The Symbol of Peace was supposed to be a shield. Instead, he was a spectator.
All Might moved through the air with a velocity that should have been a miracle, a golden streak that defied the laws of physics. His hands, massive and calloused from decades of saving lives, were a blur as they plucked bodies from the sky. He caught a child, their eyes wide with a terror that would never leave them, he dropped them onto a nearby skyscraper roof with the gentlest touch he could muster before launching back into the chaos. He caught a man in a pilot's uniform, then a teenager clutching a flight magazine.
But for every life he pulled from the brink, the air was punctured by a sound that made his heart wither in his chest.
Thud.
It was a heavy, wet sound. The sound of a life meeting an immovable object. The yellow barrier something that he is certain Nezu hadn't told them would be erected, had acted as a slaughter-bench.
Thud. Thud.
All Might roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that was drowned out by the wind. He was the Number One Hero. He had stood atop the world for decades. He didn't get to make mistakes like this. He should have seen the trap. He should have known that a falling plane was too simple, too loud, too perfectly designed to pull him away from the ground. He had risen to the bait like a rookie, fuelled by the very instinct that made him a hero, and now that instinct was a noose around his neck.
Faster, he commanded his body. Faster!
The embers of One For All within him flared with a desperate, dying heat. His muscles screamed, his old wound pulsed with a stabbing, rhythmic pain, but he ignored it. He was a blur of yellow and blue, a frantic god trying to catch the rain. But the rain was human, and like rain does it was falling in every direction.
He looked up at the jet. If he could just reach the fuselage, if he could stabilize the source, maybe he could,
A purplish-black haze, thick and oily, erupted from the center of the aircraft. It didn't explode, it simply swallowed. In a heartbeat, the massive commercial jet, along with whoever may have still been trapped inside its screaming cabin, was sucked into a void and vanished.
All Might froze in mid-air, his hands outstretched toward a ghost.
The silence that followed was worse than the screaming. Below him, the shimmering yellow dome didn't shatter. It didn't break. It simply flickered once and dissipated into thin air, as if a switch had been flipped.
It was a mockery. A punchline. The barrier had stayed up just long enough to ensure the tragedy was complete, and dropped the moment the League's work was done.
All Might descended, his feet hitting the stadium grass with a heavy, leaden impact. He looked around. Inside the arena, the heroes had done their jobs. Mirko was standing over the twitching remains of a Nomu, Endeavor was incinerating the last of the gray-skinned monsters, the teachers were ushering students toward the tunnels. They had won the battle.
But the stadium was painted in a way that no victory could wash clean.
The yellow barrier had acted like a sieve. The blood of the plane's victims had smeared across the energy field before it vanished, and now that the barrier was gone, that blood had rained down. It was on the white lines of the track. It was on the seats. It was on the emerald green grass of the field where Izuku Midoriya and Katsuki Bakugo were supposed to have their duel.
All Might's breath came in ragged, wheezing hitches. The fury began as a low hum in his bones, building into a deafening roar in his mind. This wasn't just Shigaraki. This wasn't the petty, chaotic whim of a bratty villain. This was surgical. This was a psychological execution.
He squeezed his fists so hard the leather of his gloves began to groan and tear. He felt the weight of his own failing body, the ticking clock of his era, and the sheer, calculated evil of the person who had orchestrated this.
Only one man had the cold, clinical cruelty to turn a festival of youth into a graveyard of hope. Only one man knew exactly how to use All Might's heart as a weapon against him.
"You," All Might whispered, his voice a low, terrifying growl that made the air around him vibrate with a golden, lethal pressure.
He didn't need to see the face. He didn't need a signature. He felt the shadow of a mountain he thought he had levelled years ago.
All For One.
The Symbol of Peace stood in the center of the blood-stained arena, and for the first time in his life, the smile was gone. In its place was a mask of pure, righteous fury, promising a reckoning that would shake the very foundations of the earth.
___
The studio lights were blindingly bright, but the woman sitting behind the glass desk looked like she hadn't slept in twenty-four hours. Behind her, a scrolling ticker tape in stark red and white read: NATIONAL TRAGEDY AT UA SPORTS FESTIVAL: SPECIAL REPORT.
"Good morning," the presenter said, her voice taut with a professional veneer that threatened to crack at any moment. "It has been twenty-six hours since the closing of the UA Sports Festival, a day that was meant to showcase the bright future of our youth, but instead became a theatre of unprecedented horror."
She paused, pressing her hands against the desk. "The Ministry of Transportation has confirmed the identity of the aircraft involved in yesterday's assault. Flight 702, a commercial jet bound for Hokkaido, was hijacked shortly after take-off. We can now confirm that over one hundred and forty passengers were on board. While the recovery efforts are ongoing in the streets surrounding the stadium, authorities have released a chilling update, twelve passengers remain completely unaccounted for. Their whereabouts are unknown, and in the wake of the purplish-black haze reported by eyewitnesses, the police are treating this as a mass abduction by the League of Villains."
The screen shifted to a grainy image of the stadium's grass, now stained a dark, oxidized brown.
"The violence didn't stop in the air," the presenter continued. "The nation watches with bated breath as a first-year UA student remains in a state of 'suspended death.' While the family has requested privacy and we will not be releasing the student's name at this time, medical professionals at Central Hospital describe the injury as a miracle of survival, yet a nightmare of recovery. The student was struck by a single high-calibre bullet that entered the stadium during the split-second before the defensive barrier was raised."
