly rested.
Izuku knelt in the center, jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. The air tasted of frost and anticipation. He closed his eyes, reached into the tidal pull of Ocean's dimensional storage, and willed them forth.
The seven Dragon Balls materialized with a soft thump, rolling into a loose circle around him like obedient planets. Their surfaces gleamed under the moonlight, red stars pulsing faintly, as if sensing the gravity of what was to come.
Hisashi Midoriya—All For One—had been silent, a ghost in the machine, his probes subtle: a Nomu sighting here, a quirk-theft rumor there.
But Izuku knew. The meta-knowledge burned in him like a scar(except there are some changes), the father's face under the mask, the stolen quirk at age four, the reincarnation that had overwritten a broken boy with a soul armed for apocalypse.
NO MORE.
Izuku placed his palms flat on the concrete, fingers splaying toward the balls. "Come forth, Shenron."
The ritual was rote now, but no less awe-inspiring. Golden light erupted from the spheres, twisting into a pillar that pierced the night sky like a divine accusation.
Clouds parted in deference; the wind stilled as if holding its breath. The Dragon Balls hovered, spinning in a vortex of emerald energy, and from the heart of the beam uncoiled the eternal dragon once more.
Shenron's form was cataclysmic: scales like shattered emeralds, eyes twin furnaces of judgment, body a serpent-mile long that blotted out half the stars.
His antlers crackled with restrained thunder, and the pressure of his gaze pressed Izuku to his knees, mortal against myth.
"SPEAK THY WISH, MORTAL. I SHALL GRANT WHAT IS WITHIN MY POWER."
Izuku's voice was steady, green eyes locked on those crimson slits. He had rehearsed this a thousand times in the quiet hours, meta-knowledge weaving with the hero's heart into unyielding resolve.
"I wish... that All For One and Hisashi Midoriya are two completely separate people. All For One has no biological connection to me, Izuku Midoriya. Hisashi Midoriya is my real father—alive, well, and currently abroad in the United States for legitimate work purposes as a quirkless salaryman in international trade. He has no knowledge of heroes, villains, or All For One. Make it retroactive: all records, memories, blood ties—sever them. All For One never fathered me. Hisashi did, and he's innocent."
The dragon's eyes narrowed, a rumble like distant earthquakes vibrating the rooftop. Shenron's power was boundless, but wishes like this treaded the knife-edge of reality's weave—rewriting bloodlines, histories, the very fabric of fate. Izuku felt the weight of it, the cosmic ledger tilting as threads of destiny unraveled and reknit.
"THY WISH... INVOLVES THE ALTERATION OF FATE ITSELF. IT IS... UNPRECEDENTED. BUT WELL WITHIN MY DOMAIN."
A pause, eternal as starlight. Then Shenron's maw opened, and the world held its breath.
"IT IS DONE."
Reality shuddered.
It wasn't violence, but violation—a ripple that started in Izuku's chest and spread outward like ink in water.
Memories flickered at the edges: the cold night at four, not a quirk theft by a masked monster, but a simple doctor's visit abroad, Hisashi's apologetic call from America about "work delays."
Blood tests redone in his mind's eye, paternal matches clean, untainted. All For One's shadow lifted, not erased but detached—a villain without claim, a demon without lineage.
Across the sea, in a modest apartment in New York, Hisashi Midoriya stirred in his sleep, dreaming of quarterly reports and a son's upcoming birthday.
He smiled, unaware of the miracle that had just rewritten his soul from puppet to man.
In the League's hidden lair, All For One paused mid-conversation with a subordinate, a faint itch at the back of his skull.
A connection severed, a loose end tied. He frowned behind the mask, but the moment passed. Plans adjusted. The game continued.
Izuku remained kneeling, breath ragged, the world subtly... lighter. No more paternal noose. No more villain's blood in his veins. Just Izuku Midoriya, a soul in a hero's body, free.
He laughed, soft and disbelieving, tears pricking his eyes. "It's over. He's... gone from me."
The stones cooled. Izuku gathered them one by one, their weight familiar now, and tucked them back into Dimensional Storage. Stored. Safe. The rooftop fell silent again, wind resuming its whisper, stars reclaiming the sky.
Footsteps approached—soft, deliberate. Nemuri Kayama, Midnight, emerged from the shadows, her hero costume traded for a silk robe that clung like midnight mist.
Jasmine perfume trailed her, heady and inviting. She knelt beside him, one gloved hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear.
"Master," she murmured, voice velvet over steel. "You look like you just conquered the stars."
Izuku turned into her touch, green eyes meeting violet. "Something like that." His hand caught hers, pulling her closer until she straddled his lap, robe parting to reveal the lace beneath.
The wish's afterglow thrummed in his veins, a euphoric high that begged release. "Nemuri... I need you. Now."
Her smile was sin incarnate, eyes darkening with hunger. "As you command."
Their lips met in a collision that tasted of salt and surrender. Izuku's hands framed her face, thumbs tracing the sharp line of her jaw as he angled deeper, tongue sweeping past her parted lips in a bold claim.
Nemuri gasped into his mouth, a sound that ignited him, her own tongue rising to meet his—coiling, challenging, then yielding in a dance as old as desire.
One minute blurred into heat. Her mouth was fire and silk, tasting of wine and want, lips plush and yielding under his. Izuku nipped her lower lip, drawing a moan she swallowed with a suck on his tongue, pulling him deeper.
Their breaths mingled in ragged harmony, noses brushing, chins slick with shared saliva. He explored her relentlessly: tongue tracing the velvet roof of her mouth, flicking against her teeth, delving to the back where her throat fluttered.
Three minutes. Nemuri's hands fisted in his curls, tugging just enough to arch his neck, her teeth grazing his lip in retaliation. Izuku growled low, retaliating by plunging deeper, tongue-fucking her mouth in slow, deliberate thrusts that made her hips cant against him.
She whimpered, the sound vibrating through him, her body molding to his—breasts pillowed against his chest, thighs clamping his hips.
Five minutes. The kiss turned feral: wet, obscene smacks echoing in the night, saliva trailing from lip to lip when they broke for air—only to crash back together.
Izuku's fingers threaded her hair, tilting her head to expose more, tongue swirling in lazy spirals that mapped every hidden corner.
Nemuri matched him, aggressive now, her tongue battling for dominance before submitting with a shuddering sigh, letting him lead.
Seven minutes. Sweat beaded on their brows; her robe slipped from one shoulder, baring porcelain skin. Izuku broke the seal with a gasp, foreheads pressed, breaths panting hot against each other's faces.
"God, Nemuri..." He dove back, slower this time, savoring: lips sucking gently, tongue laving the seam before plunging anew, a rhythm that built tension like a storm.
Nine minutes. Tongues dueled in frenzy—wet slides, nips that drew copper tangs lapped away, her nails scoring his scalp.
Nemuri's hips ground shamelessly, seeking friction; Izuku obliged, one hand sliding to her waist, pulling her flush. The kiss was possession, her moans muffled symphonies against his teeth.
Ten minutes crested. Izuku pulled back, lips numb and swollen, a glistening thread snapping between them.
Nemuri's violet eyes were blown wide, chest heaving, robe askew to bare the swell of her breasts. "Izuku... more. Please."
He didn't speak. His hands moved with purpose, parting the silk fully, robe pooling at her elbows. Her breasts spilled free—magnificent, heavy D-cups, pale as moonlight with dusky nipples already pebbled tight, begging.
Izuku's mouth watered; he lowered his head, lips brushing the left swell in a feather-kiss that made her arch.
Then he latched.
Harder than with Momo or Mina—Nemuri was no fragile flower; she was a storm, and he worshipped accordingly.
His mouth enveloped the nipple fully, sucking with vacuum pressure that hollowed his cheeks, tongue swirling the peak in tight, relentless circles. Nemuri cried out, back bowing, hands clutching his shoulders like anchors.
Two minutes. He feasted savagely: suck-release with a wet pop, then teeth grazing the areola—sharp nip, immediate soothe with a lave of tongue that bordered worship.
His free hand claimed the right breast, kneading the globe roughly, thumb and forefinger pinching the twin nipple in time with his pulls. She bucked, thighs trembling around him, "Harder, Master—yes!"
Four minutes. Alternating fury: left devoured with deep, pulling sucks that bordered bruising, right tormented by twists and tugs that made her sob.
Saliva glistened her skin, trails trickling down the valley he lapped clean, burying his face between to motorboat the plush flesh before emerging to bite down—controlled, possessive.
Six minutes. Nemuri writhed, robe discarded entirely now, body bared to the night. Izuku's jaw ached, but he pushed on, sucking harder, tongue relentless as a lash.
Her nipples swelled under assault, red and slick, hypersensitive to every breath, every graze. He hummed low, vibration drawing a keening wail; her hips ground desperately, arousal soaking through lace.
Eight minutes. Deeper now—almost nursing with vacuum pulls that echoed obscenely, teeth scraping edges, hand mauling the opposite breast in rough kneads that left fingerprints blooming red. Nemuri's cries peaked, nails raking his back through shirt. "Izuku—fuck, don't stop"
Ten minutes. He switched fully to the right, sucking with fervor that bordered pain-pleasure, left tormented by bites and pulls. Breasts bounced with her tremors, skin sheened sweat. Izuku's cock strained against pants, but this was her unraveling—his control a gift.
Twelve minutes. Sloppy savagery: wet smacks, saliva dripping to her ribs, alternating in frenzy—left hard vacuum, right slow deep-throat swirl. Nemuri thrashed, on the precipice, "Gonna—ah, gods!"
Fourteen minutes. Building her shatter: hands cupping undersides, lifting to mouth like sacred offerings, sucking long and brutal. Peaks throbbed visibly, every tug electric—her sobs music, body his canvas.
Sixteen minutes. He lavished: bury face in cleavage, emerge to devour each in turn—left bite-suck, right pull-lave. Nemuri's control fractured, hips bucking wildly.
Eighteen minutes. Faster, harder—tongue-baths between assaults, nips turning feral. Her body quaked, breaths shattered pleas.
Twenty minutes crashed. Izuku released with a final, grinding swirl, both breasts marked: flushed crimson, glistening jewels, nipples swollen and raw.
Nemuri collapsed against him, wrecked—hair wild, eyes teary-violet, body limp in aftershocks.
"You... own every part of me," she panted, nuzzling his neck.
Izuku held her, robe draped over them both, the night wrapping them in conspiratorial hush. The wish's freedom hummed in his veins, mingled with satiation. Hisashi was a stranger now. All For One, a target unlinked by blood.
Dawn crept, but they lingered—master and bound, hero and shadow, unbreakable.