Her expression darkened. "Ballistics experts have released a report that has sent shockwaves through the hero community. The shot was fired from a distance of ten kilometres. This level of precision and the 'invisible' nature of the projectile suggest only one name: the internationally wanted mercenary known as Emerald Eye. If these reports are true, it marks the first time this legendary hitman has touched Japanese soil, signalling a terrifying escalation in the League's resources."
She turned to a different camera, her tone shifting from reporting to a pointed, sharp critique.
"This is the second major attack on UA High School in a mere two months. Since the semester began, the supposed 'Fortress of Heroism' has been breached twice, leading to dozens of casualties and now, the potential loss of a promising student. Influential figures within the government and the Hero Public Safety Commission are already calling the decision to hold the festival a 'gross negligence of duty.' Once again, the spotlight of blame falls on Principal Nezu. Critics are asking why a person of his intellect failed to foresee a tragedy of this scale, and whether his leadership is more a liability than an asset."
She leaned forward, her eyes reflecting the cold glow of the teleprompter.
"Our deepest condolences go out to the families of the Flight 702 victims and the students who were forced to witness a massacre on their own playing field. But condolences are no longer enough. The brazenness of the League of Villains and their leader, Tomura Shigaraki, has called into question the very direction of our society. If our children are not safe in our most protected schools, and if villains can rain bodies from the sky with impunity, what does the future truly hold? The League of Villains is no longer a fringe group, they are a high-class existential threat that must be contained before the sun sets on the era of peace."
The screen flickered to a silent montage of the blood-smeared UA arena, the only sound the distant, muffled chime of a funeral bell.
"We will continue to bring you updates as they develop. This is NN News."
___
The dim light of the hideout was punctuated by the rhythmic flickering of a dozen television screens, all of them playing variations of the same carnage, the blood-stained grass, the falling bodies, the golden Symbol of Peace looking helpless.
In the center of the room, Tomura Shigaraki let out a sharp, high-pitched giggle. He was spinning slowly in a circle, his arms outstretched as if trying to embrace the chaos on the screens.
"Did you see his face, Kurogiri? All Might... he looked so small," Shigaraki wheezed, his fingers twitching near his neck. "The invincible shield has a giant crack in it now. It went so well. It was a perfect stage."
He stopped spinning and tilted his head, his crimson eyes landing on Hayato Kuroiwa. The mercenary was sitting on a wooden stool, his posture slumped and his eyes fixed on the floor. He wasn't celebrating, he looked like a man who had just found a moth in his favourite coat.
"What's with the long face, Emerald?" Shigaraki asked, his voice dropping into a rasp. "You should be happy. You're part of the winning team."
Hayato didn't look up. "I failed what I was paid for," he said quietly. The jovial, witty mask he'd worn in the park was gone, replaced by a cold, professional hollow. "The target is breathing. My record is no longer perfect."
Shigaraki rolled his eyes, a dry sound like sandpaper catching in his throat. "Who cares? Look at the kill feed, sniper! Over seventy confirmed dead from the plane alone, and the number is still climbing. The media is calling it a massacre. The mission was to cause a tragedy."
"I wasn't paid to cause a 'tragedy,'" Hayato countered, finally lifting his gaze. His dark eyes were flat, devoid of the mirth from before. "I was paid to execute. In a plan that moved like clockwork, I was the only blunder. I don't like being the blunder, Shigaraki. It's bad for the brand."
Shigaraki sighed, the sound long and dramatic. He walked over to Hayato, his sneakers scuffing against the floor. "Don't ruin my good mood. So you missed the heart by an inch. So what? The brat is out of the game anyway."
He leaned in close, his decaying scent filling the space between them. Shigaraki gave a small, mocking spin on his heel. "Tell you what. You failed the contract, yeah. But I like your style. Since you're so bothered by your 'blunder,' why don't you stay a little longer? Work for me for a bit to pay back the debt. A mercenary with a wounded ego is a very useful tool."
He watched Hayato's face, thinking the older man might take offense to being called a 'tool' or being told he owed a debt.
Instead, Hayato's expression shifted. A slow, thin smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, not the fake grin from the park, but something sharper. Something "off."
"Stay in Japan, hm?" Hayato mused, tilting his head back. "It is a lovely place. The people are so... reactive. I think I'd like to get to know it better anyway. It's good to have found a home so quickly."
"Great," Shigaraki chirped, clapping his hands together once. "Now we're all happy."
From the shadows of the bar, Kurogiri cleared his throat, his misty form swirling as he checked a small monitor. "Tomura Shigaraki. We have a situation developing at the entrance."
Shigaraki turned, his interest piqued. "More Nomu?"
"No," Kurogiri said, a hint of gravity in his voice. "The broadcast has had... an effect. The brazen nature of the attack, the fall of the 'Fortress.' More people have arrived at the designated locations. They saw what the League did, and they want in. They're looking for the 'man who broke the Sports Festival.'"
Shigaraki's grin widened, becoming a jagged, terrifying thing that reached his eyes. He began to walk toward the back room, his fingers itching with a new, dark excitement.
"See, Emerald? People love a good tragedy," Shigaraki called over his shoulder. "Let's go see what kind of trash the tide washed in. I'm in the mood for some new toys."